Somehow, I’ve ended up in the kitchen. There’s a girl vomiting into a large industrial sink, her friend in a grass hula skirt rubbing her back and making cooing noises in her ear. But no Michael. I’m about to leave when I notice a small wooden door. It’s slightly ajar, and there are small brass padlocks hanging open on the top and bottom that latch to the wall. I frown. This wasn’t a part of our house tour. In fact, I don’t think Tripp showed us the kitchen at all. I glance back at the girls, but they’re not paying attention. I slip both locks into my pocket.

I slide the door open and am met with a damp smell and a dark stairwell. A pull string looms overhead, but when I yank it, nothing happens. The bulb’s dead or not there at all. I fish my phone from under my bra strap and turn on the flashlight. The wooden steps are smooth and slope inward from a century’s worth of wear, and I’m reminded that despite the industrial kitchen, the laminate floors, and flat screens in every room, this is an old house.

The smell hits me again—wet and musty and acrid like stale urine. It’s a mixture of creeping vegetation, animal stink, and fear. My stomach twists. A flash of a cabin in the woods, the back of an unmarked van, a derelict apartment on the north side—all my worst cases have been marked by that smell. I pull the top of my dress up to cover my nose. I take one step and another.

And then there’s nothing beneath my feet.

I land hard on my knees.

“Shit,” I swear, and turn the flashlight back toward the staircase.

The last six steps have been sawed off, leaving a hole that gapes like an open wound. I think of the footstool leaning next to the door in the kitchen and wonder if I was supposed to bring it with me. I stand and brush off my legs, realizing with a sickening sensation that one is bleeding. I’m now a part of this, my DNA on the floor and whatever’s on the concrete now under my skin, circulating through my bloodstream. I take a deep, shuddering breath, gag, and then shine my flashlight around the room.