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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Euphoric_Welcome_668 on 2024-11-11 18:11:01+00:00.

When my husband burst into our bedroom waving the transfer papers, his eyes sparkled with a joy I hadn’t seen since our wedding day. “Germany, Sarah! They picked me to lead the Munich project!"

Staring at him in disbelief, our three-month-old daughter sleeping soundly in her bassinet beside us. I should have been elated. This was his dream – leading an architectural team on an international project.

But as I held our daughter Emma during those sleepless nights, anxiety gnawed at me, him being at the office or on business trips, Moving across the world with postpartum depression and a newborn felt like jumping off a cliff blindfolded. Still, I painted on a smile.

John deserved this chance, even if lately it seemed his blueprints got more attention than his family. “Think of it as an adventure,” he whispered as our plane lifted off the tarmac. “Just one year. We’ll explore Europe together, make memories with Emma.” I squeezed his hand, leaving behind our family and friends. Not to mention everything we’ve ever known and loved

The rental agent, Frau Weber, toured us through our new home in suburban Munich. The main floor was bright and airy, with tall windows that flooded the rooms with light. “Perfect for a young family,” she beamed. “Excellent schools nearby, parks within walking distance.” John practically bounced through each room, rattling off renovation ideas and pointing out architectural details. The basement, however, stopped his enthusiasm cold. While most of it had been converted into a modern living space, complete with plush carpet and delicate floral wallpaper, an odd door stood at the far end like a tomb marker. Its wood was scarred and weathered, children’s stickers peeling off its panels, hinges orange with rust. “What’s behind there?” I asked, noting how the door seemed to absorb the light around it. Frau Weber’s smile faltered. “I… I’m not certain. The previous owner left rather suddenly, as he was a bit of a loner.I can inquire if you’d like?” “No need,” I said quickly, though something about that door tugged at the edges of my mind. “We won’t be here long enough to worry about it.” The first few months passed in a blur of adjustment. John threw himself into his project while I navigated life as an attentive mother. Gradually, I made friends with other families in the neighborhood, as well as the moms who stayed at home. Though my German improved, I was still slightly nervous.Emma started sleeping through the night. Even John began coming home earlier, spending weekends taking us to beer gardens and on family outings instead of the office.

But that door. It haunted my thoughts, especially at night. I searched the shed, combed through boxes left by the lonely man, looking for a key. Nothing. Until our final week, as we packed to return home. I found it in Emma’s room, of all places, tucked inside an old stuffed bear that had been left on a shelf. The key was black iron, its head ornately carved with what looked to be some sort of moth

“John!” I called, racing to the basement. He followed in suit, curiosity overtaking his usual caution. The key slid in smoothly, as if it had been waiting for us. God knows how long it’s been waiting for us.

The stench hit first – sweet rot and old copper as if a million rats were left to die, the smell dissipating but lingering.John fumbled for the dangling light bulb. In the sickly yellow glow which mixed with the fluorescents that filled the basement, horror befell our very eyes.

Mason jars lined old shelves, their contents floating in murky fluid – eyes, tongues, fingers. Leather items that couldn’t possibly be leather hung from hooks. Photographs covered one wall, showing people in various stages of terror. And there, mixed among the older pictures, were new ones.

Us.

Walking Emma in the park. Shopping at the market. Sleeping in our bed.

On a workbench lay fresh tools and an appointment book. The last entry was tomorrow’s date, with three names:

John. Sarah. Emma.

Frau stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with rage and pure evil. “I see you found our key,” she spat, clutching a tarnished silver cross. “I told my father that the teddy bear was a bad idea, but he never listened, just like he never did. He wanted me to carry out his twisted legacy long after he’s gone, but I refused. That was until I realized he was right. A father who’s inattentive, a mother whose mind is plagued with such great despair that it’s more important than her child. And then there’s little Emma, born out of wedlock. You’re our perfect specimens, the whole reason he did this. He used his faith as a weapon, a justification for his monstrous acts. And now, so will I.”

Letting out an agonizing scream, Frau lunged at my husband, the tarnished cross clutched in her hand. Tackling him to the ground, she raised her arms, screaming Proverbs and Psalms in his face. I grabbed the first thing I could find and smashed her in the back of the head. Blood began pooling from her long black hair as she fell to the floor, her twisted prayers broken. Mallet in hand, tears poured from my eyes. I had just killed someone, yet relief washed over me that this was finally over.

The police came and conducted a thorough investigation. They determined that Frau and her father were responsible for dozens of deaths, if not more. Not only previous residents but prostitutes and various homeless community members had fallen victim to them. Multiple cold cases were closed and the families were finally able to find some closure, even if they’d never be able to find the bodies.

We moved back to the States the next day. John took a pay cut to transfer home early. Sometimes I see him checking the locks twice, three times at night.And Emma’s new room? We sealed off the closet door completely.

But late at night, I swear I can hear hinges creaking somewhere in our house. And sometimes, when I check on Emma, I spot a strange sticker on her wall that wasn’t there before.