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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Informal_Ratio4108 on 2025-05-21 11:14:55+00:00.

I never believed in family curses.

Mom liked to joke about it—“Must’ve angered something long ago.” But strange things happened to us: my uncle disappeared without a trace in the ’90s, my grandfather left this world unexpectedly in his slumber, and my cousin shattered under the weight of his own mind just last year.

I dismissed it all as coincidence.

Then I got the house.

My grandfather’s place—an ancient structure in a decaying Pennsylvania town. I hadn’t stepped foot inside since childhood. I thought I’d spend a weekend sifting through his belongings and sell it off.

The house felt… wrong. A silence that wasn’t soothing, but oppressive—like a weight pressing down on my chest.

On the second night, I stumbled upon the hatch.

In the basement, tossing aside the remnants of the past, I spotted a square patch of concrete in the corner. It was a different shade, too clean. My flashlight flickered over faint, frantic scratch marks etched into the edges—like the desperate attempts of someone begging to escape.

With a crowbar, I pried it open. A dark shaft yawned beneath, an iron ladder bolted to the wall vanishing into the abyss.

At the bottom: a wooden door. No handle. Symbols carved deep into its surface—circles, jagged curves, an eye watching. The air should’ve chilled my bones, instead, it wrapped around me like a warm shroud.

I should have left. But curiosity had me in its grip, and I knocked.

And something knocked back.

Four slow knocks, echoing my own.

Sleep evaded me that night. I locked every door, turned on all the lights, and sat up clutching a bat until dawn broke.

The next day, I convinced myself it was just my imagination. Or maybe a raccoon.

But on the third night, it knocked again.

This time, I hadn’t been the one to initiate it.

Panic surged, and I called a locksmith. Explained that there was a sealed door in my basement. He looked puzzled but agreed to come over.

He descended.

He never returned.

I waited. Called for him. Silence.

Finally, I ventured down myself.

He was gone.

No sign of tools or footsteps. Just the door.

The police arrived; I showed them the hatch.

But the floor was sealed. Concrete smooth and untouched, as if time itself had forgotten it.

They left, saying I was under too much stress.

That night, I set my phone to record the basement. I retreated upstairs, every nerve alive.

At 2:13 AM, it came again.

Four knocks.

This time, not from the basement.

But from my bedroom wall.

Then… my closet.

I bolted. I didn’t pause for shoes—just grabbed my keys, my phone, and fled.

I drove until the first rays of dawn broke.

The next day, my friend insisted we return together.

But we found no house.

Only ashes.

The fire marshal claimed it was electrical, yet there were no wires in that part of the basement. No storms. No lightning to blame.

They recovered one body. Burned beyond recognition. Male. They guessed around 40 years old.

I’m just 26.

That was three weeks back.

And every night since—whether in a motel, my car, or anywhere else—I hear it.

Knocking.

Sometimes on the walls. Sometimes lurking beneath my bed.

Whatever I uncovered down there didn’t remain confined.

It came with me.