There is only one rule: don't open the door

The house had been in Erin's family for generations, and with it came a single, unbreakable rule: don't open the door at the end of the basement. Everyone knew about it, and no one ever asked why. Erin grew up with that rule, and it seemed easy enough to follow—until she inherited the house after her grandmother passed away.

The first few nights were uneventful, the house settling with its usual groans and creaks. But on the third night, just as Erin was drifting off to sleep, she heard it—a faint, rhythmic thumping echoing from beneath the floorboards. She tried to ignore it, brushing it off as the old house settling, but the noise grew louder, more persistent.
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Curiosity gnawed at her. She found herself standing at the top of the basement stairs, peering down into the darkness. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her head, stern and unyielding: don't open the door. But what could be so terrible that it had to be locked away? What was making that sound?

Erin grabbed a flashlight and descended the stairs, her pulse pounding in her ears. The door at the end of the basement loomed before her, its wood scratched and scarred. She hesitated, then reached for the handle.

The moment the door creaked open, a chill swept through the basement, and a voice, low and ragged, whispered from the darkness, “I knew you’d come.” Before Erin could react, a cold hand shot out, dragging her into the pitch black.

The next morning, the house was silent once more, but from behind the basement door came a new, faint thumping, as if something—or someone—was trying to get out.