I Found A Trapdoor Under The Rug In My New House. It Leads To My House, But Everything Is Wrong.

I Found A Trapdoor Under The Rug In My New House. It Leads To My House, But Everything Is Wrong.

​The rug was ugly. That’s the only reason I moved it. I had just bought this old Victorian house cheap, and the previous owners left a moth-eaten Persian rug in the middle of the living room.

​I dragged it aside, intending to throw it out. Underneath, cut seamlessly into the hardwood floor, was a small, square trapdoor.

​There was no handle. Just a small indentation. I pried it open with a screwdriver.

​I expected a crawlspace. Maybe a safe.

Instead, I saw a ladder going down. But it didn't go into darkness. It went into... light?

​I climbed down. The tunnel was short, maybe ten feet. I dropped down onto the floor below.

​I stood up and looked around. I gasped.

​I was standing in my living room.

The same walls. The same fireplace. Even the ugly rug was there, rolled up to the side just like I had left it.

​"Did I just climb in a circle?" I wondered aloud.

​Then I noticed the differences.

​The clock on the mantle was ticking, but the second hand was moving counter-clockwise. Tick-tock backward.

I looked at the window. Outside, the sky wasn't blue. It was a deep, bruising purple. The sun was a black hole in the sky, radiating waves of darkness instead of light.

​I walked into the kitchen. The fridge was humming, but it sounded like a scream held for too long. I opened it. The food inside was hot. The milk was boiling in the jug.

​"This is a dream," I said. "I inhaled mold spores or something."

​Then I heard the front door open.

​"We're home!" a voice called out. It sounded like a recording played in reverse. emoh er'eW!

​I panicked. I dove behind the kitchen island.

​A family walked in. A father, a mother, and a little girl.

They looked normal at first glance. But then they started moving.

​They walked backward. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. They moved with a jerky, unnatural rhythm.

They hung their coats on the rack without looking, moving perfectly in reverse.

​They walked into the kitchen. I held my breath.

​The father opened the hot fridge, took out the boiling milk, and poured it into a glass. He drank it without flinching.

​Then, the little girl stopped. She spun around—not backward, but unnaturally fast. She looked directly at the island where I was hiding.

​Her eyes were entirely white. No pupils.

​"Daddy," she said. But she didn't speak the words. The sound came from the walls, vibrating the floorboards. "The meat is fresh today."

​The father smiled. His smile went up to his forehead. Literally. His mouth opened so wide the skin tore.

​"Find it," the walls rumbled.

​They started sniffing the air.

​I scrambled back to the living room. I needed to get to the trapdoor.

I ran.

Behind me, I heard them scuttling. Not walking anymore. Running on all fours like spiders.

​I reached the trapdoor ladder. I climbed up frantically.

A hand grabbed my ankle. It was cold. Burning cold.

I kicked down, my boot connecting with a face that felt like wet clay.

​I pulled myself up into my real living room and slammed the trapdoor shut. I dragged the heavy sofa over it. Then the bookshelf. Then the TV stand.

​I sat there panting, safe.

​Or so I thought.

​That was an hour ago. I’m sitting in my "real" living room now.

But I just noticed something.

​The clock on my mantle.

It’s ticking backward.

​And when I look out the window... the sun is black.

​I didn't escape. I think I climbed down into the wrong hole. Or maybe... maybe I was never in the real house to begin with.

​I can hear scratching from above the ceiling now. They are coming from the trapdoor... which is now on the ceiling.