The trapdoor

The Trapdoor
The rain hammered the roof of Billy’s Bar & Grill like a thousand fists, relentless and unforgiving. Sarah stood behind the bar, scrubbing a glass that was already clean. Her hands moved mechanically, her mind elsewhere, restless in the way it always was when the night dragged on and the loneliness crept in.

Fresh start. That’s what she’d told herself when she signed the papers. Aberdeen was cheap, quiet. No one asked questions. She had bought the bar with the last of her savings after the divorce. No one here knew her, and that was exactly what she needed.

The realtor had been vague. “Place has history, sure. But you’ll make it yours.”

Sarah believed it. She painted over the grime, scrubbed the floors, and hung twinkle lights behind the bar to make it feel warm. She tried to convince herself she had escaped her past, but every day, a whisper followed her. Sometimes she could feel it in the mirrors, in the way the glass gleamed too brightly, reflecting the ghost of someone she used to be—someone she had buried in the miles between here and the life she left behind.

Could I ever really escape my past? The thought flashed through her mind as she set the glass down with a sharp click. She turned to check the time, then froze as she heard the first thud.

Thud.

Sarah’s stomach turned. The sound came from the back of the bar, where the basement door loomed—unopened since she arrived.

Thud-thud.

“Rats,” she whispered to herself, trying to dismiss the unease creeping up her spine. The word felt hollow, even as she spoke it. She hadn’t heard that sound before, and her gut told her something wasn’t right.

Her feet moved slowly toward the basement door, the old wood creaking underfoot. The keyring trembled in her hand as she fumbled with the lock. The air grew colder around her, the dampness creeping in like it had been waiting for her.

She shoved the door open, the stale air from below filling her lungs with a sickly sweet smell.

Her flashlight flickered as she descended, illuminating the long, narrow stairwell. Crates, broken bottles, and rusted tools lay scattered across the floor. But then—she saw it.

A trapdoor.

Set into the earth, as though it had always been there—waiting. Waiting for someone. The ground around it was wet, dark, like the earth itself had been clawed at. Sarah swallowed hard as she stood frozen at the top of the stairs.

A voice called from below, soft at first, but growing louder.

Knock-knock-knock.

It came from beneath the trapdoor, and a chill swept down her spine, colder than the basement air.

"Just take a look. Five seconds, and I’m out." She said it to herself, but there was no conviction in her voice.

Knock-knock-knock.

The sound grew louder, urgent. Without thinking, she stepped forward, gripping the flashlight tighter, her breath shaky. The trapdoor trembled under her feet as though it were alive—pulsing, breathing. It knew she was there. The knocking stopped, replaced by a soft, scraping sound, as though something had dragged itself toward the door.

Then, the hand appeared.

Gray and slick, its fingers curling upward like claws. The sailor’s sleeve was torn, revealing patches of pale skin that looked too thin, too stretched. Sarah took a step back, her chest tightening.

More hands followed, crawling, clawing at the air like desperate things that had been trapped for too long. The sailor’s eyes were empty. Hollow. Black as a void.

“We called,” the first sailor rasped, his voice disjointed, like a radio on static. “You knew. You didn’t come.”

The sound echoed in Sarah’s ears, distorting, fading in and out. Her breath hitched. She stepped back, her body trembling. The voices knew her. How?

“They’re not real,” she whispered, though she couldn’t stop the cold terror creeping up her throat.

But as she turned to flee, a shadow moved in the doorway behind her. She froze, the blood draining from her face.

A man stood at the top of the stairs, silhouetted in the dim light. His clothes were old-fashioned—dark slacks, a waistcoat, a crooked tie, all stained with something darker. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his eyes—his eyes were black, empty, like the sailors'.

“You…” Her voice faltered. She couldn’t get the words out.

The man smiled, slow and languid, a smile that reached his eyes only briefly before it vanished again. “Folks used to call me Billy.”

Her heart dropped, and the room spun. Billy Gohl. The name shot through her mind like an electric shock. The sailor stories. The ghost of the man who had lured sailors into this very basement. The man who had disappeared into the fog of time—but never really left.

Billy’s smile widened, cold and amused. “You bought the place. You heard the stories.”

She backed away from him, her legs trembling. The past, the things she’d run from, had come back, and now they were closing in. Her thoughts raced, but her legs were frozen.

The sailor’s hands tightened around her ankles, pulling her toward the trapdoor. She screamed, trying to fight, but the wet, cold grip was too strong. She kicked, struggling for air, but the world was narrowing.

Billy crouched down in front of her, his cold fingers brushing her cheek with a mockery of tenderness. “You thought you could escape, didn’t you?” His voice was soft, almost sweet, but there was nothing kind in it. “But it’s always the same. It always is.”

The trapdoor creaked open wider, the darkness below swallowing her scream. As she was dragged closer to the edge, she felt the cold water rising around her legs, and then—the pressure on her chest as she was pulled under, the weight of the world pushing her down into the suffocating blackness.

Her vision blurred, her body going limp, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful, weightless—like a return to something she couldn’t escape.

And then, with the final thud of the trapdoor closing, the basement fell silent.

Upstairs, the rain continued to fall. But now, from below, there was a sound—soft at first, but unmistakable.

Knock-knock-knock.

But it came from above