Working in the basement’s “dirty zone” turned out to be harder than Anya had imagined. The cement bags were heavy, and the boards were studded with splinters. But it was perfect cover. With all the noise of dragging junk around, she could tap the walls and map the corners without Viktor noticing.
After a few days, Anya reached the farthest corner, hidden behind a stack of half-rotted beams. She lifted another board—and froze.
On the wall, right at eye level, someone had scratched tally marks, almost invisible beneath the dust. Fifteen of them. Fifteen days.
And a little lower, in the gap between the floor and the wall, something glinted dully. Anya glanced back toward the stairs—quiet. She slid her fingers into the crack and pulled out a cheap plastic claw clip with peeling gold paint.
Cold flooded her from the inside out.
This hadn’t been a grown woman. It had been a child—or someone very young. And that “someone” had been here for only two weeks. Where had she gone after that?
The obvious answer almost made Anya cry out, but she clamped a dirty hand over her mouth in time.
Frankl. Remember Frankl,
she ordered herself. Emotions are noise. You need facts.
She swung a heavy broken chunk of beam into a new position, and it slipped—smacking the wall right beside the “calendar.”
The sound wasn’t like the rest of the basement. Not the dull thud of solid concrete, but a hollow ring. Anya went still, listening. She knocked carefully with her knuckles. The surface vibrated under her touch.
This wasn’t concrete.
It was a thin partition—foam block, or even double drywall—skillfully plastered to match the rest of the wall.
Behind it was empty space.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Footsteps sounded overhead. Anya shoved the hair clip into her pocket and started frantically sweeping dust into the bucket.
Viktor came down holding a glass of cold lemonade. He looked almost pleased. He liked seeing her work; it fed his sense of ownership.
“Well, well. You’re more productive than I expected,” he said, taking in the cleared space. “See what physical labor does? You’ve even got some color in your cheeks.”
Anya wiped sweat from her forehead, careful not to look toward the hollow wall.
“My back hurts. But you were right—it’s quieter in my head. When you’re hauling those beams around, you only think about not dropping them on your feet.”
Viktor stepped closer. Anya tensed inside, but stood still.
“That’s real meditation.”
He held the lemonade out to her.
“Drink. You’ve earned it.”
She took a sip. Sugar and lemon—but right now, it all tasted like blood.
“Viktor… why is the wall in that corner so… uneven?” she asked. “I hit it with a board and some plaster crumbled. It feels like there used to be a door there.”
His gaze went stony. He looked toward the corner she’d cleared.
“You’re too observant, Anya. It’s exhausting. It’s just a bricked-up opening. This basement used to connect to the neighboring house—back when the previous owners lived here. I sealed it and reinforced it. There’s concrete and packed dirt behind it now. Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not,” she said calmly, taking another sip. “I just thought—if there’s an empty space, maybe that’s why it feels colder here. I wondered if there might be condensation there too, like in the ventilation. I wouldn’t want dampness to ruin your work again.”
He softened, flattered by her “concern” for his efforts.
“No. It’s airtight. I filled it in myself. Old masonry can sound hollow sometimes.” His eyes sharpened again. “Don’t knock there anymore. Understand?”
“Okay, Viktor. I’ll be more careful.”
She set the glass on the floor.
“You know… I found this under the boards today.”
Slowly, she pulled something from her other pocket—not the hair clip, but an old rusty nail she’d come across earlier.
“I thought you might need it.”
Viktor took the nail, glanced at it once, and tossed it into the trash bucket.
“Don’t get distracted by junk. Finish this corner by evening, and I’ll let you come up to the kitchen today. We’ll have dinner upstairs, by the window. Want that?”
Her eyes lit up—this time for real.
“Upstairs? Really?”
He smiled smugly.
“Really. You’ve proved you can be useful and obedient. And I know how to reward people.”
He left, whistling a little tune. Anya slowly sank to her knees in front of the hollow wall.
This time, he was obviously lying. He’d claimed it was filled with concrete and packed dirt, but the wall sang like a drum. That wasn’t concrete. That was a way out.