The house was dead quiet, which made the transition to Downstairs feel even more natural. Despite my earlier trepidations, I wasn’t afraid as I grabbed the flashlight by the hallway. Vodka is magic.

I passed through the first few hallways, the stairs where the lights went out, the dark lower corridors. It wasn’t until I hit the octagon that I got scared again.

I’d been walking on autopilot, lost in musing, but as I stepped into that room with its stairs leading down, I pulled up short, noticing something vital. The flashlight was dimmer. My eyes had adjusted, but through my liquor-addled head I could see the room was noticeably less bright than the last time I’d been down here.

Niko must have run the batteries down with all his exploring.

This didn’t especially worry me. After our first trip I’d brought up the possibility of batteries going dead. “Yeah, fuck that,” he’d said, and duct-taped four fresh batteries to the long body of the flashlight.

But it did occur to me—now—that to change them down here I’d have to do it in total darkness. Fiddling with sticky tape, fumbling to unscrew the light, pouring out the old batteries and not mixing them up with the new ones, by feel...

So there was that.

I thought for a minute about going back. But I was close to the pool room now. I wanted to find out what was inside that fridge. What Niko had been keeping from me.

And I did have the batteries, after all. If I needed to change them, it would just take a second.

I kept going.

The last set of stairs down, with their weird irrational angles, passed quickly. The hall at the bottom stretched into the gloom, and I sped past the long stretch with no doors till I reached the pool room.

The door was closed. So Niko had been back here.

Inside was the smooth, curved concrete of the pool bottom. I grabbed for the lowest rung of the ladder and pulled myself up, a familiar motion from my swimming days but weird to be doing it bone-dry, without buoyancy.

The upper level had a lip about three feet wide extending around the edge of the pool, and on the ladder side the space opened up, concrete giving way to linoleum. Sure enough, there was a full kitchen up there, just like Niko had described. With all the appliances, it was fairly cozy. I stared bemused at the chrome dials on the oven, the row of pale-green cabinets with round white handles.

I turned to the fridge. It looked dated, a fading yellow with tacky chrome highlights. It only had one big door; no freezer. No magnets or family photos, either. Generically anonymous.

I pulled at the handle, but it didn’t budge. Studying it, I saw what Niko had been talking about: there was a small keyhole under the handle. Smaller than a house key: more like one for a padlock, something you’d put on a shed.

The keys I’d lifted from Niko looked about right.

I picked one and slid it into the lock. It fit smoothly, with a satisfying click at the end. But when I turned it, it wouldn’t rotate.

Frustrated, I jigged it back and forth, turning harder. The key was too small to get a solid grip on. I squeezed down and gave it a really good twist.

For a second I thought it was turning, but then I realized I’d just bent the key. I’d come close to snapping it in half.

I pulled it gingerly from the lock, staring at it in disappointment. Well, shit. There wouldn’t be any hiding this from him, now. It was bent nearly in half. I tossed it on the counter for a minute as I tried to think what to do.

In between the little noises I made, the taps and scratches and breaths, the silence almost smothered me.

Try the other key.

It slid in just as easily, but when I gently twisted this one it turned. I rotated it through a full circle before I heard a second snick.

I pulled at the fridge handle and the door swung open, cold air and yellow light wafting out.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to see (frozen heads, the part of my brain still traumatized by horror movies suggested) so it took a moment of blinking in confusion to realize the fridge was empty. Those plastic wire shelves, immaculately clean. A butter dish and condiment nooks in the door, unused.

There was nothing in there.

Except—frowning, I bent down, shining the light inside. The fridge was deep. It went back a good six feet, and so did the shelves. And there was something on the back wall.

The inside of another fridge door. Condiment nooks. Another butter dish.

What the hell?

I pulled the chilly wire shelves out and stacked them next to the fridge. Feeling foolish, I clambered awkwardly inside, flashlight bumping against the plastic floor above two pairs of vegetable drawers, one facing in, one facing out. They held my weight.

I shuffled awkwardly forward (there was less than five feet of vertical space) and pushed the inner door. No give. I pushed harder, remembering stories about kids stuck in fridges, but still nothing. Is this one locked too? I searched for a keyhole, but didn’t see one. Which makes sense, if it’s on the outside. I turned back to confirm: yep, the door I’d come through had no sign of a lock on its inner surface.

The logo on the plastic butter compartment said Whirlpool.

A thought popped into my head: What if it’s like an airlock? This made no kind of logical sense, but seemed compelling. Only one door open at a time, otherwise you’d let all the cold air out. I almost giggled, then stopped myself, suddenly afraid.

What am I doing?

I decided to try it. Why not? Nothing made sense, so maybe this would. Turning awkwardly, I reached for the door I’d come through to pull it shut. It wasn’t designed to be pulled from the inside, but I managed to get a grip on a condiment shelf, and swung it firmly towards me.

As the door slammed shut two things happened, both terrifying in different ways. First, there were two snicks, one from the door in front of me and one behind.

Second, my flashlight went out.

Cold terror flushed through me. I shook the light, pressed the button on and off. Nothing happened. I pushed the door in front of me but it didn’t give at all. I slammed into it hard with my whole body, panicking, the rounded edge of a plastic shelf jabbing painfully into my cheekbone, but the door didn’t budge.

Because it’s locked, I told myself, mind whirling. But the one behind you is open, now. I twisted around, facing the back of the fridge as near I could tell, the second door.

But the thought of opening that door in pitch blackness, a door leading into complete unknown, opening it blind and crawling out into darkness, was terrifying. I stayed frozen, caught between fears: staying there or moving forward. Finally some combination of claustrophobia and visions of my air running out triumphed over my fear of the unknown, and I crab-walked forward till my outstretched hand touched the other door. Before I could stop to think, I kept moving forward, pushing my weight against it.

The door opened easily and my flashlight came back on.

Like the fridge light, I thought, dizzy. Goes out when the door is closed, comes back when you open it. Makes perfect sense. I actually laughed out loud and then stopped myself.

I couldn’t laugh. I had to take this seriously, while I was down here. Or I might never get out.

Stumbling on cramped knees, I spilled out of the fridge and staggered upright, shining my light around warily. What I saw confused me even more.

It was the same room.

This is just one way the story can go. In the final version of Subcutanean, no two stories will ever be quite the same. Find out more at https://igg.me/at/subcutanean