Skip to main content

The Underground World Inside My Basement

Benju Sapkota

Grade : 8 'Indrawati'

It was raining the day we moved into my grandfather’s house.

Not a gentle rain—no. The sky cracked open and poured as if it wanted to wash the world away. By the time my mother and I reached the old iron gate, my clothes were soaked through, clinging to my skin like cold hands. My grandfather had died only weeks ago, and my father had inherited the house. He said it would be fun to live there.

Fun wasn’t the word I’d use.

The house stood crooked and silent, its walls yellowed with age, its windows dark like hollow eyes. It smelled of dust, rust, and something faintly rotten— like secrets left too long in the dark.

I rushed inside to escape the rain, lifting boxes while my mother unpacked. My father hadn’t arrived yet. The house creaked with every step, as if it noticed us.

“Take this box to the basement,” my mother said, handing me a heavy carton.

The word basement made my stomach tighten.

I carried the box down the narrow hallway. The basement door stood at the end—old and wooden, its

BOOM.

Thunder exploded overhead. The lights flickered. I jumped back, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Then—

A cold hand touched my shoulder

“AHHH!” I screamed.

“It’s just me,” my father said gently.

He was drenched, water dripping from his havir onto the floor. His eyes were serious—too serious.

“Never open the basement door without counting to ten,” he said.

I frowned. “Why?”

“Just promise me,” he replied. “Count properly. Every time. Never stop halfway. Never forget.”

I nodded. I was young. I didn’t ask questions.

Years passed.

Every visit to the basement followed the same ritual.

One… two… three…

The basement was always normal—my father’s old desk, stacks of boxes, shadows that stayed where shadows belonged. Nothing ever happened.

Until the day I broke the rule.

I was sixteen, getting ready for college, when my mother asked me to fetch the dinner plates from the basement. We were hosting guests. I put my earphones in and walked downstairs, music drowning out the silence.

“One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine—”

TRING. TRING.

My phone rang.

I answered without thinking—and opened the door.

The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me.

My phone slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a crack. I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t respond. Panic flooded my chest.

The air smelled wrong.

Thick. Burnt. Rotting.

Something was dragging itself across the floor.

Not footsteps.

Not claws.

Something wet.

The lights died—and then thunder struck again, flooding the basement with blinding white light.

For a split second, I saw it.

Not a demon. Not human.

Something folded wrong, stretched like a shadow forced into flesh.

And then I saw my hands.

Burned. Marked.

Symbols carved into my skin, as if they had always been there.

Suddenly, I could move.

I grabbed my phone, flung the door open, and ran upstairs, gasping for air. My phone buzzed in my hand.

“Hello? You okay?” my friend said.

The screen wasn’t cracked.

There was no damage.

I stared at my palm.

The marks were still there.

My father came running, his face pale. Slowly, he pulled up his sleeve.

The same marks stared back at me.

He told me everything.

There was another door inside the basement—a door my grandfather and his friend had once tried to open. A door connected to something else.

The multiverse.

A world pressed against ours like glass.

Counting to ten was a warning, a signal—a way to announce ourselves so the effect wouldn’t touch us.

But if you failed…

The mark meant you were chosen.

At night, the counting spell didn’t work. The thing inside would call you. It would wear familiar voices. It would promise freedom.

And if too many marks appeared—

The door would open.

Reality would break.

The only way to stop it was sacrifice.

One marked soul had to stay inside.

To guard the door.

To keep the monsters satisfied.

I didn’t want to go.

But that night, the whispers began.

First my mother’s voice.

Then my grandfather’s.

Crying. Begging.

Calling me home.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe.

So I made my choice.

I went into the basement with my father.

The smell hit first.

Then the darkness.

Something watched me as the door closed.

Behind my father’s old desk, we found it—the hidden door. The same symbols covered its surface, matching the marks on my hand and my father’s.

It wasn’t wood or metal.

It was black.

Breathing.

Warm.

I touched it. It pulsed beneath my palm.

I opened it.

My father begged me to stop. He said I didn’t have to suffer. That we could live with the mark, with the calling each night. He told me he would explain everything to my mother.

I hugged him tightly.

“Tell Mom goodbye for me,” I whispered.

Then—

I opened the warm, breathing door.

I don’t know how much time passed in the real world.

I only know this:

My father’s mark disappeared.

The basement no longer calls him.

He lives without fear.

As for me—

The demon whispers every day.

It promises escape.

It promises freedom.

It promises that if I open the door just once, we can both return.

But I won’t.

Because if I leave—

The world ends.

And I’d rather stay in the dark forever then let the darkness follow me home.

Imperial World School
A Disaster Prepared School
Safe Haven for Children