PART 1
Dorothy had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. That was why, when a young man I had never seen before began visiting her home almost every day, I noticed immediately.
At first, I told myself it was none of my business.
Dorothy was eighty-three years old, but she had never liked being treated as though she could no longer make her own decisions. She had lived in the little white house next to mine since before I was born. Long before I became the person checking on her, she had been the one looking after me.
When my mother worked late, Dorothy welcomed me into her kitchen without question. She made grilled cheese sandwiches when I complained about dinner and let me sleep on her couch when thunderstorms frightened me. She attended school plays, remembered every birthday, and always seemed to know when I needed comfort before I said a word.
After her husband passed away, the bond between us grew even stronger.
As the years went by, our roles gradually reversed. I began carrying her groceries, changing lightbulbs, washing the curtains, and cleaning the rooms that had become difficult for her to manage. I drove her to appointments and checked on her several times each week.
Dorothy sometimes complained that I worried too much.
I always told her that worrying was simply part of loving someone.
Our routine continued peacefully until one Tuesday evening.
I arrived at her door carrying a paper bag filled with bread, fruit, soup, and the herbal tea she loved. Usually, Dorothy opened the door before I finished knocking.
That evening, she opened it only a few inches.
Her silver hair had been brushed carefully, and she wore the pale lavender cardigan she normally saved for special occasions. There was a glow in her face I had not seen in years—something between excitement and nervousness.
“You don’t have to keep coming over, Greta,” she said.
I stared at her through the narrow opening.
“What do you mean?”
“I have Alex now.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is Alex?”
Her eyes brightened.
“He’s a delivery driver. He brought me a package, and we fell in love.”
For several seconds, I said nothing.
I waited for her familiar mischievous smile. Dorothy loved teasing me, especially when she thought I was being overly serious.
But she did not laugh.
“Dorothy,” I said carefully, “what exactly are you talking about?”
She reached through the gap, took the grocery bag from my hands, and smiled as though the matter had already been settled.
“Good night, dear.”
Then she closed the door.
I remained on the porch, listening to the lock click into place.
Two days later, I finally saw Alex.
He was leaving Dorothy’s house just as I stepped outside to collect my mail. He looked barely twenty. His jeans were faded at the knees, and his sneakers were so worn that the soles had begun to separate.
When he noticed me watching, he hesitated.
Then he offered a cautious smile.
“You must be Greta.”
The fact that he knew my name sent a cold uneasiness through me.
“And you’re Alex?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I disliked the situation immediately, although I could not yet explain why.
Perhaps it was the difference in their ages. Perhaps it was the speed with which he had entered her life. Or perhaps it was simply the way Dorothy had suddenly decided she no longer needed me.
Over the next two weeks, she seemed to vanish behind the walls of her house.
Her curtains remained closed. Her mail accumulated in the box. She stopped answering the door when I knocked and rarely picked up the phone.
Alex, however, came and went almost every day.
Sometimes he arrived before sunset and did not leave until the following morning. A few days later, I saw him open Dorothy’s front door with his own key.
That frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
Whenever I sent Dorothy a message, the replies came quickly but always sounded strangely empty.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Every message was nearly identical.
Dorothy had never communicated that way. Her texts usually wandered from one subject to another. She would begin by telling me she was fine, continue with a complaint about the weather, offer advice about my garden, and end by reminding me to wear a sweater.
The new replies were brief, cold, and unnatural.
I began to wonder whether Dorothy was writing them at all.
Then, one afternoon, a package addressed to her was mistakenly left on my porch.
I carried it next door and knocked.
There was no response.
I knocked again, harder this time.
“Dorothy?”
Silence.
I walked around the side of the house and looked through the kitchen window. The room was empty.
Returning to the front door, I called her phone. I could hear it ringing somewhere inside.
Still, no one answered.
My concern became panic.
Years earlier, after Dorothy had suffered a dizzy spell, she had given me an emergency key. She had made me promise never to use it unless I believed something was truly wrong.
Standing on her porch that afternoon, I knew I could no longer wait.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The house was silent.
It was also strangely spotless.
Dorothy’s home had always been clean, but it had never looked empty. There were usually books open on tables, half-finished cups of tea near the window, knitting yarn draped across chairs, and handwritten notes covering the refrigerator.
Now everything had been arranged perfectly.
Too perfectly.
“Dorothy?” I called again.
No answer.
I searched the kitchen, the living room, and each bedroom.
Neither Dorothy nor Alex was there.
I was about to call the police when I heard something.
A faint, uneven sound.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock.
At first, I thought it came from the pipes.
Then it came again.
Knock. Knock.
The sound rose from beneath the floor.
Someone was in the basement.
