My wife and I have lived in our old house for around five years, and in that time we’ve probably been down into the cellar a handful of times. A few weeks ago, we decided we were going to renovate it, maybe turn it into a mini gym or something. So on the weekend, we began cleaning it up. The cellar has a stone floor, but the walls were covered in this horrible, yellowed floral wallpaper. After we stripped it, we found a door without a handle.

My wife tried to peek through the small circular hole in the door using the torch on her phone. She suddenly WENT STILL. Her face turned pale, and she didn’t say a word, just handed me her phone. My heart pounded as I took the phone and pressed my eye to the hole. The light barely penetrated the darkness beyond, but I could make out a few shapes—something was definitely there.

I pried the door open, my hands shaking. As the door creaked open, the smell of damp and decay filled the air. I waved the torch around and nearly JUMPED out of my skin. There was a large, old trunk in the middle of the room, partially covered by a dusty, moth-eaten blanket. Beside it, old wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty jars and rusty tools that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades.
Cautiously, we approached the trunk. My wife clutched my arm, and I could feel her trembling. I slowly lifted the lid, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, we found a collection of old photographs, letters, and what appeared to be a child’s toys—a doll with a cracked porcelain face, a small wooden car, and a teddy bear with one eye missing.

As we sifted through the items, we found a leather-bound journal at the bottom of the trunk. The pages were yellowed and fragile, the ink faded. The journal belonged to a woman named Margaret, who had lived in the house over a century ago. Her entries detailed a happy life with her husband and their young daughter, Clara.

But as we read further, the entries took a dark turn. Margaret wrote about strange occurrences in the house—footsteps in the hall when no one was there, whispers in the night, and objects moving on their own. She described how Clara started behaving oddly, talking to someone who wasn’t there, and how she often found her daughter staring into the cellar, saying she was playing with her “new friend.”

The last entry was the most chilling. Margaret wrote about a terrible stormy night when Clara went missing. Despite searching the entire house and surrounding area, they never found her. The entry ended with a heart-wrenching plea for her daughter’s return and a note of despair that the “new friend” had taken Clara away.

We sat there in stunned silence, the weight of Margaret’s words sinking in. My wife looked at me, her eyes wide with fear and concern. “Do you think Clara is still here?” she whispered.

Just then, we heard a soft, almost imperceptible giggle echoing through the cellar. We froze, our hearts racing. The giggle was followed by a faint, childish voice saying, “Come play with me.”

Terrified, we grabbed the journal and the photographs and bolted out of the cellar, slamming the door shut behind us. We called in a paranormal investigator to help us understand what we had uncovered. The investigator confirmed our worst fears—Clara’s spirit was indeed trapped in the cellar, along with the malevolent presence of her “new friend,” who had taken her all those years ago.

Determined to set things right, we held a cleansing ceremony in the cellar with the help of the investigator. We read aloud from Margaret’s journal, acknowledging Clara’s presence and promising to help her find peace. We burned sage and placed protective charms around the cellar. As we did, we felt a shift in the air—a sense of calm and release.

In the days that followed, the house felt lighter, and the strange occurrences ceased. We sealed the cellar door, deciding to leave it as a place of rest for Clara and her mother. The experience brought us closer together, and we often talked about the history of our home, honoring the memories of those who had lived there before us. The cellar remained untouched, a solemn reminder of the past and the spirits we had helped to finally find peace.