When the restoration crew entered the old house on the edge of town, they expected a routine job — strip the plaster, replace the flooring, paint the walls. The house had been abandoned for decades: dust everywhere, a damp, stale smell, cobwebs on the ceiling, and the slow decay of time etched into every object. But in this house, they were about to make a discovery that would later appear in the local papers.
In the living room, on the large wall opposite the main window, hung a heavy painting. It was darker than everything around it, almost drawing the eye in. The canvas showed a woman in a black dress, sitting by a window with a calm yet piercing gaze. It felt as if she was watching everyone who entered the room.
The workers decided to take it down to even out the wall before painting. One of them, Tom, noticed something strange — the bottom of the canvas seemed fused with the wall, as if something was hidden behind it. After several careful attempts, they finally pried off the frame — and a faint creak echoed through the room, like the house itself exhaled.
Behind the painting was an old window, boarded up and plastered around the edges. No one had known it was there — not the owners, not the former tenants. The woodwork around the frame showed traces of careful repair; someone had sealed it deliberately, with precision and effort.
When Tom shone his flashlight through a narrow gap between the boards, the air that came out was cold — unnaturally cold, as if there wasn’t a garden behind it, but a cellar. He peered through — and froze. There was no street beyond the glass. Instead, another room appeared. Darkness, faded wallpaper, and something metallic glinting faintly on the floor.
The crew decided to remove a few boards. As they pried off the first one, a rush of stale air and dust filled the room. When the second board came loose, a brief reflection flickered — as if someone on the other side had moved.
One of the men instinctively pointed the flashlight inside, but the beam caught nothing. Just an old mirror leaning against the far wall — reflecting, dimly, the very room they were standing in.
“Could it be a passage?” one of them whispered.
Tom shook his head, still staring into the opening. On the inner wall, he noticed a scrap of paper pinned with a nail. He reached for it, but it was too far. Another man grabbed a scraper to pry off the remaining plank.
The moment he touched the edge, something heavy fell in the darkness with a dull thud. The three men froze. The silence that followed was so thick, they could hear their own breathing.
Tom stepped back and glanced at the painting now leaning against the wall — and almost dropped his flashlight.
The woman in the portrait was no longer looking toward the window.
Her eyes were fixed directly on them.
