Jenny had inherited her grandfather’s old house on Oak Street. The property came with a creaky, long-abandoned garage, thick with vines and weeds and years of dust and grime. The house was full of memories, but the garage had always been off-limits when she was young. Her grandfather had kept it locked, calling it “a place for things long gone.”
One rainy afternoon, curiosity got the best of her, and she decided to explore it. Digging through her grandfather’s things, she found the rusted key, heavy and ornate, and with a deep breath, she unlocked the garage door. It groaned open, revealing the expected clutter: stacks of paint cans, rickety shelves packed with old tools, and piles of things hidden under dusty tarps.
But there was something unusual. At the back of the garage, behind a stack of crates, she spotted a faint outline on the wall — a door. It was small and painted to blend in, but unmistakably, it was a door. Her heart racing, Jenny pulled away the crates, revealing an intricate lock with the same pattern as her grandfather’s key. She hesitated, but a strange excitement urged her on.
The key turned smoothly, as if it had been waiting to be used all these years. The door creaked open, and she stepped into a narrow hallway lit by a soft, ethereal glow. It wasn’t just any hallway — it was covered in intricate woodwork, delicate carvings of trees, animals, and symbols she didn’t recognize, each detail polished and perfectly preserved.