Chapter 1: The Scene of the Crime

Chapter 1: The Scene of the Crime

The building stood like a tombstone at the end of the block.

Jonah parked his sputtering ten-year-old Civic across the street, the engine giving a final, pathetic cough before falling silent. He stared through the bug-splattered windshield at Wolfgang’s Dry Goods. The name, painted in faded, peeling gold leaf on the brick facade, was a relic from a time when the city had more ambition. Now, it just looked tired. Just like him.

“The scene of the crime,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

He wasn’t wrong. This building was where the first crack in his life had formed, long before the bankruptcy, the divorce, and the cloying stink of cheap whiskey that had clung to him for the better part of a year. He was thirty-nine, but some days he felt ninety. The bags under his eyes were permanent fixtures, twin monuments to stress and sleepless nights.

A perky voice chirped from his phone’s speaker. “Jonah? You here? I’m waving at you from the door!”

He glanced over to see Brenda, the commercial realtor, a beacon of relentless optimism in a polyester blazer. She waved with a manic energy that made his teeth ache. He forced a grimace that he hoped passed for a smile, grabbed his worn chef’s jacket from the passenger seat, and heaved himself out of the car.

His desire, sharp and desperate, was to make this work. He needed a kitchen. He needed a restaurant. He needed to prove to his kids, to his ex-wife, to the ghost of his disappointed father, that he wasn’t the colossal failure his reflection screamed at him every morning. This was his last shot, cobbled together from a small business loan he’d practically begged for and the last dregs of his professional pride.

The obstacle was the building itself. The rent was impossibly low, a fact that should have been a red flag the size of a billboard. Every other venture in this location for the past twenty years had died a swift, unceremonious death. A bookstore, a yoga studio, a boutique selling artisanal soaps. All gone. The place was cursed, a financial graveyard. And for Jonah, it held a more personal poison.

He’d been seven years old. The ground floor then had been Wham! Arcade, a cacophony of 8-bit music and flashing lights. It was his birthday, and his father, in a rare moment of cheerful indulgence, had given him a fistful of quarters. Jonah had been king of the block at Astro Annihilator, until a quiet, pale kid with a shock of curly red hair stepped up to the machine next to him. The kid hadn’t said a word, just played with an unnerving, silent focus. He beat Jonah’s high score. Then he beat it again. And again. Humiliated and furious, Jonah had shoved him. The kid barely moved, just looked at him with wide, empty eyes before turning back to the game. The mocking laughter of the other kids had been the soundtrack to his shame.

“Jonah! Daydreaming about your future culinary empire?” Brenda beamed as he reached the front door, fumbling with a ring of keys.

“Something like that,” he lied.

The door groaned open, releasing a breath of stale, cold air that smelled of dust and decay. Inside, the space was cavernous. Sunlight struggled through grime-caked windows, illuminating dancing dust motes. He could see the potential, the ghost of a dining room. He could almost hear the clink of cutlery and the low hum of happy customers. It was a vision he clung to like a life raft.

“The bones are great, right?” Brenda said, her voice echoing in the emptiness. “Solid foundation, original tin ceiling. A little TLC and this place will be a goldmine.”

Jonah walked the perimeter, his worn kitchen clogs scuffing on the grimy floorboards. He ran a hand over the exposed brick. It felt cold, unnaturally so. He tried to imagine tables here, a small bar there. He tried to visualize success, but the memory of the red-headed boy’s vacant stare kept creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

“The kitchen is the real selling point,” Brenda announced, leading him towards the back. “The previous tenants left most of the hookups. It’ll save you a fortune.”

The kitchen was a disaster, but a functional one. Stainless steel prep tables were coated in a film of grease and dust. The walk-in cooler door hung slightly ajar. But the space was good, the flow was right. He could see his station, the grill line, the pass. For the first time all day, a flicker of genuine hope ignited in his chest. This could work. It had to work.

He paced the room, his professional instincts taking over. He noted the placement of the floor drains, the ventilation hood, the gas lines. He was so absorbed in his planning, in the fantasy of his redemption, that he almost missed it.

Tucked away in the darkest corner, next to the walk-in, was a door he hadn't noticed. It was old, made of heavy, dark wood banded with iron, completely out of place with the rest of the building's architecture. It looked ancient, like it had been salvaged from a medieval castle. Bolted to the center of the door at eye-level was a small, tarnished brass plate. Etched into it was a single, stark word in a clean, modern font:

PASSWORD

Jonah frowned, running his fingers over the cool metal. “What’s this?”

Brenda glanced over, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, that. No idea. Leads to the old sub-basement, I think. Been locked for as long as anyone can remember. The owner said to just ignore it. Probably full of rats and mold.”

He tried the handle. It was heavy, unmoving. He pressed his ear against the wood, but heard only silence. There was no keyhole, no visible lock mechanism. Just the door, the handle, and that strange, incongruous word. A deep, primal unease settled in his stomach, cold and heavy.

“It’s locked from the inside,” he said, more to himself than to her.

“Weird, right? Anyway, let’s talk numbers!” Brenda said, already moving back toward the front, eager to close the deal.

Jonah gave the door one last look before following her. Despite the chill it sent down his spine, his decision was made. The rent was too good to pass up. The location was viable. The kitchen was workable. He would not let a creepy door and a thirty-year-old memory of failure stop him. He would sign the lease. He would build his restaurant. He would win.

An hour later, the papers were signed. A flimsy, hopeful bridge to a new future had been built. Brenda left, leaving Jonah alone in the vast, silent space. He stood in the center of what would be his dining room, the keys to his future—or his damnation—feeling heavy in his palm. A fragile sense of accomplishment began to push back against the dread.

He took a deep breath, the dusty air filling his lungs. “Alright, Jonah,” he whispered to the empty room. “Day one.”

He turned to leave, his footsteps echoing unnervingly. As his hand touched the cool brass of the front doorknob, a voice whispered from the shadows behind him. It was quiet, dry, and intimate, like someone speaking directly into his ear.

“They’re still here, you know.”

Jonah froze, his blood turning to ice. He slowly turned around, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was empty, awash in the dying afternoon light. Shadows stretched and pooled in the corners.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice trembling. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

He told himself it was the wind. The old building settling. His own stress-addled mind playing tricks on him. He was just tired, overwhelmed. He turned back to the door, his hand shaking as he reached for the knob again.

“Scurrying in the walls,” the voice whispered again, closer this time, accompanied by a faint, dry, chittering sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Just like before.”

The sound was his memory point, the soundtrack to his ultimate failure. The sound of the infestation that had ruined him. The sound of a million tiny legs skittering behind the drywall of his last restaurant, the discovery that had cost him everything.

Jonah didn't scream. He didn't even breathe. He yanked the door open and stumbled out into the fading sunlight, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from a deep, dark pool. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing down the empty street, and leaned against the cold brick, his body trembling uncontrollably. The real estate sign swayed gently in the breeze, its cheerful “LEASED” sticker mocking him. He had just bought his second chance. And he had a terrifying, sinking feeling that he’d just been locked in with the ghosts of his first.