It led to the stairs that descended into the old foundations of Aster Hall.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight.

The narrow beam illuminated the rough stone steps, glistening with moisture.

The smell of rot and wet lime rose from the darkness below.

I stepped onto the first stair, my heel making a soft click against the wet stone.

One step at a time, I went down.

The walls here were thick, built by my great-grandfather before the turn of the century.

They held the cold of a hundred winters.

At the bottom of the stairs, the passage opened into a wide, low-ceilinged vault.

This was the old cellar, where the family once stored coal and winter vegetables.

Now, it was filled with old furniture, discarded paintings, and crates of papers from the family business.

I shone the light around, finding the heavy metal door that led to the utility wing.

The red light of a security camera blinked in the corner of the ceiling.

I paused, holding my breath, waiting to see if the lens would rotate toward me.