I stepped inside the narrow pantry.

The smell of dried lavender and rosemary did not mask the faint, chemical undertone rising from the floor.

I looked down at the dark oak planks.

The seam of the hidden hatch was invisible to the naked eye.

But now that I knew it was there, I could see the slight misalignment in the wood grain near the back wall.

I knelt on the cold floor, my hands trembling.

I pressed my ear against the wood.

I held my breath, listening past the hum of the refrigerator.

At first, there was nothing.

Then, a low, rhythmic sound filtered up through the floor.

It was a faint, metallic clicking, followed by a soft, wheezing sigh.

A human breath.

Someone was down there, trapped in the dark beneath my pantry.

I stood up quickly, my heart racing, and backed out of the pantry.

My shoulder bumped against the edge of the prep counter.

I turned around slowly.

There, sitting on the counter, was the oak spice rack.

The small jars of cinnamon, cumin, and paprika lined the wooden shelves.