Nana had always been very clear: if there was an oddity in the house, it was because Grandpapa (God rest his weary soul) had built it that way. Sam had never known Grandpapa—he had died during the Reagan administration—but he had also built Nana’s house with his own two hands, when he wasn’t busy rebuilding carburetors (also with his own bare hands). A mechanic by trade, he’d lived in a loft above his garage before building the house as a wedding present for Nana during their engagement.

Sam couldn’t help but think that Grandpapa (God rest his tired old bones) had been a better mechanic than a carpenter, because Nana’s house had all sorts of oddities. The bathroom was a mere closet, barely enough for Nana’s toilet and shower, but it also included the stairs to the attic. The root cellar, directly beneath Nana’s kitchen, was dug out of the dirt with nothing but floorboards over it, so the kitchen sagged under the weight of Nana’s oven and visibly flexed as she walked. The furnace was out in the living room, out in the open, as if Grandpapa (God rest his tired head) had gotten fed up when carrying it in and just installed it where it had been delivered.

But then there was the doorknob, the one attached to a seemingly solid beam inside the master closet. Nana said that it was there to bridge a gap, that it was a load-bearing knob and not to be touched, even though it led nowhere and did nothing.

But Sam had always wanted to try it. And so one day, when Nana was asleep on her favorite couch, with her favorite soap, Sam had snuck into the closet and grasped the knob. Shockingly, it turned. Even more shockingly, it opened with the sound of a latch popping.

“Who’s there?” a voice cried from below. “That you, Agnes?”

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