The Room That Shouldn’t Exist. When my family moved into the old two-story house at the end of Hawthorne Lane, I didn’t think much of it. It was a fixer-upper, sure. Drafty, creaky, and full of spiders — but big enough for a family of five, and cheap enough that my parents called it a “miracle.” A week in, my little brother Tyler found something weird. He was playing hide-and-seek in the basement when he yelled, “Found a secret door!” I figured it was just a crawlspace, maybe a coal chute. But when I got down there, I saw it: a small wooden door tucked behind the furnace. Dusty, but not locked. Not even hidden all that well — just overlooked. We pried it open. There was a room behind it. Not a crawlspace — a full bedroom. Bed. Bookshelf. Rug. Lamp. Even wallpaper with faded cartoon astronauts and planets. The air was warm. Like someone had just been in there. Then we saw the photos on the nightstand. Family pictures — our family. Me, Tyler, my mom and dad. But the photos were