Cellar 13 Novels & Stories

"They are strong when they stand on top of high stone walls with long bows! But my dear nephew is arrogant. He thinks his high walls make him a god! He thinks because he locked the main gates and doubled the river patrols, no one can touch him!" Marcus pulled his dirty hand out of his coat pocket. He held up a small, folded piece of thick yellow paper and a long, rusty iron key. "Look at this, Xavier," Marcus whispered with a nasty, yellow-toothed smile. "This map shows the ancient wine cellar passage. It runs two miles under the earth, straight beneath the mountain rock, and opens up right behind the kitchen stairwell! My brother built that passage sixty years ago, and only three people in

Elena slipped through it like a spark that refused to die. Near midnight she finally had a second alone behind a curtain near the orchestra pit. She pulled the thin slip from her sleeve. It was another napkin. A number scrawled in pencil. A time. A level. Below that, the name of a wine. A brand that was only kept in one place. The private cellar. She folded it small again. She stepped out and found the stair to the cellar. She moved like she belonged there. No one stopped her. The cellar was cold and sweet with oak and dust. Rows of bottles. Soft lights. In the far corner, a narrow door. She went through it and found a little tasting room with a single chair.

Fia asked Adelina and she replied, "because it's important... either it's a matter of death or killing." All of them including Fia walked to the basement bar. It was a huge bar with a lot of sofas and a 60-inch Plasma TV with the collections of wines and champagnes. "Murphy, pour us a drink," Adelina said to a guy who seems to be lost in his own world. "How can you not appreciate a drunk text like someone is absolutely drunk off their face... still thinking of you?" Murphy asked gulping the wine. Adelina rolled her eyes and poured herself a drink while Fia replied, "Who exactly are you talking about, Murphy?"

" Liam replied. **** They walked away from the garden, across the expensive lawn, towards a large detached wing that housed the cellar. The cellar's entrance was a sturdy oak door built into the side of a gentle slope, with a wide, curved staircase leading down to it. He walked down the stairs, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the low doorway. Amelia also followed him quietly.

A chill descended her spine. Rebecca produced a key from her pocket, her eyes fixed steadily on Silvia's face. "Consider this a temporary relocation, Silvia. Until you're able to behave accordingly." The creaking door led into a dark wine cellar. The walls had rows and rows of old, dusty bottles on shelves, and there was a smell of stale wine with every breath made. It was cold and moldy, as opposed to wherever else in the mansion, where the air was fresh and extravagant.

—but she covered it quickly, clearing her throat and resuming her stirring. “Well,” she said, her tone lighter than her expression, “I suppose it’s that kind of evening for him.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but her voice sounded like she did. She wiped her hands and nodded for me to follow. I trailed behind her as she walked toward a narrow hallway at the back of the kitchen—a part of the mansion I hadn’t even noticed before. The further we went, the cooler the air became and the dimmer the lighting got. “The cellar isn’t exactly in plain sight,” Mrs. Grace explained. “Mr. Romano had it redone a few years ago. Very particular about his wines.”

I try to take care of her at work and outside work, her husband does everything he can to keep her out of trouble. Norah pouts, and I pull her out of the kitchen until we're in a safe, quiet zone. She shows me a small vile wrapped in a silky napkin, watching with wide eyes to see my reaction. "What the hell is that?" I have to ask. She grins. "It's another poison to add to my collection. I finally got the belladonna extract," she explains. "Are you crazy?" I whisper-shout, looking around. "This is a restaurant! You have to stop bringing them here!"

The heavy mechanism roared. A two-meter-thick lead-reinforced door slid open. She threw him inside. Then stepped in after him. The door slammed shut. Locked. The outside world—radiation, war, chaos—was gone. The cellar fell into complete darkness. Only the scent of aged oak barrels remained. And their uneven breathing. Alexander stumbled backward. All the way into the deepest corner of the wine racks. His back hit a shelf. Rows of expensive red wine collapsed. Glass shattered. Liquid spilled.

The wine cellar. It was a vaulted, cavernous space beneath the kitchen, reached by a narrow, curved stone staircase. It was cold, dark, and lined with racks holding dusty bottles worth more than most houses. And in its farthest, darkest corner, behind a rack of 1945 Bordeaux, was a small, iron door—an old coal chute, long disused, that led to a narrow air shaft and, eventually, to the old boiler room and a forgotten exterior grate. His final, pathetic bolt-hole.

Cool air rushes in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and something faintly sweet, like crushed flowers. I step out, smoothing my dress down automatically, and look up. Above the ivy-covered alleyway, a wrought-iron sign sways lightly in the breeze: The Whisper Cellar. The place is stunning. Nestled underground, the entrance is hidden like a secret, and it feels like we’re stepping into another world. The candlelit corridors, heavy wooden doors, and velvet-draped tasting rooms with private tables make the place even more magical. It smells like oak barrels, expensive cologne, and old stone walls that have seen centuries of secrets.