Cellar 13 Novels & Stories

I was in a damp, pitch-black cellar, hunched in a corner with my injured leg behind me. The walls were slimy and wet, and the moisture soaked through my blouse. The door swung open, and a burst of light stung my eyes. I lifted my hand to block it. I heard footsteps and quickly shrank back, hiding deeper in the shadows. "Mr. Carver sent me to get you, Mrs. Carver." I looked up to see who it was. It was the bodyguard Henry had hired years ago.

“I’d be happy to see her step into that role,” I said. I knew Zeke was only mentioning this so I’d have the okay from him. He was still wary of discussing Lola around me. “Where is she?” I said. “Uh, in the cellar,” said Andy. “Stock check on all them old Beaujolais we got down there.” “You want me to get her?” said Zeke. “No,” I said, “I’ll say hi.” I stepped down into the cellar. It was a warm day in New York, in the low seventies, and inside the cellar, it felt cool. I wandered among the racks of wine, my feet sounding quietly on the flagstones.

Rossi's team had gutted the place. They found the cellar stairs behind the kitchen. Stone steps leading down, air growing colder. Livia's breath fogged as they descended. The wine cellar spread before them—mostly empty racks, a few forgotten bottles, dust coating everything. Alessandro's flashlight swept across the far wall, the one Carlo's thermal scan had flagged. "There." Livia pointed. The mortar between stones looked cleaner than the rest. Newer. "It's fake." Alessandro ran his hands along the edges, searching. His fingers caught on something—a small indentation in the mortar, barely visible.

And one location, scrawled in a corner: “The Red Cellar – Midnight.” I didn’t hesitate. I threw on black jeans, a hoodie, and a pair of boots Kaden once called “cop-proof.” I wasn’t going in as a detective. I was going as Kaden’s sister. The Red Cellar was in Newtown, tucked behind a closed-down wine shop. It looked abandoned. No sign. No lights. But the door wasn’t locked. I walked in, and instantly felt the shift in the air—low music, red lighting, shadows that moved like they had eyes.

The only sound is our breathing and the soft drip of water and the occasional scrape of a boot on stone. Eleanor watches the darkness with wide eyes. She does not cry. She does not make a sound. After a long time, Marcus stops. He holds up his hand. There is a door, he whispers. Wood. Old. It leads to the cellar. Is it locked? Julian asks. Marcus tries the handle. It turns. The door opens with a soft creak. He pushes it. The cellar is empty. Dust covers the floor. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, thick as rope. A single light bulb burns, flickering, casting shadows that dance on the walls.

"It was just dormant." Without another word, Killian led the way toward the arched doorway behind the high table—a narrow, forgotten passage that led into the old foundation cellars where the citadel’s winter grain and cured meats were stored. I pulled a heavy iron torch from the wall bracket, the orange flame dancing wildly against the unnatural, sulfurous draft rising from the depths.

Tunde quietly said. A pause, then she stepped back. "We’ll see how much that fire holds when you’re left alone." She pressed a key. INT. CITADEL – CELL BLOCK 17 – NIGHT Two guards escorted Tunde down a white corridor. No footsteps echoed. No sound but the low thrum of artificial light. They passed other doors, sealed tight. No faces. No names. A long, narrow cell hissed open. No blanket. No chair. Just a cot and a sink and a red surveillance dot blinking like a second heart.

The work was tedious, methodical, considerably removed from the dramatic confrontations that had defined much of the preceding weeks, and Isabella found a strange, steadying comfort in it, the particular satisfaction of careful analysis after so many days spent purely reacting to whatever crisis arrived next. It was nearly noon when she found it. "The wine cellar," she said slowly, tapping a section of the plan nobody had marked for heavy coverage. "It's not listed as an entrance because it isn't one, technically. But it connects to the loading dock through an old service tunnel built decades before this venue was renovated. It wouldn't show up on current architectural records unless someone

He pushed through the heavy iron door that led to the cellar. The air down here was freezing. It smelled of sulfur and saltpeter. He moved through the stacks of wine barrels and crates of salted meat. He found it in the furthest corner, directly beneath the Great Hall. Three massive crates. They bore the Royal Seal. His Seal. A long, thin cord ran from the base of the crates, snaking across the floor and disappearing into a ventilation shaft that led to the outer walls. It was already lit. The spark was small. A tiny, fizzing point of light crawling along the hemp. It was moving fast.

“Tell him thanks when you speak with Dominic, then.” Nate tipped his head and smiled. “Aye. I’ll do that. Now, there should be food in the underground cellar, but we’ll have to go into town to get some fresh meat. Let me get a few things first, and we can do that.” Before heading out to gather wood and water, Nate showed me where the small cellar was located. It was a small trap door situated close to the kitchen side of the cottage. Upon descending the small and tight stairs, I discovered a treasure trove of fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs, all stored alongside canned goods. The cold was kept inside the cellar by its stone walls, making it a natural refrigerator. I took the opportunity