I’ve been working in the custom furniture business for over 15 years, crafting everything from simple pieces to the most intricate, one-of-a-kind designs. We don’t deal with mass production. No assembly lines here, just custom creations. If you can dream it, we can build it—no shortcuts, no corners cut. It’s the kind of job that has you dealing with wild requests, high stakes, and some of the craziest people you’ll ever meet.
But nothing could have prepared me for the day I had to deliver a $250,000 table to a mansion in Beverly Hills.
The table itself was a masterpiece. It was a massive slab of solid mahogany, heavy as hell, and the kind of wood that makes you feel like you’re handling pure luxury. It wasn’t just a table, it was an experience. The client had insisted on incorporating strange symbols into the design, symbols I’d never seen before.
These had to be engraved by hand—no fancy machines or lasers. Just the old-school way, chiseling every line and curve meticulously. We’d been working on it for weeks, and the amount of detail in this thing was insane. It was exhausting, but the end product was something to be proud of.
The day of delivery came, and it was just me and my coworker Dave, a guy who had been working with me even longer than I had been at the company. He was solid—knows what he’s doing. We packed that table up like it was the most precious thing in the world, wrapping it in layer after layer of protective blankets.
I remember standing there for a moment before we closed the truck. I ran my hand over the smooth wood, feeling the weight of it. It was surreal—this wasn’t just furniture; it was art.
The address was in Beverly Hills, of course. When you’re dealing with a table worth a quarter of a million dollars, it’s probably going to a place like that. The mansion was exactly what you’d expect. Massive, with high gates and cameras everywhere. But there was something about the place that felt off. No gardeners or staff running around like you’d expect. Just a couple of security guards who barely even glanced at us as we pulled up.
As we drove deeper onto the property, things got stranger. The whole place had this eerie silence. No birds chirping, no sound of wind rustling through the trees. Just… stillness. The mansion loomed ahead, with dark windows and heavy curtains drawn tight. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a fortress—closed off, hiding something.
We parked, unloaded the table, and made our way inside. The door opened, and one of the guards met us. No greetings, no pleasantries. Just a quick, robotic direction to put the table in a specific room. “Cover it up when you’re done,” he said, as though it was any other piece of furniture. The whole vibe of the place was unnerving, but we followed the instructions anyway.
The room was enormous. High ceilings, marble floors that shone like mirrors, and an echo that made every little sound seem much louder than it should have been. We carefully positioned the table and started unwrapping it, making sure it was just right. But as I stood there, running my hand over the mahogany, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That nagging sense of unease in the pit of my stomach.
Then, I heard it. A faint sound, barely perceptible at first. Crying. I thought I was imagining it. Maybe the silence was getting to me. But then I saw her.
A woman, stepping out of a side hallway. She wasn’t walking with purpose, more like she was drifting aimlessly. Her face was streaked with tears, her makeup smudged. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild like she had been pulling at it in distress. She looked terrified, and it was more than just her appearance. There was something in her eyes—something raw and desperate, like she had just witnessed something no one should ever see.
She was muttering, her words jumbled, frantic. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her voice was shaking, barely audible, but the fear in her eyes was clear. At first, I thought about ignoring her, pretending I didn’t see it. I mean, what was I supposed to do? This was a mansion in Beverly Hills. What could I possibly do to help?
But something in me couldn’t just walk away. Maybe it was the sheer desperation in her eyes, or maybe it was just instinct. I turned to Dave, who was a few steps behind me, and told him to head back to the truck. “Let the guards know I’m still finishing up here,” I said, keeping my voice low. Dave looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether he should stay or go, but after a beat, he nodded and walked off.
Now, I was alone with her.
She grabbed my arm, her grip light but cold, trembling as though she’d been standing out in the freezing cold for hours. She didn’t let go. Instead, she tugged on me, trying to pull me down the hall, gesturing wildly with her other hand, as if she wanted me to follow her. My instincts screamed at me to stop, to turn around and leave before I got involved in something that wasn’t my problem.
But I couldn’t. I looked at her face again—really looked at her—and that desperation hit me like a punch to the gut. There was no way I could leave her like that.
So, I followed her.
We moved down a series of hallways. At first, they seemed normal enough—well-lit, clean. But the deeper we went, the stranger things became. The lights flickered, dimming to almost nothing, the walls became rough, uneven, as though they hadn’t been touched in years. The air grew colder, too, like a damp chill had seeped into everything. I felt it creeping up my spine, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were heading somewhere we weren’t supposed to be.
We kept walking, the hallways twisting and turning, narrowing with each step. It started to feel like we were going deeper underground, like a dungeon or cave. I had no idea how far we’d walked—time felt like it had stopped. The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating.
Finally, we stopped in front of a huge wooden door. It looked ancient, like something out of a medieval castle or a horror movie. Thick iron bands ran across it, and there was a heavy ring for a handle. She pointed at it, her hand shaking so badly it looked like a blur. Her voice came out in frantic bursts, but the words were unintelligible.
Before I could ask what was behind the door or why she brought me here, she turned and ran. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into the silence, leaving me standing there alone.
I stared at the door. My heart was pounding in my chest, my blood rushing in my ears. I knew I should leave. I should walk away, but something kept me rooted to the spot. A mix of curiosity, or maybe foolishness, kept me from turning around.
I reached for the handle. My hand hovered over it for a moment, then with a deep breath, I gripped it and pulled.
The door creaked open, and everything changed.
The polished floors and clean walls from before were gone. Instead, the ground was dirt—loose, uneven, and damp. The walls were rough, jagged in places, held up by wooden beams, like some kind of underground hideout. The smell hit me immediately—earthy, damp, and stale, like mold. It was thick in the air, and I had to breathe through my mouth just to avoid gagging.
Ahead of me was a narrow tunnel. The walls were rough, and the dim light barely cut through the darkness. But it wasn’t the tunnel itself that caught my attention. It was the footprints. Everywhere. They crisscrossed the path in both directions, some old, some fresh. It was clear that this tunnel wasn’t abandoned.
I had no idea what I was about to step into. My heart was in my throat, but curiosity got the best of me. I had to know. So, I stepped forward, following the path into the unknown.
