The Road Below
A Subterraneans Story
Cassidy Watcher arrived in Burbank on a day when the heat felt tired, as if even the sun couldn’t be bothered anymore. He stood on the pavement staring at the tiny bungalow he’d just inherited — a chipped, sun-faded thing from the 1940s, now dwarfed on every side by towering new mansions. Glass walls, infinity pools, hedges trimmed into silent green fortresses.
None of these houses had been here when the bungalow was built. They looked like they belonged to another century entirely.
Cassidy, disgraced ex-detective, now pretending to be a real estate researcher, pushed open the gate and felt a strange vibration in the ground. Not movement — more like recognition.
Inside, the bungalow smelled of old dust and abandoned citrus. On the kitchen table lay the keys, the paperwork, and a brass key unlike the others. Heavy. Tarnished. Etched with a single word:
SUBSTATION.
He found the door behind the house — a metal hatch half-wrapped in ivy, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. The brass key fit perfectly.
The hinges groaned as though woken.
Cold air drifted upward, smelling of concrete, stone, and something older.
The stairs led down to a tunnel lined in poured cement, cracked and marked with faint symbols he didn’t recognize. The walls were damp. The silence felt padded, deliberate. The further he walked, the clearer it became that the tunnels extended under the new mansions surrounding his bungalow.
And then he saw the footprint.
Bare. Fresh. Wide.
Someone had been down here very recently.
“You really shouldn’t be exploring,” a voice said behind him, smooth as poured whiskey.
Cassidy spun. A man stood in the tunnel wearing a tailored suit that looked wrong in the dim light — too clean, too sharp, as if the dust refused to touch him.
“I’m Cosmo Gent,” he said. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.”
Everyone had. Cosmo Gent — the mystery tycoon who had somehow acquired half the prime property from Beverly Hills to Malibu in only a few years. He’d become a legend, a ghost with a portfolio.
“Didn’t expect to find you underground,” Cassidy said.
Cosmo smiled. “This is where the foundations are.”
Two figures stepped out of the darkness behind Cosmo — neighbours Cassidy had passed earlier, though something about them now seemed different. Noah Deitrich from the hilltop glass house. Reiko Columbia from the place with no visible driveway. Their eyes reflected the tunnel light in a way that didn’t look entirely human.
“These tunnels… they’re not on any map,” Cassidy said quietly.
“No,” Cosmo agreed. “They belong to the original planners. Visionaries. They understood that a city must be built on more than land. It must be built on intention.”
“Why are they under my house?”
Cosmo stepped closer, and for a moment Cassidy thought he saw the tunnel walls pulse behind him. “Because you’ve inherited a doorway,” he said. “One the city forgot. One the founders never intended to leave unattended.”
Cosmo’s smile softened, almost pitying.
“You’ve already stepped across the threshold, Cassidy. That’s all that matters.”
Cassidy backed away, heart hammering. He turned and ran, following the echo of his own breath until he burst back into daylight, gasping. The hatch slammed shut behind him.
That night, as he tried to sleep in the bungalow, he heard tapping beneath the floorboards. Slow. Methodical.
Four taps. A pause. Two taps. Then a long, dragging scrape, as though fingers were moving across the underside of the house.
Cassidy knelt and pressed his ear to the floor.
The tapping stopped.
Then a whisper rose from the soil — soft, patient, impossibly close:
“You’re home now.”
