In the autumn of 2019, on the outskirts of a town called Larkspur, Ohio, a man named Charles opened a door in his basement that he had no memory of building. He told me about it over the phone, his voice hollow, like he was reading from a script he hadn't written. The door was solid oak, old, with a handle that felt warm to the touch. Behind it, a corridor that shouldn't have existed, lined with doors of its own. He said he walked down it once, just to see where it led. He came back changed—not in a way you could see, but in a way you could feel, like something had been subtracted from him and replaced with an echo. I drove out to Larkspur three weeks later. The house was empty. The basement was empty. But the door was still there, and it was still warm.

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