The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Beneath the Foundation

Late afternoon shadows stretched across the sitting room, darkening the corners where dust gathered on worn furniture. Oliver sat on the edge of the old couch, flipping through Uncle Harold's journal with slow, deliberate focus. The once-crisp pages now seemed to blur if he glanced away for too long, as though his mind couldn't hold the words in place. He paused, squeezed his eyes shut, and took a steadying breath. He had to keep reading—time was running out.

Nearby, the lawyer skimmed a stack of old drawings they'd uncovered. By now, the routine had become familiar: gather any new lead, discuss its meaning, then try to connect the dots. But today, Oliver's patience was thin; his body and mind felt heavier, dulled by waves of confusion he couldn't quite shrug off.

"Here," the lawyer said, breaking the silence. He tapped a faded diagram spread across the table. "It mentions a sub-basement, older than the one we explored. Some sort of 'foundation chamber.' If Uncle Harold built a lab down there—"

Oliver nodded, though he blinked in uncertainty. Only moments ago, he'd resolved to speak up about something else—a thought he now couldn't recall. He tried to push aside the nagging sense that his memory was fraying around the edges. "Right," he said finally, voice soft. "Another chamber... deeper. Might be where the source of all this is."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Oliver forced himself to stand, bracing against the couch to steady his balance. Even that simple motion left him momentarily dizzy. Though he hated to admit it, the toddler body fatigued far more quickly. If the basement's deeper levels were anything like the last one—dark, uneven, and full of hidden hazards—he dreaded the journey.

But waiting wasn't an option. Every passing hour made it more likely that his adult self would slip further away. He straightened up, mustering what composure he could. The belt around his waist—still serving as a makeshift cinch—had started to slip again, and his shirt drooped on one side. An all-too-familiar crinkling reminded him that he was wearing a diaper, a necessity he'd come to accept but not embrace.

"Let's check the eastern hallway," the lawyer said, gathering a flashlight and the notes he'd deemed crucial. "I saw a locked door there when we first arrived, maybe it leads down to this foundation chamber."

Oliver gave a small nod, following behind as they left the sitting room. The corridor was quiet except for their footsteps and the occasional groan of the old house settling. Oliver's heart thudded heavier with each step, as if the very air felt heavier down here.

They stopped at a plain wooden door bound with a rusted padlock. The lawyer rummaged through the pockets of his suit coat, extracting a ring of old keys. "The locksmith I called brought these when we first accessed the estate," he explained. "We never used them all—let's hope one of these fits."

It took several tries. As the lawyer fumbled with each key, Oliver found his gaze drifting into a vacant stare, lulled by the quiet. Only when the padlock finally clicked did he snap back to attention. Focus, he chided himself. I can't afford to drift off now.

The lawyer pulled open the door, revealing another staircase that plunged deeper into darkness. A stale, chilly draft wafted upward, carrying the faint smell of old soil. He flicked on his flashlight, illuminating the rough stone steps and walls.

Oliver shivered. "Let's be quick," he murmured. Stepping onto the first stair, he noticed his knees felt weaker than before. Carefully, he gripped the lawyer's hand, swallowing the twinge of humiliation that rose in his chest.

Down they went, slowly and cautiously, the flashlight beam catching glimpses of spiderwebs and crumbling mortar. The deeper they descended, the colder and damper the air became. At the bottom, they found themselves in a cramped stone corridor with an arched ceiling that appeared much older than the rest of the estate's construction. Strange markings etched the walls—symbols that might have matched the ones in Uncle Harold's notes.