Picking mushrooms to survive on my small Social Security check, I fell into an underground hideout… What I saw inside made my hair stand on end…

The day turned out surprisingly warm and sunny after recent rains; there should be plenty of mushrooms. I hoped to fill the basket with porcini, sell them for a good price, and prove to my son, daughter-in-law, and myself that I’m not a helpless old woman yet, that I can take care of myself. The forest greeted me with the familiar rustle of leaves and birdsong.

I walked along the familiar trail, turning to the secret spots that my husband had shown me. And luck smiled on me. Sturdy boletes peeked out from under the moss like little soldiers.

The basket filled quickly, and my heart lightened. I already imagined how tomorrow at the market, people would line up for my mushrooms. Getting carried away, I wandered a bit deeper into the thicket, to the part of the forest where John and I rarely went.

And there, under a sprawling old spruce, I saw it. A huge, perfect porcini mushroom. Truly the king of mushrooms.

I gasped in delight and stepped toward it, reaching out. My foot landed on something soft, hidden under a thick layer of fallen needles and moss. There was a dull crack, and before I could even cry out, I plummeted down into the darkness.

The fall was short, about six feet, no more. I landed on something soft, probably a pile of rotting leaves, painfully hitting my side. My basket with mushrooms stayed somewhere up above.

Overhead, a small opening let in daylight. I was in some kind of depression, like a dugout or cellar. Somehow getting to my feet and brushing myself off, I looked around.

The walls were earthen, reinforced with old half-rotted logs. The heavy smell of dampness and rotting leaves hit my nose. It seemed like an old hideout, maybe a hunter’s or left from long ago.

The roof of boards had sagged long ago, and I broke through it with my weight. At first, I was scared, but then I realized getting out wouldn’t be too hard. I could pull myself up on the tree roots sticking out from the crumbling earth.

But before climbing up, something in the far corner caught my eye. Under a pile of decayed rags, I noticed something rectangular, glinting dully with metal. Curiosity overcame fear.

I approached and cleared away the debris. It was an old metal box, like those for tools, only bigger and sturdier. It was covered in rust, but the lock, though old, held firm.

I tried to open it, but in vain. Then I found a heavy stone on the floor and struck the hinges several times. With a creak and screech, the lid gave way.

I peered inside, expecting anything. Old weapons, some supplies, but definitely not this. Inside were neither money nor jewels.

Almost the entire space of the box was taken by a thick notebook in a dark leather cover, wrapped in a piece of plastic. Next to it lay several yellowed photographs, tied with twine, and a small wooden bird figurine. I took the notebook in my hands.

The plastic had protected it from moisture. The leather felt sturdy to the touch. I opened the first page, written in neat but somewhat angular handwriting, and the words I read made me freeze.

It was a diary. The diary of a man I never knew, but whose name was painfully familiar to me. It was the name of my late husband’s father, Robert.

A man whom, as John told me, he barely remembered because he went missing when John was still very young. With difficulty, I climbed out of that pit, clinging to slippery roots and crumbling earth. My knees and elbows were scraped, clothes dirtied, and I’d forgotten about the mushrooms…