I found the bunker of a prepper family who went missing three years ago

It was an uneventful night shift as a delivery driver. I’ve been doing this job for eight years now and I think I’d delivered pretty much every house on Rodden Street at least once. That changed when Google Maps failed me.<br><br>I tried to swipe right on the next street but nothing but water. “Hold up,” I thought, “You sure this is Rodden Street?” I checked the print out I had been following all night. Sure enough, I had missed number ninety-three.<br><br>“Fuck,” I said out loud. I was going to be late to two deliveries and sides were gonna be riding my ass.<br><br>I looked around, not really expecting to see anything, but suddenly, there was a bright light behind me. I spun around, not noticing the broken tail light until after I backed into it. Some old guy was waving at me like he’d just parked his car and saw me back into a lamp post.<br><br>“Thanks a lot, buddy,” I said as I jumped out to inspect the damage. While I was looking at the rear lights, the old guy walked right up to me.<br><br>“Everything all right there, boy?” He said. He was older than I’d initially thought, probably in his sixties. Gray and curly hair poked out of his baseball cap and his green eyes sparkled. Everything about him seemed genuine, but I was in a bad mood so I was ready to lash out if necessary.<br><br>“Yeah, I’m just running a bit late. You can’t deliver a refrigerator on legs, you know?” I said.<br><br>“Well, I ain’t much help on the roads, but if you hang on a minute, I can fix you up,” the old man said.<br><br>I was about to refuse but decided against it. I could always wail on 15 while I waited, but a working brake light would save me from getting written up.<br><br>“Appreciate it. Side car?” I asked, nodding to the small trunk on the passenger side of my car.<br><br>The old man fumbled inside and pulled out a small toolkit and a spare bulb. “You know, we haven’t seen you younger generations fixing things like this anymore,” he said, his tone sounding almost nostalgic.<br><br>“I know,” I said. “I like that I can. My grandpa taught me everything I know, from cars to fishing, and I want to keep it alive.”<br><br>“That’s the spirit,” the old man said, his eyes glistening in the streetlight. He sounded like he was my grandfather’s age, so it was hard not to wonder if this was the man who taught me how to change a light bulb.<br><br>When I took the tool kit back from the old man, we chatted for a bit about the weather, the road, and the economy. As we talked, the feeling of irritation from being late wore off and I felt more at ease.<br><br>When I was all fixed up, I said, “Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver!”<br><br>The old man smiled and said, “No problem, boy. Drive safe.” As I put the car in gear, I noticed he was facing down Rodden Street.<br><br>“Sir,” I said, “ aren’t you heading the wrong way? You live around here?”<br><br>The old man looked back over his shoulder, a faint smile still on his face. “No time for sleep, boy,” he said, picking up his pace.<br><br>I was about to call after him when something in his demeanor caught my attention. It wasn’t the smile, it was his eyes. I looked back at the house I had deliveries for that night. Number ninety-two. Everything seemed fine. The lights were on in every room and there was a small SUV in the driveway. I could, perhaps, have sworn that the man in the baseball cap was the husband.<br><br>I grabbed my package for 92 Rodden Street and hopped out of the side car. The old man was a quarter of the way down the block.<br><br>“Sir!” I called out and chased after him. My hands were full so I couldn’t flag him down so I did my best to keep him in sight. He weaved in and out of the gaps between the houses. When I thought I’d lost him, I saw him pop out at Rodden Street’s far end.<br><br>I followed him in the car, not wanting to look too suspicious. I drove around the block a couple times before deciding to investigate further. Rodden Street didn’t show up on my GPS and Google Maps so I was left to poke around on my own.<br><br>The first thing I noticed was a large iron gate at the end of the street. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there the last time I drove by, but my mind was elsewhere that night so I couldn’t be sure. The gate was big and metal and covered in vines and moss. In the dark, it blended in pretty well.<br><br>I drove around to the other end of the street, hoping to find another gate that would lead to wherever the old man had gone to. There was nothing but houses. I pulled over at number ninety-three and hopped out of the car.<br><br>There was nothing to see on the outside, just a typical house in a typical neighborhood. The owners had listed it for sale three years prior but didn’t seem to be in a rush to sell. I remembered that because I had been the delivery driver on the day of the open house. Everything was in fantastic condition. The house belonged to the McAllisters. Terri and Ian had just celebrated the birth of their third child. Three kids under the age of five, Terri had told me that night, so they’re always exhausted. And sleepless.<br><br>The open house was three years ago this month. Three years ago, the house was occupied by Mr. and Ms. Ian and Terri McAllister and their three children. Isaac was the youngest. He was just under a year old when I first met him. He’d been fussy according to his mom as all babies are.<br><br>The night of the open house, everything seemed fine. Nothing out of the ordinary that I remember, at least not that I would notice now. The family had moved some stuff out of the house and some potential buyers had walked through. That’s why I was there; I had a fridge to deliver. I remember Terri apologizing for them leaving everything as is because they weren’t sure if they’d be back. I remember being impressed by all their stuff. Big house, expensive looking furniture, expensive looking cars. The children were the only things that broke the illusion of wealth. Terri had told me about the birth of Isaac, the newest addition to the family, and the exhaustion that came with raising three young kids.<br><br>It was a normal night until the couple disappeared. The sellers had already moved out by then and the family was paying rent while they tried to sell. The landlord got in touch with Ian because they hadn’t paid their October rent. The kids were all at school when Terri failed to pick them up. Terri’s phone was found in the woods near their old house, no signal. Terri’s car was never found, and Ian’s car hadn’t moved since the last payment on it. The bank account was empty. Nobody knew where they went. Work colleagues said Ian had been distant and preoccupied for a couple of weeks before the kids never came home from school. Terri’s sister got a text message from her that said, “I know what I’m doing. I hope we make it.” Terri’s phone was found later, but that’s all anyone heard from them.<br><br>Nobody found anything odd that night or, at least, nobody told anyone. I remember going to sleep that night thinking nothing of it, and waking up the next day going about my day usual. The next evening, the house was empty and the McAllisters were never seen again. Nobody ever found where they went or what happened to them, but that night, as I stood there with a refrigerator, I felt like I was about to uncover the story.<br><br>I looked around nervously to make sure I was alone before unlocking the back door with the package and slipping inside.<br><br>The house was spotless. I remember when I first saw it, it was immaculate. A three-story house with a basement and garage. The house was built in the early 1900s and had been passed down through several families before the McAllisters. The previous owners did a lot of work on it and, from what I could tell, it was in perfect condition.<br><br>I went straight to the living room, looking for some sort of clue as to where the family could have gone. There was a small door at the back of the room that I’d never noticed before. It was camouflaged so well by the carpet and wall paper that I’m surprised the realtor hadn’t noticed it before me.<br><br>I set the refrigerator down on the floor and used my pocket knife to pry it open. It creaked as I pushed it away from the wall. Behind it there was a small door with a spiral staircase.<br><br>My heart was pounding and I could feel the excitement building in my chest. This must be the place. I stepped inside and immediately felt a metallic click. I froze.<br><br>“Who’s there?” A robotic voice said.<br><br>My mind raced. How did it know I was there? Did the family set a trap before they left? I put my hand in my pocket and gripped my knife. I looked up the stairs and couldn’t see anything, but the voice seemed to be coming from somewhere near the bottom.<br><br>I took a deep breath and decided to talk. “My name’s Derek. I’m a delivery driver. I saw an old man walking down your street the other night and I got curious. Is everything all right?” I said, trying to sound genuine and worried.<br><br>There was a moment of silence. “For now,” the voice said.<br><br>I stepped