Chapter 4: The Heart of the House
The pain in my chest felt like an iron vise tightening around my lungs. The edges of my vision began to fray, turning dark and fuzzy as my failing heart struggled to pump blood to my brain.
"You... monsters..." I choked out, my fingers digging into the hardwood floorboards.
"Oh, don't be dramatic, Andrew," Gwen sighed, walking over to the bed and picking up the tarnished silver key. She held it up to the light, examining the blue hotel keychain with cold, clinical satisfaction. "You’re eighty-two years old. You have severe congestive heart failure. Dying of a massive coronary while stressfully packing up your dead family's estate? The coroner won't even perform an autopsy."
Marcus stepped forward, his knuckles white around the handle of the crowbar. "Gwen... we need to hurry. The real estate agent will be here in forty-five minutes."
"Relax, Marcus," she said smoothly, slipping the silver key into her purse. "We have plenty of time. Pick him up and put him on the bed. We'll leave the empty teacup on the nightstand. Dr. Evans will sign the death certificate by dinner."
Marcus hesitated for a second, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but then he reached down, grabbing me rough under the armpits.
"Don't touch me!" I roared—or tried to roar. It came out as a wet, raspy cough.
I kicked out with my right leg, my heavy work boot connecting solidly with Marcus’s shin. He grunted in pain, loosening his grip for a fraction of a second.
It was all the time I needed.
I threw my weight to the side, tumbling onto the floor, rolling frantically toward the open doorway. The pain in my chest was a blinding, white-hot fire now, but the dark, murderous rage coursing through my veins was stronger.
"Grab him!" Gwen snapped, her calm demeanor finally breaking into a sharp, ugly screech. "Don't let him get to the stairs!"
I scrambled out of Lily's room on my hands and knees, my heart hammering like a dying bird against my ribs. I could hear Marcus’s heavy boots pounding on the floorboards right behind me.
I didn't head for the front stairs. I knew I’d never make it down two flights before he caught me.
Instead, I lunged toward the narrow door at the end of the hall—the door that led to the old back staircase, the narrow, unpainted wooden steps that went straight down into the study behind the kitchen.
"Andrew, stop!" Marcus yelled, his hand grabbing the tail of my flannel shirt.
The old fabric tore with a loud RIIIP.
I didn't stop. I threw myself through the narrow doorway, slamming my shoulder against the frame, and tumbled blindly down the steep, dark wooden stairs.
I hit the steps hard—elbows, knees, ribs—bouncing down the rough oak until I crashed onto the floorboards of my study at the bottom.
The impact knocked the remaining air out of my lungs. I lay there in the dark, gasping, bright spots of light exploding behind my eyelids.
Above me, at the top of the narrow staircase, I heard Marcus shouting. "He fell down the back stairs! Gwen, he’s in the study!"
"Block the kitchen door!" Gwen’s voice echoed down the stairwell. "He has nowhere to go!"
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, blood dripping from a cut on my forehead into my eyes.
The study was dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn shut against the afternoon sun. The smell of old paper and leather filled my nose.
I looked at the floor beneath my hands.
Look beneath the third floorboard in your study.
I dragged my broken, aching body across the rug toward the heavy mahogany desk. My vision was narrowing now—tunnel vision, the classic sign of cardiac arrest. I had maybe two minutes before my brain shut down completely.
One. Two. Three floorboards from the built-in bookshelf.
I dug my blood-stained fingernails into the seam of the oak board. The old brass nails gave way with a screech of rusted iron.
I pulled the board back.
Inside the dark subfloor cavity lay a heavy, canvas-wrapped package, sealed with thick red wax.
And right beside it... sat a small, black micro-cassette voice recorder, its red standby light blinking softly in the dark.
A voice recorder that had been wired directly into the house's old landline phone system—the system I had never disconnected.
May you like
My hand closed around the recorder.
Above me, the door at the top of the stairs slammed open, and heavy boots began rushing down the wooden steps toward the dark room.
