Chapter 5 - Blood on the Hearth
Ethan didn't hesitate. He seized the iron fire poker from beside the grate and wedged it between the ancient brickwork surrounding the cast-iron fireplace backing. With a desperate heave of his shoulders, the mortar crumbled, revealing a narrow, dust-choked cavity that spiraled down into darkness.
Simultaneously, the bridal suite doors buckled under the violent assault of Marcus's crowbar. The heavy sideboard skidded across the hardwood floor with a deafening screech as wood splinters flew through the air.
"Go! Both of you, now!" Ethan hissed, boosting Chloe into the crawlspace before turning to assist me.
"I'm not leaving you behind, Ethan!" Chloe cried out, her ruined veil catching on the jagged brickwork as she reached back toward her husband.
"I’ll be right behind you, I swear," Ethan urged, his eyes ablaze with stubborn resolve. "I just have to buy you three minutes to reach the lower gate. Go!"
I grabbed Chloe’s shoulders, pulling her through the narrow aperture just as the bedroom doors burst open with a resounding crack. Through the widening gap, I saw Beatrice stumble into the room, her hair wildly disheveled, holding an ornate silver carving knife she had snatched from the banquet tables. Her eyes held an expression of pure, unhinged malevolence.
"Where is the little whore?!" Beatrice screeched, lunging forward like a rabid animal.
Ethan swung the iron poker in a wide arc, catching Marcus across the forearm and sending the security chief reeling backward into the hallway. Beatrice screamed in frustration, hurling herself toward the hearth, but Ethan slammed the iron flue door shut, jamming the latch with the poker’s handle.
Chloe and I tumbled into the suffocating darkness of the maintenance passage, the sounds of shouting and metal crashing against stone echoing from above. We fell down a steep flight of wooden stairs, landing hard on the damp earthen floor of the sub-cellar. The air down here smelled of aged oak, mildew, and ancient decay.
"Mom, look," Chloe whispered through ragged gasps, shining the faint flashlight of her dead-battery screen against the wall.
May you like
Beside the cellar foundation stood an old wooden workbench covered in faded architectural blueprints. Tacked to the corkboard was a yellowed newspaper clipping from twenty-two years ago, depicting Julian’s mangled vehicle. Written across the headline in my mother’s unmistakable, sharp calligraphy were the words: *A necessary excision.*
***
