Chapter 4 - The Green Light in the Dark
"That green light isn't six years old, Brian," I said, my voice dropping into a razor-thin wire of absolute panic. "That battery was replaced within the last month."
Brian stood rooted to the spot, his mouth half-open as he stared at the tiny green pulse emitting from the dark depth of the wall.
"That's... that's impossible," Brian stammered, stepping closer and squinting into the steel cavity. "Arthur died in 2020. Nobody has been inside this structural framework since we bought the deed from his estate."
"Then who changed the lithium batteries on an electronic lock three inches behind our couch?!" I screamed.
The sound of my voice seemed to shock us both back into reality. Brian reached for a long, thin steel probe tool from his kit, carefully leaning his head inside the wall framework to inspect the steel casing.
"It's a SentrySafe high-security wall box," Brian muttered, his eyes wide with disbelief as he adjusted his headlamp. "It’s bolted directly through the primary foundation slab into the bedrock beneath the house. This wasn't put here during construction. Someone cut through the foundation floor from the basement ceiling and elevated this steel box into the wall cavity from below."
"The basement," I whispered.
Our basement was a concrete, unfinished cellar that we mostly used for storing seasonal decorations, old luggage, and Brian’s power tools. The ceiling of the basement was covered in thick fiberglass insulation batts pinned between wooden floor joists.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and bolted toward the basement door near the kitchen.
"Sarah, wait!" Brian yelled, scrambling over the pile of drywall debris to follow me.
I threw open the basement door and rushed down the creaky wooden steps into the damp, cool darkness of the subterranean cellar. The air down here smelled of aged concrete, wet soil, and lime. I yanked the pull-string light bulb hanging over the workbench, illuminating the clutter of paint cans and lawn equipment.
I walked directly beneath the living room footprint, shining my flashlight up at the floor joists six feet above my head.
The thick yellow fiberglass insulation appeared undisturbed at first glance.
But as I moved closer to the main support girder, I noticed something strange. The iron staples securing the paper-faced insulation to the wooden joists weren't rusted like the rest of the thirty-year-old fasteners in the cellar. They were shiny, silver, and brand new.
I grabbed the edge of the insulation batt and yanked it downward with all my strength.
A heavy shower of pink fiberglass dust rained down over my face and shoulders. I coughed, stepping back and wiping my eyes, then raised the beam of the flashlight.
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Where the solid pine subfloor should have been, there was a square cutout in the wooden joist—and a heavy hydraulic lift mechanism mounted on two steel rails, designed to slide the steel box up and down between the cellar floor and the living room wall like a mini elevator.
And resting on a small wooden stool right beneath the hydraulic lift was a black canvas duffel bag, a pair of surgical latex gloves, and a fresh receipt from a local hardware store dated YESTERDAY, 4:15 PM.
