CHAPTER 3 — The Voice Beneath the Floor
CHAPTER 3 — The Voice Beneath the Floor
The narrow crawl space was barely high enough to crawl through on our hands and knees.
Dust clung to my clothes.
Spiderwebs brushed against my face.
Behind us, heavy footsteps pounded through the kitchen.
"They can't have gone far!" the fake Michael shouted.
A second man answered, his voice rough and impatient.
"Split up. Check the basement and the backyard."
Flashlight beams slipped through tiny cracks in the wooden panels, sweeping inches from our faces.
I held Sophie against me.
"Don't move," I whispered.
She nodded, though I could feel her shaking.
The crawl space stretched beneath most of the first floor. We'd discovered it during renovations, but the contractor had sealed the entrance behind the pantry, calling it "dead space."
Dead space.
The name had never sounded more appropriate.
We crawled slowly toward the opposite end, where I remembered a rusted maintenance hatch leading into the garage.
Halfway there, Sophie's hand brushed against something cold.
"Mom..."
She pointed her flashlight—just the dim glow from my phone's screen.
A backpack.
Old.
Covered in dust.
I frowned.
It wasn't ours.
There was also a small metal toolbox beside it.
Someone had hidden these here years ago.
Curiosity fought with terror.
I unzipped the backpack.
Inside were several bottles of water, protein bars, batteries...
And a stack of photographs.
The top photo made my blood run cold.
It was our house.
Taken from across the street.
Another photo.
Michael carrying groceries.
Another.
Sophie leaving school.
Another.
Me planting flowers in the front yard.
Someone had been watching us.
For a long time.
Beneath the photos lay a small notebook.
The first page contained dates.
Every one matched one of Michael's business trips.
My stomach tightened.
Every trip.
Every conference.
Every overnight meeting.
All listed.
With notes beside them.
House occupied by wife and child only.
Routine unchanged.
Target predictable.
"No..." I whispered.
Was Michael involved?
Or had someone been tracking him?
Before I could read further, muffled voices echoed beneath us.
I froze.
"They're in the walls."
The fake Michael.
"I heard something."
A loud bang shook the crawl space.
Someone had begun hitting the walls with a crowbar.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
Another blow.
Closer.
"They're flushing us out," I whispered.
Sophie tugged my sleeve.
"The hatch."
We hurried forward.
At the end of the tunnel sat the rusted metal door exactly where I remembered.
I pulled.
Nothing.
It wouldn't move.
Years of rust had sealed it shut.
Another crash echoed behind us.
Wood splintered.
"They found the entrance!" Sophie gasped.
I threw my shoulder against the hatch.
It groaned.
Again.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something wedged beside the hinges.
A folded envelope.
Yellow with age.
My name was written across the front.
LAURA
My hands trembled.
Who could have left this?
I tore it open.
Inside was a single handwritten page.
If you're reading this, they finally came.
Trust no one wearing Michael's face until you ask him one question.
Ask him what happened on Lake Ashton the summer before your wedding.
Only the real Michael knows the answer.
If he answers anything else... run.
And whatever you do... don't let them take Sophie.
There was no signature.
Only one strange symbol drawn at the bottom.
A black circle with a line through it.
My mind raced.
Lake Ashton.
Michael and I had vacationed there eleven years ago.
Had something happened that he'd never told anyone?
A violent crack exploded behind us.
Light flooded into the crawl space.
A crowbar punched through the wooden wall.
"I SEE THEM!" someone yelled.
The fake Michael smiled through the jagged opening.
"There you are."
He swung the crowbar again.
The boards shattered apart.
I slammed my shoulder into the hatch one final time.
With a deafening screech, the rusted metal gave way.
Fresh air rushed in.
"Go!" I shouted.
Sophie squeezed through first.
I followed just as gloved hands grabbed my ankle.
I kicked wildly.
The stranger lost his grip.
We tumbled into the dark garage.
Before I could catch my breath, headlights suddenly flared through the garage windows.
A black SUV rolled slowly into our driveway.
Its rear door opened.
Two men stepped out.
Then a third figure climbed from the vehicle.
His hands were tied.
His face bruised.
His mouth covered with duct tape.
May you like
Sophie let out a strangled cry.
"Dad..."
