Chapter 4: Behind the Locked Door
The pounding above me shook dust from the basement ceiling.
"CLAIRE!"
It was Mark.
Then my mother's voice joined his.
"Open the door!"
Another fist slammed against the wood.
Only Robert remained silent.
That frightened me more than the shouting.
The basement was almost completely dark.
Only a single pull-chain bulb glowed weakly near the stairs, casting long shadows across stacked boxes, old furniture, and shelves lined with forgotten Christmas decorations.
The air smelled of damp concrete, mildew, and bleach.
Too much bleach.
Enough to cover other smells.
My stomach turned.
The crying came again.
"Please..."
"I'm scared..."
It was a little boy.
No older than six.
I followed the sound carefully.
My phone flashlight shook in my hand.
The beam swept across old bicycles...
broken chairs...
paint cans...
until it landed on a heavy steel door built into the far wall.
A storage room.
Except...
There was a deadbolt.
On the outside.
I rushed toward it.
The silver key Emily had slipped into my hand fit perfectly.
It clicked.
I pulled.
The door barely moved.
Something heavy blocked it from inside.
"No!"
I shoved harder.
Again.
Again.
Finally, the obstruction shifted just enough for the door to open several inches.
Inside sat two children.
A little boy around six.
A girl who couldn't have been older than nine.
Both huddled beneath old blankets.
Both painfully thin.
Both stared into my flashlight like animals who had forgotten daylight existed.
The little boy shielded his eyes.
The girl didn't move at all.
She simply whispered,
"He's coming."
I dropped to my knees.
"My name is Claire."
"I'm getting you out."
Neither child moved.
The girl slowly shook her head.
"You can't."
"Why?"
"He always comes back."
I forced the door wider.
The children crawled toward me hesitantly.
The little boy clutched a worn dinosaur toy missing one leg.
The girl held a tiny Bible with half its pages torn out.
Neither looked like they'd been outside recently.
My throat tightened.
"How long have you been here?"
The girl answered so quietly I almost missed it.
"I don't know anymore."
The pounding upstairs became violent.
The basement door rattled.
Then...
Silence.
Complete silence.
I looked toward the ceiling.
That silence was worse.
My phone buzzed.
The operator.
I answered immediately.
"I'm with them."
"Two children."
"Both alive."
The dispatcher sounded relieved.
"Police have arrived."
"They're entering now."
I almost cried.
Until I heard something else.
Not upstairs.
Behind us.
A slow metallic scrape echoed through the basement.
The girl instantly grabbed my arm.
Her face turned white.
"Not that way."
"What?"
"There's another door."
My flashlight swept across the back wall.
Nothing.
Then I noticed faint lines hidden behind old shelving.
A concealed passage.
It opened.
Slowly.
Robert stepped out.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
Gone was the charming uncle everyone adored.
His face looked empty.
Cold.
Like someone who had stopped pretending.
"You shouldn't have opened that room."
His voice was almost gentle.
The little boy buried his face against my shoulder.
The girl began trembling uncontrollably.
I stood in front of them.
"You stay away from them."
Robert sighed.
"You always were your father's daughter."
"My father would've called the police too."
"No."
Robert smiled sadly.
"Your father helped build this basement."
Everything inside me stopped.
"No."
"He knew."
"No."
"He poured the concrete himself."
The room tilted.
I couldn't process the words.
My father had died eight years ago.
The kindest man I'd ever known.
The man who taught me to ride a bicycle.
The man who made pancakes every Christmas morning.
"No..."
Robert watched realization spread across my face.
"He wasn't as innocent as you remember."
Then the basement door upstairs exploded inward.
"POLICE!"
Flashlights flooded the stairs.
"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
Weapon?
Robert's right hand slowly came into view.
A revolver.
I hadn't even seen him draw it.
He pointed it directly at me.
Not the children.
Me.
"You should've stayed at dinner, Claire."
Everything happened at once.
A gunshot.
The bulb overhead shattered.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Children screamed.
Police shouted.
Someone tackled Robert.
Another shot echoed against the concrete walls.
My ears rang.
I threw myself over both children.
Pieces of glass rained onto my back.
Someone yelled,
"Officer down!"
Another voice shouted,
"Suspect running!"
Running?
How?
The hidden passage.
Robert had disappeared into the darkness.
One detective rushed toward me.
"Are you injured?"
"I-I'm okay."
"The children—"
"They're alive."
Paramedics were already hurrying downstairs.
Blankets.
Oxygen.
Medical bags.
The little boy refused to let go of my hand.
The girl stared silently toward the hidden tunnel.
"He'll come back."
One medic knelt beside her.
"Not this time."
She slowly looked up.
"You don't know him."
An older detective stepped through the concealed doorway Robert had escaped through.
His expression was grim.
He held something inside an evidence bag.
A faded photograph.
He handed it to me.
My breath caught.
It showed my father...
Standing beside Robert...
In this very basement.
Behind them...
Construction equipment.
Fresh concrete.
And in the corner of the picture...
A small child's shoe.
The timestamp printed along the bottom read:
December 24... Twenty-two years ago.
The detective looked at me quietly.
"I think this case is much older than any of us realized."
I stared at the photograph.
Christmas.
Twenty-two years.
How many children had disappeared before anyone finally found this room?
And where...
May you like
...was Robert running to now?
End of Chapter 4
