Chapter 3 - The Cold Barrel
I stared at the black bore of the revolver. Ten years of marriage. Ten years of PTA meetings, shared mortgages, quiet Sunday mornings with coffee on the porch, vacations in Maine. All of it dissolved into thin air in a fraction of a second.
"Caroline," I said, keeping my hands visible, palming the Polaroid against my leg. "Put the gun down. Lily is standing right here."
"Lily, close your eyes and cover your ears," Caroline commanded without shifting her stare.
Lily did it instantly. Not with the hesitation of a normal kid being told off, but with the trained, mechanical obedience of a dog that knew what the shock collar felt like. That sickened me more than the steel aimed at my forehead.
"You weren't supposed to find this house," Caroline whispered. Her hand was steady. That was the most terrifying detail. Most people tremble when they hold a gun on someone they love. Her wrist was locked like an experienced shooter. "We had six more months on this lease. We were going to be out of the country before the winter thaw."
"Who is that little girl?" I demanded, my voice raw. "Why does she have a picture of Maya? Maya died ten years ago!"
"Maya didn't die, you idiot," Caroline said bitterly. "You were just too stupid to look past the police report."
A violent thud resonated through the floorboards beneath our feet.
It didn't come from the vent the little girl crawled out of. It came from directly below us. Down in the crawl space beneath the master suite.
The little girl flinched, shrinking back into the hole, sobbing silently. "He’s awake. The bad doctor is awake."
Caroline’s eyes flared with panic. She glanced toward the hallway, her concentration slipping for half a second.
That was all I needed.
I lunged forward, swinging the titanium pry bar upward. The metal struck Caroline’s forearm with a hollow crack. The revolver fired into the hardwood floor, the gunshot deafening in the enclosed bedroom. Plaster and splintered oak exploded into the air. Lily screamed, dropping to her knees.
Caroline shrieked in pain, the gun spinning across the floor toward the closet. She dropped down, clawing for it with her uninjured left hand, but I tackled her into the drywall. We crashed into the corner, knocking over a floor lamp.
I pinned her shoulders down, driving my forearm across her collarbone. "What is this house?! Who is down there?!"
Caroline glared up at me, spitting blood from a bitten lip. She started laughing—a hysterical, breathless sound that made my stomach churn.
"You think you’re the hero, Ryan?" she wheezed. "Look at the girl’s birth certificate if you want the truth. It’s in the floor safe under our mattress. Check the dates. Then tell me who the monster is."
From the open vent in the wall, the little girl screamed.
Not a whimper. A bloody, throat-tearing scream.
May you like
I spun my head around.
A large, pale hand, covered in thick surgical scars and wearing heavy latex gloves, had reached out from deeper inside the dark vent tunnel. The fingers clamped tightly around the girl's ankle, dragging her backward into the blackness like a ragdoll.
