Chapter 10 - Locked Below
The heavy thud of the deadbolt sliding into place shook the cinder block walls of the basement. Mark rushed up the concrete steps three at a time, throwing his weight against the wooden door and twisting the brass knob frantically. It didn't budge an inch.
"Hey! Open this door!" Mark shouted, pounding his fist against the solid wood until his knuckles bruised.
"Dad, stop, it's no use," Chloe said, her voice trembling as she hurried up the stairs behind him, shining her phone's flashlight around the small landing. "Whoever locked us in has the deadbolt key from the inside lock box."
Detective Miller jogged up the steps beside Mark, holstering his service weapon and pulling a multi-tool from his tactical belt. He flipped open a flat-head screwdriver attachment and jammed it into the narrow gap between the door and the frame, applying steady, calculated leverage.
"Step back, Mr. Miller," the detective instructed, his muscles straining against the old wooden frame. "This lock is residential grade. With enough pressure, the latch plate should give way."
Mark stepped back down two steps, pulling Chloe with him into the dim light of the basement. The air down here felt increasingly thin, carrying a strange, metallic tang that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Who could have locked us in?" Chloe asked, her eyes darting back toward the photo albums and the vintage typewriter sitting under the tarp. "The police officers drove away with Tiffany, and no one else was in the house."
"Not necessarily," a calm, chillingly familiar voice drifted down from the top of the basement stairs, muffled slightly by the thick wood of the door.
Mark froze. He knew that voice. It was a voice that hadn't spoken in this house for over a week—a voice belonging to someone they had buried three days ago.
"Sarah?" Mark whispered, his breath catching in his throat as his knees buckled slightly. He gripped the wooden handrail for support, staring up at the closed door as if he could burn a hole straight through it with his eyes.
"Don't be foolish, Mark," the voice answered from the other side, carrying a crisp, authoritative tone that sent a shiver straight down Chloe’s spine. "You always were too easily manipulated by grief. Did you really think a simple heart condition could take me away that easily?"
Chloe clutched her chest, the red marks on her face burning as if pressed against hot coals. "Mom? Is that really you? Where have you been?"
"I’ve been right where I needed to be, Chloe," the voice replied, its pitch shifting slightly, losing its warmth and hardening into something cold and calculating. "Watching you tear each other apart over a house that was never yours to begin with."
The sound of keys jingling outside the door was followed by the sharp, metallic clatter of the deadbolt turning backward. The door slowly swung open, revealing the bright light of the hallway—and the figure standing in the doorway.
It wasn't Sarah.
Standing in the frame was an older woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing Sarah’s favorite cashmere sweater and holding a silver key ring in her hand. It was a woman Chloe had never seen before in her life, yet she looked so astonishingly like Sarah that the resemblance was terrifying.
"Who the hell are you?" Mark demanded, stepping up the stairs with his fists clenched.
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The woman smiled coldly, stepping aside to reveal a second person emerging from the master hallway behind her—Tiffany, who had somehow returned from custody, holding the missing manila folder in her hands.
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