Chapter 7 - The Address on Elm Street
"Eighty-four Elm Street," the voice on the rotary phone repeated, the static growing louder and more frantic before the line abruptly went dead with a sharp click.
Elena lowered the receiver slowly, her mind racing. Eighty-four Elm Street was the address of the old municipal archive building that had burned down under mysterious circumstances back in 1995—the exact year the original builder of their house had vanished.
"Who was that, Mom?" Clara asked, stepping cautiously through the sliding door with Lily trailing closely behind her. The toddler held the tarnished silver locket securely in her pocket, her red hair catching the afternoon light.
"Nobody," Elena lied quickly, forcing a calm expression she didn't feel. "Just a wrong number. Pack your things, girls. We're going for a drive."
"A drive?" Clara crossed her arms, narrowing her suspicious eyes. "You said we were going to a hotel. Now we're going for a drive? Mom, you're hiding something from me. I'm eleven, not five. I know something is seriously wrong with this house."
Elena knelt down, placing her hands on Clara’s shoulders. "I know, sweetie. I'm scared too. But there is a connection between this house and something that happened a long time ago. If we don't figure it out, I don't think this house is ever going to let us live in peace."
Lily tugged on the hem of Elena's beige sweatshirt. "The lady said we have to find the box in the dirt, Mommy."
Elena exchanged a terrified glance with Clara. "When did she tell you that, Lily?"
"Just now," Lily said innocently, pointing toward the basement door tucked away in the corner of the kitchen.
The basement door, which Elena had locked with a heavy deadbolt the day they moved in because the stairs were unsafe, was standing wide open, its dark wooden steps descending into absolute blackness. A cold, damp breeze billowed up from the subterranean depths, carrying the unmistakable sound of a woman weeping softly in the dark.
Clara gasped, stepping back and grabbing Lily’s hand. "Don't go down there, Mom. Please."
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Elena swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs. She picked up a heavy flashlight from the kitchen counter, flicked it on, and shone the bright beam down the dark, wooden steps. The yellow light cut through the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air—and right at the bottom of the stairs, resting on the concrete floor, was a second rusted lockbox, identical to the one they had found in the kitchen wall.
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