Chapter 7: The Hidden Compartment
Midnight in the Vance estate brought a different kind of silence—a heavy, suffocating quiet broken only by the distant dripping of copper pipes and the wind howling through the chimney flues. Custa lay awake in his nursery bed, his blue eyes wide open in the dark. A strange scraping sound from behind the wainscoting near the fireplace drew his attention.
Creeping out from under the heavy wool blanket, the toddler padded across the cold wooden floor in his bare feet. He pressed his small ear against the dark oak paneling. The sound came again—a muffled click, followed by the slow slide of hidden metal.
With the instinctive daring of a child who had spent his entire short life surrounded by locked doors, Custa pushed against the carved wooden rosette on the molding. To his surprise, the panel gave way with a soft hiss of released air, swinging inward to reveal a dark, narrow cavity built into the brickwork of the chimney.
Reaching inside his small hand brushed against cold leather. He pulled out a heavy, leather-bound journal with gold-leaf lettering on the spine: Clara Vance - Field Notes, 2021.
Before he could open the cover, a harsh beam of light cut across the nursery floor. Custa froze, clutching the journal to his chest like a shield. Viktor stood in the doorway, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a heavy tactical flashlight in his right hand. The older man’s face was etched with a dark, dangerous fury that Custa had never seen directed at him before.
"Put it back, Custa," Viktor commanded, his voice shaking with restrained rage.
"Mama's book," the boy whispered, tears finally welling in his eyes.
"Put it back!" Viktor roared, stepping across the room in two strides. For a terrifying second, Custa thought the giant man was going to strike him. Instead, Viktor snatched the journal from the boy's hands with shocking gentleness, sliding it back into the secret recess before slamming the wooden panel shut with a heavy thud.
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Viktor knelt down so that his stern, scarred face was level with the crying toddler. "Some doors are locked for a reason, boy. Not to keep you out, but to keep the nightmares inside. If you ever open that panel again, I will have the entire wall bricked over. Do you understand me?"
Custa nodded miserably, hot tears spilling over his cheeks. Viktor reached out, his thumb awkwardly wiping away a tear from the boy's cheek—a gesture so entirely out of character that it hung in the air between them like an unspoken confession of guilt.
