Chapter 5
The murky lake water pressed against the exterior glass pane, rising rapidly until the entire porch was submerged in a sickly green hue. Inside the pitch-black hallway, the floorboards began to tilt at an alarming five-degree angle toward the rear of the cabin. The rolling suitcases slid violently across the entryway, crashing into the base of the wall with a loud plastic crunch.
"The foundation is sinking!" Grandpa Arthur yelled over the rising roar of water rushing beneath the subfloor. He grabbed little Toby under the arms, hoisting the eight-year-old safely onto his hip as the water began to seep through the bottom seams of the front door, pooling ice-cold around their ankles.
"How is that possible?" Sarah shrieked, her panic finally breaking through her restraint as she splashed forward, grabbing her father's arm. "We were on dry land two minutes ago! The lake is fifty yards away!"
"It's not the lake rising, Sarah—the house is dropping!" Leo shouted back, kicking off his sneakers as the water level climbed past his shins. He scanned the hallway, using the faint, eerie glow emanating from the hundreds of white notice papers on the walls to find their bearings. "There has to be a secondary exit! Look for a service door or a cellar latch!"
Toby buried his face in Grandpa Arthur’s shoulder, sobbing quietly now as Grandma Helen waded through the knee-deep water, her light blue striped blouse soaked and clinging to her frail frame. She held the blue rolled-up beach mat above her head like a makeshift shield against the dripping ceiling, where condensation was pouring down the pine beams in thick, oily drops.
"Here! Through the kitchen!" Grandma Helen called out, pointing toward an open archway at the end of the hallway where a sliver of pale daylight filtered through a set of high, barred windows.
They rushed forward, splashing through the freezing water that tasted faintly of rust and old soil. As they burst into the kitchen, the sight that met them made Sarah stop dead in her tracks. The kitchen was entirely normal—granite countertops, a stainless steel refrigerator, and a clean white ceramic sink. But sitting squarely in the middle of the spotless kitchen floor was their red-and-white cooler, dripping wet and already floating in two feet of water, despite having been left outside on the front porch only moments ago.
Leo waded toward the floating cooler, his jaw tight as he reached down and unlatched the heavy plastic lid. "Someone is playing a sick, elaborate joke on us," he growled, lifting the lid to grab anything useful.
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Inside the cooler, there was no ice, no drinks, and no food. Instead, resting neatly on a dry towel, was a modern digital video camera, recording actively with its red tally light blinking rhythmically in the dark.
Leo picked up the camera with trembling fingers, turning the viewscreen toward his mother and grandfather. The screen wasn't showing the kitchen. It was showing the exact spot where they were standing right now—except the room was completely empty, and the timestamp in the corner was set for exactly three days into the future.
