Chapter 6 - The Echo of the Past
The flashlight beam cut through the freezing air, illuminating nothing but bare concrete and frost creeping rapidly up the foundation walls. Marcus gasped, his chest burning as the heavy scent of copper and damp earth grew overwhelming.
“Who’s there?” Marcus yelled, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He forced himself to step away from the wall, shining the erratic light toward the crawlspace access panel.
The small pile of dirt was gone. In its place lay a neatly folded gray child’s sweater—the exact one Maya had been wearing the day they moved into this house three years ago. But that was impossible. Maya had outgrown that sweater two years ago, and Clara swore she had donated it to charity.
Upstairs, a muffled thud shook the ceiling joists, followed by the sharp sound of glass shattering in the kitchen.
“Dad! They’re inside the walls!” Zuri’s terrified scream pierced the floorboards, cutting through the low, rhythmic whispering that still buzzed inside Marcus’s skull.
Marcus charged toward the basement stairs, throwing his shoulder against the heavy oak door. It held firm, the deadbolt locked tight from the outside. He raised the heavy metal flashlight and smashed the metal casing against the brass doorknob, sparks flying as the internal mechanism began to give way under the brute force of his panic.
“Hold on, Zuri! I’m coming!” Marcus roared, striking the door again until the wood splintered around the lock.
With one final, desperate kick, the door burst open, splintering into the hallway. Marcus tumbled out onto the carpeted floor of the main hallway, gasping for air.
The house was dead silent. The harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen hummed normally. There was no broken glass on the floor, no sign of a struggle.
Zuri sat quietly at the kitchen island, calmly scrolling through her smartphone. Clara stood by the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce, wearing her dark red button-down shirt without a single crease out of place.
“Marcus? What are you doing on the floor?” Clara asked, turning around with a mild, confused expression. “Dinner is almost ready. Where were you?”
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Marcus slowly pushed himself up to his feet, staring at his wife in sheer disbelief. He looked down at his hands—they were covered in damp, black earth, and his gray henley was stained with fresh rust.
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