Chapter 7 - The Key to the Past
The gravel crunched sharply beneath Leo’s boots as he marched toward the back screen door of the house. Arthur froze, his mind racing through a dozen panicked scenarios. The spare brass key—the one he had sworn he threw down the deep well behind the barn—was sitting right where the boy claimed it was. He had forgotten about that hiding place in the chaos of the past year.
“Leo, stop right there!” Arthur commanded, his boots pounding against the earth as he sprinted across the yard to cut off the boy’s path.
Clara followed closely behind, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Leo, please! Don't do this! You don't understand what will happen if you unlock that door!”
Leo reached the wooden porch steps and turned to face them, his small hands gripping the handrail. His face was streaked with dirt and dried tears, but his jaw was set with a terrifying stubbornness.
“You lied about everything,” Leo said, his voice terrifyingly steady. “You said she ran away. You said she didn’t love us anymore. But every night I hear her crying through the floor vent in my bedroom. I hear her calling my name when you think I’m asleep.”
Arthur reached the bottom of the steps, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. He forced his breathing to slow down, desperate to adopt a calm, rational tone.
“Leo, listen to your father. People can get very sick in their minds. The woman in that shed… she isn’t the mother you remember. She became someone dangerous. She tried to hurt us, Leo. She tried to burn this house down with you inside it.”
Leo flinched slightly at the mention of the fire, his eyes flickering with doubt for a single fraction of a second. But he recovered quickly, shaking his head. “That’s another lie. You told me the kitchen fire was an accident with the stove. I found the burnt diary pages in the trash barrel last summer, Arthur. I know she tried to protect me from you.”
Arthur felt the ground drop out from beneath his feet. The boy had found the diary. All those burned fragments he thought he had destroyed beyond recognition—Leo had pieced them together in secret.
Clara gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth as she stared at the boy in utter disbelief. “You read those pages? Leo, those were the ramblings of a sick mind. Your father only tried to help her, but she fought him every step of the way.”
“She wrote that he was locking her away because she wanted to take me to the city,” Leo whispered, his voice dropping to a trembling pitch. “She wrote that he was keeping us all prisoner in this valley.”
Before either adult could respond, a sudden, sharp creak echoed from the front porch of the house. Both Arthur and Clara snapped their heads around toward the front entrance.
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Standing on the wooden porch, framed by the dim evening light, was a tall figure in a heavy canvas jacket, holding a weathered clipboard and staring directly down at them with a pair of cold, unblinking eyes.
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