Chapter 8 - The Wrong Body
The shock of her mother’s voice paralyzed Clara for a split second before adrenaline flooded her system. She dropped to her knees beside the jagged hole in the floor, dropping her phone into the crawlspace by accident. The screen cracked against the concrete foundation below, casting a dim, flickering green light across the small, suffocating enclosure.
"Mom, hold on! I'm getting you out of here right now!" Clara shouted, tears finally breaking through her cold exterior as she jammed her hands into the splintered gap, trying to pry the remaining floorboards apart.
From downstairs, the heavy front door slammed open, followed by the sound of shouting voices and heavy footsteps rushing up the stairs.
"Clara! What did you find? The back cellar door was bolted from the outside, and—" Elena’s voice cut off abruptly as she reached the top of the attic stairs and saw her sister frantically tearing at the floor. Elena stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide with disbelief as she heard a faint, familiar cough coming from beneath the boards.
"Elena! Help me pull this wood up! It's Mom! She's alive!" Clara screamed, her voice bordering on hysterical.
Elena stood frozen for three full seconds, her mind refusing to process the impossible reality before her. Then, with a choked sob, she dropped to her knees beside Clara. Together, the two sisters yanked violently at the rotting floorboards until a wide enough opening finally gave way.
A wave of stale, damp air rushed up from the crawlspace, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and medicine.
Frail, shaking hands reached up out of the darkness. Clara and Elena grabbed their mother’s thin wrists, pulling her upward with all their might. They dragged the frail woman out onto the dusty attic floor, wrapping their arms around her shivering body.
"Oh, my girls... you came back," their mother whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. Her hospital gown was stained, and ugly purple bruises ringed her thin wrists.
Elena pulled her mother closer, sobbing uncontrollably into her matted hair. "Mom, we buried you... Arthur told us you passed away in your sleep three days ago! We had a whole service downstairs!"
Their mother shook her head weakly, coughing into a stained handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.
"It wasn't me," she wheezed, her cloudy eyes fixing on the attic door. "Arthur brought a body from the county morgue... a homeless woman who died of exposure. He dressed her in my clothes... and put her in the casket to collect my life insurance payout before I could change my will."
Clara slowly rose to her feet, her expression turning from shock into a dark, murderous fury. She looked down at the broken floorboards, then toward the stairway leading down to the house.
"Where is the insurance check right now, Mom?" Clara asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
Before their mother could answer, heavy boots thudded up the attic stairs, and Officer Vance’s voice boomed through the open landing.
"Nobody move! Put your hands where I can see them!" Vance ordered, stepping into the attic with his service weapon drawn, followed closely by two backup officers.
Clara turned slowly to face the police, her sparkly yellow dress stained with dust and blood, a cold smile forming on her lips.
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"Officer Vance," Clara said smoothly, stepping over the hole in the floor. "You're just in time. My father’s killer is at the station, but you need to go back and arrest him for kidnapping and murder, too."
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