Chapter 5 - The Hidden Panel
The screw slipped out of the hole with a faint, dry pop, falling silently onto the plush bedroom carpet. I removed the remaining three screws with my bare fingers, setting them carefully in a neat row on the edge of the baseboard. Buster had followed us into the master suite, his tail tucked tight, whining softly as he pressed his nose against the newly revealed seam in the wall.
"Look at the threads on these screws," I said, holding one up to the smartphone flashlight. "They're brand new. Phillips head, zinc-coated. They didn't build houses with these in the twenties, Sarah. Someone was in this wall very recently."
Sarah stared at the small wooden square, her hands trembling as she brought them up to cover her mouth. "Who would cut a hole into their own wall? It doesn't make any sense. Are you saying someone was living in the house before we moved in? A squatter?"
"Squatters usually leave trash, beer cans, sleeping bags," I muttered, gripping the edges of the cut wooden panel. "They don't seal the wall back up with precision screws when they're done."
With a sharp pull, I yanked the panel free from the lath and plaster. It came away with a dry tearing sound of old paper and crumbling mortar, revealing a dark, cavernous void inside the wall structure. A sudden rush of air billowed out from the opening—stale, heavy, and smelling faintly of copper and damp earth.
I held the smartphone flashlight closer to the gaping hole, thrusting the beam deep into the darkness. The light cut through the gloom, illuminating vertical wooden studs, cobwebs, and something metallic wedged tightly between the framing timbers a few feet down.
"Do you see that?" I whispered, pointing the light directly at the object.
Sarah leaned in cautiously, squinting into the pitch-black cavity. "It looks like... an old metal box. Or a heavy-duty storage case."
"Hold the phone," I instructed, handing the illumination device to her.
Carefully, I slid my right hand into the narrow opening, reaching down past the rough wooden framing. The space was claustrophobic, the rough edges of the cut lath scraping against my forearm, leaving tiny red tracks across my skin. My fingers stretched downward, brushing against something cold and slick. I wiggled my hand further, my fingertips finally hooking into the metal handle of the hidden object.
With a firm tug, I pulled it free from the tight squeeze of the studs, dragging it out into the light of the bedroom. It was a heavy, military-grade steel lockbox, its green paint flaking away with age, sealed shut with a rusted combination padlock.
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As I set the box down on the floor, a sharp, repetitive clicking sound—like a mechanical timer winding down—began to tick rhythmically from within the locked container.
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