Chapter 5 - Beneath the Floorboards
The dull impact vibrated directly beneath the floor of the breakfast nook where Abby’s crayons lay scattered.
Nora didn't hesitate. She dropped the phone onto the counter, not caring that Sheriff Miller was still barking frantic orders through the plastic receiver. She lunged across the living room, scooped Abby up by the waist, and clamped her hand gently over her daughter's mouth before the little girl could let out a scream of confusion.
"Shh," Nora breathed against Abby’s ear, her voice a steady, desperate hum. "Quiet game, baby. Not a sound. Remember the cabin game?"
Abby’s eyes were wide with terror, but she nodded, curling her small body into Nora's chest like a frightened animal.
A second metallic scrape came from the utility hatch located in the pantry—an old wooden trapdoor leading to the shallow dirt cellar that housed the cottage’s water heater and well pump. The iron latch clicked softly.
Someone was already inside the foundation.
Nora moved with silent, ghost-like efficiency, her nursing training overriding panic. She carried Abby down the short hallway into the master bedroom, slipping inside the walk-in closet behind a rack of heavy winter coats. She gently placed Abby onto a pile of folded blankets on the floor.
"Stay under the coats," Nora whispered, looking directly into Abby’s hazel eyes. "Do not move, do not peek, do not make a sound, no matter what you hear. If someone opens this door and it isn't me or Jax, you kick through the vent cover behind you and run into the woods toward the lake road. Understand?"
Abby’s chin quivered, but she tucked herself tightly beneath a heavy wool parka, her small fingers clutching the fabric like an anchor.
Nora closed the closet door until only a hair-thin crack remained.
She turned back to the bedroom, her eyes scanning the room for a weapon. On the bedside table sat the heavy brass kerosene lamp Jax had brought with the groceries two months ago. Nora grabbed it by the base, feeling its solid, three-pound weight.
From the kitchen, the slow, agonizing squeak of a floorboard signaled that the cellar hatch had opened.
Heavy, dirt-caked boots stepped onto the linoleum. The footsteps were slow, rhythmic, completely devoid of hurry. A man was walking through the cottage with the easy confidence of a wolf inspecting an empty pen.
"Nora," a low, gravelly voice echoed through the hallway. It was smooth, devoid of anger, carrying an icy Appalachian drawl. "You always were terrible at hiding. Your old man spent twenty years trying to teach you how to vanish, and you rented a cottage right off the main logging trail."
Nora flattened her back against the wall beside the bedroom entrance, raising the brass lamp high above her shoulder. Her breath was held so tightly her lungs burned.
The footsteps reached the threshold. A long, dark shadow stretched across the pine floorboards.
A tall man stepped into the bedroom. He wore a grease-stained canvas coat, his head shaved bald, his neck completely covered in coiled serpent tattoos that stretched past his jawline. In his right hand, resting casually against his thigh, was a short piece of lead pipe.
Marcus Kane.
He didn't look at the bed. His dark, reptilian eyes swept straight across the floor toward the closet door, catching the faint rustle of coats inside.
"Found you, little bird," Kane murmured, taking a step toward the closet.
May you like
With every ounce of strength in her body, Nora stepped from behind the doorframe and brought the heavy brass lamp down toward the back of his skull.
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