The Leak

The storm hit just after midnight, a sudden, violent deluge that hammered against the slate roof of Mercer Hall like a drum roll. Iris lay awake in the guest room, listening to the house protest. The wind howled through the eaves, and the old timbers groaned under the assault.

She wasn't sleeping anyway. The numbers from the trust fund were still scrolling behind her eyelids. Two million dollars. Gone.

A new sound cut through the noise of the storm.

*Drip. Drip. Drip.*

It was coming from the ceiling.

Iris sat up. She turned on the bedside lamp. A dark, wet stain was spreading in the corner, right above the armoire.

She grabbed a bucket from the bathroom and placed it under the leak. But the stain was growing fast, the plaster bubbling.

This wasn't just a leak. It was a breach.

She threw on a robe and ran into the hallway. The sound was louder here. Water was running somewhere inside the walls.

She looked up. The attic access panel was directly above the main staircase.

She pulled the cord, the ladder unfolding with a rusty screech. She climbed up, her flashlight beam cutting through the dusty gloom.

The attic was a chaotic landscape of boxes and furniture shrouded in sheets. But Iris ignored them. She followed the sound of the water.

It was coming from the chimney chase. The brick chimney ran up the center of the house, surrounded by a wooden framework that hid the plumbing and electrical lines.

A section of the roof flashing had failed. Water was pouring down the side of the chimney, soaking the insulation, running down the chase.

Iris shone her light down into the gap between the chimney and the floor joists.

The water wasn't hitting the second-floor ceiling. It was bypassing it. It was running straight down the chase, all the way to the foundation.

To the basement.

To the void.

Iris scrambled back down the ladder. She ran to the kitchen, grabbing the keys to the bulkhead door. She didn't care if Julian had a camera. She didn't care if he was watching.

She ran out into the rain, the cold water soaking her instantly. She wrestled with the padlock on the bulkhead doors, her fingers slipping on the wet metal.

It snapped open.

She threw the doors back and descended the concrete steps.

The basement was flooded. An inch of water covered the floor, swirling around the furnace, lapping at the base of the wine rack.

But the water wasn't pooling evenly. It was flowing toward the false wall.

The water was disappearing under the wine rack.

Iris waded through the icy water, her pajamas clinging to her legs. She put her ear to the brick wall.

She could hear it. A steady, gushing sound.

The water from the roof was channeling directly into the hidden room.

"Elias!" she screamed, pounding on the brick. "Elias, can you hear me?"

Silence.

Then, a faint, muffled sound. Not a voice.

Splashing.

Frantic, panicked splashing.

The room wasn't just damp. It was filling up.

If the void was sealed tight enough to hold a prisoner, it was sealed tight enough to hold water.

If the room floods, the prisoner drowns. Or the evidence rots.