Dropping In

Dust, old cedar, and copper. The copper was the worst—the sharp, unmistakable tang of dried blood.

I stood at the bottom of the rope ladder, my boots buried in an inch of gray silt. The air here was dead, heavy with the weight of a secret that had been denied oxygen for nearly thirty years.

The walls of the void were raw, unfinished drywall on one side and cold, weeping brick on the other. It was a vertical coffin, precisely four feet wide, sliced out of the master suite to keep the family legacy from hemorrhaging.

I took a step toward the center. The dust swirled, thick and velvety, coating my leggings. My tactical flashlight cut a harsh, white channel through the dark.

Panic flared in the center of my chest, a hot, frantic bird clawing at my ribs. The space was too tight. The ceiling was too high. If Leo woke up, if Arthur decided on a 3 AM inspection, I was buried alive.

I forced my gaze down to the floor. The green nylon bundle sat directly at my feet.

It was a vintage high-altitude bag, the kind serious hikers used in the late nineties. The fabric was stiff, crusted with the same dark patches I’d seen from above.

My heart rate monitor began a low, steady chirping. Sixty-eight. Seventy-five. Eighty-two.

*Breathe, El. Do not let the watch tell him.*

I lowered the flashlight, the beam creeping up the length of the bag. It was oriented vertically, as if someone had stood it up against the wall, but gravity had eventually slumped it into a pathetic, discarded heap.

The zipper was high-quality brass, dulled by oxidation. I knelt beside it, my knees hitting the floorboards with a muffled thud.

I reached out, my fingers trembling so violently I had to grip my right wrist with my left hand to steady the movement. I touched the metal pull-tab. It was freezing.

I didn't open it. I couldn't. Not yet.

I swept the light around the perimeter of the bundle. There were secondary stains on the floorboards, dark starbursts that had soaked into the wood and stayed there, marking the spot where the bag had first been placed.

I thought of Tommy Finch. I thought of the "accidental drowning" that occurred while I was supposedly sleeping down the hall.

I looked at the center of the mass. The nylon was stretched tight, conforming to the shape of whatever was housed inside. It wasn't just old clothes. It wasn't just "junk" from the attic.

The bulk was too dense. Too specific.

It was zipped completely shut, bulging slightly in the middle.