Chapter 2: The Man Who Buried His Own Family
My mother pushed the desk against the steel door.
"Help me!""
I grabbed the edge and shoved.
The metal scraped against the floor.
Lily was crying now, and Emily had wrapped both arms around her. The two girls stood together beneath the photographs, watching the door as if they had seen this happen many times before.
The keypad beeped.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
My mother exhaled.
"That won't hold him for long.""
I turned toward Vanessa.
"Start talking.""
She looked at the children.
"Not here.""
"You're going to tell me everything.""
"Ryan, please.""
"Three years. You've been hiding a secret passage in our bedroom for three years. A little girl has been living behind our wall, and our daughter has been feeding her under your nose.""
My voice cracked.
"How am I supposed to listen to anything you say?""
Vanessa wiped her face.
"Because I was trying to keep you alive.""
I laughed.
It was an ugly, broken sound.
"Alive from my own father?""
My mother placed the folder on the desk.
"Your father is not the man you remember.""
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?""
She looked toward the children.
"Girls, come here.""
Emily immediately moved behind Vanessa.
Lily stayed beside me.
My mother crouched.
"Emily, do you remember the lady who used to bring you food?""
Emily nodded.
"Her name was Grace.""
My mother closed her eyes.
"Grace was your father's first wife.""
I looked up sharply.
"What?""
"Your father was married before he met me. They had a daughter.""
"Emily?""
"No.""
My mother turned a page in the folder.
There was a photograph of a young woman holding a baby.
"Grace's daughter was named Hannah.""
The baby had a crescent-shaped mark beneath her left ear.
The same mark as Lily.
The same mark as Emily.
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Where is Hannah?""
My mother looked at me.
"She died.""
Vanessa shook her head.
"Margaret, that's not what happened.""
My mother turned.
"Don't.""
"You can't keep pretending the truth is different.""
I stepped between them.
"Enough. What truth?""
Vanessa finally spoke.
"Hannah was never buried.""
Silence.
My mother looked down at the floor.
Vanessa continued.
"Your father told everyone she died when she was six. But he had already hidden her in this house. He told Grace that Hannah had been taken away for medical treatment.
He told the doctors that Grace was unstable. He told the police that the child had died.""
I looked at Emily.
She was listening.
"Was Hannah the little girl behind the wall?""
"No," Vanessa said softly.
"Emily is Hannah's daughter.""
I couldn't breathe.
"Then who's Emily's father?""
Vanessa looked at me.
"Your father.""
The words landed like a physical blow.
I stumbled backward.
"No.""
My mother reached for me.
"Ryan—"
"No! That's impossible!""
Vanessa was crying.
"Your father had another family. He never stopped. He kept Grace and Hannah hidden for years, and when Hannah grew up, he made sure she never left.""
I looked at the folder again.
The dates began to make sense in the worst possible way.
Emily was six.
Hannah had been six when I was a teenager.
I remembered a girl.
A quiet girl with dark hair.
She had appeared in the hallway outside my bedroom several times when I was around sixteen. My father always told me she was a neighbor's child.
One evening, she had given me a drawing.
Two children holding hands.
I had kept it in my desk for years.
Then it disappeared.
"Where is Hannah now?"" I whispered.
Vanessa didn't answer.
My mother did.
"Your father says she ran away.""
"Do you believe him?""
"No.""
A sudden crash sounded from the other side of the steel door.
The desk jumped.
Emily screamed.
My mother opened a drawer and pulled out a small revolver.
I stared at her.
"Where did you get that?""
"From your father.""
Another crash.
The door bent inward.
Vanessa grabbed my arm.
"Ryan, listen to me. There's a second exit behind the filing cabinet.""
"Then why didn't we use it?""
"Because it leads to the basement.""
"So?""
She looked at Emily.
"Because that's where he keeps Hannah.""
My mother turned toward her.
"You said she was dead.""
Vanessa's expression collapsed.
"I was told she was dead.""
The steel door shuddered again.
My mother moved the filing cabinet aside.
Behind it was another narrow opening.
I pushed Lily through first.
Emily followed.
Vanessa climbed in after them.
I turned back to my mother.
She was still standing beside the desk, holding the revolver.
"Mom, come on!""
She looked at me.
For a moment, she looked exactly like the woman I remembered from childhood.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
"I can't.""
"Why?""
"Because I was the one who helped him build these walls.""
I stared at her.
"What?""
She placed the gun on the desk.
"I knew about Grace. I knew about Hannah. I knew about every child he kept here.""
"Then why?""
"Because I thought I could control him.""
The steel door began to open.
My mother grabbed my face.
"Ryan, I am not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to save those girls.""
I heard a familiar voice from the corridor.
"Margaret?""
My father's voice.
Warm.
Almost affectionate.
"Darling, you've made a terrible mess.""
My mother pushed me toward the opening.
"Go!""
I hesitated.
She slapped the side of my face.
"GO!""
I climbed through.
Vanessa pulled the filing cabinet back into place.
We moved down a staircase that smelled of wet concrete.
At the bottom was a long basement corridor.
A single fluorescent light flickered above us.
There were several doors.
Some had locks.
Others had small observation windows.
I heard a child coughing behind one of them.
Lily stopped.
"Daddy?""
I turned.
"What is it?""
She pointed toward the second door.
"That's where my friend used to cry.""
I approached.
There was a small drawing taped to the metal.
Two girls.
One taller.
One smaller.
A yellow sun above them.
Beneath the drawing were four words written in a child's handwriting.
*MOMMY SAID DON'T OPEN.*
Vanessa covered her mouth.
I tried the handle.
Locked.
"Where's the key?""
She pointed toward a hook beside the staircase.
A ring of keys hung there.
I tried three before one finally turned.
The door opened.
Inside was a small bedroom.
There was a narrow bed, a plastic cup, a stack of children's books, and a pink blanket.
On the wall were dozens of pencil marks.
Height measurements.
Names.
Dates.
The most recent measurement was dated two weeks ago.
I stepped closer.
At the bottom of the wall was a sentence.
Hannah was here.
Then, beneath it:
Hannah is still here.
I turned toward Vanessa.
"Who wrote this?""
She whispered.
"Emily.""
I looked at the bed.
There was a small photograph beneath the pillow.
A woman in her thirties stood beside a little girl wearing a yellow sweater.
The woman had my father's eyes.
And beneath her left ear was the same crescent-shaped birthmark.
I looked at Emily.
"Is this your mother?""
She nodded.
"She told me to be brave.""
"Where is she?""
Emily pointed toward the last door in the corridor.
Before I could move, a loudspeaker crackled overhead.
My father's voice filled the basement.
"Ryan, don't open that door.""
I froze.
He continued.
"Your wife has lied to you. Your mother has lied to you. And that little girl has been taught to lie since the day she was born.""
A pause.
Then his voice softened.
"Son, if you want to know who your real family is, come upstairs.""
May you like
The lights went out.
And somewhere in the darkness, a woman began screaming my name.
