flash
The storm didn't just knock out the power; it seemed to strip away the thin veneer of safety I had spent the last two weeks trying to build for Buster. As I sat on the cold hardwood floor, clutching my bruised shin, the house felt cavernous and hostile. Buster stood over me, his massive shoulders tense, his chest rising and falling in shallow, silent breaths. He wasn’t growling at the storm. His eyes were locked on the coat closet door, which had swung slightly open in the draft. / Chapter 4 / 6

Chapter 4 - BURIED ALIVE

The Horrors Under the FloorboardsA chaotic, violent struggle erupted within the tight, suffocating confines of the crawlspace. Shouts, curses, the heavy rattling of the rusted log chains, and the terrifying, furious snarls of Buster echoed out of the darkness.

"Get off me! Get off!" Garrett screamed, his voice muffled by the thick wooden beams.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering violently against my ribs, and ran toward the closet. I grabbed the flashlight from the floor where I had left it earlier. Sweeping the beam into the hole, I saw a tangle of limbs and fur. Garrett was flat on his back, desperately trying to bring the gun up, but Buster had his powerful jaws locked onto Garrett’s right forearm, pinning the weapon to the floor.

"Buster, hold him!" I yelled.

Suddenly, the girlfriend’s voice screamed from the front door. "Garrett! The police are coming! I hear the sirens!"

She didn't come in to help him. Instead, the sound of the front door slamming shut signaled her cowardly escape. She had left him behind.

Hearing the betrayal, Garrett let out a desperate, feral yell. With a massive surge of adrenaline, he managed to use his free left hand to grab a heavy, rusted iron link from the old chain bolted to the wall. He swung it blindly through the darkness, striking Buster hard across the shoulder.

Buster let out a sharp yelp of pain, his grip loosening just enough for Garrett to tear his arm free. Garrett scrambled backward, deeper into the crawlspace, his back hitting the furthest, lowest corner where the floor met the foundation of the house.

"Stay back!" Garrett panted, his face covered in dust and blood, pointing the gun wildly into the dark toward me and the dog. "Stay back or I’ll blow both your heads off!"

Buster stood his ground at the entrance of the crawlspace, his body shielding mine, his chest heaving, a thin line of blood dripping from where the chain had struck him. But he wasn't looking at the gun anymore.

Buster’s eyes were locked onto the floorboards directly beneath Garrett’s shifting weight.

The floor in the furthest corner of the crawlspace wasn't concrete like the rest of the basement foundation. It was loose dirt, covered by an old, rotting piece of tarp. In his frantic movement to escape the dog, Garrett had kicked the tarp aside.

As the flashlight beam passed over the newly exposed earth, my breath caught. The dirt there was loose, uneven, and significantly mounded compared to the rest of the crawlspace floor. And sticking out from the shallow, damp earth was the edge of a distinct, weather-resistant blue plastic tarp.

Garrett looked down, realizing what he was sitting on. His face drained of all color, turning a ghostly, horrific white.

"No," Garrett whispered, his voice cracking. "No, no, no..."

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

He hadn't kept Buster in this crawlspace just to drug him and torture him into compliance.

He had kept the dog locked in the dark right next to the shallow grave of his owner.

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