Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the PastThe mortar crumbled like dry biscuit under the pressure of the iron bar. Jasper worked with methodical fury, his breath pluming in the freezing subterranean air. Brick by brick, the false wall began to yield, tumbling inward into whatever black void lay hidden behind the mansion's foundation.
A gust of air rushed out from the opening—stale, freezing, smelling faintly of old copper and ozone, as if a tomb had just been unsealed after half a century.
Jasper dropped the crowbar. He clicked the high-intensity flashlight beam into the opening, stepping up to the jagged hole. The beam cut through the swirling dust, illuminating a small, hidden chamber no larger than a walk-in vault.
It wasn't a burial site. It wasn't a smuggler's cache.
It was a makeshift prison cell.
In the center of the concrete floor sat an old iron cot, a rusted metal water pitcher, and a wooden table covered in a thick layer of dust. But what caught Jasper’s breath in his throat was the writing. Every square inch of the stone walls was covered in frantic, overlapping scratches—not from a dog's claws, but from fingernails. Words, dates, and desperate tallies carved deep into the rock face.
March 14, 1985. They think I'm dead. October 2, 1991. Harrison, let me out. July 11, 2003. Still here.
Jasper felt the room spin. He knew that handwriting. Even warped and distorted by decades of starvation and madness, the loops and slashes were unmistakably those of the man whose portrait hung above the grand fireplace in the study.
No. That was impossible.
"Harrison Concincaid died six months ago," Jasper muttered aloud to the empty vault. "He had a massive stroke in his study. I saw the death certificate."
Or did he?
The memory of that stormy night ten years ago flared in Jasper's mind. The night his father had cast him out into the rain. Jasper had always believed it was because he refused to bow to his father's criminal enterprises, because he wanted out of the mafia syndicate the Concincaids had built on the docks of Naples and the East Coast.
What if Harrison hadn't exiled him out of cruelty, but out of necessity? What if Jasper had stumbled onto something he was never supposed to see?
A soft sound broke his train of thought. Footsteps on the stone stairs. Light, uneven steps.
Jasper spun around, the flashlight beam sweeping across the cellar.
Standing at the edge of the light, half-hidden in the shadows of the staircase, was Jonah. The eight-year-old boy stood barefoot on the cold stone, wearing oversized flannel pajamas. In his arms, he clutched the tattered teddy bear. His large, dark eyes weren't looking at Jasper. They were fixed entirely on the open hole in the wall.
For the first time since Jasper had arrived at the estate, the boy's lips parted. A small, raspy whisper cut through the damp air, sounding like dry leaves dragged across asphalt.
"Grandpa said... the monsters live behind the wall."
Jasper's blood ran cold. "Jonah. Go back to your room. This isn't a place for you."
"It's not a monster," the boy whispered, taking one small, hesitant step forward. His gaze didn't waver from the dark interior of the secret cell. "It's Uncle Vincent."
Jasper froze. Uncle Vincent?
History books of the Concincaid family spoke of an older brother to Harrison—Vincent Concincaid—who had mysteriously vanished in the late 1970s during a brutal power struggle within the syndicate. The official family lore was that Vincent had betrayed the family, fled to South America, and died in a cartel shootout.
A figure emerged from the darkness at the back of the secret cell.
A shape wrapped in filthy, rotting rags, dragging a withered leg behind it, stepped into the fringe of the flashlight beam. Skin stretched over bone like yellowed parchment, long matted grey hair falling over hollow eyes, and a beard that reached the middle of a skeletal chest.
The creature raised a trembling, translucent hand to shield its eyes from the sudden light, letting out a wet, rattling gasp that sounded like a death rattle.
"Harrison...?" a voice rasped, broken by decades of silence. "Is... is the war over?"
Before Jasper could process the horrific truth, a heavy shadow fell across the cellar entrance behind Jonah.
Clapping echoed off the stone walls. Slow, rhythmic, and mocking.
Jasper whipped around.
May you like
Standing at the top of the stairs, blocking the only exit, was Conrad Vance. He wasn't smiling anymore. In his hand, he held a sleek, silenced 9mm pistol, the barrel pointed squarely at Jasper's chest. Behind him stood four armed enforcers in black suits, their faces grim and dead-eyed.
"Well, well, well," Conrad sighed, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "Curiosity really does kill the cat, Jasper. I told you to stay upstairs."
