Chapter 5 - The Splintering of Oak
The man’s hands descended onto the wood like a predator striking.
He didn't bother looking for a tool.
He jammed his thick, calloused fingers directly into the narrow, dusty seam.
The gap was barely a millimeter wide.
His fingernails scraped violently against the hard oak.
The cuticle on his right index finger split open.
A single drop of bright red blood welled up and smeared against the pale dust.
He didn't flinch.
He curled his fingertips, finding the absolute microscopic edge of the hidden board.
He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging.
He pulled upward.
The wood resisted.
Decades of friction and rusted nails held it in place.
The man let out a low, guttural grunt that rattled in his throat.
He braced his heavy boots against the adjacent boards and put his entire back into the lift.
With a deafening screech of bending iron, the nails gave way.
The floorboard ripped upward, sending a shower of splinters and dirt into the air.
The man threw the heavy piece of oak aside.
It clattered loudly against the legs of the sofa.
A rectangular black void now interrupted the living room floor.
It was a hole perfectly cut between the floor joists.
The air that rushed up from the dark smelled of damp earth, mildew, and stale sweat.
The man leaned over the edge.
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His chest heaved, casting a dark shadow over the opening.
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