Chapter 1: The Purchase
Everyone told them they were crazy. "You get what you pay for," the realtor had said, his nose wrinkling as he stood on the porch of the crumbling Victorian farmhouse. "Ten thousand dollars buys you the land, sure. But the house? It’s a teardown, Frank. It’s a money pit."
But Frank didn't see a money pit. He saw good bones. He saw a wraparound porch that just needed sanding and a fresh coat of white paint. He saw a retirement project that would keep his hands busy and his mind sharp. At sixty-six, after forty years of general contracting, Frank knew the difference between rot and potential.
"We’ll take it," Frank had said, gripping Martha’s hand.
Martha, a retired librarian with an eye for detail, was more hesitant. The house sat on a lonely stretch of road in rural Ohio, surrounded by overgrown wheat fields and gnarled oak trees. The nearest neighbor, a wealthy estate owner named Thorne, was miles away. It was quiet. Too quiet. But she trusted Frank. If he said he could fix it, he could fix it.
Two weeks later, the deed was signed, and the real work began. The summer air was thick and humid as they started in the living room. The smell was a pungent mix of mildew, old dust, and abandonment. The previous owners had left in a hurry decades ago, or so the story went, and the house had sat empty, swallowing its own secrets.
"First things first," Frank grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag. "This carpet has to go. I bet there’s hardwood underneath."
The carpet was a hideous, water-stained shag from the seventies that squelched under their boots. Frank jammed his heavy crowbar under the edge near the fireplace. With a groan of effort, he heaved. The fabric ripped with a sound like tearing velcro, sending a cloud of ancient dust into the air. Martha coughed, waving her hand in front of her face.
"Careful, Frank. Your knee," she warned, watching him put his weight into the leverage.
"I'm fine, Marty. Just... stubborn," he muttered. He ripped up another three feet of carpet, revealing the subfloor. It wasn't hardwood. It was uneven, rough-hewn planks that looked older than the house itself.
Frank moved to the center of the room, where the floor dipped slightly. He jammed the crowbar down hard, intending to pry up a loose board to check the joists.
CLANG.
The sound wasn't the dull thud of wood on wood. It was a sharp, metallic ring that vibrated up Frank’s arm and echoed through the empty house.
Frank froze. He looked at Martha. She had stopped sweeping, her broom suspended in mid-air.
"Did you hit a pipe?" she asked, stepping closer.
"No," Frank said, crouching down. His knees popped. "That sounded hollow."
He tapped the crowbar again. CLANG. CLANG.
It was right beneath the floorboards. Frank grabbed his hammer and the back of the crowbar. "Hand me the flashlight, Martha. I think we found something."
Frank ripped away the last strip of rotted carpet, and his breath hitched—he wasn't looking at wood anymore, but a massive, cold iron plate hidden perfectly beneath the floor.
