Chapter 4 - Escaping the Tomb
The air in the hidden archive was beginning to thin as the fire above consumed the oxygen in the main house. A faint smell of drifting smoke seeped through the cracks of the wooden door, and the stone floor beneath their feet felt warm to the touch.
They couldn't stay here. If the floor collapsed, they would be buried alive in a fiery tomb.
“We need to find another way out,” Evelyn said, standing up quickly and grabbing the brass oil lamp.
“The historical blueprints,” Noah said, pointing to a rolled-up tube of yellowed paper resting in a wire rack near the filing cabinets. “My dad showed them to me once when we were playing hide-and-seek. He said this room was built by his great-grandfather during the Prohibition era.”
Evelyn unrolled the blueprints on the central table, holding the lamp close. Her eyes traced the intricate ink lines drawn by an architect a century ago.
“There,” she pointed, tracing a secondary tunnel that extended southward away from the main house. “It leads down toward the old boathouse near the lake. It’s over five hundred yards long, but it’s completely clear of the fire zone.”
“Can we make it?” Noah asked, looking down at his legs.
“I’m not leaving you behind,” Evelyn said fiercely. She looked around the room until she spotted a heavy wooden luggage cart used by the estate staff for moving trunks. Stripping away the file boxes, she fashioned a makeshift stretcher using blankets from a storage chest in the corner. “Get on. I’m pulling you.”
Noah hesitated, biting his lip. “Evelyn, you’ll have to drag me the whole way. It’s too heavy.”
“I’ve carried this family’s dirty laundry for eleven years, Noah,” Evelyn replied with a grim, humorless smile. “Dragging you to justice is going to be easy.”
She secured him onto the cart with a sturdy leather belt from one of the filing trunks, grabbed the handle, and pushed open the heavy iron maintenance door at the far end of the archive.
The tunnel stretched out before them into absolute blackness, lit only by the flickering circle of their oil lamp. The walls were damp stone, dripping with condensation, but the air was breathable.
With a deep breath, Evelyn pulled.
The wheels squeaked loudly against the uneven stone floor, echoing down the long, subterranean corridor. Every muscle in Evelyn’s arms screamed with protest, her back aching from the strain, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
Behind them, a muffled, tremendous crash shook the earth beneath their feet. The main chimney of Whitmore House had collapsed, sending tons of brick and mortar crashing down into the east wing—right where they had been standing minutes before.
“Faster, Evelyn!” Noah cried out from the cart.
“I’ve got you!” she panted, her boots slipping on the damp moss as she poured every ounce of her strength into pulling the cart forward through the dark.
For twenty agonizing minutes, they moved through the subterranean gloom like ghosts escaping a tomb. Finally, ahead of them, a faint rectangle of silver moonlight pierced the darkness.
An iron storm grate.
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Evelyn dropped the handle, sprinting the final ten yards to the end of the tunnel. She found a heavy iron lever mounted on the wall, pulled down with all her weight, and with a heavy groan, the rusted grate above popped open, spilling cool, fresh night air and the distant sound of blaring sirens into the tunnel.
They had made it out.
