The other two men were complete strangers, and yet there was something about their faces that felt familiar, in a way that twisted his stomach with a profound sense of unease. He turned the photograph over. On the back, in his grandfather’s hand, was a message. The agreement holds.
The land stays divided. No one speaks of what happened here. S.L., 1852.
Derek stared at the words, unmoving, until the match burned down and scorched his fingers. What agreement? What could have possibly happened on this land that demanded this level of secrecy? And why would his grandfather build such an elaborate, hidden place to conceal these specific documents and belongings? As he lit another match, Derek’s eyes caught something else that sent a chill straight to his bones. Fresh candle wax on the table.
There was recent ash piled in a small metal dish. Someone had been burning candles down here. Preparing food.
They were living as if this underground room was their rightful home. But Derek owned this land. He had inherited it all, free and clear, from his grandfather, who had worked it for decades before passing it on.
No one else had any claim to this property. No one else should have even been aware this tunnel existed. The sound of footsteps directly above his head made Derek freeze in place.
Someone was walking across his barn floor. They moved with the confident, heavy stride of a person who felt they belonged there. But Derek lived utterly alone. He had no neighbors for miles.
He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Whoever had been living in this tunnel had come back. And they were right on top of him.
Derek quickly blew out the match and pressed his back flat against the tunnel’s earthen wall, straining his ears to listen. The person walking across his barn floor moved with a clear purpose, as if they knew exactly where they were headed. The footsteps came to a stop, directly over the hidden entrance.
A woman’s voice called down through the floorboards. It was clear, and surprisingly calm. “You can come up now, Derek. I know you’re down there.”
Derek’s heart hammered against his ribs. No one should know his name. No one should know about this tunnel. No one should be in his barn without his permission.
Yet this woman spoke with the casual confidence of someone who had been expecting him to find this place all along. “I’m not going anywhere until you explain what this is,” Derek called back, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice.
“That’s exactly what I’m here to do,” the woman replied. “But I’d rather not have this conversation through a wooden floor. My name is Olivia Harrow. I’ve been waiting for you to discover that tunnel for three months.”
Derek climbed the wooden steps one by one, his mind spinning with a thousand questions. When he emerged into the dim light of the barn, he saw a woman roughly his own age. She had dark hair pulled back severely from her face, and intelligent eyes that seemed to take in every detail of his expression.
She was dressed in a simple, practical traveling dress and carried a worn leather satchel. “How do you know my name?” Derek demanded, his voice rough.
“I know a great deal about you, Derek Langston. I know you inherited this land from your grandfather, Samuel. I know you’ve been living here alone since his death. And I know,” she said, tapping the floorboards he’d pulled up, “that you’ve never been down in that tunnel before today.”
Olivia placed her satchel on a nearby hay bale and unfastened it, pulling out a thick folder. “What I need to know is whether you’re ready to learn the truth about what your grandfather really did on this land.”
“My grandfather was an honest man,” Derek stated flatly. “He worked this land fairly and earned every single thing he had.”
Olivia’s expression turned grim. “Your grandfather was involved in something that affected a lot of people, Derek. Something that was supposed to stay buried forever. But circumstances have changed, and the families involved need to settle this once and for all.”
She pulled a folded document from her folder and handed it to him. It was a contract, written in his grandfather’s distinct handwriting and dated 1852, but the words made no sense. It made references to shared ownership, a rotation of residence, and concealment from authorities…
