The Past Can Speak To Me

Hep moved through the crawl space beneath the house like a ghost in the night. The damp earth clung to his elbows and knees, the scent of mold and decay thick in the narrow confines. Every movement had to be calculated; even the slightest shift could send a creak through the fragile floorboards above. He could hear the men inside, their boots thudding against the wood, their voices thick with anger and confusion.

"She couldn't have gotten far!" one of them barked. "Find her!"

Hep smirked to himself. Let them search in the wrong direction. He'd made enough noise slipping out the far side of the house that they would assume he was long gone. In reality, he was doubling back, inching his way toward the one place they wouldn't expect—the house itself.

His fingers found an opening near the foundation of the old farmhouse, and he slid through, emerging in the shadow of the back porch. The driving, pounding rain had done him a favor, masking the sound and evidence of his movements, making his return a whisper against the storm’s retreat. He crouched low, peering through the broken slats of the porch steps, scanning for movement. The men were fanning out, cursing at the loss of their truck and their prisoner.

Lily had made it out. He'd made sure of it before leading them away from where she was. That was enough to keep him going. She had thrown herself through the opening of a closed window, her body twisting in the air as she braced for the impact of the ground below. She hit hard, rolling through mud and broken glass. Rain soaked her in an instant, cold and unforgiving. Hep watched as it all happened, seemingly in slow motion. He wondered all at once if she was cut by the glass, if she was going to be okay, how she managed to jump that high, how she had been that accurate, and if she'd ever been a gymnast, because he couldn't understand how something like that would've been possible otherwise.

Moving swiftly, he slipped through the back door, careful to avoid the warped boards that groaned beneath too much weight. The house was nearly silent now, save for the occasional grumble from the men outside. His few possessions were still in the corner where he'd slept, tucked inside a fraying canvas bag. He grabbed them quickly, ready to disappear, but something caught his eye—something that hadn’t seemed important before.

It was just a painting.

It hung on the living room wall, its muted colors blending into the aged wallpaper. It was an old oil painting, nothing remarkable at first glance, just an amateur landscape of some distant valley bathed in twilight. But then his eyes drifted to the bottom corner, where an ornate signature curved through the paint like a whisper from the past. It was familiar, though he knew he'd never seen it before.

He knew that signature. He wasn't sure why he knew it, but it was familiar to him, and knew what he needed to do.

His pulse quickened as he stepped closer, fingers tracing the edge of the frame. The wood was hand-carved, intricate patterns winding around its edges, the craftsmanship far too refined and practiced for a simplistic, torn up old farmhouse like this. He hesitated for only a second before pulling his pocket knife free. He worked quickly, slicing through the canvas’s mounting, careful not to damage it as he peeled it from the ornate frame. The painting curled under his fingers as he rolled it up and slid it into his bag. He didn’t know why, but something in his gut told him this was important. There was something about it. Maybe Lily would know, he thought to himself. But that would have to wait.

A commotion outside snapped him back to reality. The men were returning.

Hep moved fast, slipping back through the doorway and into the yard just as boots thudded against the porch. He crouched low, sticking to the shadows, the wet ground squelching beneath his palms as he crept back toward the shed where he had last seen Lily. His heart pounded in his ears, but he knew the rain would cover any sounds he made.

Behind the shed, Lily was waiting, breathless, eyes darting as she caught sight of him. Relief flickered across her face, but she didn’t waste time on words. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward, urging her into the darkness beyond the property lines that had been bound by the old barbed wire fences built too many years ago for them to know.

The rain had begun to ease, leaving behind a thick mist that clung to the grass and trees. The night smelled of wet earth and smoke, a strange blend of destruction and renewal. They moved swiftly, putting distance between themselves and the farmhouse. Each step felt heavier than the last, exhaustion creeping in, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not yet.

After what felt like miles, Hep spotted the rusted hulk of an old VW Beetle, half-buried in weeds and forgotten by time. He slowed, pulling Lily alongside him as they reached its side.

“Rest here for a second,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. “We should be far enough for now.”

Lily nodded, sinking onto the ground, arms wrapped around herself. Her breath was still shaky, her body tense. “They were looking for something,” she muttered, barely above a whisper. “A bunker.”

Hep frowned. “A bunker?”

“They thought Marcus had a map to one. They thought it was in the house.”

The words settled between them, heavy and unspoken. Marcus had led them to her, even if it wasn’t by choice. And now, they were hunting for something she knew nothing about.

Hep exhaled, glancing down at his bag. He didn’t know what secrets lay hidden in the rolled-up painting he had taken, but something told him it was connected. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth more than any map.

Part 7 of a series