Surely it shouldn’t take that long to bring a dog inside, even if it was being difficult. As he stood there contemplating what to do next, a distinct barking sound came from the backyard. The dog was still outside, in this weather? Concerned overriding hesitation, Ethan made his way around the side of the house, calling out as he went.
Harold? It’s Ethan. Are you okay? I brought your coat. The backyard was partially illuminated by the light spilling from the kitchen window.
Ethan could make out the German Shepherd, not inside the house, as Harold had indicated was his plan, but still outside. The dog was moving restlessly in and out of its small kennel, a chain attached to its collar limiting its movement. Ethan looked around for Harold, but saw no sign of him.
The situation made no sense. Harold had left their dinner specifically to bring the dog inside, yet here it was, still chained outside in the worsening weather. Approaching cautiously, Ethan noticed that the larger doghouse Harold had been constructing was still unfinished, despite his claim that morning that he would complete it.
Another inconsistency in an increasingly puzzling day. Harold? Ethan called again, louder this time. No response.
He peered through the kitchen window, but could see no movement inside. Harold’s car was still in the driveway, and in this weather, at this hour, it seemed unlikely he would have gone anywhere on foot, especially without his coat. Ethan pulled out his phone and dialed Harold’s number.
The call went straight to voicemail after several rings. A growing sense of unease settled in his stomach. As he put his phone away, the German Shepherd suddenly began barking more intensely.
At first, Ethan thought the dog was reacting to his presence, but as he observed more carefully, he realized the animal was directing its attention toward the small doghouse, alternating between barking and whining. Keeping a safe distance, Ethan moved to get a better angle on the doghouse. From his new position, he could see something he hadn’t noticed before.
A wooden panel in the floor of the structure looked like it could be moved, with what appeared to be an unlocked padlock sitting on top of it. There was also a metallic glint that might be a handle of some sort embedded in the panel. Drawing on his experience with animals from his breeding days, Ethan approached the German Shepherd carefully, speaking in low, soothing tones.
The dog, seemingly more distressed than aggressive, allowed Ethan to come close enough to unclip its chain from the collar and reattach it to a pole several feet away from the doghouse. With the dog secured at a safe distance, Ethan knelt down and peered inside the small structure. What he had initially taken for a simple doghouse floor was actually a sophisticated trapdoor.
The metal handle and latch were reminiscent of old war bunkers he’d seen in historical documentaries. A cold feeling that had nothing to do with the winter air washed over him. Why would Harold have a bunker hidden beneath a doghouse? And why had he been so secretive and evasive all day? Ethan stood up and stepped back, his mind racing.
He needed to talk to Claire. Fumbling with his phone, he dialed home. Claire, he said when she answered, his voice tight with tension.
I found something strange in Harold’s backyard. There’s some kind of bunker or cellar under the doghouse. A bunker? Claire’s surprise was evident.
What do you mean? There’s a trapdoor in the floor of the doghouse with a handle and latch like the kind you’d see in old war bunkers. The dog is still outside, chained up, and I can’t find Harold anywhere. He’s not answering his phone, and his car is still here.
There was a pause before Claire responded. That sounds concerning. Do you think he might be down there? Maybe he fell or got trapped somehow? I don’t know, Ethan admitted.
The padlock on the door is unlocked, which means someone could be down there. But why would he build a doghouse over a bunker entrance? It doesn’t make sense. It could be dangerous, Claire warned.
Maybe we should call the police, just to be safe. Your phone battery was low earlier. I’ll make the call.
Ethan nodded, though she couldn’t see him. All right, but tell them it’s just a welfare check. I’m worried Harold might be in trouble down there.
I can’t reach him, and his house is locked. But his car is here. Promise me you won’t go down there, Claire insisted.
Come home, and we’ll wait for the police together. I promise, Ethan agreed. I’ll be right back.
He ended the call and cast one last look at the trapdoor. The rational part of him knew he should follow Claire’s advice and wait for the authorities. But another part of him, the part that had been searching for answers for eight long years, was drawn to the mystery beneath the doghouse.
Before he could make a decision, a noise came from the bunker, a metallic sound, like someone climbing a ladder or stairs. Ethan froze, his gaze fixed on the trapdoor, which remained closed. The sounds grew louder and clearer, unmistakably footsteps on metal rungs.
Then, with a scraping noise, the wooden panel moved, and the padlock fell to the side as the lid opened. Harold emerged from the opening, crawling awkwardly out of the narrow space. When he straightened and saw Ethan standing there, his face registered pure shock, quickly followed by something darker.
Fear? Anger? It was hard to tell in the dim light. «‘Ethan,’ Harold said, his voice carefully controlled, but with an undercurrent of tension. «‘What are you doing here?’ Ethan held up the coat…
Обсуждение закрыто.