What Luck
by Amber Averay
Check out Amber’s blog here- https://www.facebook.com/TheEnchantmentSeries
Down in the basement, Vaughn adjusted the face mask and the swung the mallet with all the fury he could muster. Stupid old house!
BANG!
Stupid bloody bank refusing the loan!
BANG!
Stupid inspectors and their stupid rules and stupid government regulations!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Beads of sweat sprayed from his forehead into the hanging dust clouds and in a rage he thumped the heavy mallet to the warped floorboards, barely missing his foot. I’m not a damn carpenter, he groused, dragging a crate over and slouching onto it. He reached into the small esky nearby brimming with ice, dug around and yanked out a can of beer. Popping the tab he took a deep pull, cursing the previous owners who’d put wooden flooring over the basement’s cement floor. There had been a leak or damp or something, the boards were warped and unsafe – hell, the entire house was a heap of crap! He’d bought it on impulse, figuring to fix it up, but lost his job before he could do anything with it. Deciding he couldn’t afford to renovate or keep it, he decided to cut his losses and sell as a ‘renovator’s dream’. Unfortunately some nosy busy-body neighbour had reported his home as a health hazard, and the inspectors had come out and kindly listed everything that was wrong with the old dump.
‘Can’t afford to get someone to do the work, don’t know how to do it myself.’ He snorted, tossing back another mouthful of beer. ‘Load of useless bastards, all of ‘em.’ His friends had said they’d come round on the weekend to help, but until then they had work and he had to do something. Ripping up the flooring in the basement seemed something he could adequately manage, stripping it back to its original cement base should be easy enough. So, armed with gloves, beer, heavy mallet, and a crate he’d set to work.
Unfortunately the distorted wood didn’t break beneath pressure so much as bend and creak and it thoroughly pissed him off. His hands stung, his arms and shoulders ached, his back – well, he could handle lying facedown and having someone stomp over him for a good hour or two just to get the kinks and knots out!
Why would someone lay floorboards in a basement, anyway? Just to make my life miserable, Vaughn thought bitterly, draining the can and throwing it carelessly over his shoulder. Returning to his feet he reached for the mallet, then hesitated. His boots were solid, heavy-duty work boots, and at the moment his legs were the only thing that didn’t feel like they were about to die. So – perhaps foolishly – Vaughn moved back to the spot he’d been focussed on before his break, planted his feet on the floor, bent his legs – and jumped.
And jumped.
And jumped.
Slamming the base of his boots down again and again and again, he was about to give up when a sharp crack rent the air, and upon his next descent the boards near shattered beneath his weight and he plummeted to the centre of the Earth. At least, that’s how it felt for that second he dropped through the gap. The cement was barely a metre-and-a-half below the planks, and his landing seriously wrenched his right ankle – but he’d made a hole. If that didn’t warrant a celebratory beer, what did?
He stretched his arm out for the esky once again, wincing at the pain in his leg; the slight movement nudged something in the darkness and a metallic screech rang against the cement. What the hell…? He fumbled in his jeans pocket for his phone, activated the torch, and shone it beneath the false floor.
A metal box – approximately thirty centimetres long, fifteen wide and ten deep – lay forgotten, dented and battered, as if it had been left in its grave many years and was finally exhumed. Dust, cobwebs, dirt, grime coated it, wedged into the creases, and Vaughn’s curiosity got the better of him. He took it up, carefully hoisted himself out of the hole he’d made, and sat upon the edge, feet dangling just above the floor, and tried to open the tin.
It was rusty, and after a few minutes his temper was fuelled. He scrabbled for the mallet, and with firm pressure brought the metal head down on the box. Tap, tap, tap soon became ding, ding, ding, which swiftly evolved into crash, crash, crash. And just as he was about to snatch up the tin and start banging it against the cement below him, the rusted hinges groaned, the lid squeaked, and it sprang away from the coffer and clattered to the floorboards.
What the…?
Vaughn, still using the torch on his phone, carefully picked up the topmost item and tilted it to the light. It was a photograph, of a scared young man, naked, bloodied, hands and ankles bound with rope. Wide eyes filled with hopeless terror, he stared out of the image at Vaughn as if begging for help.
Vaughn’s fingers were shaking. He set the picture down, and went for the next item. A delicate gold ring, engraved with the initials C. N. K. A lock of hair, brown threaded with grey, tied with a rotting blue ribbon. A pair of glasses, one of the arms broken, a lens cracked and cloudy. A bone – disgusting – and a necklace with a vivid blue opal flecked with gold. Part of a driver’s licence, edges scorched but a name faintly visible.
At the very bottom of the tin was another piece of paper. A map. Details marked the edges, and Vaughn’s skin prickled. He debated with himself what he should do, then decided he deserved a break – again. Bundling everything back into the tin, he hurried – limped – up the stairs and took himself to the police station with his discovery.
The next weeks were a whirl of investigators, detectives, police tape, flashing lights, and forensics. Media. Questions – so many questions! From everybody, barking and calling and yelling at him as if he knew what the hell was going on.
It was a dream, a blur of noise and activity. He heard pieces of information, nothing made sense. Not until someone from the police force sat him down and explained the significance of what he’d found.
Three decades ago thirteen people had been reported missing, never to be seen or heard from again. No witnesses ever came forward, and no suspects were ever named. The police had been stumped. The investigation was relegated to cold case status, though it remained open, and a reward of five million dollars for information regarding the disappearances was still valid.
Vaughn had discovered trophies taken by the killer, items that could identify each victim, and a map showing where each body had been discarded like old rubbish. The murderer must have lived in Vaughn’s house, or known who lived there, and concealed the box of trophies in the basement as the flooring was being installed.
After thirty years, the missing people were found, identified, and returned to their families. The killer was also identified – apparently a respectable man by the name of Peter Princeton, a local school teacher who’d been a paragon of virtue. His grave was desecrated within hours of his name being released, and his family begged for his remains to be exhumed and cremated to prevent it happening again.
Vaughn, unwittingly the man who solved the crime, was awarded the five million dollar reward money.
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