The silence in the house was heavy, pressing against David’s ears like water depth.

  He sat on the edge of the sagging beige sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in a tight knot. He rested his nose against his thumbs, staring at the empty patch of carpet where, four hours ago, his uncle had been lying.

  The paramedics had taken the body. The police had taken a statement. Now, there was nothing left but the smell.

  The air still held a sharp, metallic tang, the scent of antiseptic and medical equipment that the EMTs had brought with them. It cut through the usual house smell of stale cigarette smoke and dust, making the living room feel alien. Like a hospital waiting room that someone had installed in his house.

  *Holy shit,* David thought. *He's actually gone.*

  He let out a long, ragged sigh, closing his eyes.

  The memories played back in a jagged loop. Right after James stopped breathing, David had tried CPR. He had pressed down on his uncle's chest, frantic and clumsy, but nothing happened. It felt like pressing on a bag of sand.

  He had dashed for the phone on the floor, shouted the address to the operator, and was told help was on the way.

  That was when the real panic hit. Not for the death, but for the mess James left behind.

  David remembered sprinting to the bathroom. He tore the stash from under the sink, blue pills, white powders, everything. He dumped it all into the toilet bowl. But the handle clicked uselessly. The water was off.

  He had scrambled to the hallway, grabbed one of the heavy emergency water jugs, and dragged it back. He popped the lid and poured it directly into the tank, watching it fill. One flush. That was all he had. He watched the chemical cocktail swirl away down the pipes.

  After that, he had just waited.

  When the police had arrived, David went through the motions. He told them what they expected to hear, James had high blood pressure, he drank too much, he smoked like a chimney. He played up the shock of the sudden collapse, leaving out the weird details about the color of his skin.

  They asked about next of kin. David had used James’s phone to call his aunt. Surprisingly, she sounded genuinely sad. She had left James years ago, found another man, and was raising Jonathan in a stable home, but hearing the news still cracked her voice. It was a grief David hadn't expected.

  Now, sitting in the silence, David swallowed hard. His throat clicked, dry as dust.

  The thirst hit him all at once.

  He stood up, his legs feeling heavy, and walked to the kitchen. He opened the cabinet and grabbed a metal cup. It was cool to the touch.

  He bypassed the dry sink and went straight to the storage room next to the hallway. He pulled the door open, revealing the old brooms with bent bristles, a broken TV that had been sitting there for years, and the stack of emergency water jugs.

  David crouched down, unscrewed a blue cap, and poured himself a full cup.

  He downed it in one breath.

  Then he poured another. And another. And another.

  He had a habit of drowning his stress. Some people smoked; James drank whiskey. David just drank water until he felt full, until the cold liquid seemed to dilute the anxiety in his chest. It grounded him.

  He lowered the empty metal cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  "What the hell am I going to do now?" he muttered.

  The echo of his own voice was the only answer. He was completely alone with the house.

  A strange thought settled in David's head: I should be sadder.

  He felt... something, sure. But the grief wasn't crippling. He and James had been physically close, living in the same small box of a house, but the emotional distance was vast. James was a slob, a liability. Most of the time, his uncle was like a slow-moving natural disaster; you didn't try to stop him, you just stood back and watched the wreckage happen.

  David felt a twinge of guilt for not crying, but he shook it away. He couldn't afford grief right now. He literally couldn't afford it.

  There was no water. They were months behind on rent because James had bet the household money on a game he was "sure" about.

  *Stupid old man,* David thought.

  Then, a memory clicked.

  *The wardrobe.*

  "Wait a minute," David muttered, his eyes widening.

  He dashed out of the storage room, moving so fast he almost ate the floor, catching his toe on the fallen handle of an old broom. He stumbled, cursed, and corrected his balance, marching straight down the hall to his uncle’s bedroom.

  He pushed the door open.

  The smell hit him first. It was the scent of the house, stale tobacco, dust, and cheap whiskey, but concentrated. There was an empty bottle sitting on the headboard like a decoration. But underneath the smoke and booze, there was another smell. Something faint, sweet, and oddly familiar, though he couldn't place it. He decided he didn't want to think about it.

  He looked across the room. There it was.

  The Forbidden Wardrobe.

  It loomed in the corner, dark wood and peeling varnish. David had never touched it. He had assumed he knew what kind of filth James kept in there, porn.., weird, toys, the usual shame, but he had never guessed money.

  David stared at it, frustration bubbling up again.

  "Why the hell would you stash money in there?" he muttered to the empty room. "We could have used that for the rent, you idiot."

  David took a deep breath and clamped his hand around the cold metal handle.

  He pulled.

  Nothing happened. The door didn't budge.

  He grunted and yanked it again, harder this time. It felt stuck, solid as a wall.

  "What the hell?" David muttered. "Did he nail it shut?"

  He checked the face of the wood. There was no keyhole, no latch, no visible lock. It was just... stuck.

  Frustration flared. David planted his hand against the frame for leverage, gripped the handle with both hands, and hauled back with everything he had.

  It creaked.

  The wood groaned, then gave way all at once. The hinges screamed and snapped.

  David flew backward, the heavy wooden door coming with him. He hit the floor hard, the wind knocked out of him, with the wardrobe door landing squarely on his chest.

  "Ow!" he wheezed. "Son of a..."

  He shoved the heavy slab of wood aside and sat up, rubbing his lower back. *Great. Just great. I’m going to have to fix that later.*

  He scrambled to his feet, scowling at the wreckage. "What did he seal this with?"

  He peered at the jagged edge of the broken door frame. There was a crusty, white residue smeared all along the seam.

  "Did he..." David squinted. "Did he seal this with glue? Why the hell would he do that?"

  Because he’s an idiot, his brain supplied.* Who glues a wardrobe shut? especially if you're stashing money inside?*

  David shook his head and stepped over the broken door to look inside the cavernous wooden box.

  His eyes widened.

  It was a library of filth.

  Stacks and stacks of magazines were piled high, different titles, different eras, all featuring excessive amounts of skin. It looked like a newsstand from the 1990s had exploded in there.

  David slapped a hand over his face, dragging his palm down his skin.

  "Jesus, James," he whispered. "This is too much. Not even teenagers are this bad."

  He looked at the towering piles of glossy paper with genuine confusion. "Who even buys magazines anymore? The internet exists, James. How did you even find this stuff?"

  He sighed, staring at the mess. somewhere in that paper fortress was the cash. Which meant he had to touch it.

  He extended his hand toward the pile. It was trembling.

  He started tossing the magazines over his shoulder, scattering them onto the floor.

  *Did he bury the cash under these?* he wondered, grabbing another stack.* Maybe he just used them as camouflage. There's no way he bought this many just for the... thing, right?*

  He reached deeper into the dark recess of the wardrobe to clear another pile.

  As his hand brushed against the wood, his knuckles grazed something that wasn't paper.

  It was wet. It was cold. And it was thick, viscous, and sticky.

  David froze.

  A violent shiver ripped through him, making his entire body vibrate with repulsion. He slowly, agonizingly, pulled his hand out of the shadows. He didn't look at it. He couldn't look at it.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Oh shit," he whispered, his voice pitching up. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

  He scrambled backward and bolted out of the bedroom as if the wardrobe were on fire. He sprinted to the bathroom and twisted the faucet handle so hard it nearly snapped.

  Nothing. Just a dry hiss.

  "Oh shit, I forgot!"

  He spun around and dashed to the storage room. He didn't care about the mess anymore. He grabbed the open water jug and tilted it aggressively, pouring the water directly onto his hands.

  The water splashed everywhere, over his wrists, onto his pants, pooling on the dusty floor—but he scrubbed furiously, rubbing his skin raw to wash the invisible filth away. He rinsed it for a solid minute, shivering the whole time.

  Finally, he set the jug down, panting.

  "Fucking bastard," he hissed at the air. "What the hell... why did he..."

  He stopped himself. He grabbed the mop from the corner and started aggressively swabbing the puddle on the floor. He realized he had an idea of what the substance was, but he refused to let the thought fully form.

  If he actually thought about what he had just touched, he feared he might just die on the spot and join his uncle in the afterlife. And if James was where David thought he was, David would kill him all over again.

  He sighed, tossing the wet mop back into the corner.

  "Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's try this again."

  He went to the cupboard under the sink and fished out a pair of bright yellow rubber dish gloves. He snapped them onto his hands, a shield against whatever fresh hell awaited him, and marched back into James’s room.

  He approached the wardrobe cautiously, like he was defusing a bomb.

  He started removing the magazines, tossing them into a pile behind him. Then came the CDs, their covers displaying images he actively tried not to focus on. He cleared the space methodically, waiting for the glint of money.

  But when the last magazine hit the floor, the wardrobe was empty.

  David stared at the bare, stained wood of the bottom shelf.

  "What the hell?"

  Frustration tightened his chest. "Why isn't there anything in here?"

  He leaned in closer, inspecting the wood. In the back corner, the bottom panel looked warped. There was a small gap, almost as if the wood was sagging or about to collapse.

  David reached in and pressed his gloved finger against it. The wood groaned.

  *Maybe...*

  He pushed down hard. With a dull splintering sound, the false bottom gave way completely, collapsing into the darkness below. David grabbed the edge of the cardboard-thin wood and ripped it out, tossing it onto the pile of trash.

  He peeked into the cavity.

  His eyes widened.

  Stacks of cash.

  They were piled in the corner, thick, tight bundles of bills wrapped in rubber bands. He reached deep inside, grabbing them one by one. One, two, three, four bundles.

  He held them up, staring at the faces of the presidents. This wasn't spare change. This was thousands.

  *Whoa,* he thought, his heart skipping a beat. *Where did he get this much money? And why wasn't he using it?*

  He looked at the cash, then back at the pile of filthy magazines on the floor.

  "There is no way I'm putting these back inside," he muttered. "I'm burning all of this. Tonight."

  He looked back into the dark hole of the wardrobe to see if he’d missed a bundle. The cash was gone, but something metallic glinted in the shadows.

  He reached his hand in one last time and pulled it out.

  It was a key.

  "It’s the key," David muttered, turning the rusty piece of metal over in his palm. "He mentioned a basement... but what was he talking about? We don't have a basement."

  He shook his head.* It was probably just the ramblings of a dying brain.* He shoved the key into his pocket. *I'll look around later,* he decided. *But I swear, this house is built on a slab.*

  He glanced back at the mess on the floor, the exploded library of magazines, the broken door, the filth.

  "I’m going to have to clean this place," he sighed.

  *But first, the money.*

  He gathered the bundles of cash and walked out, heading down the hallway to his own bedroom, right next to the bathroom.

  Stepping inside felt like crossing a border between two different countries. Unlike the rest of the house, his room was clean. It was sparse, organized, and most importantly, it smelled ordinary. No smoke, no whiskey, just air. It was the only square footage in Riverdale that felt sane.

  He walked to his dresser, pulled open the bottom drawer, and tucked the bundles of cash underneath a stack of t-shirts. He slid the drawer shut with a solid click.

  A cold weight settled in his stomach.

  *I have a bad feeling about this,* he thought, staring at the dresser. I hope he didn't get involved in anything illegal.

  David paused. Then he smacked himself in the face.

  "What am I thinking?" he muttered, rubbing his cheek. "Of course he got involved in something illegal. It's James."

  He looked at the drawer again. He wasn't sure if he could, or should, use that money. It was probably drug money, or mob money, or something worse.

  "But I'm behind on rent," he whispered to the empty room. "There's no water. My phone is broken."

  He sighed, the exhaustion pressing down on him again. "And how the hell am I even going to pay for the funeral? The money? Do I use the dirty money to bury him?"

  He turned away from the dresser and walked back out into the hallway. He couldn't spiral now. If he started thinking about the morality of the cash, he’d freeze.

  "Well," he muttered. "I have to deal with the obvious first. I have to clean the entire house."

  He went back to the storeroom, filled a bucket with water from the jug, and grabbed the broom.

  He started cleaning.

  He swept the living room first, gathering the dust bunnies and the stray cigarette butts that had rolled under the sofa. He tossed the magazines into a black trash bag. He wiped down the tables, scrubbing away the sticky rings left by old beer bottles.

  He moved to the bathroom, then the kitchen. He cleaned everything. It felt less like tidying up and more like an exorcism. With every sweep of the broom and every wipe of the rag, he felt like he was scrubbing away the essence of his uncle.

  The guilt hit him mid-motion.

  *I shouldn't be doing this*, he thought, pausing with a soapy sponge in his hand over the sink. *He’s barely cold, and I’m already erasing him.*

  The more he thought about James, the more wrong it felt. He searched inside himself for the crushing sadness people talked about in movies, but he couldn't find it. *He just felt... relieved. And tired.*

  *I’m not a sociopath, right?* he thought, attacking a dirty plate with sudden aggression. *What am I thinking? Just finish this quickly.*

  The light outside was fading, the orange glow of the sunset stretching across the kitchen tiles.

  *I need to rest. I’m pretty sure the coroner or the funeral home will call in the morning. I don't even know what really happened to him.*

  He rinsed the last dish with a splash of precious water and stacked it in the cupboard.

  He stretched, his back popping audibly. He yawned, scratching his shoulder, and turned to head toward his room to finally crash.

  Then he stopped.

  "Oh shit," he whispered. "I almost forgot."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusty silver key. It felt heavy in his hand.

  "The key to the basement," he muttered.

  He looked at the hallway. No door. He looked at the floor. No trapdoor.

  "Who am I kidding?" He sighed. "Maybe I should just throw this thing away. The old man was delirious."

  He rubbed his chin, staring at the key.

  "But... I said I’d look around."

  He glanced toward the back door. If there was no basement inside, maybe the entrance was outside. It was a long shot, but he couldn't sleep until he checked.

  David turned around, his gaze landing on the two black trash bags slumped in the corner near the entrance. They were full of the magazines and the filth from the wardrobe.

  "Yeah," he muttered. "I’ve got to burn these while I’m at it."

  He hoisted the heavy bags, one in each hand, and shouldered the front door open.

  The rush of evening air hit him immediately. It was cooler out here, carrying the scent of asphalt and cooling dust. Riverdale was laid out in a linear settlement, long straight lines of civilization, but David’s house wasn't lucky enough to be near the road. It was landlocked, hidden deep inside a stack of other houses, squeezed into a lot that barely existed, cut off from the street view.

  He stepped down the small stairs of the wooden balcony and walked around the corner of the house.

  As he rounded the bend, he stopped dead.

  There, right by the side of the house, near a gap in the rotting wooden fence, was a fresh pile of dog poop.

  "Oh my God," David groaned, his head falling back. "Are you kidding me? Again?"

  He glared at the hole in the fence.

  "How many times do I have to tell that lady to stop it with her fat, chubby dog?" he hissed to himself. "Why is it always pooping in our yard? It never poops in her yard. I never see it there. But here? It’s a minefield."

  "Damn it," he kicked at the dirt, careful to miss the pile. "I’m going to have to clean that later."

  He marched past the offense and entered the small garden at the back of the yard.

  It was generous to call it a garden. It was more of a wasteland of vegetation. There were some stalks of corn that James had tried to grow in a fit of optimism, but they were yellow and brittle, rattling in the wind. They had died of thirst long ago because the water bill was always a gamble.

  The area was sealed off by a small, flimsy wire fence. David stepped over it, carrying the trash bags to the center of the yard where a rusted metal drum sat waiting.

  He dropped the bags inside the drum with a heavy thud.

  He struck a match against the side of the box. He watched the flame flare to life, then tossed it into the drum. The trash bag caught instantly, the plastic curling and melting as the fire spread to the magazines inside.

  "That should be done with," he muttered, watching the smoke rise.

  He stepped back over the flimsy wire fence, leaving the fire to do its work.

  He looked around the desolate patch of earth. It was depressing. He walked over to the withered stalks of corn and the few sad, dried-up canes of sugar that lay flat against the dirt. James had insisted on planting them, claiming he missed the crops from Heartz, but they had died of dehydration before they ever stood a chance.

  David crouched down, fingering a brittle, brown corn leaf. It crumbled in his hand.

  "I’ve got to clean this garden, too," he sighed. "I don't think this should even be a garden anymore. What should I turn this into?"

  He stood up and took a step back.

  His boot connected with something hard.

  A sharp, hollow, metallic ring echoed through the yard.

  "Huh?"

  David froze. He stepped back and looked down. It wasn't a rock. He crouched again, using the toe of his boot to scrape away the top layer of loose, dry dirt.

  A flash of silver gray appeared.

  "Wait, what is this?"

  He brushed more dirt away with his hand. It felt cold and smooth. It looked like a sheet of galvanized zinc.

  "Why is this in here?" David frowned. "How did he expect anything to grow if he buried sheet metal right under the soil? Did he even cultivate this land, or did he just stick seeds in the dirt?"

  He tapped it. It sounded hollow.

  "Or maybe..."

  He stopped. A thought creeped in.

  "Nah... this can't be it."

  He stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and jogged to the storage room. He returned a minute later with a spade.

  He started to dig.

  The metal blade crunched into the dry earth, scraping against the buried object. David worked quickly, sweat starting to bead on his forehead despite the cooling evening air. He shoveled dirt aside, widening the hole, following the edge of the metal.

  Slowly, the shape revealed itself.

  It wasn't just a sheet of metal. It was a set of double doors.

  David stabbed the shovel into the pile of dirt and stared down at it. It was a storm shelter entrance, the kind made of corrugated zinc, buried flush with the ground.

  "Oh," David whispered, leaning on the shovel. "So this is what he meant when he said basement."

  He spotted the small keyhole embedded beside the metal handle. He fished the rusty key from his pocket, crouched down, and jammed it in. It was stiff, gritting with dirt, but with a sharp twist, the mechanism tumbled.

  *Huh,* he thought. *So this is it.*

  He grabbed both handles, planted his feet, and heaved.

  The hinges shrieked, a long, high-pitched groan of metal on metal that hadn't moved in years. As the heavy doors swung upward and open, the earth seemed to exhale.

  A rush of air blasted out of the hole. It wasn't just stale; it was cold. Unnaturally cold. It hit him like a physical wave, fluttering his t-shirt and tossing his black hair back from his forehead.

  David blinked, his eyes widening.

  *What the hell is down there?*

  He stared into the opening. He could see the top of a concrete staircase, but beyond that, it was a void. Pitch black. No matter how much he squinted, the darkness swallowed the light from the setting sun.

  He wasn't stupid enough to walk into a pit blind.

  He turned around and jogged back to the house, heading straight for his room. He dug through his drawer and pulled out a heavy black flashlight.

  He returned to the garden, the beam of the flashlight cutting a pale path through the twilight. He stood at the top of the stairs, thumbing the switch on.

  *There’s got to be something special down there,* he thought, gripping the cold aluminum of the flashlight. *He tried to tell me about it before he died. I just hope it’s nothing dangerous.*

  His mind immediately began to spin scenarios.

  *Illegal stuff?*

  A ridiculous image popped into his head: Uncle James, standing in a pristine white lab coat with round wire-rimmed spectacles, surrounded by bubbling beakers and blue crystals. James, the master chemist, carefully measuring out formulas like a movie villain.

  David snorted, shaking the thought away.

  *Nah. No way. He’s not smart enough for that. If James tried to cook drugs, he’d blow the neighborhood up in ten minutes.*

  He stepped onto the first concrete step.

  *Whatever is down here... it’s probably just stolen.*

  He took his first step into the dark, his body disappearing underground as the beam of his flashlight cut a cone through the gloom.

  Instantly, a smell hit him.

  It was a violation, a thick, heavy scent of wet mud and stagnant water, like he was standing next to a burst sewage pipe or a swamp. But as he swept the light across the concrete walls, they were bone dry. There was no water, no leaks. Just the smell of something deep and damp.

  His light caught the corner of the room. A dirty brown blanket was bunched up on the floor, looking like a discarded skin.

  *How is this place even here?* David thought, scanning the small, suffocating box. *Did he make it himself? No, it can't be. The landlord would have evicted him in a heartbeat.*

  He swung the light to the right.

  There, sitting on the dusty floor, was a black leather bag.

  *What is that?*

  He walked over to it, his boots crunching on the grit. *This had to be it. The "special" thing James was trying to talk about.* The room was empty otherwise, save for the sad blanket.

  David crouched down. It was an old-fashioned doctor’s bag or maybe a tool bag. He grabbed the metal zipper tab and tugged.

  It didn't budge. Rusted shut.

  He grunted and yanked again, but the metal teeth were fused.

  He lifted the bag with both hands. It felt surprisingly light, too light to be full of gold or guns, but when he gave it a shake, he felt something shift inside. A soft, sliding weight.

  Okay, he thought. There’s something in there.

  He looked up at the concrete ceiling, feeling the weight of the earth above him.

  *I should take it outside. I don't trust this place. It could collapse on my head.*

  He hurried back up the stairs, clutching the bag to his chest.

  Once he was back in the twilight air of the garden, he set the bag down near the dead corn. He didn't want to leave the entrance exposed. If the landlord came by, or a neighbor looked over the fence, they’d see it.

  He grabbed the shovel and spent the next ten minutes sweating, scraping the dirt back over the metal doors until the zinc was completely hidden again. He kicked some dried corn stalks over the patch for good measure.

  *Good enough.*

  He grabbed the shovel and the leather bag and hauled them back inside.

  He dumped the bag on the floor of his room and threw himself onto his bed. The springs creaked in protest under his weight. His muscles finally let go, melting into the mattress.

  He yawned, a jaw-cracking stretch.

  "Man," he whispered to the ceiling. "It’s been such a long day."

  Outside, the sun finally drowned below the horizon, and the room began to fill with shadows.

  David sat up on the edge of the bed, groaning as his spine popped. He bent down and yanked off the his shoes, untying the laces with clumsy fingers, then peeled off his socks. The cool air hit his feet, and for a second, he felt human again.

  He looked at the black leather bag on the floor.

  He lifted it into his lap and tried the zipper again. Stuck. Frozen solid.

  "Why is this thing so stubborn?"

  He glared at it. *Ah, right....*

  "Maybe I can just use a screwdriver," he muttered. "I did it to my backpack once. Ruined the zip, but who cares? It’s not like I’m going to use this bag anyway."

  He grabbed the bag and padded out to the living room in his bare feet. He flopped onto the couch and reached for the small flowerpot on the TV stand, the same one James had hidden his phone in. Sure enough, tucked behind the plastic leaves, there was a small flathead screwdriver. James never put tools back in the toolbox; he just left them where he last used them.

  David jammed the tip of the screwdriver into the gap between the slider and the zipper teeth. He pressed down hard and twisted.

  The metal slider popped off, flying across the room. The zipper teeth split open.

  "There."

  He tore the bag open, revealing the dark interior. He reached in, expecting money trash or maybe some old tools.

  His hand closed around something silky.

  He fished it out.

  "What the..."

  It was a rope. But not a normal rope. It was woven from thick, shimmering fibers that looked like gold. It didn't look painted; it looked like the material itself was metallic, yet soft to the touch.

  It was knotted into a loop, small and tight, just big enough to fit around a human ankle.

  A vibrant red string was wound tightly around the knot, binding it shut.

  "It’s just a rope," David muttered, turning it over in his hands. "What was he using this for? Decoration?"

  He pulled on the red string, unravelling it with a few quick tugs so he could see how long the golden rope actually was. The red string fell away, dropping onto the carpet.

  David tossed the golden coil aside and looked back into the bag. There was a piece of folded paper at the bottom.

  He fished it out and unfolded it. James’s handwriting was scrawled frantically across the page:

  PLEASE DO NOT UNTIE THE RED STRING.

  David paused. He looked at the red string on the floor.

  He looked back at the note.

  IF YOU HAVE, RECITE THESE SAYINGS IMMEDIATELY AND TIE THE STRING BACK.

  Below the warning was a block of text. David squinted at it.

  It was a jumble of vowels and consonants that made zero sense. It looked like someone had smashed their face against a keyboard.

  He frowned. "This is just gibberish."

  He tossed the note onto the coffee table.

  "Man," he muttered, rubbing his face. "I thought he actually left me something useful. You know, like, 'Hey David, you've been such a good nephew, here’s a thousand extra dollars I hid in the basement.'"

  He glared at the golden rope.

  "But then again," he whispered, "knowing James, if I used it, I’d probably get killed the next day. I can't trust anything that guy gives me."

  He sighed again, a heavy, rattling exhalation. The exhaustion was no longer just a feeling; it was a physical weight, pressing him into the cushions. He slumped back against the couch, his eyelids drooping.

  Above him, the ceiling suddenly shimmered. A faint, golden light danced across the plaster, as if reflecting from something bright on the floor.

  David frowned, trying to tilt his head to look at the rope, but his muscles refused to obey. It felt like someone had pulled the plug on his body. His energy didn't just fade; it vanished, drained away in a single heartbeat.

  *What the hell is that?* he thought, his vision blurring.

  The golden light pulsed once, and the darkness took him.

  ------------------

  The night passed in a blink. The stars were overwhelmed by the grey-blue rise of the morning light filtering through the curtains.

  David woke up slowly. He let out a long, jaw-cracking yawn, stretching his arms high above his head. He reached down and scratched his bare chest, feeling the cool air on his skin.

  Bare chest?

  His eyes snapped open. He looked down.

  He was stripped down to his boxers.

  He looked around. He wasn't on the couch. He was tucked neatly into his own bed, under his own covers.

  "What..."

  Panic hit him like a taser. He scrambled backward, tangling his legs in the sheets, and rolled right off the edge of the mattress.

  He hit the floor with a heavy thud, scrambling to his knees.

  "What the fuck?!" he screamed, checking his body. "How? How the hell did I get in my room?"