Chapter 10 - Blueprints That Shouldn't Exist
The realtor insisted we leave immediately.
Instead, I drove us straight to the county records office.
If the house contained hidden levels, someone had approved construction.
Or hidden it.
The archive clerk disappeared into the storage room for nearly twenty minutes before returning with several dusty blueprint tubes.
He frowned.
"These files shouldn't be here."
"What do you mean?"
"They were removed years ago."
He unrolled the original construction plans across a massive wooden table.
The house I purchased occupied only half the property.
Beneath it stretched an enormous underground structure.
Tunnels.
Storage chambers.
Mechanical rooms.
Observation corridors.
The basement I had entered represented less than five percent of the entire complex.
I stared in disbelief.
"This can't be real."
The clerk quietly nodded.
"Most people say that."
He handed me another folder.
Inside were engineering revisions.
Every revision carried the same approval signature.
Not Harold Bennett.
Someone named Victor Hale.
Occupation:
Behavioral Research Consultant.
The date was 1974.
The realtor's face lost all color.
"I know that name."
"How?"
"My grandfather worked construction."
She swallowed hard.
"He quit halfway through this project."
"Why?"
"He said workers kept disappearing."
The clerk slowly closed the folder.
"I've heard those stories."
Before I could ask another question, every computer in the archive shut down simultaneously.
The lights flickered.
Emergency power activated.
The clerk stared toward the security cameras mounted in the ceiling.
"They've never done that before."
One camera slowly rotated.
Not toward the entrance.
Toward me.
Then a printer beside the reception desk suddenly started working by itself.
One page emerged.
No one touched the keyboard.
The paper contained only one sentence.
RETURN HOME.
May you like
HE'S WAITING.
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