text: A nice, two-story brick home sits on a lush green lawn in the middle of suburbia. Angela Rollins opens the front door. Black with long braids pulled back into a ponytail, she’s dressed like she’s going to yoga. A duffle bag is slung over her shoulder and a veil of grief covers her pretty face. She holds the door open for her ten-year-old son, Jase. Light-skinned with a backwards baseball cap and an iPad clutched to his chest, Jase’s gray eyes keep to the ground as he walks past her. Angela presses numbers on a keypad and the door lock engages. They walk down a cobblestone path to the driveway where a newer model Audi waits. Jase gets in the front passenger seat. He pushes a button on his iPad and the screensaver shows a picture of him, Angela, and his father, who has curly red hair and fair skin, in front of a Christmas tree. They look happy. The Audi cruises down the highway. Angela drives with earbuds in and Jase plays a game on his iPad. A cellphone mounted on the dashboard lights up and vibrates. Angela taps the screen. “Angela Rollins,” she says, and listens to someone on the other end. “Yes I understand the D.A.’s desire for a speedy trial, but I still have boxes of discovery to go through,” she explains. “I’m playing catch up. Didn’t my office inform you I was on a personal leave?” Angela listens again and furrows her brows. “Thank you. I plan on spending the weekend working on this. I’ll be in touch.” Angela taps her cell phone to end the call and pulls the earbuds out. She turns on the radio to a news report. “Authorities say the body of a woman found naked and missing her right hand is likely the work of a serial killer,” says a reporter in a serious voice. Angela shudders and turns off the radio. She looks down at Jase. “Whatchya playing?” “Roblox." “Your Grandma and Grandpa Rollins are excited for you to spend the weekend with them. They texted me right before we left,” she says in an encouraging voice. Jase’s eyes grow wide. “They know how to text?” Angela nods. “Daddy taught them before he...” she says before stopping. “You can say it, Mom,” says Jase. “I don’t like to,” she softly answers back. Angela looks down at him, her face softens. “This weekend will be good for you, son. All of you. Your grandparents miss your daddy so much, and you’re so much like him.” Jase shrugs. “I guess.” Angela sees an exit sign off the highway that reads: Conroy, Ohio. She points to it. “My own grandparents used to live down that road. I spent time at their house when I was about your age.” Jase turns to her with a desperate look on his face. “Do you think they’re gonna have WiFi?” Angela smiles. “It had secret passageways.” “What did?” Jase replies. “I told you. My pappy and nana’s house,” says Angela. Jase looks incredulous. “Secret passageways?” Angela nods. “One day, nana went to play bingo at church and I stayed back. Pappy was in the garage tinkering on his ol’ truck like he always did, and I was bored as all get out.” She looks at Jase. “No WiFi.” He smiles. She continues on, “So I started doing cartwheels all over the house. My goal was to do twenty cartwheels in a row. I made it to about fifteen when I cartwheeled into the office. But it had a low hanging light, so I turned and was this close to number twenty when BANG! I collided into the back wall of a closet. Except... it wasn’t really a wall." Jase’s face lights up. “A fake wall?” “Mmm-hmm,” says Angela. “It opened to a very small room with steps.” “Where did they go to?” “Up and down to different rooms. Lawd, it’s been thirty years...” Angela says as she thinks hard. “One room had a tunnel that led all the way to the garage. You should’ve seen my pappy’s face when I came up from a door in the floor.” “He didn’t know about it?” Angela shakes her head no and continues on, “So, Pappy and I went back through the dark tunnel. He led the way with a flashlight and at the end of it was a small brick room. Pappy shined the light all over. We saw an old roadmap of the United States with lined routes leading up to Canada and there was a musket hanging on the wall. Pappy handed me the flashlight and took it down to get a closer look. It was all rusty and scratched, but the bayonet was still sharp. There was an inscription that read, U.S. Union Army.” “Whoa!” exclaims Jase. “Pappy said the musket must’ve belonged to a Union soldier from the Civil War. He figured, given the map and that the house was built in the 1850’s, it was part of the Underground Railroad,” says Angela. “I’ve told you about that, right?” “Is that where they hid the slaves that escaped?” “Yes, son.” “And all that happened when you were my age?” “Mmm-hmm." “Wow, Mom. Maybe you were right...” he says with a look of amusement. “Maybe kids did have more fun in the Eighties!” "We sure did," she laughs. The Audi pulls up to a modest rambler. An older white couple in their seventies stand on the front porch and wave enthusiastically. Angela looks at Jase. “I told you they were excited.” He looks at her with big, glassy eyes. She pulls him in for an embrace. “I love you, son.” Angela drives back down the highway. Her face reflects the pain in her heart as she wipes away the start of each new tear. She turns on the radio. “Authorities are hoping a sketch of the suspected serial killer terrorizing women in the Ohio River Valley will lead to his capture. It was made public after a witness says she saw a man in the vicinity where the latest victim was found. He’s described as a black man with a medium build, dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie,” says the reporter in a serious voice. Angela changes the station. The last few chords of a gospel song plays, then the Deejay comes on. “That was, *Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen*, by the queen of gospel herself.” Angela smiles and shakes her head. “Mahalia Jackson,” she coos. The Deejay continues on, “When Miss Jackson had trouble in life, she sang about the goodness of God. Praise, my friends, is a powerful weapon against the enemy.” Another gospel song starts, and Angela cranks up the volume and sings along. She passes a sign off the highway that reads, Conroy, Ohio. One Mile. Angela stops singing. She bites her lip and looks to the right. The exit to Conroy is approaching. She hesitates, then veers to the right, taking the exit. Angela drives down a tree lined street where large restored homes from the mid-to-late 1800’s sit on well-manicured lawns. A sign reads: “Welcome to Conroy. America’s Historic Home-Town.” Angela looks around as she slowly drives down the street, carefully studying each home she passes. She looks intently at a large Victorian with scalloped siding and large shutters. She pulls over and parks. Angela takes another look at the house, then turns the engine off and gets out of the car. She walks to the sidewalk in front of the house and stares at it. Next door, an uppity woman with a blonde coiffure and tennis outfit checks her mailbox. She sees Angela, looks her up and down, and sneers. Angela doesn’t notice. She just stares at the house, reminiscing about her time with Pappy and Nana. Suddenly, a man walks out of the front door carrying a garbage bag. Frank is in his fifties with pasty-white skin and a receding hairline. His checkered sweater vest fits snug against his pooch. Frank whistles as he walks to the adjacent garage with the bag. He presses buttons on a keypad and the garage door raises with a loud rumble. He throws the bag into a garbage can and pushes a button, and the garage door rumbles back down. As Frank turns back toward the house, he sees Angela. “I was just admiring the house!” she shouts to him with a smile. Two little girls on bikes ride down the sidewalk past Angela. They ring their bells and shout in unison, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank smiles and waves back at the girls. “I hope you don’t think I'm a weirdo,” Angela says as Frank approaches. “Not at all,” says Frank, who stands next to her and looks at the house. “I admire it, too. That’s why I bought it!” Angela chuckles. “Truth be told, I spent a lot of time in that house when I was a child." Frank’s face lights up. “Oh? Do tell!” “My grandparents lived here. I haven’t been back since... ‘89 I think,” says Angela. “How long have you lived here?” “About a year,” he answers. Frank looks to the right and left, then leans into Angela. "I got a killer deal on it, too!” he snickers. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?” “Foreclosure,” he says. “It sat vacant for years before it went to auction.” Angela looks sadly at the house. “That’s too bad,” she laments. “But good for you. It’s a big house, do you live here by yourself?” “No, no I’m married. We just celebrated twenty years." “Congratulations.” “Would you like to come inside and take a look around? I’m sure my wife would love to meet you." “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. Thank you, though,” she politely responds. The girls on bikes ride past again. They ring their bells and wave at Frank. Frank smiles and waves back. He turns to Angela and offers his hand. “Well, it was very nice to meet you...? Angela looks down at Frank’s hand. It's deformed, gimpy, the fingers are curled inward. She awkwardly shakes it. “Angela,” she says. Frank notices the uncomfortable moment and raises his other hand. “Lucky for me I’m left-handed!” he says with a jovial grin. Angela embarrassedly smiles. “And you are Mister Frank?” “Or just Frank." She nods. “Well, I have soup on the stove,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Angela.” “Goodbye,” she says. Frank turns, walks back toward the house, and resumes whistling. Angela stares at the house. She wrings her hands and bites her lip. She really wants to get a look inside. She looks over at the girls on their bikes and then back at the house. Angela lifts her hand and calls out, “Frank!” Frank stops in his tracks and smiles like a Cheshire cat. &#x200B; INSIDE THE HOUSE Angela follows Frank through a doorway that leads into the kitchen. It is immaculate with white cabinets and marble countertops. A large pot boils on the stove and a small table is set for one. “Honey! We have company!” shouts Frank. He turns to Angela. “Is it how you remembered?” “Sort of,” she says as she studies the room. “The cabinets have been painted and there used to be wallpaper, floral I think. And the counters were butcher board.” “Oh, butcher board would have been nice,” he says. Angela walks into the dining room, Frank follows closely behind. A large rectangular table sits under a chandelier adorned with prisms. “Oh yes, I remember that chandelier,” says Angela. She looks behind her and points to a closed mahogany door. “And that was my grandfather's office.” Frank walks to the mahogany door and stands in front of it. “I use it as an office, too. It’s just a tad messy at the moment,” he says as he smiles and extends his hand. “After you.” Angela walks out of the dining room into the living room. She looks around at the classical furniture and built-in mahogany bookshelves. An old Victrola catches her attention and she walks up to it. “It was here when I bought the home,” says Frank. Angela inspects the Victrola. “It has to be the same one,” she murmurs under her breath as she touches the needle. “Nana wore down the vinyl of her Mahalia Jackson record from playing it so much." Frank walks over to the built-in bookshelf, fingers down a stack of record albums and pulls one out. He hands it to Angela. “Was it this?” Angela’s eyes grow wide as she takes the album. The cover has the name Mahalia Jackson in big red letters. Angela pulls out the record and sees an indentation on the vinyl. Her eyes well up with tears. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “Why would my uncle have left all this?” “Your uncle?” Frank asks. “Yes. My grandparents died in a car accident while they lived here. My uncle sold the home and must have included some of their belongings,” Angela says as she stares wistfully at the album. “You keep it,” says Frank. He walks to a stairwell leading up and slides his good hand over a mahogany spindle. “Really excellent craftsmanship throughout the home,” he states. “I can’t tell you how many times I slid down that banister,” Angela says with a chuckle. “Feel free to give it a whirl!” he playfully answers back. Angela shakes her head as she looks around nostalgically. “A house of stairways and secrets isn’t it?” “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Frank asks in a deep voice. Angela, startled by his change in tone, looks at him. For the first time she notices large beads of sweat on his forehead. “Did you say your wife was home?” “Who? Oh, yes. She must be napping,” he says. Angela sees that Frank's hand is gripping the spindle so tightly his fingernails are digging into the wood. She shudders. “Shall we tour the second floor?” he asks. “No, I should really be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality,” says Angela, as she turns and begins to walk back through the living room into the dining room. This time through she notices white bars behind burgundy curtains on the windows. Her gait becomes more brisk. Angela enters the kitchen and narrows in on the single place setting. Her eyes then go to the boiling pot on the stove. A human hand suddenly rises to the top. A look of horror covers her face. “Finally, some color to add to my collection,” says Frank in a gravelly voice. Angela spins around to find Frank inches from her face. His eyes are wild, and he presses a handkerchief over her mouth that muffles her screams. Angela’s attempt to fight back is short-lived as she succumbs to the chloroform. Angela lays on the floor in the middle of the office. There is a closet, desk, chair, and hanging ceiling light. Sunlight streams through gaps in the curtains onto Angela’s face. She comes to and slowly opens her eyes. The realization of where she is hits her and she jumps to her feet. She puts up her hands in a defensive posture and frantically looks around. She runs to the window and rips open the curtains to find bars covering the glass. She pulls on the bars with all her might, but they don’t budge. Angela runs to the mahogany door and sees the knob is missing. She puts her ear against it and listens... In the kitchen, Frank sharpens a large butcher knife on a whetstone. His eyes in a crazed trance as he stares at the metallic dust flying off the blade. Angela, ear pressed against the door, recognizes the sound of a knife being sharpened. Her eyes water, she covers her mouth to stifle her cries. She turns around and sees newspaper clippings about the serial killer scattered about the desk. She picks one up. It shows a sketch of the suspect: black, wide nose, big lips, hoodie. Angela shakes her head in disgust. She sees the Mahalia Jackson album on the desk, picks it up, and hugs it against her chest. She closes her eyes. “Not this way, God. Not this way,” she softly cries out. Suddenly, her eyes open wide and go straight to the low hanging ceiling light. She turns her head to the open closet. Angela steps inside the closet, puts her hands against the back wall and pushes on it. A click, and then it opens with a creak. In the kitchen, Frank stops sharpening the knife and tilts his ear to the left. What was that he heard? Angela closes the fake wall behind her. She unzips her jacket and stuffs the Mahalia Jackson album inside. Angela looks around the tiny room. Wooden slats on a brick wall lead up. A piece of plywood covers a section of slats leading down. Angela bends down to move the plywood but hears the sound of the office door opening on the other side of the fake wall. She quickly starts climbing up the narrow steps. Frank enters the office holding a long butcher knife. He looks at the spot where Angela was lying, then quickly turns on the ceiling light. He looks all around the room, under the desk, and in the closet. He inspects the bars on the window. Frank, panic-stricken and confused, lets out a bone-chilling scream. Angela freezes mid-climb when she hears Frank scream. She looks down, takes a deep breath, then takes another step up. Frank rips up the carpet and examines the baseboards. He checks the windows again. His face becomes distorted with rage and he throws the butcher knife across the room like a dagger. It sticks to the back of the closet, rattling the fake wall. Angela looks down when she hears something hit the wall. She takes one more step then reaches the top. She presses against a large boxed cutout, a click, then it opens. Franks walks to the closet wall and sees it vibrating. He pushes on it and it clicks open. Angela emerges from the cutout into a bedroom with red walls; a hinged bookcase hangs open behind her. Frank takes a step inside the small room. He looks around, eyes bugged out of his head, and chortles a maniacal laugh. Angela looks around the room in horror. Women’s torn and bloody clothes hang from a four-poster bed like a canopy. Five mason jars sit on a dresser, each filled with liquid and a human hand, polish still on some of the fingernails. Angela gags, hunches over and heaves. “Jesus... Jesus...” she pleads. Angela wipes her mouth and looks up. A thought! She unzips her jacket and takes out the Mahalia Jackson album. She looks at the cover. “Praise is a weapon." Angela pulls out the vinyl record and breaks it in two. She holds a jagged piece up like a weapon and slowly walks toward an open doorway. Frank begins to climb up the steps but has trouble grasping the slats with his gimpy hand. He slips down a few steps and shrieks with rage. When he finally gets to the top, he pushes on the cutout. It opens, and Frank sees that it leads to the bedroom. He pokes his head out to look for Angela, but she's nowhere in sight. Angela slowly walks down the hallway. She looks around the corner and sees the staircase with the mahogany spindles. There’s no sign of Frank. Angela begins to descend the stairwell, but each step she takes makes the wood creak loudly. There’s only one way to get to the bottom unheard. She gets on the railing and slides down the banister. She gets off at the bottom and peeks around the corner. She can see the door she came through in kitchen, but first she has to make it past the living and dining rooms. With the jagged vinyl record raised high, she takes a deep breath and makes a run for it. Angela dashes through the living room and into the dining room. She sees the office door open and the carpeting pulled up. She runs into the kitchen to the front door. She turns the knob, but it’s locked in place. She jiggles and pulls on it, but it doesn’t budge. A keypad sits in place of a deadbolt and she frantically presses the buttons. Suddenly she hears footsteps coming up behind her. She turns around and Frank, like a wild beast, comes lunging at her with a knife. Angela whips her arm around and stabs him in the neck with the jagged record. Frank howls and drops to the ground. Angela jumps over him, but he slits the back of her ankle with the knife before she can get away. She shrieks and limps out of the kitchen. Angela swiftly hobbles into the office and goes straight through the open fake wall. She pulls up the plywood that covers the steps leading down. She looks at her bloody ankle, the cut is so wide she can see her Achilles tendon. She takes off her jacket, wraps it around her ankle, and wipes her bloody hands onto her sports bra. She quickly descends into the narrow hollow, her face ravaged with pain. She stops and looks up. “Damn it!” she cries. She forgot to cover the opening. In the kitchen, Frank pulls the jagged record out from his bleeding neck. He wraps a tea towel around the gaping wound and picks up the butcher knife. He looks ahead, his eyes dark and demonic. Angela slides the plywood over the opening. She quickly goes back down the steps, gritting her teeth through the pain. She steps off the last rung onto the floor. It’s dark, so she feels around the brick walls of the hollow for an opening. Frank follows the trail of blood into the closet. He steps through the opening of the fake wall and looks up the steps. Angela finds an opening and enters into another room. A sliver of light carves through the darkness so that it's not pitch black. Her hand bumps into something on the wall. She squints to see it’s the musket and pulls it off. “The tunnel has to be close,” she says in breathy voice. Frank starts to climb up the steps when he notices a bloody handprint on the floorboard beneath. He jumps down, pulls off the plywood, and sees the opening going down. Angela holds the musket under her arm and feels around the brick walls for the opening to the tunnel. “Help me, Pappy. Show me the way," she cries. Her hand brushes over a smooth surface. It’s more plywood. She finds an edge, wedges in the musket and rips it off. Frank descends the steps in the narrow hollow. Angela limps as fast as she can through the tunnel carrying the musket under her arm. Frank, like an animal hunting its prey, sniffs and feels around the walls. “I can smell you, Angela!” he hisses loudly. Angela comes to the end of the tunnel. She feels around and again finds slats nailed to the wall. She climbs up the steps, still holding on to the musket. She can’t hold in her cries of pain anymore and wails loudly. Frank hears her and begins slashing the air with the knife. “I’m coming for you, bitch!” he screams. Angela reaches the top of the steps and uses the musket to push open the hatch. A square piece of the flooring in the garage lifts up and Angela emerges. With every ounce of strength, she hoists her way up through the opening. She rolls onto the garage floor and tries to catch her breath, still clutching the musket. She looks down at her ankle and sees the jacket is saturated in blood. She closes her eyes, then opens them, as if going in and out of consciousness. “Angie!” a man’s voice calls to her. Angela opens her eyes and sees Pappy standing over her. He has a shorn gray afro and wears overalls. “You’re almost free. But you have to get up, Angie. Get up!” Angela mutters, “Pappy...” She looks again but Pappy is gone. She turns to her side and sits up. She looks ahead and sees the garage door. Angela moans in agony as she gets to her feet, picks up the musket, and limps to the garage door. She finds the opener on the wall and frantically pushes the button. The garage door rumbles opens a little, then rumbles back down as she erratically pushes the button. Frank hears the sound of the garage door. “Fuck!” he screams, and runs out. Angela, musket under her arm, sweats profusely as her eyes flutter open and shut. She presses the garage door opener one more time and falls backward. She is close to losing consciousness. The light from the setting sun hits her face as the garage door opens all the way. Her eyes open wide and she limps toward the outside. Suddenly Frank appears in front of her. He raises his knife. Then the sound of ringing bells, the little girls call out, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank instinctively cocks his head to side. Angela plunges the bayonet into his stomach. Shocked, Frank's demon eyes stare back at her. “Not today, Satan." Angela thrusts the bayonet deeper into his bowels. Frank falls to the ground, blood oozing from his stomach. Angela limps out from the garage as fast as she can to her car. The neighbor lady opens her front door to let in a little dog. She sees Angela getting in her car with just a sports bra on. The lady rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Angela lays against the steering wheel and lets out a guttural cry. She turns the key still in the ignition. The radio comes on to the gospel station. Mahalia Jackson belts out “His Eye Is On the Sparrow.” Angela’s car speeds down the street of historic homes on well-manicured lawns.