The light hit a heavy wooden chair in the center of the floor.

Sitting in it, tied with thick nylon rope, was Ethan.

His face was bruised, and a piece of heavy tape was plastered over his mouth.

He stared at us with wide, terrified eyes, shaking his head frantically.

Beneath his chair, a small, black electronic box was blinking with a steady green light.

The light suddenly turned yellow.

A soft, rhythmic beeping sound began to fill the quiet room.

“Dad,” I whispered, my throat dry.

“What is that?”

My father didn’t answer. He slowly stepped toward the chair, his flashlight beam focused on the blinking device.

The beep grew slightly faster.

“Get out,” my father said, his voice flat and steady.

“Hannah, run.”

The door to the cellar behind us creaked open.

A cold draft of wind blew through the house, extinguishing the smell of damp wood.

I looked from my father to the stairs, then back to the blinking yellow light.

The ticking grew faster still.

I took a step backward, my heel catching on the edge of the rug.