The Truth Buried Deep Inside My Father’s Empty New Jersey Coffin
A steep flight of concrete stairs disappeared into the dark.
I checked my weapon, making sure a round was chambered, and gripped the flashlight tight.
“Here we go,” I whispered.
I stepped onto the first stair.
The wood of the floorboards slid shut above me with a heavy, final thud.
I was locked in.
I didn’t panic.
I knew there was an emergency release from the inside.
I walked down the concrete steps, the sound of my boots echoing off the narrow walls.
The air grew colder with every step I took.
At the bottom of the stairs, I reached a heavy steel door.
It looked like the door to a bank vault, complete with a manual wheel and a digital keypad.
The keypad was dead, its screen dark.
But there was a manual override keyhole hidden beneath a sliding metal plate.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the old silver key my father had given me on my eighteenth birthday.
He had told me it was for a safety deposit box.
He had lied about that, too.