Chapter Seven: The Waiting Game

It’s been three days since I found the hidden keypad, and I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep away from it.

I’ve walked past that hallway at least a dozen times. I’ve stared at the seam in the wall, the little panel blinking quietly behind the bookshelf. But I haven’t touched it. Not once.

Not because I didn’t want to.

It’s been gnawing at me like am itch I can’t scratch. Every time I sit still, my thoughts wander back to it. Every time I close my eyes, I picture the keypad blinking at me like it knows something I don’t. It’s like the thing has teeth, and it's sunk them into the back of my brain.

I would’ve gone back sooner, but Uncle Max had made sure I barely had enough energy to breathe, let alone sneak around. Between sunrise runs, exercise drills, and memorizing ciphers until my eyes blurred, he’d kept me mentally and physically wrung out.

Today’s torture: fire-building. Without matches.

“You’re going to freeze to death in the field if you can’t get this right,” Uncle Max had barked, tossing me a chunk of flint and a knife. My fingers are still blistered.

Now I’m lying on my bed, staring out the window as the sun slips behind the trees. The room is soaked in golden light, long shadows stretching across the floor. My mind drifts — again — to the keypad.

What kind of normal person installs a keypad in their house? And behind a locked door, no less?

Not a normal person. That’s the point. Uncle Max has to be more than ex-military. The drills, the constant discipline — it’s not just ex-soldier behaviour. It’s something else. Something he’s not saying.

And I’ve spent enough time in hacker forums to know that anything hidden is probably worth finding.

Still, I haven’t asked Uncle Max about it. I don’t know why.

Maybe I’m scared of the answer. Or scared he’ll lie.

Or maybe… I want to solve it myself.

I get up, stretch, and glance at the clock.

6:47 p.m.

Through the window, I could see Uncle Max outside, still chopping wood — part of his evening routine. He always took his time, spacing out each swing like it’s some kind of meditation. I’d started tracking his habits three days ago, writing them down in the corner of my training notebook. He chops until 7:05. Then showers. Then tea. Every night like clockwork.

I knew I had maybe fifteen minutes, twenty if I was lucky.

My heart thuds once, heavy and slow, as I sit up and cross the room. I move quietly, careful not to disturb the loose floorboard by the door. At the shelf, I slip my fingers behind the worn spines and remove the books one by one.

There it is — the faint outline in the wall. The keypad, blinking silently beneath.

I hesitate. Then press a button.

The screen lit up blue.

Okay, here goes nothing.

I type in Uncle Max’s birthday. Denied.

His military ID number from the dog tag on his desk. Denied.

The date I arrived here. Denied.

I try again — the year his old army unit was disbanded. My own birthday, just in case.

All wrong.

The keypad blinks red with each failure, and with every rejection, my frustration deepens. I’d been so sure one of them would work. I’d been watching, asking questions, fishing for anything that might help. “What year did you buy this place?” “Did you always want to join the military?” “What’s your favourite number?”

I tried all of them. Nothing.

I grit my teeth and step back.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a hair-thin thread of clear tape that I had cut and pocketed earlier. The kind you could barely see if you didn’t know it was there. I press a sliver along the edge of one of the buttons, just enough that if someone else typed something in, it would wrinkle or shift.

Then I nudge a few books back into place, leaving the rest just slightly askew — the way only I would know.

Then I slip out of the hallway and pad softly back to my room, careful to avoid the squeaky board near the bathroom door. The house is quiet, just the hum of crickets outside and the ticking of the old clock in the living room.

I’m almost to my room when I hear it.

A creak.

Not mine.

Not any board I stepped on.

Just one sound — quick and sharp — like pressure shifting on an old floorboard a few steps behind me.

I stop breathing, skin prickling with the sense of being watched.

Slowly, I glance over my shoulder.

Nothing.

The hallway is empty. Shadows stretch along the floor, long and still. No movement. No sound.

But I know I didn’t imagine it.

My heart pounds harder now. Louder than my footsteps.

I move faster, silently slipping into my room and easing the door shut behind me.

Click.

Then I stand there, back pressed to the wood, listening.

Waiting.

But nothing comes.