Lights | A Forever Fanfiction

Chapter Eleven: Hidden In The Walls

"Explain to me one more time," Dr. Morgan requested as we sat down across from each other on the sofas.

"I thought it was normal, at first. We were looking for a new place, and it looks like any other flat, but look. Really look. That's this apartment," I stated excitedly. "But the strange thing is, this is an older pamphlet, from four years ago. It says that this apartment has 850 square feet, but it doesn't, really. The newer pamphlets, the ones we just asked the landlord dude or whoever to make advertise 800 feet instead."

"I don't understand. A lot of people renovate their homes."

"I know, but we didn't! Dad told me everything, especially if it involved construction. I had asthma, until I was ten, and that was three years ago. I haven't been on a long trip since then. What if he got some work done?"

"What for?"

"A secret room!" I exclaimed. Dr. Morgan sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Lights, you can't seriously-"

"Look, I really need a sliver of hope right now," I said. "Please, please, please just help me with this."

Dr. Morgan opened his mouth to respond, but a little tinkling tune pierced the air, alerting me to the fact that I had a call.

"Hello?" I said lightly, trying not to seem distressed.

"I need to talk to Henry," a voice said on the other end. It belonged to a man. Maybe one of Dr. Morgan's friends.

"It's for you," I mumbled confusedly, passing him the phone. He frowned and held it up to his ear.

"Hello, who is this?" he asked politely. His frown deepened. "What are you talking about?" He got up and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and reducing the conversation to an indistinct mumble. I pressed my ear to the door, but I couldn't make out much. Suddenly the door opened, and I fell forwards into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Morgan mused as I steadied myself on the doorframe.

"Nothing at all," I replied. "So, secret room." I turned to the walls. "All of these walls are hollow for the plumbing, so we don't have any chance of finding out where it is based off of that. The secret room cannot be next to a window-"

"Assuming there even is a secret room," Dr. Morgan said. "Lights, this is ridiculous."

"My father just died. I am a hysterical emotional wreck. The only thing that I can do right now that doesn't involve me ending up on the floor crying is trying to find out something. So, please, do me a favour, and help me." I squatted by the rubbish bin and flicked through the papers. "Now, there has to be some kind of clue in here that explains where the secret room is. Some kind of-" I broke off, sudden realisation pouring over me. I stood up and stared at the half-finished cello in the back of the room.

"What is it?"

I walked over to the cello, running my fingers over the raw wood. A jar of varnish sat under the work table that sat in the corner of the room. My father's prized Stradivarius violin was packed up in its case. I started to unpack it, lifting the smooth, shiny wood from its case and wiping the strings with the cloth. As I moved it, it rattled.

He never would have left an instrument unfixed, especially his violin. That would have been top priority.

I turned the violin upside down shaking it violently. Finally, a little folded up rectangle of paper slipped out from under the tailpiece of the violin. I carefully set down the violin and lifted up the paper.

"What the-?" I muttered, unfurling it, my fingers scraping against the rough surface. It felt almost like newsprint, it was so worn.

"What is that?" Dr. Morgan asked. It unfurled, revealing a sheet of paper covered in lines and marks that didn't seem to add up to anything. The world's worst doodle ever.

"Gibberish," I moaned, tossing it onto the desk and plopping down in the chair. Dr. Morgan frowned and picked it up, creasing it systemmatically until a grin spread across his face.

"It's a puzzle, like the ones in the magazines, where you fold up the little paper so it forms a new image," he said, lifting up the folded page. The inked lines came together to form the letter 'I.' My mouth fell open. I stood up and walked over to Dr. Morgan, who was trying to fold the paper.

"No, try that one there," I said. "It looks kind of like a T."

"It's clearly another I," he mumbled, trying other folds.

"No, it's a T," I insisted. "Just fold it already."

We worked into the afternoon, the mysterious phone call and my sadness both temporarily forgotten. Finally, we finished, a single word printed in fine block letters was spread in front of us.

'KITCHEN.'