Story code: ST-000228
Part 1: The Sledgehammer and the Screen
The engine of my rusted F-150 ticked in the freezing silence as I sat parked outside our latest flip, staring at the bright red ink stamped across my sister’s rehab bill. The final notice sat heavy on the cracked dashboard, a glaring reminder that Maya’s bed at the clinic would be given away by Friday if I did not wire four thousand dollars. Through the bay window of the gutted Victorian house across the frost-covered lawn, a massive LED ring light cast a stark white glow over the torn-up living room. Bryce paced in front of a tripod, gesturing wildly in a spotless flannel as he recorded another daily grind video. He had not touched a hammer all week, but his followers ate up the illusion of his work ethic.
I folded the thick bill and shoved it into my canvas jacket, pressing my cold hands against the steering wheel. The truck’s heater had died three winters ago, leaving me to sit in the icy dampness. I just had to survive this job, collect my check at the end of the week, and send the funds to the facility. Bryce was my absolute last financial lifeline. I had swallowed my pride for six months, doing the grueling demolition while he played the visionary developer online.
My phone vibrated violently in the cupholder, lighting up the dim cab of the truck. A text message from Bryce flashed on the cracked screen. He told me to grab the heavy sledgehammer from the truck bed and bring it inside so he could film a gritty discovery for his followers.
I grabbed the handle of the truck door and forced it open, breaking the layer of frost that had sealed it shut. The biting December wind hit me immediately, slicing through my worn thermal layers. I walked around to the bed of the truck, grabbed the ten-pound sledgehammer, and rested the heavy iron head on my shoulder. Every step crushed the frozen dead grass under my steel-toed work boots.
I stepped through the heavy plastic sheeting hanging over the front doorway. The harsh smell of century-old dust, disturbed plaster, and fresh pine hit my lungs. The house was a hollowed-out shell, stripped to the studs. Bryce stood in the center of the living room, checking his pristine reflection in his phone screen. His hair was perfectly styled, without a speck of drywall dust on his expensive boots.
He held up a manicured hand, silently ordering me to wait out of the frame. He pressed a button on his remote to start the recording. He immediately launched into a loud, energetic monologue about the hidden treasures of real estate, talking fast about the blood, sweat, and tears required to uncover the raw history of these forgotten properties. I stood perfectly still in the shadows near the entryway, gripping the fiberglass handle of the sledgehammer, feeling the rough texture press deeply into my palms. I kept my mouth shut. I just needed the paycheck to clear. I needed Maya to stay safe, warm, and sober in that locked facility.
Bryce pivoted the camera toward a specific corner of the living room. It was the exact corner I had worked on at dawn, long before Bryce had even pulled his luxury SUV into the driveway. He gestured for me to step into the harsh light and hand him the sledgehammer. I walked forward slowly, keeping my face turned away from the lens, and passed the heavy tool into his soft, clean hands. Bryce struggled with the massive weight for a brief second before bracing his stance.
He turned back to the camera, declaring loudly that he had noticed a strange anomaly in the floorboards and wanted to document the excavation live. He raised the sledgehammer awkwardly, throwing off his balance, and brought it down heavily on a section of loosened oak flooring. The old wood splintered with a loud, violent crack, kicking up a thick cloud of gray debris. Bryce tossed the hammer aside, dropping to his knees with dramatic, practiced flair. He reached his arm deep into the jagged hole in the floor.
My heart slammed against my ribs, the sound rushing in my ears like a freight train. I knew exactly what was under that specific floorboard. I had pried up the wood, placed it there in the dark, and hammered the board back down just four hours ago.
Bryce grunted loudly, pulling his arm out of the dark cavity. He lifted a heavily rusted metal lockbox into the blinding glare of the ring light. The oxidized hinges creaked as he turned it toward the camera, brushing a thick layer of dirt off the domed lid. He looked directly at the lens, his voice filled with manufactured excitement as he announced that we had just unearthed a major piece of the neighborhood’s dark history.
I took a sudden step forward, the hard soles of my boots scraping loudly against the bare subfloor. My hands began to shake violently as Bryce produced a flathead screwdriver from his back pocket and jammed it into the rusted padlock holding the box shut. I lunged toward the tripod, raising my hand to block the camera lens just as Bryce wrenched the metal clasp backward with a sickening snap.
The engine of my rusted F-150 ticked in the freezing silence as I sat parked outside our latest flip, staring at the bright red ink stamped across my sister’s rehab bill. The final notice sat heavy on the cracked dashboard, a glaring reminder that Maya’s bed at the clinic would be given away by Friday if I did not wire four thousand dollars. Through the bay window of the gutted Victorian house across the frost-covered lawn, a massive LED ring light cast a stark white glow over the torn-up living room. Bryce paced in front of a tripod, gesturing wildly in a spotless flannel as he recorded another daily grind video. He had not touched a hammer all week, but his followers ate up the illusion of his work ethic.
I folded the thick bill and shoved it into my canvas jacket, pressing my cold hands against the steering wheel. The truck’s heater had died three winters ago, leaving me to sit in the icy dampness. I just had to survive this job, collect my check at the end of the week, and send the funds to the facility. Bryce was my absolute last financial lifeline. I had swallowed my pride for six months, doing the grueling demolition while he played the visionary developer online.
My phone vibrated violently in the cupholder, lighting up the dim cab of the truck. A text message from Bryce flashed on the cracked screen. He told me to grab the heavy sledgehammer from the truck bed and bring it inside so he could film a gritty discovery for his followers.
I grabbed the handle of the truck door and forced it open, breaking the layer of frost that had sealed it shut. The biting December wind hit me immediately, slicing through my worn thermal layers. I walked around to the bed of the truck, grabbed the ten-pound sledgehammer, and rested the heavy iron head on my shoulder. Every step crushed the frozen dead grass under my steel-toed work boots.
I stepped through the heavy plastic sheeting hanging over the front doorway. The harsh smell of century-old dust, disturbed plaster, and fresh pine hit my lungs. The house was a hollowed-out shell, stripped to the studs. Bryce stood in the center of the living room, checking his pristine reflection in his phone screen. His hair was perfectly styled, without a speck of drywall dust on his expensive boots.
He held up a manicured hand, silently ordering me to wait out of the frame. He pressed a button on his remote to start the recording. He immediately launched into a loud, energetic monologue about the hidden treasures of real estate, talking fast about the blood, sweat, and tears required to uncover the raw history of these forgotten properties. I stood perfectly still in the shadows near the entryway, gripping the fiberglass handle of the sledgehammer, feeling the rough texture press deeply into my palms. I kept my mouth shut. I just needed the paycheck to clear. I needed Maya to stay safe, warm, and sober in that locked facility.
Bryce pivoted the camera toward a specific corner of the living room. It was the exact corner I had worked on at dawn, long before Bryce had even pulled his luxury SUV into the driveway. He gestured for me to step into the harsh light and hand him the sledgehammer. I walked forward slowly, keeping my face turned away from the lens, and passed the heavy tool into his soft, clean hands. Bryce struggled with the massive weight for a brief second before bracing his stance.
He turned back to the camera, declaring loudly that he had noticed a strange anomaly in the floorboards and wanted to document the excavation live. He raised the sledgehammer awkwardly, throwing off his balance, and brought it down heavily on a section of loosened oak flooring. The old wood splintered with a loud, violent crack, kicking up a thick cloud of gray debris. Bryce tossed the hammer aside, dropping to his knees with dramatic, practiced flair. He reached his arm deep into the jagged hole in the floor.
My heart slammed against my ribs, the sound rushing in my ears like a freight train. I knew exactly what was under that specific floorboard. I had pried up the wood, placed it there in the dark, and hammered the board back down just four hours ago.
Bryce grunted loudly, pulling his arm out of the dark cavity. He lifted a heavily rusted metal lockbox into the blinding glare of the ring light. The oxidized hinges creaked as he turned it toward the camera, brushing a thick layer of dirt off the domed lid. He looked directly at the lens, his voice filled with manufactured excitement as he announced that we had just unearthed a major piece of the neighborhood’s dark history.
I took a sudden step forward, the hard soles of my boots scraping loudly against the bare subfloor. My hands began to shake violently as Bryce produced a flathead screwdriver from his back pocket and jammed it into the rusted padlock holding the box shut. I lunged toward the tripod, raising my hand to block the camera lens just as Bryce wrenched the metal clasp backward with a sickening snap.