Chapter 1 - The Glow of Three Percent
The suffocating darkness inside the massive mahogany casket was absolute, thick enough to touch, smelling faintly of varnished wood, satin lining, and the lingering, metallic tang of cold earth pressing down from six feet above. Hannah's lungs burned as she gasped for oxygen, her mind racing through a whirlwind of terror, confusion, and raw, maternal panic. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was alive. She was buried alive alongside her precious twelve-year-old twins, Mason and Wyatt. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, choking off her breath. In the pitch-black void, her fingers brushed against the cold, motionless cheeks of her sons lying on either side of her in the custom-built, oversized coffin. They were ice cold, stiff to the touch, their small bodies limp and unresponsive.
"Boys," Hannah choked out, her voice a cracked, breathless whisper that barely carried in the confined space. "Mason. Wyatt. Wake up, please. Mommy is here."
There was no response. No movement. Just the terrifying, dead silence of the grave, broken only by the frantic, ragged sound of her own breathing and the heavy, rhythmic thud of wet mud settling against the thick wooden lid above them. Panic threatened to tear her sanity apart. How long had she been unconscious? How long had they been down here? Her mother’s chilling words echoed mockingly in her memory: “Forget the autopsy. Bury them today.” Beatrice hadn't just rushed a funeral; she had orchestrated a mass burial. But why? What had happened at that birthday party? The memory of the sweet, colorful cake, the flickering candles, and the sudden, crushing chest pain rushed back. They had been poisoned. Her own mother and Kenneth—her own husband—had poisoned her children and her.
Desperation clawed at her throat. She needed light. She needed help. Her hands fumbled frantically across her jacket pocket, searching for the phone she had tucked away before the party started. Her fingers grazed the smooth, cool edge of glass. She pulled it out.
The cracked screen flickered to life, casting a ghostly, pale blue glow over the interior of the casket. The harsh light illuminated Wyatt's pale face to her left and Mason's slack expression to her right. Tears streamed down Hannah's cheeks, hot and bitter, but she didn't have time to mourn. She looked down at the glowing display with a sinking heart.
Battery: 3%.
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The battery status bar pulsed ominously, flickering as if threatening to die at any second. With trembling thumbs, Hannah unlocked the screen, her vision blurring as she opened the messaging app. There was no cellular service down here—the signal icon displayed a bleak, empty circle with an X. No calls could get through. No texts would send. But as she stared in despair at the screen, a low, faint ping echoed through the speaker. A notification had just trickled in from the edge of connection before the signal died completely. It was a message sent two hours ago, long after they had been lowered into the ground, from an unknown number.
Hannah tapped it open, her breath catching in her throat as she read the glowing words on the screen: “Check the family trust documents in the attic study. Kenneth and Beatrice are coming for the rest.”
