Martha rushed into the grand foyer after hearing the terrible loud metal noises.
Her dark housekeeper uniform was neat, but her face was pale with fear.
"Stop! You must not open that door!" Martha yelled, running forward fast.
Martha reached out her trembling hand to grab Clara's small upper arm.
Before Martha could pull her away, Clara delivered one final heavy blow.
The rusted padlock snapped open with a loud metallic crunch across the room.
Clara shoved the heavy wooden trapdoor open with all her remaining strength.
A dark, damp opening appeared right in the middle of the luxury floor.
A cold gust of stale air rushed out from the dark space below.
A frail hand reached out from the darkness to grip the edge.
An elderly, exhausted woman slowly pulled herself up onto the white marble floor.
Her clothing was torn and covered in gray dust from the low basement.
She gasped for clean air, coughing weakly into the bright daylight room.
Clara fell to her knees beside the woman, staring in total disbelief.
The woman turned her head slowly, revealing her pale, bruised face.
Despite the dirt and weakness, Clara recognized those familiar blue eyes instantly.
"Mom?" Clara whispered, her voice shaking violently with pure emotion.
"Clara... my sweet baby girl," the woman rasped, reaching for Clara's cheek.
Martha stepped back against the white wall, her face completely drained of color.
"You were never supposed to find this place," Martha whimpered nervously.
"What did you do to my mother?" Clara demanded, holding her mom close.
The front door handle turned, and footsteps echoed from the porch outside.
Clara's father, Richard, stepped into the house holding his leather briefcase.
He stopped dead in his tracks, staring wide-eyed at the hallway floor.
His face turned completely white as his heavy briefcase dropped onto the floor.