Zeger watched the lawyers retreat, their polished shoes clicking a mocking rhythm on the ancient cobblestones. Twenty-four hours. A single spin of the earth, and Yfke’s home, his home, would be seized by the very man whose family had helped bury her murder. He turned to Mevrouw van Schoonhoven, who stood serenely by the half-open door, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“The De Witt corporate headquarters,” Mevrouw stated, preempting his question. “They maintain a secure repository for their kin’s dealings. Hugo, in his arrogance, believes it impenetrable. But my grandmother, Beatrix, often spoke of its older, less obvious vulnerabilities. A service tunnel, perhaps, leading from the old canal-side warehouses.” Her gaze held a glint of defiance, a quiet fury for her ancestor’s injustice.
Yfke drifted closer, her translucent form shimmering with agitation. “We have to get in there, Zeger! The ledgers, the documents… they’ll prove Hugo’s family conspired to cover it up. To protect Gijsbert!” Her hand, still faintly glowing with the curse’s chilling progression, reached for his, passing through him like a cool gust of wind. The fleeting touch, however insubstantial, spiked his pulse with sudden resolve. He felt the pull of her fading spirit, urging him forward.
“Fine,” Zeger said, the word a steel-trap snap. “Where’s the nearest hardware store? I’ll need a… toolkit.” The readiness in his voice caught him off guard. The thought of Hugo De Witt’s smug face, the way he’d tried to dismiss Yfke, fueled a strange, unfamiliar energy within him. This wasn't about treasure anymore. This was personal.
***
The Breukelburg night hung thick and damp as Zeger and Yfke stood before the imposing, obsidian-clad structure of the De Witt corporate headquarters. The building loomed over them, a monument to modern wealth and impenetrable security. Zeger adjusted the worn backpack on his shoulders, its contents a haphazard collection of tools he’d acquired from a late-night all-purpose shop: a set of lock picks he’d watched a tutorial for on his phone, a remarkably sturdy crowbar, and a few lengths of robust rope. His theoretical physics degree, usually reserved for optimizing nap trajectories, was about to get a rather unorthodox application.
“Alright, Yfke,” Zeger murmured, his voice low. “Time for you to earn your spectral keep. Scout ahead. I need to know about cameras, trigger plates, laser grids. Anything that might try to stop a… determined enthusiast from appreciating their historical documents.”
Yfke, invigorated by the mission, grinned. “Finally, a proper adventure! Watch and learn, mortal. Your ghostly landlady is about to become your greatest asset!” With a dramatic flourish, she dissolved through the polished granite wall, reappearing moments later further inside. Zeger waited, a knot of nerves tightening in his stomach. He wasn’t a man of action. He was a man of carefully calculated inaction. But the image of Yfke’s fading hand, the memory of her pain, propelled him forward.
“Right,” her voice echoed in his mind, clear as a bell. “First floor, main hallway. Motion sensors. Standard infrared. Not much of a challenge for a seasoned spectral operative.”
Zeger found the service tunnel Mevrouw had described. It was narrow, smelling of damp earth and disused machinery, but mercifully unlocked. He squeezed through, emerging into a sub-basement. “Okay, what’s next?” he muttered, drawing out a small, portable UV light.
“Aha! A laser grid,” Yfke announced, her tone a mix of excitement and theatrical concern. “It spans the main corridor leading to what appears to be… the records room. And darling, it’s a rather intricate pattern. Very crisscrossy. And, oh, a floor panel that hums faintly under my… spiritual presence. Tension sensitive, I’d wager.”
Zeger squinted. “Crisscrossy, right. Let’s see.” He took a small mirror from his bag, a cheap compact he’d bought for a euro. He angled it, catching a faint red beam, then another, mapping the intricate web of light. “Okay, basic triangulation. The lasers are emitted from fixed points. If I can disrupt one of the emitters without breaking the beam, it should trigger a cascade failure of the detection array.” He produced a small, strong magnet.
“You’re going to… magnetize the lasers?” Yfke asked, skepticism lacing her tone. “Is that even a thing?”
“Not the lasers themselves, Yfke. The housing. The power conduits run through the base. A strong enough magnetic field might induce a temporary short in the control circuitry, making the system think the emitter is offline without actually breaking the circuit.” Zeger reached carefully, his arm extended, placing the magnet precisely against a small vent near the base of the nearest emitter. A faint *thrum* vibrated through the metal. Then, with a soft *click*, the entire laser grid winked out. He retrieved the magnet.
Yfke was silent for a moment. “Well, I’ll be… a spectral-seeking missile couldn’t have done it faster. Bravo, Zeger! That was… surprisingly competent for a man whose life ambition involves a sofa.”
Zeger felt a peculiar warmth spread through his chest. It wasn’t the thrill of danger, or even the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. It was the pleasant sting of Yfke’s unreserved praise. For once, his intellect wasn’t a hidden burden but a tool, wielded for a purpose beyond his own comfort. This wasn’t just about Yfke, he realized. This was about proving that the brilliant slacker could still be brilliant, that he could rise to the occasion. A strange, giddy spark of triumph sparked in his chest. *Payback,* he thought, a rare, fierce grin touching his lips. *Let's see Hugo laugh at that.*
“And the floor sensor?” Zeger asked, pushing aside the small burst of unfamiliar pride. “Any way around it?”
“It’s a single large panel right before the vault threshold,” Yfke explained. “It seems designed to trigger an alarm under any significant downward force.”
Zeger surveyed the situation. The panel was large, covering the entire width of the corridor. “Right. Basic mechanics. If the total load distributed over the panel remains unchanged, the alarm won’t trigger. I just need to avoid the surface entirely. What’s above it?”
“A rather grand, but structurally unsound, chandelier,” Yfke observed. “Looks like it hasn’t been properly maintained in centuries.”
Zeger’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. Find me some sturdy anchors in the ceiling. I’ll rig a suspension system. I’ll cross above it.” He found two robust ventilation ducts in the ceiling, their metal sturdy enough to support him. With the rope and a few sturdy carabiners he’d pilfered from his own neglected climbing gear, Zeger began to fashion a precarious, but effective, harness. He tested the line, then swung himself across the gap, landing silently on the other side of the trigger panel. He felt like a particularly unathletic spider-man.
“Incredible!” Yfke exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “You’re like… a genius acrobat! Who knew those physics equations could be so… practical?”
He ignored the compliment, though a faint blush warmed his cheeks. “Inner door. What are we looking at?”
“A biometric scanner, darling. Fingerprint and retina,” Yfke reported. “And a keypad with a six-digit code. Oh, and it’s a vault door. Thick steel. Very heavy.”
“Biometrics are out. Keypad… any clues?”
Yfke phased through the door. “Hmm. A sticky note on the inside, next to the main computer terminal. ‘Remember Gijsberta’s birthday.’ And a date: ‘050819’.”
Zeger frowned. “Gijsberta? As in… Mevrouw van Schoonhoven’s great-grandmother, Beatrix’s daughter? Or the Mevrouw herself? And that’s not a six-digit code. That’s eight digits. Day, Month, Year.”
“Wait, no. Below it, in tiny script, it says ‘Year: last two digits only’,” Yfke corrected. “So, 050819.”
Zeger quickly typed the sequence into the keypad. A soft *whir* sounded, followed by a heavy *thunk* as the vault door unlatched. He pushed it open, revealing a cavernous room lined with ancient filing cabinets and modern data servers. The air was cool, dry, and smelled faintly of old paper and ozone.
“Alright, Yfke. Time to find that ledger. The one detailing the Van Schoonhoven and De Witt financial partnership, specifically immediately after your… incident.”
They worked quickly. Yfke zipped through drawers, her ethereal presence disturbing nothing, reading labels with lightning speed. Zeger systematically pulled out relevant-looking binders, his eyes scanning for keywords. Minutes stretched, feeling like hours. Then, Yfke cried out.
“Found it! ‘Project Aegis: Inter-House Investments and Assets Oversight’ – a De Witt ledger, dated right after my… demise! And look!” Her voice was tight with suppressed fury. “Here’s the Van Schoonhoven crest! A partnership. A *joint venture* initiated the very month I died. This is it, Zeger! This proves it!”
Zeger slid the heavy leather-bound book from the shelf. The entries, meticulously recorded, detailed a complex financial arrangement, a merging of assets and a shared investment in a new canal-dredging company. The dates perfectly aligned with Yfke’s murder. This wasn't just a cover-up. It was a payoff. Money for silence, for complicity.
He needed to photograph every page. He fumbled for his phone. Just as he was about to snap the first picture, Yfke's voice, usually so vibrant, became a sharp, panicked crackle in his mind.
“Zeger! Look at the monitor! The security feed! Hugo… Hugo De Witt is returning! He’s in the parking garage! He’s coming back!”
Zeger’s head snapped up. On a small screen displaying the office’s external cameras, Hugo De Witt’s imposing figure strode purposefully towards the main entrance. His face was grim, unsmiling. He was heading for his office, on this very floor, no doubt.
“How much time?” Zeger whispered, ribs drumming against his lungs in stark contrast to his earlier calm.
“He’s on the elevator now! Two floors below us! He’ll be here any second!” Yfke urged, her form wavering, almost invisible with fright.
Zeger frantically started photographing the ledger, his hands shaking. He had to get proof. He *had* to.
But a sudden, heavy *clunk* echoed through the vault. The door, previously ajar, had swung shut, sealing itself with a solid, metallic click. The biometric scanner glowed red, locking him in.
“Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me,” Zeger muttered, leaning his shoulder against the unforgiving steel. He heard the distinct, approaching rhythm of footsteps, measured and heavy, growing louder outside the vault. Hugo De Witt was almost here.