Eli, reeking and victorious, peeled off a glove. “I poked the poop.”
The septic tank lid was buried under a foot of soil behind the lilac bush. Eli dug like a man possessed, gagging as the first whiff of sulfur and ancient regret hit him. The concrete lid had no handle—just two rusty rebar loops. After twenty minutes of swearing, he pried it open with a crowbar.
“Heard you cussin’ from my kitchen,” she said, grinning. “Lemme guess: you found Uncle Jed’s note?”
“Okay,” Eli whispered to himself, repeating what he’d franticly Googled on his phone before his signal died. “Step one: don’t die. Methane gas is real.”
For a glorious second, nothing happened. Then, from deep in the tank, came a sound like a giant swallowing—a deep, rumbling glooOOOOOP . The water level dropped six inches. The toilet in the house gave a victorious whoosh .
Mabel nodded solemnly. “Now you’re a true Lost Hollow resident. Here—pecan pie. Stinky Pete’s recipe. Wash your hands first. Twice.”