Page 47 of Silent Grave

"I know you're here." The voice was soft, almost gentle. "I found your marks on the walls. Clever way of tracking your path."

Diana didn't move, didn't breathe. Five bullets left. But shooting blindly would only give away her position.

"You've survived longer than the others," the voice continued. "Most people panic in the darkness. Run until they're lost, exhausted. But you..." A pause. "You're different. Methodical. Like me."

The footsteps moved closer to her hiding spot. Diana eased backward into the tunnel, feeling her way along the wall. The passage sloped upward slightly—definitely man-made.

"Did you like my collection?" The voice was closer now. "All those people who came to these mines, thinking they understood darkness. Thinking they could just... visit it. Like tourists."

Another step backward. The tunnel curved. She clicked her light on for a split second, just long enough to see that the passage continued upward. Then she turned it off.

"The darkness isn't meant for visitors," the voice said, growing fainter as she moved away. "It's meant for teaching. For revelation. My father understood that, even if his methods were... flawed."

Diana kept moving, not daring to use her light again. The tunnel's slope increased, and the air felt different—cooler, fresher. Was this his private entrance to the mine system? A way to come and go unseen?

The voice came one last time, distant now: "We'll talk again soon. After the darkness has had more time to work on you."

Diana pressed onward, hope mixing with terror. This tunnel had to lead somewhere. But would it lead to freedom?

Or was she walking into another carefully laid trap?

The tunnel grew narrower as it climbed, forcing Diana to turn sideways in places to squeeze through. Her shoulder scraped against rough stone, but she kept moving. The air definitely felt different here—there was a current to it, a movement that suggested a connection to the surface.

She risked using her light again, just for a moment. The beam showed wooden support beams ahead, older than the ones in the main mine system. This tunnel had been dug long ago, probably by someone who wanted private access to the mines. A miner creating his own entrance, maybe, or...

Or a father teaching his son about darkness.

My father understood that, even if his methods were... flawed.

The stranger's words replayed in her mind. Something about the way he'd said it—there was history here. Personal history. The kind, perhaps, that turned people into monsters.

Diana's foot caught on something, nearly sending her sprawling. She steadied herself against the wall, then carefully aimed her light downward. A chain lay half-buried in the tunnel floor, old and rusted. At one end was a manacle, sized for a child's wrist.

"Shit," she whispered, the implications hitting her. This wasn't just a private entrance. It was a punishment chamber. A place where someone—

A sound came up from below. Her attacker, following her.

Diana switched off her light and kept climbing. The tunnel grew steeper, the air cooler. Her legs burned with exhaustion, but she pushed on. There had to be an exit. Had to be a way out.

Unless she was playing right into his hands. Unless this tunnel was just another lesson in his twisted curriculum.

She reached the end of the tunnel and her light beam caught the ceiling—a heavy trapdoor of steel and wood, secured with a padlock that gleamed dully in her flashlight beam. So close. The fresh air seeping through the edges of the door told her the surface was just above.

Diana stretched up, fingers finding the cold metal of the lock. She yanked at it frantically, but it held firm. The door itself was even more solid—no amount of pushing or shoulder-ramming made it budge.

Footsteps reverberated from below, measured and unhurried. Getting closer.

"Come on," she whispered, pulling at the lock again. But it was industrial-grade, meant to keep people out—or in. No amount of desperate strength would break it.

The footsteps grew louder. Diana clicked off her light and pressed her back against the wall beside the trapdoor. Five bullets. She had to make them count. Had to wait until he was close enough that she couldn't miss in the darkness.

She steadied her breathing, the way she'd practiced at the range. Aim center mass. Don't hesitate. Her finger found the trigger as the footsteps drew nearer.

Suddenly she understood what drove people mad down here—the weight of the mountain above, the knowledge that tons of rock separated you from the sky.

But she wasn't going to break. It wasn't going to become another photo on his wall of victims.

The footsteps stopped. Just around the last bend in the tunnel. Waiting.

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