Page 51 of Silent Grave

The man who opened the door made Michelle's breath catch in her throat. Despite his carefully pressed flannel shirt and seemingly kind eyes, there was something wrong about him—something that set off immediate alarm bells. His skin had an unnatural pallor, like cave fish that never see the sun, and though he appeared to be in his forties, deep shadows haunted his face.

"Good morning," Michelle said, doing her best to recover from her surprise. She cleared her throat and launched into her practiced speech. "I'm with Save Our Mountains. We're gathering signatures for a petition to immediately seal the abandoned mines in light of recent events."

"Recent events?" His voice was soft, educated. "You mean the deaths?"

"Yes. Two confirmed deaths, and now a woman missing." Michelle shifted her clipboard. "We believe these tragedies could have been prevented if the mining company had properly secured—"

"Please, come in," he said, stepping back from the door. "I'd love to hear more about your efforts. I've been following the situation closely."

Michelle hesitated. Her group had strict rules about not entering homes—too many horror stories about signature gatherers being assaulted. "I really can't. But if you'd like to sign—"

"I insist." His smile remained warm, but something shifted in his eyes. "It's freezing out here, and I have coffee brewing. We can discuss the mines properly."

Every instinct screamed at her to leave. "Thank you, but I have many more houses to visit. If you'd just like to sign—"

She turned to go, and his hand shot out, grabbing her arm with shocking strength. The clipboard clattered to the ground as he yanked her inside. She tried to scream, but his other hand clamped over her mouth as he kicked the heavy door shut.

The last thing she saw before darkness engulfed her was her clipboard lying on the ground, the petition's bold heading visible in the early morning light: SEAL THE DEATH TRAPS NOW.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Sheila felt the adrenaline hitting her veins as she and Finn studied the Whitman house, which crouched against the mountainside like a wounded animal, its windows dark and clouded with decades of neglect. The driveway was rutted, but there were no signs of recent vehicles or recent foot traffic.

Still, that didn't mean Peter Whitman wasn't here. It might serve his purposes to come and go through a separate entrance, allowing the building to maintain its air of abandonment.

"Stay behind me," Finn said quietly, drawing his weapon.

Sheila, who already had her gun out, considered reminding him that he'd only just recovered from a bullet wound. She suspected it would do no good, however.

They approached the house carefully, then took positions on either side of the door. Finn tried the door and found it unlocked. It swung inward with a faint groan, revealing a musty darkness.

Their flashlight beams cut through years of dust motes, illuminating a living room frozen in time. Faded religious paintings hung on wood-paneled walls. A heavy Bible lay open on a side table, its pages warped with age and damp.

Without a word, they spread out, picking their way through the house.

"Clear," Finn called from the kitchen.

Sheila moved deeper into the living room, studying the space where Peter Whitman had spent his childhood. Everything was exactly as it must have been when Frank disappeared—dishes still in the drain rack, coffee cups on the counter, a newspaper from 1977 yellowing on the kitchen table.

But something else caught her attention. Crosses. They were everywhere—hanging on walls, sitting on shelves, carved into doorframes. Not just decorative pieces, but heavy wooden crucifixes that seemed to loom in the beam of her flashlight.

"Sheila." Finn's voice drew her to a narrow hallway. "You need to see this."

She followed him to a small bedroom that could only have been Peter's. Here too, crosses dominated the decor, but these were different. Darker. Many appeared to have been carved by hand, the cuts deep and aggressive. They covered the walls in overlapping patterns, some etched directly into the wood paneling.

"Look at this," Finn said, gesturing to a patch of wall near the bed. The crosses there were smaller, closer together, like hash marks counting days. Beneath them, carved in a child's uncertain hand, I will learn what darkness teaches.

"How old was he?" Sheila wondered aloud. "When his father started..."

She didn't finish the thought. She didn't care to put into words what Peter's father had done to him.

They continued through the house, documenting everything. In Frank's study, they found more evidence of religious obsession. Bible verses had been written directly on the walls, the handwriting growing more frantic as it climbed toward the ceiling: verses about light and darkness, their meaning twisted to serve a father's cruel purposes.

A photo album lay on Frank's desk, its leather cover cracked with age. Sheila opened it carefully, playing her flashlight over faded photographs. Frank Whitman stared out from many of them—a tall man with hard eyes and a preacher's stern bearing. In most photos, young Peter stood slightly behind his father, his expression carefully blank.

"Wait," Sheila said, stopping at one photo. It showed Frank and Peter at a mine entrance, but something about it caught her attention. She pulled out her phone, comparing it to the crime scene photos from Tyler Matthews' murder. "The cross. Look at the cross around Frank's neck."

Finn leaned closer. "Same one we saw in the video from Marcus Reed's glasses."

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