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“Obviously our guy didn’t do that. But there was something about this place that reminded you of the scene enough to drag your ass all the way out here. What was it? What made you so certain Lucy is here?”
Connelly paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to pinpoint exactly what it was about this place that had struck a chord within him. He took a deep breath, the scent of pine and damp earth filling his nostrils. “It’s hard to explain. He couldn’t do it in a cemetery—not in broad daylight. So I looked at it like if I were writing this killer trying to imitate the book, what was the next best option? And my mind skipped from graveyard, to crypt, to cave.”
“The darkness. The confined space. It echoes the fear of being buried alive. He wants to recreate that terror.” Sawyer shook his head. “Said it before, but I gotta say it again, man. You have a twisted as fuck imagination.”
Connelly chuckled grimly. “Comes with the territory, I guess. But it’s not just the darkness and the confined space that made me think of a cave. It’s something else. Something deeper.” He paused and tried to wrangle his gut instinct into words. “In my book, the graveyard where the victim is buried is surrounded by a dense forest. The trees loom over her, casting long shadows that seem to whisper the secrets of the dead. It creates this suffocating atmosphere, a feeling of being trapped not just physically, but mentally as well.”
Sawyer nodded in understanding. “So you think this killer chose this particular cave because it mirrors the psychological torment he wants his victims to experience?”
“Exactly. He’s trying to recreate that same sense of being buried alive, of being utterly helpless and at his mercy. But he still needs it to be close enough to my book that it’s recognizable. He wants the fear to seep into the minds of those who discover his handiwork. It’s a twisted homage, a sick form of artistry. It’s his way of taunting me, showing me that he’s studied my work and knows how to manipulate my fears.”
“You’re afraid of being buried alive?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Solid point.”
“Yes, I write about my fears. And yours. And humanity’s. It’s why my books do so well. It’s why people connect with them. But this... this is something else entirely. It’s like staring into a mirror and seeing a distorted version of myself. And I don’t like what I’m seeing.”
“You’re nothing like this guy,” Sawyer said without a shred of doubt.
Connelly appreciated Sawyer’s confidence, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that there was a sliver of truth in his own words. He had built his career on exploring the darkest corners of the human psyche, but now he found himself confronted with a tangible manifestation of those very fears.
Zelda suddenly froze and gave a guttural bark of warning.
Sawyer tightened his grip on the leash, his fingers white from the pressure. “Shh, Zelda. It’s okay.”
Connelly’s heart pounded in his chest as he strained his ears, trying to identify the source of Zelda’s agitation.
It came in whispers carried on the wind, faint but unmistakable. Words that echoed with both familiarity and dread. “Help me...please...somebody...”
Connelly’s blood ran cold. A woman’s voice. It was faint, barely audible above the rustling leaves and creaking branches, but it was there.
Zelda strained at her leash, her instincts honing in on the source of the desperate pleas. The echoes of the woman’s voice grew louder, guiding them deeper into the heart of the forest.
As they approached the source of the sound, the dense foliage gave way to an opening in the ground—a gaping maw leading into the depths of the earth. It was a cave entrance, obscured by overgrown vegetation and hidden from prying eyes.
“She’s down there.”
Sawyer grabbed his arm. “Wait. We need to call the team and?—”
“There isn’t time.” Connelly shucked his backpack and pulled a flashlight from the side pocket. He clicked it on, casting a narrow beam of light into the darkness of the cave. “You call the team. I’m going in.”
“Aw, fuck,” Sawyer muttered and grabbed his radio. Zelda whined anxiously at his side, her tail tucked between her legs. He patted her head reassuringly. “All right, go. But be careful, Conn. I won’t be able to find you if you get hurt down there.”
Taking a deep breath, Connelly steeled himself for what he might find, then lowered himself into the mouth of the cave. The damp air enveloped him, its earthy scent mingling with a sense of foreboding. He couldn’t help but feel like he was descending into the belly of a beast.
The beam of his flashlight wavered, revealing ancient rock formations and glistening stalactites that seemed to stretch out like skeletal fingers. Deeper he went, each step echoing off the walls as if the cave itself was alive, whispering secrets kept hidden for centuries. The darkness seemed to cling to him, suffocating and disorienting. Panic threatened, fueled by his own words on the page. But he pushed it down, reminding himself that this was reality, not fiction. There was no monster down here, hiding in the shadows, feeding off his fear.
The pleas for help grew softer, like she was losing strength.
Connelly pushed deeper into a narrow tunnel, trying to follow the echo. “Lucy! Can you hear me? We’re here to help!”
The darkness swallowed his words, leaving only silence in its wake. He pressed on, heart pounding in his chest as he navigated through narrow passages and crawled past low-hanging ceilings. Every inch of progress felt like an eternity and the air grew thicker with each step he took, gagging him with its stagnant scent.
“Lucy?”
The sound of his own voice reverberated through the cave, the desperation and urgency in it bouncing off the walls and filling the oppressive silence. But there was no response, only the eerie echo of his own words lingering in the air. His heart sank as he pressed forward, his flashlight casting long shadows that danced ominously across the rough, damp walls.
