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“Move!” Pandora’s scream startles me enough that I start pushing at the makeshift door separating me from freedom. I’m no longer worrying about being heard, I’m too frantic and focused on getting the fuck out of here.
The door gives way as she flickers out of existence, plunging me into darkness again. I don’t bother to let it stop me, running full force ahead with my hands on the wall, letting the dirt guide me as it curves back and forth to the point I feel like I’m in a rat maze, running in circles.
“Where are you?” the raspy male voice sings out like this is all a fun, little game. The startling thing is that I can’t figure out if it’s the voice of a ghost or a living man.
A small whimper escapes me as I keep moving forward, nearly toppling over as my hand catches on another wooden door.
My movements are quiet and careful now as I push it open, using the same method to check out the new area. It’s a room smaller than the one I woke up in, the gnarled roots catching my hands often enough that I almost miss the small alcove cut out between them.
Not an alcove.
It’s an escape.
A cool breeze steadily whistles through this tunnel as I turn a curve, following it and praying I’m about to reach the end.
I burst into another chamber, this one bigger but definitely not outside. A hole in the ceiling filters in light, enough to see the torture chamber I’ve stumbled into.
The sob that escapes as I take in the shackles and blood is loud enough I cover my mouth. A stack of wooden chests rest on one wall and I can see the bones glinting in the moonlight from here.
This is where Pandora died. She’s probably in those boxes.
“Ah, I told you she’d find us.”
My entire body is doused in icy cold as I look up to face Earl, our not-so-nice neighbor and a younger version of himself.
Both very much alive.
However, the grinning ghost next to them is not.
“I told you this land was mine,” Earl continues with a wicked grin. He waves his hand around the workshop as if an artist showing off a gallery exhibit. “This couldn’t be found. Don’t worry, you won’t be leaving to tell anyone about all this.”
“Let me have her?” the younger man asks with his head cocked to the side. There’s nothing in the gaze, not a single emotion.
“No,” I said. “Don’t even fucking think about it. You killed them, didn’t you?” My last question tumbles out in a desperate attempt to keep them talking until my guys realize I’m gone. I refuse to think that something happened to them. I have to believe they’re fine, simply asleep.
“Who?” Earl asks. The smile on his face grows and I know he isn’t that dumb.
“Pandora,” I say first. “And Marx.”
“Pandora was getting too curious,” he says simply. “She could have given Reese, here, a chance, but she chose that nosy sheriff.”
The fact he is hitting all the facts we’d uncovered tells me he’s being truthful. His clear enjoyment in discussing it is more than a little unsettling.
“Marx wasn’t happy with me,” he muses as he walks over to a metal table, fingers running lovingly over the surface.
The ghost still hasn’t moved an inch, as if it’s just observing.
Maybe this is a dream after all?
“But Pandora was the best kill I’ve ever had. She screamed so pretty for me, ran and fought so hard. I still have the scars.” His eyes are glowing as he shows me his arm, four thick gashes down it that had healed over poorly and left thick scars.
My chest feels like it’s going to cave-in with grief as he describes in detail the last torturous moments of her life.
“And Marx just sat aside and let this happen?” I demanded angrily.
“Oh no,” Reese answers with a laugh. It sounds different and I realize quickly why. The ghost has stepped into the son, and has likely been controlling him. It would explain why he hadn’t moved from his side. Reese is a living, breathing puppet. The ghost is the puppeteer.
“He would have intervened,” Earl explained with a shrug. “It was time to end that partnership not long after.”
