The air coming out of the tunnel didn’t just smell wrong—it felt wrong.
Slick and heavy, dragging across her skin like oil.

Alice Mae adjusted her grip on her flashlight, feeling the familiar, sharp bite of the rubber casing against her palms.
The only thing real right now.
The only thing solid.

Max stood rigid at the edge, her shoulders carved out of iron and spite, every muscle humming with barely contained motion.
Heather hovered nearby, one breath away from a full-body collapse she didn’t even realize she was holding back.
And Caleb—Caleb crouched low, steady and patient, like he could absorb the shaking in everyone else if he stayed rooted deep enough.

Alice Mae flicked her flashlight once down into the open hole, catching only blackness yawning wide in response.

Benji and Eli were down there somewhere.

Two good guys in a place that didn’t deserve good things.

Alice Mae set her jaw.

Max’s voice broke the silence—raw, scraping against the cold.

“We don’t leave them.”

Alice Mae didn’t argue.
Didn’t roll her eyes.
Didn’t offer some clipped, Sunnyvale-bred rebuttal about living to fight another day.

Because she knew Max was right.
Knew it in the marrow of her bones.

Max shifted slightly, feet planting, body tightening like she was holding herself together with sheer force of will.

“We hold the line,” Max muttered, quieter now. “Or we bury it.”

Alice Mae swallowed, the taste of rust thick in the back of her throat.

The cold bleeding up from the tunnel wasn’t just cold anymore.
It was hungry.
It was waiting.

Alice Mae dragged her gaze across the others again, scanning like she was still a Sunnyvale girl sizing up competition.

Heather, fists clenching and unclenching like she could fight the dark with her bare hands.
Caleb, breathing slow, anchoring them without saying a damn word.
Max, flashlight locked steady even when her whole body shook like a live wire.

Alice Mae tightened her jaw.

Fine.

If the world wanted a blood price, it would have to come through her first too.

She shifted her flashlight back to the hole, her voice low and flat but cutting through the tension like a blade.

“First thing that tries to climb out of there?” she said, voice steady. “It’s getting a crowbar to the face.”

Heather let out a breath that might’ve been a broken laugh.
Caleb just nodded, one sharp jerk of his chin.

Max didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Alice Mae squared her shoulders against the cold weight pressing down from the ceiling, against the hum in the walls, against the thing breathing up from the pit.

And she waited.

The ladder rattled under his weight, every rung slick with rust and something worse he didn’t want to think about.

Benji dropped the last few feet, boots hitting the tunnel floor with a muffled thud.

The impact shuddered up his spine, but he stayed crouched low for a second, flashlight pinned between his shoulder and jaw, hand braced against the dirt.

The cold was worse down here.

Not the kind that scraped your skin raw—
the kind that sank into your bones and stayed there, carving you out from the inside.

He pushed slowly to his feet, sweeping his flashlight in a slow arc across the tunnel walls.

The beam barely cut through the dark, swallowing the light just a few feet ahead.

Stone walls, slick and crumbling.
Old maintenance pipes overhead, some burst open, leaking slow, greasy drips onto the floor.
Worn tracks in the dirt—boot prints, maybe.
Not fresh.

But not ancient either.

Benji adjusted his grip on the flashlight, muscles tense.
Every step he took forward felt wrong—like the ground under his boots didn’t want him there.

He forced himself another few feet down the tunnel, careful, deliberate.

Eli’s flashlight bobbed down from above, a faint flicker, getting closer.
Good.
He didn’t want to be down here alone longer than he had to be.

Benji swept his light across the ground again—and caught it.

A mark.
Scratched deep into the dirt and stone.

Not random.
Not natural.

Symbols.
Old.
Mean.

His stomach twisted.

He crouched low, letting the flashlight skim over it—careful not to step too close.

The mark was jagged, carved by hand, maybe.
Something that looked like a half-broken chain and a spiral curling inward, blackened at the edges like it had been burned into the rock itself.

Benji’s throat felt tight.

He straightened slowly, heart pounding harder now, not from exertion—but from the thing rising in the pit of his stomach, that old, primal instinct that said:

Leave it alone.
Get out.
Now.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t call out.

Just stood there, flashlight trembling slightly against his gloved hand, watching the dark press closer.

Waiting for Eli to land beside him.

Waiting for whatever else was already awake down here to show its teeth.

The ladder groaned under his weight, the rusted metal shuddering with every careful step.

Eli moved fast but silent—
flashlight gripped tight in one hand, knife in the other, the beam tucked against his forearm to leave his palm free if he needed it.

The air thickened the deeper he dropped.

It wasn’t just cold.
It was wet.
Dense.
Clogging the back of his throat with the taste of iron and mold and something older than rot.

He hit the bottom with a low thud, knees bending to absorb the shock.
Stayed low for a second—sweeping the beam in a slow, tight arc around his boots.

Benji stood a few feet ahead, stiff as a wire, flashlight trembling faint against the dark.

Eli clocked the tension in his spine instantly—
the way his body was angled half-back toward Eli without even meaning to, like he'd been waiting for backup.

Eli rose silently to his feet.

The tunnel stretched around them—stone walls slick with moisture, old maintenance pipes spiderwebbing overhead, the floor stained with ancient, greasy streaks.

The smell was worse down here.
Closer.
Feral.

He stepped forward slowly, scanning every inch of ground between them.

That’s when he saw it.

The mark.

Etched into the dirt and stone—blackened, burned.
Jagged spiral.
Broken chain.

It felt wrong just looking at it.
Like it wasn’t meant for human eyes.

Eli’s fingers flexed against the knife hilt once—tight, instinctive.

Benji didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

They didn’t have to.

The dark around them thickened—
pressing closer.
Listening.

Something deep in the tunnels shifted—
a scrape, faint but sharp.
Metal against stone.

Eli’s flashlight jerked toward the sound—
but the beam caught nothing.
Just more dark.
More empty space that didn’t feel empty at all.

Benji shifted his stance, breath catching barely audible in the close air.

Eli moved to stand at his side, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed—
a silent formation, a line drawn in the dirt.

Not alone.
Not anymore.

The scrape came again—louder this time, closer.

And beneath it—
something softer.

A whisper.

Not words.

Just sound.

Breath.

Eli flicked his eyes sideways at Benji once—
sharp, measured.

Benji’s mouth was a grim line, flashlight locked on the tunnel ahead like he could will the dark to back off.

Eli tipped his chin once—
a silent ready?

Benji nodded.

No bravado.
No plan.

Just two idiots and a promise:

Nobody dies alone.

Eli adjusted his grip on the knife, angled his body slightly forward, weight light on the balls of his feet.

Whatever was coming, he’d meet it standing.

And if the dark wanted them?

It was gonna have to bleed for it.

The dark kept breathing.

Heavy. Wet. Wrong.

Heather stayed frozen near the edge of the tunnel, fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms through her gloves.

She hated it.
Hated standing still.
Hated the way her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out.

The cold coming up from the hole felt sharper now.
Colder.

Almost... curious.

She shifted slightly, flashlight slipping in her sweaty grip—

—and that’s when she heard it.

A whisper, threading up from the dark.
Scratchy. Slithering.

Her blood iced.

Not random.
Not echoes.

Words.

"Goode girl."

Heather’s breath hitched hard in her throat.

It was Benji’s nickname for her.
Benji, grinning like an idiot, teasing her the night they got inked together—
his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, warm and stupid and hers.

But this wasn’t Benji’s voice.

It was lower.
Twisted.
Wrong.

Something oily and old trying to fit itself into his skin and falling apart in the attempt.

Heather’s knees locked.
Her chest crushed inward.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t—

Her fingers fumbled, almost without thought, finding the spot on her side—
the sharp, hidden place just under her ribs where the ink still burned warm when she touched it.

Their tattoos.
Their promises.
Their defiance stitched into skin and memory.

Heather pressed her palm flat against it, grounding herself.

Not Sunnyvale’s.
Not the curse’s.
Not anyone’s.

Just hers.

Just his.

The panic cracked slightly under the pressure of it—
enough for her to suck in a shaky breath.

Below, the first scrape of boots on stone echoed up—
too sharp.
Too fast.

Not cautious.

Running.

And then another sound.

Not footsteps.

Something else.

Something bigger.

Heather didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.

She pushed forward toward the edge of the tunnel, fingers curling tighter around her flashlight, voice ripping free from her throat before she could stop it:

"Hey, Benji! You better not be getting murdered without me, you asshole!"

The words cracked through the silence, half-sassy, half-savage, everything she didn’t know how to say.

Max’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide.
Caleb surged instinctively closer, ready to catch her if the world started breaking open.

Alice Mae’s flashlight swung toward the dark.

Heather stayed where she was—
still shaking, still furious—
but standing.

Waiting.

Listening for Benji to yell back.

Praying he could.

Heather’s voice tore up out of the hole like a firecracker.

"Hey, Benji! You better not be getting murdered without me, you asshole!"

For a half-second, the whole world just—
stopped.

Max’s head snapped toward her so fast Caleb swore he heard her neck pop.
Alice Mae froze mid-breath, flashlight swinging wild across the mouth of the tunnel.

And Caleb—
Caleb just blinked at Heather like she’d lost her goddamn mind.

She was standing there, wild-eyed, flushed, shaking, practically vibrating out of her boots—
and still somehow heckling the darkness.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slow through his nose.

God help him, he loved these idiots.

He straightened up from his crouch, tossing Max a sidelong glance like "you seeing this?"
Max just stared back at him, eyes wide, half-murderous, half-panicked.

Caleb rolled his shoulders, shifted his weight back onto his heels, and said—loud enough for all of them to hear:

"Yeah, cool, love the energy. Maybe next time we save the trash talk for after the demon tunnel stops breathing?"

Heather shot him a look—sharp, alive, the ghost of a real grin flickering at the corners of her mouth.

Alice Mae huffed out something that might've been a laugh or might've been her soul leaving her body.

Even Max’s jaw unclenched slightly, the murderous gleam in her eyes softening just enough to be human again.

Caleb rolled his Maglite once across his palm—heavy, solid, dependable.

Inside, he was coiled tighter than a tripwire.

But he grinned anyway—easy, loose, the way you did when you were scared shitless and pretending you weren't.

He tipped an imaginary hat toward Heather, deadpan:

"Points for style though, Goodwin. Really setting the bar high for worst battle cry of all time."

Heather flipped him off without missing a beat.

Caleb chuckled under his breath—
and shifted slightly closer to the others.

Maglite ready.
Heart hammering somewhere down in his boots.

Heather’s shout cracked the world open for a second—
wild, reckless, stupidly brave in the worst possible way.

Max’s heart punched into her ribs hard enough to leave bruises.
She snapped her head toward the sound, flashlight jerking sideways, nearly taking Caleb out with the beam.

Everything froze.

Caleb, standing there like the human equivalent of an exhausted sigh.
Alice Mae, somewhere between hysterical and homicidal.
Heather—vibrating with fury and fear, middle finger raised high like a flag she refused to lower.

And for half a breath—

Max almost laughed.

It bubbled up sharp and bright behind her teeth, cracked loose by sheer force of how goddamn ridiculous they all were.
Wading chest-deep into something none of them could understand—armed with crowbars and sarcasm and a loyalty sharp enough to draw blood.

She swallowed it down before it could break free.

Caleb deadpanned something about Heather’s “worst battle cry,” tipping an invisible hat, all loose shoulders and half-baked bravado.

Heather flipped him off so hard it was almost graceful.

Max let herself breathe—just once.
A shallow, rough inhale that didn’t reach all the way to her lungs.

The tension in her chest eased by a fraction, the knot behind her ribs loosening enough to let her flashlight steady again.

They were scared.
They were stupid.

They were still standing.

Max shifted her weight, sliding closer to the edge of the tunnel, beam slicing into the dark again.

No sound from below yet.
No yell.
No crash.
No confirmation that Benji and Eli hadn’t been swallowed whole.

The fear crawled back up her spine slow and steady, wrapping around the base of her skull, coiling behind her eyes.

Max tightened her grip on the flashlight until her fingers went numb.

No more waiting.

No more hoping.

If the dark wanted to rip them apart, it was going to have to get through her first.

Max rolled her shoulders once—shrugging off the worst of the shake—then braced herself at the lip of the tunnel, knees bending, body ready.

“Get ready,” she muttered under her breath, the words barely making it past her clenched teeth.

Not loud.
Not a rallying cry.

Just a promise.

Because if whatever was slithering around down there decided to come up for them—
if it decided it liked the taste of their fear—

Max was going to make damn sure it choked on it.

The humor cracked the tension for maybe half a heartbeat.

Heather flipping Caleb off.
Caleb deadpanning like they weren’t all seconds away from maybe getting eaten by whatever the hell was crawling under Shadyside.

Max breathing again, barely.

Alice Mae clocked it all without shifting so much as an inch.

But it didn’t ease the knot curling tighter in her gut.

Because the dark hadn’t stopped moving.

It pulsed at the edge of the grate—
heavy, wet, breathing.
Not noise.
Not wind.
Breathing.

Max’s flashlight jerked sharper, cutting a more deliberate line across the pit.

“Get ready,” Max muttered under her breath, voice tight enough to snap.

Alice Mae tightened her grip on her own flashlight, shifting the beam downward without taking her eyes off the gaping black.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Heather bounced slightly on her toes, trying to look tougher than she felt, still jittering with adrenaline she couldn’t burn off.

Caleb shifted back a half-step, crowbar raised in an easy arc across his body—casual if you didn’t know what you were looking at.
Caleb was ready to swing for blood.

Max moved closest to the edge, bracing herself like a shield, muscles drawn tight enough that Alice Mae half-expected her to lunge in headfirst.

Alice Mae positioned herself slightly off-center from them—
not front and center, but not back either.
Flank.

Guard.

She swallowed down the rush of her own heartbeat in her ears and let her instincts do what they’d been honed to do since the day she learned fairy tales lied.

The bad thing was already here.

It was just deciding when to make itself known.

Alice Mae slid one foot back, angling her body sideways without a sound—reducing her target, opening her stance, breathing slow through her nose.

Fight, flight, freeze.

Sunnyvale had taught her to pick flight.
Shadyside had made her too stubborn to run.

She steadied the beam of her flashlight, locking her jaw tight.

If the dark wanted a fight—

fine.

She’d give it one.

Heather’s voice cracked down the tunnel like a spark through gasoline.

Rough. Wild. Fierce.

Benji froze mid-step, head jerking slightly toward the noise—
the rough edges of her words, the way she threw herself out across the dark like she could pull him back just by sheer force of will.

For half a heartbeat, it steadied him.

Made the walls feel a little less like they were caving in.

Eli moved up closer at his side, silent, tense, flashlight beam slicing the dark into narrow pieces.
No words passed between them.
None were needed.

Benji adjusted his grip on the flashlight, forcing himself forward, boots scuffing against the dirt floor.

The tunnel twisted left, then right, narrowing sharply.

The walls here were rougher—jagged stone where old cement had crumbled away.

His beam caught something—
a strange glint against the raw wall.

He swung the flashlight back, slower this time.

Closer.

At first, he thought it was just cracks.
Age.
Stress fractures.

But no.

They were letters.

Scratched deep.
Carved over and over until the marks bled into each other.

Names.

He leaned in, heart hammering against his ribs.

Each name gouged with the same frantic, broken hand:

Cyrus Miller.
Billy Barker.
Harry Rooker.
Ruby Lane.
Tommy Slater.
Ryan Torres.
Samantha Frazier.

The names bled downward—rougher, messier, angrier.

Every cursed name Shadyside tried to bury and forget.
Every killer that clawed their town’s name into infamy.

Benji dragged the beam lower—

and there, at the very bottom, fresh enough that the stone still looked raw where it had been gouged—

another name.

Heather Goodwin.

His stomach twisted, sharp and violent.

Benji jerked backward instinctively, boots scraping hard against the dirt.

Eli was at his shoulder in a second, flashlight catching the carved letters too.

Benji didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

The weight of the truth pressed down harder than the walls, harder than the stink of blood and rust.

Heather’s name.

Already carved.
Already claimed.

Benji’s knuckles whitened around the flashlight, the plastic creaking.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, voice cracking out raw. “No fucking way.”

He turned, flashlight snapping back toward the shaft, toward the way up, where Heather and the others waited, where Max was probably already halfway down the hole in sheer defiance.

Benji clenched his jaw hard enough it ached.

Not again.

Not her.

Not anyone.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

He flicked a glance sideways at Eli—sharp, fierce—and Eli just nodded once.

Silent agreement.

Fight first.
Break later.

Benji tightened his grip on the flashlight.

And moved.

He saw it at the same time Benji did.

The names.

Etched deep into the wall—
desperate, brutal, angry.

Every cursed soul Shadyside ever bred, bleeding down the stone like a roll call of everything they tried to bury and failed.

Benji moved closer, flashlight trembling faintly in his hand.

Eli stayed half a step behind—
watching the dark, watching the walls, watching the way the air twisted colder the deeper they went.

When Benji’s breath hitched—
sharp, broken—

Eli knew before the beam even shifted.

Knew it was bad.
Knew it was worse than anything they'd seen so far.

The flashlight dipped lower—
caught the last name scratched into the stone.

Heather Goodwin.

Fresh.
Jagged.
Claimed.

Eli’s fingers flexed against the knife hilt tucked into his jacket.

He watched Benji stagger back, boots scuffing against the dirt, rage snapping taut across his shoulders like a pulled wire.

Eli didn’t say anything.
Didn’t try to stop him.

Some things didn’t need words.

He just moved—
closing the distance between them, placing himself slightly between Benji and the stretch of tunnel that still lay ahead.

The air shifted.

Subtle.

Wrong.

Somewhere deeper, something stirred—
a scrape across stone.
A drag.
A slither.

Eli flicked his flashlight toward the sound.

Nothing there.

Yet.

Benji turned back toward the shaft, toward the thin slice of light far above them where Max and the others waited.

His face was set—hard, grim, fierce.

Eli caught his glance.
Answered it with a nod.

No speeches.
No promises.

Fight first.
Break later.

The dark pulsed again—
heavier this time.
Hungrier.

Eli tightened his grip on the knife, shifting his stance slightly forward—ready to move, ready to kill, ready to die if he had to.

He scanned the tunnel again—low, fast, efficient.

There were no good exits.
No fallback plan.
No safety net.

Just stone, dark, and the names of the dead clawing at their heels.

Eli breathed once—
slow, steady—
and stepped into the space between Benji and the dark.

Whatever came out of that hole?

It was going to have to get through him first.

Benji didn’t answer.

Not a shout.
Not a whisper.
Nothing but silence—and the dark breathing up at her from below.

Heather’s feet wouldn’t move.
They were welded to the concrete, useless and traitorous. Every muscle screamed to jump, to run, to do something besides stand there shaking like a goddamn coward.

But she couldn’t.
Because even if she did—Caleb was watching. Max was ready. Alice Mae was coiled tight enough to snap.
They’d drag her back, she knew it.

She wasn’t going anywhere.
And neither was Benji.

The air thickened again, heavier than before, cold slicking across her skin like ice water.

Then the whispers started again—
thin, scraping, hateful.
Curling against her ears like a caress she never wanted:

“He’s gone.”
“Already ours.”
“Too late, Goode girl.”

She clenched her fists so tight it hurt, nails biting deep enough to draw blood.
Her jaw locked so hard she felt her teeth might crack.

The voices slithered louder, closer, mocking:

“Always too late.”
“Just another dead girl.”

Heather’s breath came sharp, ragged. Her throat burned, words clawing their way out before she could stop them.

“Shut the hell up!” she snapped, voice raw and cracked open. “You don’t get to talk about him like that!”

The words echoed sharply against the tunnel walls, bouncing off the stone, crashing through the dark.

And then—silence.
Horrible, perfect, blistering silence.

Caleb’s head whipped toward her instantly, flashlight beam jittering wildly as he stared, wide-eyed, exasperation mixing with something sharper behind his gaze—concern, fear, again, really?

Max jerked sideways, her stance shifting subtly—ready to move if Heather cracked wide open.

Alice Mae froze, eyes cutting toward her sharply, assessing.

Heather stood there, chest heaving, heat flooding her cheeks, heart pounding hard enough to crack ribs.

They couldn’t hear it.
They hadn’t heard any of it.

Just her.

Just her, yelling at the air like a fucking lunatic while Benji was somewhere down there, silent, probably—

She cut off the thought before it finished, swallowing hard against the bile rising in her throat.

Her voice dropped lower, tighter, cracked with shame and stubborn fury.

"They’re—” she started, then stopped herself. Closed her eyes for half a second, pulling her shit back together. “The whispers are back.”

Caleb’s eyebrows rose higher—half skeptical, half worried—but he didn’t say a word.

Heather shifted her weight, fists clenching again. Her chin came up, defiant, angry, daring the dark to try her again.

She was done running from ghosts.
She was done letting the dark whisper anything it wanted without fighting back.

“If you're gonna taunt me,” she muttered through gritted teeth, low and fierce, “you better come ready to bleed.”

The dark didn’t answer.

But she could swear it smiled.

Heather stayed where she was—
trembling, furious, anchored by a promise she couldn’t break, and a boy she wasn’t going to lose.

Not tonight.
Not ever again.