Page 31 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

Chapter Twenty-four

Graves

T he robotic GPS voice rings through my earphones telling me that my destination is coming up.

I shift into neutral, cut the engine to the quad, and coast to a stop behind a thick cluster of trees.

Removing the earbuds, next to no sound meet my ears.

The forest is eerily calm and quiet, like it’s holding its breath.

The atmosphere is thick— ominous. A foreboding feeling sinking down into my marrow, causing the cold sweat and erratic beat of my heart to return.

Get a grip Nox. You’re her Ghost. Her protector. Her saviour. Go find her. This is the closest you’ve been in weeks.

Shaking out my trepidation, I gear up. The rifle’s slung across my back, knife in its sheath at my side, and my pistol is at the ready as I head for the cabin.

I’m moving quietly through the underbrush when the foliage suddenly clears and a path appears under foot.

The ground is worn from the steady traffic of tires, forming a small road only wide enough for a singular vehicle.

Following it brings me upon a small log building.

I pause, straining my ears to hear even the smallest sign of movement from inside.

No sound comes, and there’s no car in the vicinity…

Should I just walk in unannounced and start searching?

The element of surprise could work in my favour.

However, if I don’t announce myself, and someone who isn’t the killer is here, it would be grounds for them to file some sort of grievance against me.

I silently skulk around the building, coming upon a cellar. The door is open, and the smell emitting from within is one I’m all too familiar with.

“Crystal Creek police department, is anybody down there?” I bellow into the darkness.

Waiting, I hold my breath. Simultaneously hoping Mallory will call out for me so I can rescue her but also that she’s not in this decrepit place.

I’m praying it’s not her decomposing body I smell.

No answering call comes from below and I quickly formulate a plan.

Not wanting someone to get the jump on me, I close the door to the cellar as quietly as possible and return to the front door of the cabin.

Announcing myself again with no reply, I step inside.

There’s a small living room area with a couch and fireplace in front of me, and an even smaller kitchen to my right.

Sitting out in the open is the bola wrap gun.

Gotcha, fucker.

Satisfaction swims through my veins. I knew I was right.

Quickly, I photograph the evidence on my phone then continue on my sweep of the property.

Down an adjacent hallway to the kitchen there are three closed doors.

The first on the right is a bathroom. It’s absolutely disgusting.

Blood peppers the floor, streams of it colouring the side of the tub, and painting the basin within.

The amount is concerning but not enough to be fatal.

Shaking out the tense feeling coiling around me, I move back to the hallway, sweeping the two final rooms. They’re small bedrooms that appear to be unused, but I clear them nonetheless. Thoroughly searching the closets and under the beds. Content that there’s no one here, I head back to the cellar.

The door is still closed when I return, and I take a fraction of a second to mentally prepare myself for whatever may be down there.

Heaving in a deep breath, I steel my nerves and haul it open.

Immediately assaulted again by the noxious stench of decomposition.

Retrieving a small flashlight from my pocket, I ready myself with my weapon and descend the stairs.

The overpowering smell causes my eyes to water, and I’m forcing down the urge to retch and hurl all over the floor.

But I can’t risk compromising the crime scene, even if my thoughts lead me toward the need to tear this room apart, looking for any sign of Mallory’s presence.

She better not have been kept down here.

Hitting the bottom of the staircase, I scan my light over the area as flies buzz annoyingly around the room.

My heart sinks as I pass my light over a clearly deceased woman.

Her hair may be matted with a mix of dirt and blood, but it’s unmistakably blonde in a few spots.

Relief floods through me that it’s not my Mallory.

Guilt immediately flows in after though because this is still someone’s child, someone’s loved one.

She lies bloated in the dirt, tortured and mutilated, throat slit, the end of her life a heinous one.

The corpse is festering with maggots, and lividity suggests this is where she died.

Quickly, I take a mental note of everything I see, ignoring the hope blooming in my chest that Mal is somewhere else and still alive.

I sincerely hope Mallory wasn’t around to witness this woman’s death. There’s no telling the damage it would do to her already fragile mental state.

There’s a chain locked onto an anchor point in the cement wall.

At the other end is a metal shackle of a collar.

It lays open, unlocked, against a blood-stained mattress.

There’s a large dog kennel, and bucket off to the right.

I can’t even begin to picture Mallory in this environment.

My stomach roils as rage floods my system.

My fingers coil inward, clenching my hands into tight fists.

I want to fucking destroy this hellish place, blow it right off the map.

But I can’t.

I can’t lose my shit.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I push away the irate monster flowing beneath my skin, and open the gates to the sanctuary where I keep my memories of Mallory safe.

They wash over me, chasing away the darkness and irrationality.

Her smile unwinds the tension strung tight through my muscles, her big honey eyes unclench my fists, and the way her voice caresses my name recentres me in a way I never knew possible.

Focus.

I reopen my eyes, slowly spinning in place to observe the area one last time.

My booted toe slips under the mattress, and as I turn, it nudges something out from beneath it.

Crouching next to the cadaver, I lift the corner of the mattress with one hand, and retrieve a coiled notebook with the other.

It’s half saturated in rancid bodily fluids but the pages near the beginning are still legible.

Gently flipping through it, I recognize Mallory’s unmistakable handwriting.

It’s a mix of both printing and cursive.

She writes so fluidly, the words just flowing out of her unhindered, that most of the time she forgets to dot her i’s and cross her t’s.

Her writing begins with inconsistent thoughts, jumbled and hard to follow.

Recounting her hate for her parents, moving on to sadness for her situation, then resentment for not being able to live a normal life.

Turning the page, the words I read are heavy with emotion.

She talks about herself in a way I could never understand.

The pen tore at the pages, leaving them shredded through and missing pieces.

Her self-loathing is so thick I can taste it, feel it, sitting heavy on my shoulders.

The pages are tear-stained, and the thought of her down here pouring out her emotions is heart-crushing.

Taking a cleansing breath, I move through the ripped pages, searching for where the writing starts again.

Her next entry is neat, more concise. Mal writes of her kidnapper.

How he’s a cop from my station, and what he looks like.

His motive, and how there are more bodies we don’t know about.

She’s solidifying my theory the more I read, even finding out when he first crossed her path.

She recounts her plan, and dread pools in my gut.

If he found out she was manipulating him, he will kill her.

Turning the page knocks the air from my lungs. “To my Ghost” is written across the top, and what follows could only be considered a goodbye letter from her to myself. It ends with her saying she’ll search endlessly for me in the next life.

Over my dead body, Mallory. We aren’t done living this life yet.

My walkie crackles to life, filling the deathly silent area with my uncle’s broken words.

It’s garbled gibberish that I in no way can understand, but I know if he’s calling, there’s a good reason.

Pressing the button on the mouthpiece attached to my shoulder, I respond.

“Hello? Uncle? I’m here, can you hear me?

” Lifting my thumb off the button, I wait.

Nothing comes through the receiver, I’m out of range this far out and underground.

Turning, I make my way back to the stairs.

Coughing and gasping sharply cuts through the silence, echoing around the dark space and halting me in my tracks.

Every hair on my body stands up as goosebumps erupt across my skin.

“Who’s there?” I bellow, deep authority infused into my voice despite the quaking in my boots.

If this cadaver comes to life, I’m going to shit my pants, and have a heart attack simultaneously.

“Lennox,” a hoarse voice cracks through the atmosphere, coming from in front of me, but there’s no one there.

“Mallory? Is that you?” My voice cracks, treading the line of a sob, as I thoroughly pan my flashlight around the area. “Where are you, baby?”

Drag marks in the dirt carve a path from the centre of the room toward the stairs. They steer around the far side of the staircase, disappearing into the darkness.

“Help.” The voice is a raspy, strained whisper, and I move towards it. Illuminating the pitch-black spot beneath the stairs, I see her .