Page 24 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

Finding her pack had seemed like salvation at first. She'd come across it by accident, bumping into it where three tunnels converged. Everything was still there: her water, her emergency supplies, her tablet. Even her geological samples, carefully labeled and stored.

But the map. The damn map.

She traced her fingers over the notes written up and down her left arm, the ink slightly smeared from condensation on the tunnel walls.

She'd started documenting everything after realizing the map had been altered.

Subtle changes at first—a passage marked safe that led to a dangerous drop, a route that should have led to an exit but instead curved deeper into the mountain.

By the time she'd understood what was happening, she'd already followed the false paths too far, lost her original bearing.

Her right arm held different notes: Blood cross—fresh when found. Green lights in darkness—night vision? Water source in NW tunnel—drinkable. Footsteps echo from multiple directions—acoustics or strategy?

She took another small sip from her water bottle, rationing what remained.

The military-grade filter she kept in her pack had proved invaluable, allowing her to safely drink from the underground streams, but she had to be careful.

Had to stay sharp. Had to keep documenting, keep thinking like a scientist even as exhaustion and fear clouded her mind.

Sitting in the darkness, she wondered whether her attacker had deliberately left the pack here for her to find it—and the altered map it contained. What kind of game was he playing? If he wanted her to die down here, he shouldn't have let her find her pack again.

Maybe he wants you alive, she thought. Maybe he's watching right now from the darkness, enjoying your misery. Drinking your suffering.

She shuddered and forced the thoughts aside. She couldn't let her imagination run wild—there were too many frightening possibilities.

The beam of her backup light caught the crystalline structure of the tunnel wall, and for a moment, professional curiosity pushed through her fear.

The geology here didn't match any of the official surveys.

The copper deposits were richer, more extensive than documented.

The veins she'd found showed concentrations of ore that should have kept the mine profitable for decades beyond its reported closure.

It might be the last discovery she ever made.

A sound cut through the darkness—perhaps loose rock settling, perhaps something else.

Diana killed her light immediately, pressing herself deeper into the narrow passage.

Five bullets left. She'd been counting them obsessively, touching each one in the magazine like a rosary bead.

Five chances to survive, assuming she could even see what she was shooting at.

She thought about her sister Carol, probably sick with worry on the surface.

About the samples in her pack that proved the mining company had lied about these deposits playing out.

About the strange marks she'd found carved into the walls—crosses that looked decades old, evidence of someone else who'd once hidden in these tunnels.

But most of all, she thought about the map. The careful, precise alterations. The methodical way her pack had been repacked. Whoever was down here with her, he wasn't some opportunistic killer. He was patient. Methodical.

And he was waiting.

Diana pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the protest of stiff muscles. Staying still meant dying slowly. Moving at least gave her a chance, even if she wasn't sure where she was going.

She clicked her light on, keeping the beam pointed at the ground. The battery was holding steady—she'd been careful about rationing its use—but she couldn't risk drawing attention with too much illumination. Just enough to avoid walking into a shaft or over a ledge.

Her geological training helped her read the tunnels, even with minimal light.

The way water flowed, the slope of the floor, the patterns of erosion—they all told stories about depth and direction.

She might not know exactly where she was, but she could tell she was gradually moving upward through the system.

Unless, of course, that's exactly what he wanted her to think.

A draft of air caught her attention—slight but distinct. She paused, holding her hand out to feel its direction. Air movement usually meant a connection to the surface, but it could also indicate a deeper shaft drawing air downward.

Still, following an air current was better than wandering blindly.

She followed the draft, marking her path with small arrows scratched into the wall. Not that she entirely trusted her own marks anymore—she'd found some of her earlier ones altered or obscured. But she had to try something.

The tunnel widened into what had once been a major excavation chamber. Support beams criss-crossed the ceiling, many rotting with age and moisture. Her light caught something odd near the far wall—a darker area that seemed to absorb the beam rather than reflect it.

Diana moved closer, gun ready, trying to stay silent on the debris-strewn floor. As she approached, details emerged from the darkness.

A foam sleeping pad. A military-style backpack. Empty water bottles and MRE wrappers carefully collected in a plastic bag.

Someone had been living here. Recently.

She swept her light around the area, taking in more details. A small camping stove. A battery-powered lantern. A stack of technical manuals about mining equipment. Everything was meticulously organized, almost obsessively neat.

Then her beam caught something that made her breath catch—a wall of photographs. Dozens of them, carefully arranged in neat rows. Some were clearly old, yellowed with age. Others looked recent. She stepped closer, careful to stay aware of the chamber's entrances.

The photos showed people in the mines. Workers from decades past, standing proudly with their equipment. More recent images of hikers and explorers, clearly taken without their knowledge. And in the center...

Diana's hand shook slightly, causing the beam to waver. In the center were photos of Tyler Matthews. Marcus Reed. Their images captured in the darkness, unaware they were being watched. Being hunted.

A final photo caught her eye—herself, taken just days ago, photographing mineral samples in the north tunnel. She was focused on her work, completely oblivious to being observed.

Something else hung on the wall beside the photos—a cross, old and tarnished. Not just decorative, but worn smooth in places, as if someone had handled it obsessively over many years.

This wasn't just a camp. It was a shrine. A memorial. A testament to whatever twisted purpose drove the killer to stalk these tunnels.

A rock clattered somewhere in the darkness behind her.

Diana spun, raising her gun, but her light showed only empty tunnel. The sound came again—closer this time? Farther away? The mine's acoustics made it impossible to tell.

She had to move. Had to get away from this place. But as she turned to leave, something caught her eye. Partially hidden behind the sleeping pad was a tunnel entrance she hadn't noticed before. It was smaller than the others, clearly man-made rather than part of the original mine.

Diana moved toward the small tunnel, keeping her gun ready. Behind her, another rock clattered—definitely closer this time. She had seconds to decide: risk the unknown tunnel or retreat the way she'd come.

Making a split decision, she hurried into the smaller passage and clicked off her light. Pressed against the rough wall, she tried to control her breathing, to stay silent as footsteps entered the chamber outside.

They were unhurried, confident. The sound of someone who knew exactly where he was going. She stayed absolutely still, grateful for the darkness of her hiding spot.

"I know you're here." The voice was soft, almost gentle. "I found your marks on the walls. Clever way of tracking your path."

Diana didn't move, didn't breathe. Five bullets left. But shooting blindly would only give away her position.

"You've survived longer than the others," the voice continued. "Most people panic in the darkness. Run until they're lost, exhausted. But you..." A pause. "You're different. Methodical. Like me."

The footsteps moved closer to her hiding spot. Diana eased backward into the tunnel, feeling her way along the wall. The passage sloped upward slightly—definitely man-made.

"Did you like my collection?" The voice was closer now. "All those people who came to these mines, thinking they understood darkness. Thinking they could just... visit it. Like tourists."

Another step backward. The tunnel curved. She clicked her light on for a split second, just long enough to see that the passage continued upward. Then she turned it off.

"The darkness isn't meant for visitors," the voice said, growing fainter as she moved away. "It's meant for teaching. For revelation. My father understood that, even if his methods were... flawed."

Diana kept moving, not daring to use her light again. The tunnel's slope increased, and the air felt different—cooler, fresher. Was this his private entrance to the mine system? A way to come and go unseen?

The voice came one last time, distant now: "We'll talk again soon. After the darkness has had more time to work on you."

Diana pressed onward, hope mixing with terror. This tunnel had to lead somewhere. But would it lead to freedom?

Or was she walking into another carefully laid trap?

The tunnel grew narrower as it climbed, forcing Diana to turn sideways in places to squeeze through. Her shoulder scraped against rough stone, but she kept moving. The air definitely felt different here—there was a current to it, a movement that suggested a connection to the surface.

She risked using her light again, just for a moment. The beam showed wooden support beams ahead, older than the ones in the main mine system. This tunnel had been dug long ago, probably by someone who wanted private access to the mines. A miner creating his own entrance, maybe, or...

Or a father teaching his son about darkness.

My father understood that, even if his methods were... flawed.

The stranger's words replayed in her mind. Something about the way he'd said it—there was history here. Personal history. The kind, perhaps, that turned people into monsters.

Diana's foot caught on something, nearly sending her sprawling. She steadied herself against the wall, then carefully aimed her light downward. A chain lay half-buried in the tunnel floor, old and rusted. At one end was a manacle, sized for a child's wrist.

"Shit," she whispered, the implications hitting her. This wasn't just a private entrance. It was a punishment chamber. A place where someone—

A sound came up from below. Her attacker, following her.

Diana switched off her light and kept climbing. The tunnel grew steeper, the air cooler. Her legs burned with exhaustion, but she pushed on. There had to be an exit. Had to be a way out.

Unless she was playing right into his hands. Unless this tunnel was just another lesson in his twisted curriculum.

She reached the end of the tunnel and her light beam caught the ceiling—a heavy trapdoor of steel and wood, secured with a padlock that gleamed dully in her flashlight beam. So close. The fresh air seeping through the edges of the door told her the surface was just above.

Diana stretched up, fingers finding the cold metal of the lock. She yanked at it frantically, but it held firm. The door itself was even more solid—no amount of pushing or shoulder-ramming made it budge.

Footsteps reverberated from below, measured and unhurried. Getting closer.

"Come on," she whispered, pulling at the lock again. But it was industrial-grade, meant to keep people out—or in. No amount of desperate strength would break it.

The footsteps grew louder. Diana clicked off her light and pressed her back against the wall beside the trapdoor. Five bullets. She had to make them count. Had to wait until he was close enough that she couldn't miss in the darkness.

She steadied her breathing, the way she'd practiced at the range. Aim center mass. Don't hesitate. Her finger found the trigger as the footsteps drew nearer.

Suddenly she understood what drove people mad down here—the weight of the mountain above, the knowledge that tons of rock separated you from the sky.

But she wasn't going to break. It wasn't going to become another photo on his wall of victims.

The footsteps stopped. Just around the last bend in the tunnel. Waiting.

Diana raised her gun and aimed at the corner where he would appear.

Five bullets. One chance.