Page 7 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

He watched from the tree line as they examined Tyler Matthews' body, cataloging every movement, every reaction.

The sheriff and her father were thorough—he had to give them that.

They noticed details others might have missed, like the cross he'd made Tyler draw.

A final act of contrition, though Tyler had fought against it until the end.

They don't understand yet, he thought, adjusting his position behind a thick pine. But they will.

A few stray snowflakes fell around him, catching in his beard, melting against his skin.

He barely felt the cold anymore. Years of working these tunnels had changed him, hardened him against discomfort.

The same tunnels where his father had locked him as punishment, leaving him alone in the darkness for days at a time.

"Builds character," Frank would say afterward, unlocking the heavy chain that secured the entrance. "A real man faces his fears."

Yes, his time in the darkness certainly had built character, though perhaps not the kind of character Frank had intended, as he must have realized in his final moments.

But that was nature's way: survival of the fittest. Not God's way, perhaps, but it was a fallen world, a shadow of what it was supposed to be.

Putting aside these thoughts, he watched as the coroner examined Tyler's head wound. Did the coroner have any idea what had dealt the blows?

The item itself—a shovel passed down to the man from his father—lay cleaned and oiled in his workshop now, ready for the next time he needed it. Everything in its place, his father had taught him. Keep your tools maintained.

He remembered Tyler's final moments with perfect clarity.

The boy had lasted longer in the darkness than expected—two nights of wandering the tunnels, calling out for help, slowly losing his grip on reality.

The man had followed him the entire time with his night-vision goggles, a silent predator watching Tyler's descent into terror.

There, in the darkness, he had tested Tyler. And Tyler had been found wanting.

When Tyler finally found an exit, the dawn light had nearly blinded him. He'd fallen to his knees, weeping with relief. It was short-lived, however. Soon, the darkness found him again—for good, this time.

Now, watching the sheriff photograph the cross, the man felt a familiar stirring. The urge to share his gift again. To help another entitled soul understand the truth about darkness and faith.

He shifted his weight, sensing movement in his peripheral vision.

A deer, probably. The animals were used to his presence up here.

His cabin sat less than a mile away, hidden in a stand of pines.

The basement held his workshop, his supplies, and most importantly, his own private entrance to the mine system.

His father had built that entrance years ago, before the drinking got bad, before the punishments started.

"Every miner needs his own way in," Frank had said.

"In case of cave-ins." He'd died in those same tunnels years later, though not from any cave-in.

His death had been more… dramatic. More fitting.

The sheriff was speaking to her father now, their voices carrying faintly on the wind.

Something about the mine historian, about mapping the tunnels.

The man smiled. Let them try. He'd spent decades learning these passages, memorizing every twist and turn until he could navigate them blindfolded.

They were his domain now, his church where lost souls could find redemption through suffering.

He thought of Marcus Reed, the urban explorer whose videos he'd been studying.

Such arrogance, treating these sacred spaces like tourist attractions.

Filming them for likes and subscribers, making light of their dark power.

Yes, Marcus would be next. He had already begun preparing, studying Marcus's patterns, learning his weaknesses.

The wind shifted, carrying voices more clearly.

"...serial killer profile..." the sheriff was saying.

"Too early to assume that," her father responded.

But the man knew they were right to worry. Tyler Matthews had only been the beginning. There were so many others who needed to learn to understand the gifts that darkness could bring. The peace that came with accepting your fears, embracing them until they became strength.

He touched the cross hanging from his neck—his father's cross, taken from his cooling body all those years ago. A reminder that salvation came through suffering, just as his father had taught him.

Deciding he'd seen all he cared to see here, the man turned away and moved silently through the trees. He had preparations to make. Marcus Reed's latest video showed him planning to explore an abandoned mine near Coldwater later today. No time to waste.

Walking home through the deepening snow, he smiled. Some would call him a monster. But monsters lived in darkness. He had become something else entirely—a teacher, showing others the path to enlightenment through the same dark tunnels that had shaped him.

His father would be proud.