The Hiding Place(77)

“He did.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Some places have to want to be found. It takes someone special to do that. Not someone like Hurst. Someone like you.”

He debates, and then says: “Hurst knew about the cave. A lot of the kids had heard rumors. He knew I came up here. He wanted me to help him look for a way in.”

I nod. “And you did.”

“I just kind of stumbled over it.”

“Yeah. That happens.”

He sits down beside me.

“You want me to take you.”

“Not really. But I need you to take me.”

“You said it was important.”

“It is.”

He seems to notice the backpack for the first time. “What’s in there?”

“Probably best if you don’t know.”

Silence for a moment. Then he stands. “Let’s go.”

I push myself to my feet. As I follow him down the hill he says, “You know, you shouldn’t offer sweets to strange kids.”

Maybe he does have a sense of humor after all.


—



There is no hatch this time. Instead, I find myself staring at a thick, semicircular grille beneath a low, rocky overhang. The metal is rusted almost the same color as the earth and camouflaged by overgrown weeds and thorns. Marcus pushes them aside and carefully removes the grille. It’s heavy and I can see gouge marks on the edges where it must have been forced open.

At some point the villagers tried to seal off all the entrances, I think. But they couldn’t silence the pit. Couldn’t stop it calling. To Chris. To Marcus.

I take out the flashlight I brought and point it into the hole. I can see that this tunnel is less steep than the one from my youth. But it’s small, barely two feet high. I will have to crawl. This is not a comforting thought.

“It’s about five minutes till it opens up and you reach some steps,” Marcus says. “They take you all the way down.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you going to stop people going down there?”

“That’s the plan. You okay with that?”

“I suppose.” He stares at me. “You know, you’re a weird sort of teacher.”

“I’m a weird sort of human. But weird isn’t always bad. Remember that.”

He gives a small nod. And I’m not sure, but it looks like a smile momentarily grazes his lips before he turns and lopes away.

The thin sun catches him on the brow of the hill. It illuminates his hair in a lighter halo. For a second, he looks like the ghost of a boy I once knew. Then he descends into shadow and both ghost and boy are gone.


—



My progress along the tunnel is slow and crablike. My bad leg throbs constantly. Several times I stop and consider turning back. But turning itself is an issue, so I crouch and shuffle onward, fighting the cloying claustrophobia rising in my throat and wincing every time the backpack on my back bumps against the tunnel roof.

After what seems like several decades—during which my knees have been scraped raw and my spine has developed a permanent hunch—the tunnel widens enough for me to stand, albeit bent over. Steep steps lead down to what appears to be a solid rock wall. I run the flashlight over it. The light reveals a narrow gap, almost hidden in the depths of the shadows. Of course. Another way in, or out. It explains how Annie disappeared. Why I couldn’t find her. I squeeze through.

Twenty-five years fall away. I’m standing in the cave from my childhood nightmares. It feels slightly smaller. Shrunk by my adult perspective. The ceiling is not so high or cathedralesque. The space not so vast. This doesn’t stop my scalp from bristling with ice.

A few skulls lie on the ground, along with some crushed cans of Woodpecker and cigarette butts. There are holes in the walls where Hurst and Fletch wreaked their wanton destruction but, higher up, the rock is still intricately inlaid with yellow and white bones. I stare at them. The ones who didn’t come back. Left to be used as macabre decorations, or perhaps some kind of offering.

I wonder how long this place has been here. Hundreds, thousands of years? Amazing that the mining didn’t destroy it. Or was it the other way around? I think about the Arnhill Colliery Disaster. Despite all the investigations, never fully explained. No one ever held accountable. And what about the other accidents? There must be mine shafts beneath the cave. Did the miners get too close? Did they threaten the ancient excavation that came before them? A place that had been here for centuries, lying dormant, waiting.

I walk slowly around, breathing deeply, trying to keep myself calm. This is just a cave. The dead cannot hurt us. Bones are just bones. Shadows are nothing but shadows. Except shadows are never just shadows. They are the deepest part of the darkness. And the deepest part of the darkness is where the monsters hide.

I need to do this quickly.

I take the item that Gloria brought me out of my backpack. My hands are shaking, I am slick with sweat. I fumble, swear, catch myself. I have to do this right. Fuck this up and I will take myself apart. I place it carefully—oh so carefully—in the center of the cave, my bandaged hand making me feel stupidly clumsy. Then I back away. I force myself to turn. I can hear them chittering now. A warning. A threat. I squeeze through the gap and hobble as fast as I can up the steps. I tell myself to be careful, that hurrying, careless steps are what they want. A trip, a fall—like before—would send me plunging back down.