Chapter 163

Chapter 163
[Claire's POV]

I stared out the window, my reflection a ghost against the passing buildings. My mind kept circling back to the same images—those bodies in the VIP room at The Underground, James standing there with blood on his hands, the surgical precision of those cuts.

"I can't believe James did all that," I said, my voice harder than I intended. "The serial murders. Those people who hurt cats. Swan Lake. The explosion." My hands clenched in my lap. "I remember when we were kids, he was so gentle. So kind. He'd spend his lunch breaks feeding stray cats behind the school."

Samantha's eyes flicked to me, then back to the road. "Could it be Benjamin leaving?" she asked. "I mean, his father disappearing for ten years—that kind of abandonment could break someone."

I thought about that. About the James I'd known in elementary school, before everything changed. "Maybe," I said quietly. The anger drained out of me, replaced by something heavier. Confusion. Grief for the boy he'd been.

We drove in silence for a while. The residential neighborhoods gave way to older streets, houses from decades past with peeling paint and overgrown yards. When Samantha finally pulled up in front of Maple Street, the house looked exactly like abandonment felt.

Two stories of weathered wood and broken dreams. Windows like empty eye sockets. The yard was a tangle of dead grass and bare branches. In the fading light, it looked less like a house and more like a corpse.

"We searched this place before," Samantha said as we got out. "But only quick passes through the main rooms. There's probably a lot we missed."

I nodded, eyeing the darkening sky. The last strip of sunset was dissolving into purple-black. "Yeah. Though I don't know what we'll find in the dark."

Anxiety coiled in my stomach. Not just about the time—about what we might discover. Or might not.

Samantha pulled out her flashlight, her face serious in the dim light. "Be careful, Claire. If James has been here, we don't know what we're walking into."

She didn't need to remind me. I could still see him in that VIP room, still hear the way he'd said my name. Like I was a stranger wearing a childhood friend's face.

The front door wasn't locked—we'd made sure of that during the previous search. It creaked open on rusty hinges. Darkness swallowed us whole.

Our flashlight beams cut through the gloom, catching dust motes and cobwebs. The first floor smelled of mold and abandonment. Living room: furniture shrouded in dusty sheets. Kitchen: empty cabinets, a sink stained with rust. Dining room: a table with one broken leg, listing to the side like a sinking ship.

Nothing. No signs of recent activity. No clues.

We climbed the stairs, wood groaning under our feet. Second floor: bedrooms stripped bare, a bathroom with a cracked mirror, a study with empty bookshelves. The wallpaper peeled in long strips, revealing water stains underneath.

Still nothing.

Twenty minutes later, we stood back in the first-floor living room. My flashlight beam swept across the sheet-covered furniture one more time, desperate and exhausted.

"Maybe Adrian was wrong," I said. The disappointment tasted bitter. "Maybe James isn't here anymore. Maybe he never—"

My foot came down on something that didn't sound right.

Thunk.

Not the hollow sound of old floorboards. Something deeper. More empty.

I froze.

Samantha's flashlight swung to my feet instantly. "Wait—that sound."

We looked at each other. Then down.

I was standing on the edge of a large rug, threadbare and faded. Together, we grabbed the corners and pulled. Dust billowed up, making us cough, but we didn't stop until the rug lay crumpled against the wall.

There, in the floorboards: a square outline. Maybe three feet across. An iron ring set into one edge.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Samantha crouched, shining her light along the edges. Fresh scratches marred the wood—recent disturbances in the dust. The iron ring showed wear, like hands had gripped it many times.

She aimed her flashlight through the crack. I leaned over her shoulder, peering down.

Wooden stairs descended into absolute darkness. Cold air wafted up, carrying the smell of damp earth and something else. Something stale and old and wrong.

"We should call Marcus," Samantha said, but her hand was already on the ring.

"Wait." I grabbed her wrist. My mind raced. "Should we... I mean, do we just go down there?"

She looked up at me, flashlight casting harsh shadows across her face. "It feels deep. And we don't know what's down there." A pause. "Maybe we should wait for Marcus. Let him bring a team."

The words made sense. They were rational. Safe.

But James had been here. I was certain of it. And every second we waited was a second he could be getting further away. Or doing something terrible.

My teeth worried my lower lip. "I don't want to lose this chance."

"I know." Samantha's voice was gentle but firm. "But rushing in blind is how people get hurt. Or killed."

We stared at each other in the darkness, flashlight beams crossing like swords. The house creaked around us. Outside, full night had fallen.

"Okay," I started to say. "Maybe you're right—"

BANG.

The sound exploded from deep below. Metal slamming against metal—a door, or something heavy hitting a surface. The impact was so powerful I felt it through the floorboards under my knees.

I sucked in a breath, scrambling backward. My flashlight beam went wild across the walls.

Then: silence. Thick and absolute.

Then: softer sounds. Chains? Metal scraping against metal? Brief and muffled and then gone.

"Oh my God." My voice came out strangled. I stared at the black square of the basement entrance, my whole body rigid. "Samantha. Someone's down there."

She was already moving, gun appearing in her hand with practiced speed. She positioned herself between me and the opening, weapon trained on the darkness below.

"Get back, Claire." Her voice had gone cold and professional. "Now."

I stumbled backward, but my eyes stayed locked on that entrance. On the darkness that had just made noise. That definitely, absolutely contained something alive.

Someone alive.

Was it James? Had he been down there this whole time, listening to us search? Or was it someone else? Another victim?

The basement stayed silent. As if whatever was down there was also listening. Also waiting.

Also aware that we were up here.

Samantha's gun didn't waver. Her other hand found her phone. I could hear my own breathing, too fast and too loud in the dead air.