Slowly, then all at once, the small area is lit up.
Jimmy peeks his head in the hole, casting a shadow on the ground. Odd. I thought demons didn’t have shadows. “We’ve brought you company,” he says as his head disappears from view.
A larger portion of the light is blocked out, and something heavy falls from the opening, landing on the floor with an audible thud. Jimmy laughs and his form leaves the door, sliding something heavy over top.
The floor lump moves, the dirt and loose pebbles scratching together.
“Are you okay, Ms. Joslin?”
“Pete!” I squint in the dark, not wanting to turn the light on yet in case they are waiting outside.
He sits up. “That’s me.”
“What are you doing here?” It’s a simple question that doesn’t do our situation justice, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.
He laughs, the sound quickly turning into a cough. “I saw you get out of the van and knew something was wrong. I thought I’d come and stage a rescue. Fat lot of good that did.”
“Oh, Pete.” I flick the light on, and bend down to get a closer look at him. “Are you hurt?”
His wrinkled face is smeared with dirt, and his shirt looks ripped in the shoulder, but there isn’t an obvious wound. He holds out his shaking hands and flips them over. “Just a few scrapes. Nothing to worry about.”
He’s right and wrong. In a healthy, young person they aren’t concerning, but Pete is suffering from alcoholism. Our prison isn’t a place he should be. Hell, neither of us should be here.
“Give me a minute. I’m going to get us out of here.” I shuffle back to my crate and place it in front of the cellar opening. Jumping did me no good, but maybe with more height, I’ll be able to push the door and whatever is on top of it open.
I line the crate up in the middle the door and, after careful consideration, push it a few inches to the side.
"What are you doing?" Pete asks.
I step up onto the crate, the added boost bringing me closer to the door. "I'm busting us out of here."
With a carefully calculated push, I throw all my weight into it. I'm able to lift the door the highest yet, but I still don't have enoughumphto swing it open. I use a few seconds to peek around outside and see if I can determine what they're using on top of the door, but from my angle, I can't make anything out.
There has to be a way out of the situation. I refuse to go out in this style. If I'm to die young, it has to be from something cool like a bungee-jumping accident or stage diving at a Metallica concert. I hold the door open a few inches until my arms tire and it sags lower and lower.
Something cold and wet rubs against the edge of my palm, and I rip my hand away and inside, my outstretched arms falling more.
"What?" Pete stands and comes to look out the opening for himself.
"Something touched me." I'm so tired of being touched by unidentified things.
Pete stretches onto his tiptoes. "It's a dog."
"What?" I heave open the door, widening the space a few more millimeters.
Sure enough, when I lean closer for a better look, a big black nose greets me. A dog drawing attention to the fact I have the door open is the last thing we need right now.
It gets worse when the dog barks.
"Shhhhh," I whisper as loud as possible. Because we all know dogs speak so much English.
The dog claws at the edges of the opening. Little white dots on one of her big black paws catch my attention. "Frankie?"
The dog keeps digging but there's no doubt in my mind this is Spencer's dog. Frankie found us.
"It's Spencer's dog, Frankie." I turn back to Pete and whisper.
"Who is Spencer?"
