Left. I’ll go left.
The passage grows narrower, the ceiling lower.
I have to duck my head, and the walls press in on both sides. My breathing quickens, becomes shallow.
The air feels thicker here, harder to pull into my lungs.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Just keep moving.
But the walls keep closing in, and suddenly I’m seven years old again, locked in that closet because I forgot to clean my room.
My father’s voice echoes in my memory.“You’ll stay in there until I tell you you can come out.”The darkness had been absolute, suffocating. I’d screamed until my throat was raw, pounded on the door until my hands were bruised.
He’d left me there for hours, the tv in the next room loud and burying my cries.
No. Don’t think about that. Focus on getting out.
I force myself forward, but my legs feel like lead.
The tunnel curves sharply, and I nearly trip over something on the ground. I swing my flashlight down and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Chains.
Rusted shackles attached to iron rings embedded in the stone wall.
And beside them, dark stains that could be anything but probably aren’t.
Oh god.
My stomach heaves, and I press my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
How many people has Mikhail brought down here?
How many have died in these tunnels, their screams swallowed by stone and earth?
I back away from the chains, my flashlight beam jerking wildly.
I need to get out.
Need to find another way.
But when I turn around, the tunnel looks different.
Did I come from the left or the right?
There was a curve, wasn’t there?
Or was it straight?
Panic claws at my chest. I spin in a circle, trying to orient myself, but every direction looks the same.
Stone walls, dripping water, darkness pressing in from all sides.
The flashlight flickers.
No. No, no, no.
I shake it desperately, and the beam steadies for a moment before flickering again.
