Chapter 20 - Into the Deep
The spiral staircase was damp and cold, the stone steps slick with condensation. We descended rapidly, our only guide the faint beam of my phone’s flashlight.
The sound of Lily’s crying grew louder, a heartbreaking, desperate sound that tore through the darkness. It was a sound that made every survival instinct in my body scream for violence.
"Slow down," Megan whispered, her hand on my shoulder. "David, they want us to rush. They want us angry and careless."
She was right. My mother’s entire life had been built on chess moves. She didn't just want to hurt us; she wanted us to destroy ourselves trying to save what she took.
We reached the bottom of the stairs. The air here was freezing, smelling of wet earth and fuel oil. It was the basement, but unlike the basement of our cozy Berwyn home, this was a massive, labyrinthine space of stone arches and old coal chutes.
In the center of the main basement room, under a single, bare bulb hanging from a frayed wire, sat a wooden chair.
Tied to the chair with heavy rope was Rachel. She was conscious, but a thick strip of grey duct tape was pressed over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she was shaking violently, her head thrashing as she saw us.
I ran to her, pulling the tape off her mouth in one swift motion.
"I'm sorry! David, I'm so sorry!" Rachel sobbed immediately, her voice raw. "A woman... she reversed into my car right outside the station. When I got out to check, someone hit me from behind. I woke up here. They took Lily, David! Carol took her!"
"Where are they, Rachel?" I asked, frantically untying the thick ropes binding her wrists. "Where did they go?"
"Through there," Rachel gasped, pointing toward a heavy, reinforced steel door at the back of the coal cellar. "There’s an old bomb shelter. A fallout shelter from the fifties. They locked it from the inside. I heard Carol talking to someone... she said the air is running out in there, David. She said Eleanor wants to take Lily with her to the other side."
My breath caught. Stage-four cancer. Eleanor was dying, and in her twisted, psychopathic mind, she believed she could own our daughter in death if she couldn't have her in life.
"Rachel, can you walk?" Megan asked, helping her stand.
"I think so," Rachel whispered, wincing as her feet touched the cold concrete.
"Go up the stairs we just came down," I ordered. "The bedroom door is broken. Find a way out of the house, get to the neighbors, get the police. Don't stop for anything."
"David—"
"Go, Rachel!" I yelled.
She looked at Megan, then at me, and nodded, turning and limping toward the spiral staircase.
Megan and I turned our attention to the steel door. It was cold, industrial, and secured with a heavy, digital keypad lock that glowed a dull, menacing red.
Beside the keypad was a small, built-in speaker.
I pressed the call button.
"Eleanor!" I roared. "Open the door!"
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For a long moment, there was only static. Then, the speaker crackled, and my mother's voice emerged, weaker now, punctuated by a wet, rattling gasp.
"You have always been so loud, David," she whispered. "So full of useless anger. The door will open. But only for one of you. The code will only work if only one person steps inside. If both of you attempt to enter, the locks will engage permanently, and the ventilation will shut down. You have three minutes to choose who gets to say goodbye to your daughter."
