The Talent Diary

by Chris McFarland

  Chapter 15: The Tunnel

  There was a moment of silence, stunned and tense. The wind gusted again, blowing over them, chilling Samantha’s uncovered skin.

  “From my basement,” Mr. Henson repeated. “I have a home theater set up down there and I occasionally enjoy watching movies with full surround sound. I was watching a movie not fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Please explain why that explains anything,” Officer Martinez said, sounding angry.

  “Well, I heard you mention that tunnel and I’m sure you know it runs right under my house. I’m probably the only house on the block that has a basement and there is one of those annoying metal doors located right in the basement floor. I have it covered with a couple of speakers and I’m sure that is what caused the sound that Samantha here must have heard.”

  Mr. Henson looked down at her, his eyes unreadable in the evening half-light. Then he gave her a quick wink.

  “You know about the tunnel,” Officer Robinson asked.

  “Of course. I knew about it when I moved in and played in it quite often when I was still back in high school. It’s been sealed up for years now, of course. Sorry for the confusion but that is certainly understandable under the circumstances.”

  He paused and looked at Mrs. Wilson, her tears starting all over again.

  “You mean that wasn’t Mark down there after all,” she cried. “You said he was there. You said he was.”

  Mr. Wilson put his arm around her, his face gentle now, and disappointed. He started to escort her back towards their house, where Samantha could now see Cliff standing in the front doorway, silhouetted against an internal light. The going was slow and they all watched them walk away, even the police officers. Officer Martinez closed his notebook with a frustrated snap.

  The Wilsons got up to their house, the only sound the wind and Mrs. Wilson’s cries. Then the door closed and they were gone.

  “Well, thank you for your information, Mr. Henson,” Officer Martinez said. “You saved us a trip back into that wet bamboo.”

  “My pleasure officers, although I hate giving bad news.”

  They nodded and walked back to the police car. Sandra also turned and walked back to her house, leaving Mr. Henson and Samantha standing on the sidewalk. The officers got in their car and started the engine, pulling away. Samantha watched them go in disbelief.

  “Lost your friend, huh,” Mr. Henson said, “I bet that makes you sad.”

  Startled, Samantha turned and looked at him.

  “Yeah, I can tell you are sad by looking at you. It’s always hard to tell how grief will affect people, you know. You can never tell how someone will respond to the death of someone close to them until it happens. And you don’t look like the type that can handle it, young Ms. Branson. Just like your grandfather.”

  Disgusted, Samantha started walking up to her own house, rubbing at her bare arms to warm them.

  “I bet you’re even more upset that you couldn’t use your newfangled abilities to help him,” Mr. Henson said.

  Samantha’s first panicked thought was that her mother would hear what he was saying and that her secret would be lost. However, Sandra had already gone inside so Samantha turned to Mr. Henson.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about” she said.

  “Don’t you,” Mr. Henson asked.

  “No. And I heard about what happened back when you were younger. My Grandpa told me.”

  “Oh did he?” Mr. Henson took a step closer to her. “I bet that made for an interesting story. But I bet he didn’t tell you everything and I bet you know that, don’t you.”

  Samantha looked at him carefully and with some curiosity, but in the end her disgust was what determined her actions and she walked up the sidewalk to her front door.

  The evening continued. Before dinner time seemed to stop completely, as Sandra mentioned repeatedly how she should have never called the police and the thought of Mrs. Wilson’s disappointment went straight to her heart and lingered. The first time Sandra started talking about her regrets Samantha tried to defend herself. The second time she ignored her mother and let her talk, realizing in some distant way her mother was not blaming anyone in particular but the situation as a whole. Still, it made for an unpleasant scene because Samantha and Sandra were making dinner in the kitchen together. Thomas was over at Neil’s house again, another fact that made her mother angry.

  “Grandpa will probably be over for dinner again,” Sandra said. “Not that I mind him being over so much because it’s great to see Neil and your father getting along. But he might as well move in if he plans to be here so often.”

  “You think he might be here again tonight,” Samantha asked, worried about her plans.

  “I bet he will be,” Sandra said.

  That made the wait even worse and time slowed down another notch as Samantha now had something else to worry about. She was still determined to explore the tunnel herself and she didn’t trust Mr. Henson or his explanation. She knew what she heard could have been a movie but she didn’t think it was. How could he have known about her talent though? Or was he just teasing her, remembering old stories that must circulated about her grandfather after he kicked the football off the field?

  She didn’t trust Mr. Henson, but did she trust her grandfather anymore either? She thought angrily about how Neil set Mr. Stillson to spy on her. Even if he did it out of concern it was an awful thing to do. And what to think of Mr. Stillson? He saved her from the nurse but why did she feel so uneasy around him most of the time? Was it because he was spying even though he didn’t think it the right thing to do? What did he say? He had to do it because it was the honorable choice. Unbelievable. Did she not trust him because he hurt his back and didn’t tell her why? Samantha could trust her friends and her parents but she couldn’t tell them the most important thing about herself. It was so very frustrating.

  She was chopping celery and grating carrots, not watching what she was doing, and she scraped the top of her hand on the grater, causing the middle knuckle to bleed. She put her hand under cold water and watched the blood seep to the surface of her wound, then get entrained in the flow and spiral down the drain.

  As Samantha was drying her hand and the scrap was beginning to clot, the front door opened. Samantha did not hear voices. A moment later Thomas walked around the corner of the wall and smiled at them. Sandra walked over to him and gave him a hug and kiss.

  “Smells good,” Thomas said, but he sounded distracted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. Long day, that’s all.”

  “Where’s your Dad,” Sandra asked, looking around the corner and back towards the front door. “Is he getting something out of the car?”

  “No. He isn’t coming tonight.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said, looking relieved and unable to hide it.

  “Yeah. He was in a grouchy mood all day,” Thomas said quietly. “Actually, he was a lot more like how he used to be. I had not seen him that way in awhile. Not too much fun. By the end he even admitted he wasn’t feeling well. Dizzy and nauseous he said.”

  Samantha looked up from the lettuce she was shredding. Up to that point she was just happy her Grandpa wouldn’t be over for dinner. At the news he was feeling dizzy and nauseous, exactly how she herself felt when she had a draining, a tremendous bolt of excitement coursed through her.

  If her Grandpa felt weak because of a draining, that meant she was the only one who could be pulling that strength. That meant she would live to be as least as old as her grandfather, because otherwise he would never have felt the draining. If she lived until her grandfather’s age it meant nothing bad was going to happen to her tonight in the tunnel. Samantha was so excited she put down the lettuce, walked out of the kitchen, and passed her parents without a word. She went straight into her room and proceeded to pace in front of her bed, trying to calm down by focusing on the mountains and forests painted on the bottom of her wall. She couldn’t calm d
own, though, because now that she knew she was going to be alright, she wanted to get into the tunnel as quickly as possible.

  About ten minutes later she opened her bedroom door, feeling a little better, and then stopped cold. What if her Grandpa was only ill and it had nothing to do with the talent? If he was sick then it meant nothing for her. Pausing in the hallway, thinking hard, Samantha felt something brush the end of her nose. Startled, she jerked back, and saw her father standing there, waving a hand in front of her face.

  “Earth to Samantha,” he said. “You there?”

  “Yeah. Hi Dad. I was just thinking about something.”

  “Hey, your Mom told me about what happened this afternoon. I think you did the right thing,” Thomas said.

  “I thought it was Mark.”

  “I know. Was it a good day at school?”

  “Sure. Not much happened.”

  “Your Mom said that Cliff was back in class today. How was he?”

  “He seemed too happy.”

  Thomas looked surprised at her answer, and then his mouth settled into its usual half smile and he nodded, as if he understood completely. Samantha doubted that he understood it the way she did, however.

  “Well, I’m glad everything is going well. I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner.”

  Samantha remembered her Grandpa’s diary and turned back to her room and closed the door. She had forgotten to look at the old book before school and had been too distressed after her conversation with Neil the night before to even think of reading. Papers and books cluttered her desk to their usual depth. She shuffled a couple of papers around and heard a metallic thump as something shifted further down the pile. She saw the diary under an assignment from class.

  She opened it and heard the cloth binding crinkle under her fingers. The pages were old and brittle but hung together well. She flipped forward to the day her grandfather was as old as she was at that moment. There was the story her grandfather had told her the night before, written in the shaky hand of a young boy who had earlier that day beaten another boy unconscious. None of her Grandpa’s long remorse was evident in the entry. Instead, the passage read like a play-by-play account of a victorious warrior.

  She read the entry several times, nearly forgetting why she was doing so in her attempt to understand how her grandfather could have been the boy writing the words in front of her. Would she feel the same way at some point in the future? Would she look back at this night as one of the worst decisions of her life? She closed the book, realizing she was determined to stick with her plan. The antics of her grandfather, as interesting and disgusting as they were, had no relevance except for the fact she might need to use her talent tonight while her grandfather was using his fifty years before.

  Nervous, she put the diary back on the dresser and picked up her own. She hadn’t been writing in it enough and she knew it, but she wasn’t going to correct that bad habit now. Dinner would be any moment and she felt too jittery to sit down and write about her day. Instead, Samantha walked to the kitchen.

  “So you decided to run off and leave me to make dinner all by myself,” Sandra said, half joking.

  “Sorry Mom. I forgot something in my room.”

  “Can you finish setting the table please?”

  Samantha grabbed the silverware and set it beside the three plates already on the table. Sandra was looking down the hall, her head cocked to one side.

  “It sounds like your father has finished with his shower. We might as well get the food too.”

  Samantha helped her mother carry over the casserole dish, the corn dish, and the salad bowl. They finished as Thomas approached in a thick bathrobe, with moist hair sticking up from a wrapped towel.

  “I could smell this in the shower and couldn’t wait any longer,” he said, sitting down at the table.

  “Yes, you have a rough life dear,” Sandra said.

  “I know, I know. Dinner with two lovely ladies. Could my life get any worse?”

  Thomas spooned a large helping of the casserole onto his plate and passed the dish to Samantha. She took a spoonful to avoid suspicion, but she had never felt less hungry in her life. She passed the dish to her mother and asked the question of most concern.

  “Was it still windy out there Dad?”

  “Sure it was. Can’t you hear it?”

  “Yeah, but I was wondering if it was still as windy as it was this afternoon. When we were outside with the… when we were outside earlier it was really cold.”

  “If anything it’s windier now than it was this afternoon. When I was over at your grandfather’s we had the news on and they were forecasting thirty-five mile an hour winds all through tonight. It should stay cold all day tomorrow and we might even have frost tomorrow night. I’ll need to get some of the plants covered tomorrow afternoon.”

  Samantha nodded. She tried to imagine how cold it would feel later on, outside at night, and couldn’t. She would have to wear as many layers as possible.

  Dinner stretched on, time slowing to a crawl. Her father told them about cleaning Neil’s house and all the interesting items they were finding. Not for the first time, Samantha found herself wondering why her grandfather was spending so much time cleaning his house. Was he planning to move, maybe even in with them? They had found an old baseball mitt from the sixties, a long lost photo album, and her grandfather’s collection of beer cans. Sandra sniffed her nose at this and asked how many cockroaches they found in between all the priceless relics.

  After another few minutes, Samantha asked, “Can I be excused?”

  Thomas looked at her plate. “You’ve hardly eaten anything. Your migraine isn’t coming back, is it?”

  “I’m fine. I guess I’m not hungry tonight for some reason.”

  “Alright then. I guess you’re excused.”

  “Just put your dish in the sink tonight dear,” Sandra said, “I’ll get the dishes.”

  Samantha looked at her, surprised, because she was always supposed to wash her own dish immediately. She shrugged and carried her plate over to the sink. Then she walked back to her room again, feeling as if she had just missed something important.

  Once in her room, however, Samantha wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake by leaving the table, because there seemed an unbelievable lack of things to do inside her room. Nothing sounded good. The thought of writing in her diary was almost painful. The thought of reading seemed too lethargic considering her plans for the evening. She briefly considered drawing a new picture on her wall but that seemed too contrived. A million ideas streamed into her head and all of them were rejected instantaneously.

  Samantha woke up, startled, lying on her side and looking towards her closet door. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. She rubbed her eyes and wondered, in her sleep-confused mind, if it was time to wake for school. Then she remembered her plan to explore the trapdoors in the tunnel and groaned aloud, frustrated that she had fallen asleep. Turning over, she noticed it was still dark behind her window shade, and, when she was able to see the clock, her shoulders sagged with relief because it was only 8:30. She wasn’t asleep for more than thirty minutes.

  Samantha sat up before she could get drowsy again, walked over to her chest-of-drawers, and pulled out a black sweat suit, along with a t-shirt and a heavy wool sweater. She couldn’t hear the wind from her room but she figured it was strong and she didn’t want to be cold. She also pulled out a sheet of paper and looked at it for a few moments, and then grabbed a pencil and started writing.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  If I’m not in here, don’t be worried. I’ve gone out to the tunnel to explore some of the other trapdoors. They were not welded when I was in there with Cliff and Mark, but the police said they were. I think someone went back and sealed them so I’m going to look to see if that is true. I don’t like hiding this from you, but I knew you wouldn’t let me go. Come and get me if you find this. I know I’m in trouble but I had to see.

  Samantha


  Samantha folded the note and wrote, “Where I am,” in big bold letters on the outside. She put this on her desk and walked out of the room. The house was dark, surprising her, because her Mom usually stayed up until ten. Samantha wandered around the dark rooms and stopped for a drink of water in the kitchen. Satisfied no one was up and the door to her parent’s bedroom was closed, Samantha went back to her room to stay quiet and kill time before she left. Since her parents had gone to bed early, she thought she might be able to leave a little sooner than she had planned.

  Once in her room with the door closed, Samantha put her clothes on the bed and changed into her nightgown in case her Mom came in to check on her. Then she climbed into bed and started to read. Her quick nap had eased her nerves and she got interested in her book quickly, losing track of time within the exciting pages. The knock on her door startled her from a pleasant reading world and into the real one.

  The knock was perfunctory, as it always was, and her Mom would open the door without waiting for a response. Samantha, with a panicked look, realized she had forgotten her clothes on the edge of the bed, neatly folded and ready to wear. With no thought, her legs tingled under the blankets and launched into a vicious kick, flinging her covers back over the clothes. The disturbed sheets settled as her Mom opened the door.

  Sandra looked sleepy and distant and she only poked her head in through the door. Samantha realized she had left her note on her desk, in plain view if her mother came further into the room.

  “Hi sweetheart. Ready for bed.”

  “Yes,” Samantha said, getting out of bed so her Mom could see she was wearing her nightgown. “I think I’m going to get a quick drink of water and go right to sleep.”

  “Good.”

  Sandra glanced around the room but Samantha was already at the door, so Sandra backed out and Samantha closed the door behind her so that it was only open a crack. Sandra leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Sleep well dear. And don’t stay up too late.”

  “I won’t Mom,” Samantha said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  Sandra walked back to their bedroom while Samantha went to the kitchen again to make it look as though she really did need a glass of water. She paused at the patio door and looked outside, watching the wind. By leaning against the cold glass she could almost see the bamboo waving back and forth like weeds in a turbulent stream.

  She went to the sink and got a small sip of water, and then went to her room for what felt like the twentieth time that night. She hid the clothes and note under her bed, and waited.

  The close call with her mother brought her nerves back and the next couple of hours were the longest of her life. Fatigue tried to creep in and she would fight it back with effort, but it became harder and harder to do. By eleven she knew she had to either go to sleep or get up and try, because she couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. Quietly she got out of bed, trying to be conscious of every little sound her movements generated. She could hear the low buzz that always seemed to be in her room, but nothing else. She slipped out of her nightgown and put on the clothes she had hidden under her bed, feeling a little ridiculous and bulky wearing so much inside the house. She placed the note carefully on her pillow so it would be seen immediately. Samantha then examined her door and flicked off the light. The door was closed, so she turned the knob as slowly as she could. It produced no sounds. When she reached the limit of the door knob, Samantha pulled the door back slowly, listening to the familiar scrape as the bottom of the door rubbed against the carpet. She opened the door only wide enough for her to slip out. Samantha walked quietly down the hall. She paused again at the kitchen, listening for any sound, but she heard none and thought she was safe. Ahead of her was the door leading from the kitchen to the garage and it had a squeaky hinge. Samantha realized she should have oiled the hinges a couple of days before.

  She crossed to the door and again turned the knob slowly. It turned easily and silently in her shaking right hand until it reached its limit. She opened the door. It made a single, long, relatively loud squeal and Samantha froze. The door was opened about an inch, and already it had made a sound loud enough to carry down the hall. Frozen, wondering what she should do, Samantha debated whether she should just close the door and sneak back into her room fast or if she should keep going. Staying was not a good option because if her parents opened their bedroom door and looked out they would see her.

  Samantha decided to keep going and she kept opening the door, pulling so slowly that it didn’t even seem to move. It made a little more noise but not as much as the first loud squeal. There was still no sign her parents had heard anything. Finally the door was open enough for her to squeeze through. She then closed the door, forcing herself to close it slowly.

  It took almost a minute for her to get the door closed and by the time she did her feet were starting to hurt because they were planted on the cold cement floor. As soon as the door closed with an audible, though quiet, click, she pulled her old tennis shoes over her bare feet. It was like loading wooden blocks into her shoes because her feet had almost no feeling left in them. She tied the shoes down, not able to feel whether the shoes were loose or tight, and opened the cupboard.

  She felt a moment of panic because she couldn’t see the flashlight. She reached in a little further, into the dark corner where she couldn’t see anything, and felt the hard, cold metal of the flashlight handle. Grabbing it, she walked over to the door leading outside, sparing a single glance at the kitchen door, and wondering if her parents were awake already. The door leading outside was already open a crack so she didn’t worry about being cautious. She pulled it open. Her first step outside reminded her how cold the wind can feel when you have been inside someplace warm.

  Samantha could see the edge of the eucalyptus grove and the tall trees were swaying back and forth, the deep leaves on the ground blowing like snow drifts. She walked forward and an interior alarm bell went off in her head, telling her that she shouldn’t proceed. She did pause physically for a moment, wondering at the source of the alarm. She realized what the internal warning must have been. She had never snuck out of the house before at night. She had read stories where kids had done so, but nobody she knew in real life had ever even tried.

  Samantha jogged along the path into the eucalyptus grove, the air so cold she felt like her nose was cutting the air with each step. The grove was empty, of course, and dark, but she didn’t want to turn the flashlight on until she got into the bamboo. She knew her way so well that she could walk it blindfolded, but the wind and the leaves shifting on the ground made the environment seem new and somehow frightening. She stopped jogging and walked forward timidly, knowing on some level that her nervousness at traversing a path so well known was draining her confidence.

  The wind gusted, more strongly than anything she had directly experienced before, and a tree limb above her cracked. She jerked to the side, but managed to keep herself from turning on the flashlight. The crack had been sudden but no limb plummeted to earth. Samantha craned her head upward and thought she could even see the broken limb, hanging by a few threads of wood, near the top of the tree.

  She started jogging again, from fear more than anything else, and she emerged from the eucalyptus grove. The wind was stronger in the open so she ran to the bamboo and dropped into a slide without pausing, scooting her body forward to the wooden fence in a haphazard infantryman crawl. The hidden door was still propped open and Samantha leapt inside the bamboo tunnel, flicking on her flashlight. The glare was welcoming and the strangeness of the scene felt almost like home. She could see the upper bamboo stalks rippling like flags high above her, but she could hardly feel the wind in the tunnel. She walked forward, turned right, and went directly to the trapdoor.

  Samantha paused again, reminding herself to be careful of using her talent because she didn’t know what would happen. She might find her strength full, doubled, or not available at all. If she failed, she could
even feel as though her energy was drained and she might pass out, or lie uncomfortably on the floor of the tunnel until the next morning, which would send her parents into a panic.

  Samantha took a deep breath, tucked the flashlight under her arm, and lowered herself into the tunnel with one easy motion. Her feet, still tingling as they slowly warmed, splashed into the shallow water at the bottom of the tunnel. The flashlight slid out from under her arm at the moment of contact but her right hand whipped out and she managed to catch the flashlight by the end of the handle before it could crash into the cement. She then moved her feet so that she was straddling the stream of water and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Before proceeding, Samantha pointed the flashlight down the tunnel both ahead and behind, verifying no one was there. She could see nothing but the tunnel, just as it looked when she was here with Cliff and Mark. She moved forward, looking carefully at her feet for any sign of Mark’s presence.

  Alone, the tunnel seemed much smaller and more frightening. When she heard echoes she couldn’t dismiss the sounds as easily as she could when she was with friends. Instead, they splashed and echoed back, making her think someone was behind her, or out of sight in front. The third time this happened, perhaps because the tunnel was now starting to curve to the left, a strange overlay of echoing footsteps sounded like a whispering voice. Samantha gasped, and again almost dropped the flashlight from her sweaty hands. She seized it tightly and pointed it around her in all directions, but there nothing was there.

  She closed her eyes and brushed her hair back from her forehead, forcing herself to breathe deeply. When she opened her eyes she felt calmer and made herself walk slowly, afraid that in her uneasy state she might miss a sign that Mark had been here. If she wasn’t careful it would defeat the whole purpose of her trip.

  The tunnel was curving and Samantha thought about what Mr. Henson had told the police regarding the trapdoor under his basement. She hadn’t realized it during the first trip, but the curve would take the tunnel underneath his house.

  Ahead was the first trapdoor. She could see the edges of the door contrasting against the curved, pitted cement of the tunnel walls. She jogged ahead, weaving back and forth to stay out of the water.

  She reached the door and shined the light against it anxiously. The metal looked the same as the one covering the entrance in her yard and the opening seemed to be approximately the same size. Moving the most intense flashlight beam along the edges of the metal, she could see why the police thought the doors were welded shut. However, she did not think they actually were. There was an old weld but there was also a seam where the metal frame touched the slab. Samantha trained the light over the tunnel floor, but, besides a little more debris than further down the tunnel, there was nothing of interest. She looked back at the door, trying to decide whether she should give it a push. Mr. Henson said it was covered by heavy speakers but she didn’t she believed him. Suppose she was able to push on the door and it was not covered at all? What if there were no speakers and Mr. Henson was lying? Would that mean she really had heard a voice coming from the tunnel? Samantha thought the answer was yes, and that if she heard a voice then it must have been Mark calling for help.

  Samantha stood, her feet out of the water, thinking hard. She wanted to try the door but it would require her talent, because she could only reach the bottom of the metal while standing on her tip-toes. She would have to jump and push at the same time. However, if she tried her talent and her Grandpa was still using his then they might conflict and she didn’t know what would happen.

  Samantha didn’t want to get tired and fall helplessly into the cold water at the base of the tunnel, but she also hadn’t snuck out to the tunnel to do nothing. Frustrated, she walked a little way down the tunnel and found what she was looking for after only about thirty feet. A small, solid piece of wood about five inches high was lying along the concrete floor in the shallow water. She carried it back to the trapdoor and stood on the wood. Samantha couldn’t get any leverage on the trapdoor with one hand, so she placed the flashlight carefully on the floor of the tunnel away from the water and got back on the wood. She stood on her tiptoes and pushed with both hands, being sure not to trigger her strength. The door did not shift and Samantha was positive she had pushed hard enough to make it move. It was either welded or there really was something lying over the top and forcing it down.

  Samantha picked up her flashlight in her right hand, the wood block in her left, and continued down the tunnel. The slow curve continued and she saw another trap door just ahead. Again her excitement propelled her into motion and she ran underneath. There was no sign of anything interesting on the base of the tunnel, so she examined the door carefully and her heart sank. There were indeed small gaps along the edges of the trapdoor, although no light was coming through because it was dark outside. Samantha could see the gaps quite clearly because the metal slab was slightly curved upward along the edges, but she could also see that the corners were firmly welded shut.

  She was so disappointed that she slumped against the wall and slid into a sitting position. Hot tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and she realized how deeply tired she was, and how nice her bed would feel. The whole trip, all the worry and preparation, seemed to have become worthless in a moment. And with that failing hope went her conviction that Mark was safe.

  Samantha thought she would break down and start crying, which would serve no good purpose but seemed undeniable. She wanted nothing more than to slink back to her own trapdoor and head to bed, hoping her parents had not found her missing. The thought was compelling and difficult to ignore. Gradually, however, she was able to push it to the background.

  Her memory of the first trip into the tunnel was less than perfect, but she seemed to remember that the next trapdoor, the one where Mark fell, was loose and not welded. She remembered thinking Mark had moved it and that she could have moved it herself if she could have used her talent. Samantha pulled herself up, wiped at tears that had not fallen, and resumed walking. She continued to carry the piece of wood in her left hand, but after ten feet she dropped it to the floor of the tunnel with a resounding crash. The sound of the wood was almost deafening in the enclosed tunnel and quickly the tunnel replied back with loud echoes. Samantha was oblivious, because even before the echoes had come back to their origin she was running down the tunnel, splashing the sides with long streamers of water.

  She had seen, as the tunnel straightened after the long curve, a step ladder sitting in the middle of the tunnel, clearly revealed in her flashlight. Moments later she arrived at the ladder, positioned underneath the trap door where Mark had been hurt.

  Breathing hard, Samantha touched the wooden ladder lightly with one finger, verifying it was not a feature of her stressed imagination. The ladder rocked when she touched it because it was sitting unevenly on the round floor of the tunnel. She looked around the base of the ladder. The floor looked different here, as though the water had been disturbed recently. Samantha flashed the light on the trapdoor and then clicked the flashlight off in sudden surprise. The trapdoor was open, and, before the light disappeared, she could see a ceiling beyond.

  With the light off she was in darkness so complete that she felt separate from her body. All she could hear was the harsh sound of her breathing. Frightened, Samantha crouched in the darkness and waited, wondering if anyone was above her. She listened with all her concentration for a sound, watching the memory of light play across her eyes.

  Samantha remained in this position long enough for her leg muscles to cramp, feeling the cold water working into her shoes and socks, chilling her entire body from the ground up. No sounds came from beyond the open trapdoor. Her mind felt sluggish and it couldn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. She tried to imagine where she was. Was she under a house, or a barn, or a church? She didn’t know. Then she tried to figure out who would have opened this trapdoor and left a ladder, and couldn’t focus on that important quest
ion either. She knew this was likely the place where Mark had gone, if he had been down here at all. Was the room above her empty?

  Samantha coughed, low and flat, and was badly startled at the noise because she hadn’t known she needed to cough until she did so. It was the dark, she thought randomly, the dark was so thick that she was suffocating. A cramp of fear hit her fingers, triggering them on the flashlight switch, which turned on while pointed at the floor of the tunnel. The light, after a moment in complete blackness, seemed much too bright and it reflected off the low water onto the walls of the tunnel. Squinting, Samantha looked back at the trapdoor tentatively, expecting to see a horrible leering face looking down at her. Her first glance saw such a face and she drew in breath to scream, when she realized there was nothing but her imagination. She wiped her forehead and was not surprised when water dripped off her hand.

  There was little choice as far as she was concerned. The ladder was here, the trapdoor was opened, and, as she had thought while standing under Mr. Henson’s house, she came down here to find stuff out, not to run away because she was scared. Samantha put her left foot on the first step of the ladder, and then her right on the second. She had a moment to reflect on how easy, how fatally easy, it was to do something once you started. Another step and her head could be through the trapdoor if she straightened her body out. Samantha shone the light up through the trapdoor, saw a low cement ceiling split by thick wooden beams. She took the step and her head went through the trapdoor.

  Hard hands grabbed her around the chin. Samantha screamed and the flashlight fell out of her right hand and tumbled back through the trapdoor, shattering on the floor of the tunnel. The hands were strong and Samantha was pulled through the trapdoor, smashing her shin against the edge. That pain was minor, though, compared to the thick, wrenching pain in her upper neck and jaw. She was still screaming, running on a never ending breath it seemed, when a hand let go of her chin and smashed back into her cheek as a fist a moment later.

  That threw her into a strange world, one where she already couldn’t see because of the impenetrable blackness, but also where the black faded to gray. Her first frantic thoughts of using her talent to get away faded into the gray mist and she felt herself being dragged across an uneven floor, her wet shoes clattering along behind her.

  Samantha fought the grayness, but it proved too thick for her. Vaguely, she felt herself thrown against a wall, and her arms were raised above her head. Something cold, maybe metal, wrapped around her wrists and pulled tight so her arms were suspended above her head. The strength in her legs ran out just as her attacker was placing the cold metal band around her ankles. She didn’t fall though, and didn’t even need to use her arms to hold herself up, because there was a chair under her. All she could hear was rough breathing and a low buzzing sound. Footsteps went away from her in the dark. The footsteps were the last thing Samantha heard before she passed out.