The last voice

Echoes beneath the floor

Someone—or something—had placed the cassette tape on the table.

Amara was certain of it.

She hadn't taken her eyes off the room for more than a few seconds when her flashlight had failed. Before the darkness swallowed everything, the table had been empty except for a thick layer of dust. Now an old cassette rested at its center, untouched by dust, as though it had been placed there only moments ago.

Her breathing slowed.

She crouched beside the table without taking her eyes off the tape.

Its plastic casing was scratched and cloudy with age. A faded strip of masking tape had been stuck across one side. Most of the writing had disappeared, leaving behind only three words written in shaky black ink.

PLAY ME FIRST.

The message sent a chill through her.

Who had written it?

More importantly...

Who was it meant for?

She carefully picked up the cassette. It felt surprisingly warm in her hand.

Before she could examine it further, another sound echoed through the mansion.

Creak...

A floorboard groaned somewhere above.

Amara froze.

Another creak followed.

Slow.

Measured.

Like someone deliberately walking across the second floor.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She switched off her flashlight.

Darkness rushed back around her.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence.

She held her breath, listening.

Nothing.

Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, came the faint sound of a door closing.

Bang.

The noise echoed through every corridor.

Amara knew she should leave.

Every instinct screamed at her to run back to her car and never return.

Instead, she slipped the cassette into her backpack.

If someone had left it for her, it might contain the answers she had been searching for.

She turned her flashlight back on.

Its weak beam revealed a doorway leading into another hallway.

Unlike the dining room, this corridor was lined with framed portraits.

Men.

Women.

Children.

Every painting seemed strangely lifelike.

As she walked past them, she noticed something unsettling.

Each portrait had the eyes scratched out.

Every single one.

She stopped before the largest painting.

It showed a family standing proudly in front of Blackwood Manor many years earlier.

The father wore a dark suit.

The mother held a young girl by the hand.

A boy stood between them.

But all four faces had been violently destroyed.

Deep claw-like marks covered the canvas.

Someone hadn't wanted those faces to be recognized.

A faint whisper drifted through the hallway.

"Don't look..."

Amara spun around.

The corridor was empty.

Only the portraits remained.

She shone the flashlight from one end of the hallway to the other.

Nothing moved.

Then...

A cold breeze brushed past her shoulder.

Impossible.

All the windows were closed.

Yet the air had suddenly become icy.

The beam of her flashlight flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then it steadied again.

Something on the floor caught her attention.

Fresh mud.

Someone had walked through the hallway recently.

The muddy footprints led toward a staircase at the far end of the corridor.

Amara knelt to examine them.

Large boots.

Exactly the same pattern she had seen outside the guesthouse.

The mysterious man in the dark coat.

He had been here.

Perhaps he was still here.

She quietly followed the trail.

Each step brought her closer to the staircase.

The house seemed to grow quieter with every passing second.

Even the wind outside had stopped.

Halfway to the stairs, she heard another sound.

Three knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Not above her.

Not behind her.

Below.

Directly beneath the wooden floor.

Amara slowly lowered herself to one knee.

She pressed her ear against the floorboards.

For several seconds there was nothing.

Then...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The answer came again.

Whoever—or whatever—was beneath the floor wasn't making random noise.

They were trying to communicate.

Amara whispered cautiously.

"Can you hear me?"

The knocking stopped.

Silence filled the corridor.

Then a weak voice, barely louder than a breath, rose through the cracks in the old wood.

"Help... us..."

Amara's blood ran cold.

She leaned closer.

"Who's there?"

No reply.

Only silence.

Then, from somewhere upstairs, a man's voice echoed through the mansion.

"You should have left while you still had the chance."

The words were calm.

Cold.

Certain.

Amara looked up toward the staircase.

Someone was standing at the top.

Hidden in the shadows.

Watching her.

The figure did not move.

Amara's flashlight remained fixed on the staircase, but the beam wasn't strong enough to reach the face hidden in the darkness.

For several heartbeats, neither of them spoke.

The silence felt heavier than the walls around her.

Then the figure took one slow step forward.

The old wooden stair groaned beneath the weight.

Another step.

The light finally reached a pair of polished black boots.

The same muddy boots whose footprints she had followed through the hallway.

Amara tightened her grip on the flashlight.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

No answer.

The stranger stopped halfway down the staircase.

His face remained hidden beneath the brim of a dark hat.

Only his mouth was visible.

He smiled.

Not warmly.

Not mockingly.

It was the smile of someone who knew a secret that could destroy another person's life.

"I've been expecting you," he said.

His voice was calm, almost friendly.

"You know who I am?" Amara asked.

"I know enough."

He rested one gloved hand on the wooden railing.

"You ask too many questions."

"People have disappeared here."

"They came looking for answers."

"And?"

"They found them."

Amara's heartbeat quickened.

"Where are they?"

The stranger's smile disappeared.

"You should ask a different question."

"What question?"

"Why did they never leave?"

Before she could reply, another series of knocks echoed beneath the floor.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

This time the stranger turned sharply toward the sound.

For the first time, his calm expression changed.

Fear.

Only for a moment.

But Amara saw it.

Whatever was beneath the mansion frightened him too.

The knocking grew louder.

A crack appeared between two floorboards.

Dust drifted into the air.

The stranger took one step backward.

"No..." he whispered.

The whisper beneath the floor returned.

"Help..."

Amara stared at the widening crack.

Cold air rushed upward through it.

It carried the smell of damp stone, rusted metal, and something she couldn't identify.

The stranger suddenly pointed at her.

"If you value your life, don't listen."

Then, without another word, he disappeared into the darkness above.

His footsteps echoed across the second floor.

A door slammed.

Silence returned.

Amara hurried to the staircase, intending to follow him.

But after climbing only a few steps, she stopped.

The knocking had started again.

This time it was desperate.

She looked back at the floor.

The voice below sounded weaker now.

"Please..."

She hesitated.

The stranger could escape.

The person beneath the floor might not survive.

After a long moment, she climbed back down.

Using the handle of her flashlight, she struck the loose floorboard.

The old wood cracked but did not break.

She hit it again.

And again.

On the fourth blow, the board splintered.

A narrow opening appeared.

A freezing draft escaped from below.

Amara knelt and shone her flashlight inside.

Stone steps disappeared into complete darkness.

An underground passage.

The walls were made of rough rock, glistening with moisture.

Someone had built it decades ago.

Perhaps much longer.

She searched her backpack and removed a length of climbing rope she always carried during investigations.

One end she tied securely to the staircase railing.

Testing it twice, she lowered herself through the opening.

The air became colder with every step.

The sounds of the mansion faded until only dripping water remained.

At the bottom of the stairs, she found a narrow tunnel.

Its ceiling was barely high enough to stand beneath.

Old pipes ran along one wall.

Some were badly rusted.

Others looked surprisingly new.

That made her pause.

Someone had maintained this place.

Recently.

She swept the flashlight across the ground.

Fresh footprints.

Several sets.

Some large.

Some much smaller.

They all led deeper into the tunnel.

As she followed them, strange markings began appearing on the walls.

Circles.

Numbers.

Names.

Many of the names matched those she had seen in old newspaper articles about missing people.

Some had dates beside them.

Others had only a single word.

"Gone."

Near the end of the corridor, she found a heavy steel door.

Its surface was scratched from top to bottom.

As if dozens of desperate hands had tried to claw their way out.

Painted across the center in faded red letters were the words

DO NOT OPEN FROM THIS SIDE.

Amara's pulse raced.

From beyond the door came the faintest sound.

Not knocking.

Not footsteps.

Breathing.

Someone was alive on the other side.

She slowly reached for the cold metal handle.

Just before her fingers touched it, every light in the tunnel went out.

Her flashlight died.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Then, only a few feet away, a voice whispered in her name.

"Amara..."

She had never told anyone in Ashridge who she was.

"Amara..."

The whisper was so close that she instinctively stepped backward.

Her flashlight refused to turn on. She pressed the switch again and again, but the darkness remained complete.

Her breathing echoed through the narrow tunnel.

"Who's there?" she called, trying to keep her voice steady.

No answer.

Then came the slow sound of footsteps scraping across the stone floor.

One step.

Another.

Closer.

Amara reached into her backpack and found her phone. Although there was no signal, the screen still gave off a faint glow. She switched on the flashlight feature.

A weak beam pierced the darkness.

The tunnel was empty.

The steel door still stood in front of her.

No one was there.

Yet the footsteps had stopped only a moment before.

She slowly turned around.

The passage behind her stretched into darkness, the old stone walls glistening with moisture. The rope she had used to climb down still hung through the broken floor above.

Relieved, she turned back toward the steel door.

Something had changed.

A small envelope now rested on the ground at her feet.

She was certain it hadn't been there before.

With trembling hands, she picked it up.

Written across the front in neat black ink were four words.

You came too late.

Her heart pounded.

Inside was a single yellowed photograph.

It showed a group of smiling people standing outside Blackwood Manor many years earlier.

Amara's eyes widened.

One of the people in the photograph looked exactly like the man whose desperate voice she had heard in the mysterious recording.

Another looked hauntingly familiar.

She turned the picture over.

On the back, someone had written a date from fifteen years ago.

Beneath it was one final sentence.

Your father was here.

Before Amara could understand what it meant, a deafening metallic clang echoed through the tunnel.

The steel door began to unlock from the inside.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

The handle started to turn.