The trap door is accessed by an old metal handle recessed into a thick, heavy wood plank. Now on bended knee, I take hold of the handle and pull up on it. I find cobwebs attached to the bottom of the door. Cobwebs recently disturbed, as in only seconds ago.
“Borrow your Maglite again?”
Andrea hands it to me. Turning it back on, I point the LED flashlight into the tunnel and immediately see death. That is, I see the skull face of a man dead probably five or six hundred years. His dark sockets seem like they’re staring directly up into my face. Warning me. Begging me to go back.
“Hope you’re not squeamish,” I say, swinging my legs around and dropping myself onto the sloping side of the tunnel until my boot heels land on top of a flat, altar-like platform that serves as
