8. Charlie #3
“Absolutely not.” I didn’t trust the bastard not to lock me down there for funsies.
He laughed and started down. I hesitated at the threshold, peering into the black. The light from behind us only reached a few metres before dying completely.
What if the door shut behind us? What if we got trapped down there?
Maybe I should stand guard.
Brad’s footsteps faded. I heard him rummaging with something, then a click. White light flared—his torch beam cutting through the darkness.
“Are you coming or what, Chaz?” His voice echoed up the stairwell.
With a colossal sigh, I descended. Each step felt like walking deeper underwater, pressure building in my ears. The walls closed in, rough stone scraping my shoulders. My breathing came too fast, too loud.
The stairs ended in a tiny space—barely two metres across.
An ancient fuse box clung to the left wall, its metal housing spotted with rust. The glass panel that once covered it had shattered—jagged shards still clung to the metal frame, glinting dully in Brad’s torchlight.
Behind the broken glass, a tangle of exposed wires and ceramic fuses.
It looked worryingly old, the sort of thing that probably sparked and crackled during storms.
Another door loomed ahead.
This one looked different. Heavy. Metal. Black iron bands ran across its surface, bolted into the stone. The whole thing looked medieval, like something from a dungeon.
Strange marks covered the metal—not rust exactly. Deliberate patterns. I leaned closer, trying to make them out in the torchlight. Symbols? Letters? The lines curved and overlapped, some deep gouges, others barely visible scratches. They made my eyes hurt if I looked too long.
“What are those?” I pointed.
Brad barely glanced over. “Scratches? Old house, innit.”
But they didn’t look random. They looked purposeful. Organised. Like someone had carved them with intent.
“Anyway, this is it,” Brad said. He ran his hand across the metal. “The door those workmen couldn’t open.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
He ignored me. Stepped back. Rolled his shoulders.
I sighed. Brad reminded me of an aggressive ape, all muscle and no brain, convinced every problem could be solved by throwing his body at it.
He charged at the door.
The impact boomed through the confined space. I clapped my hands over my ears, but the sound reverberated in my skull.
The door didn’t budge.
Brad stepped back, chest heaving. Tried again.
Nothing.
Again.
Again.
On the fifth attempt, Brad staggered back, breathing hard. Sweat darkened his hairline despite the basement’s frigid air.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I’d never seen him like this. Brad always exuded that infuriating confidence, that swagger. Now his jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath his skin. His hands balled into fists.
“Maybe we should leave it,” I said. The words came out too fast. “Come back to it when the Lancasters return. Get proper tools. Bolt cutters or something.”
Brad didn’t answer. He stared at the door like it had personally insulted him.
The cold intensified. My breath plumed white in the torchlight. It was surely my imagination, but what looked like frost crept across the stone walls, spreading in delicate patterns.
“Brad?”
He blinked. Shook his head like clearing water from his ears.
“Yeah. Right.” His voice sounded distant. Distracted. “We need… we need to get through this door. This is where they’re strongest.” Brad pressed his palm flat against the iron. “Can’t you feel it? The concentration of energy?”
Actually, yes. The dread I’d felt upstairs had multiplied down here. It pressed against my chest, made my lungs work harder. Like the air itself had turned hostile.
But that was exactly why we needed to leave.
Brad threw himself at the door.
The crash rang through the stairwell, louder than before. The sound didn’t fade—it hung in the air, vibrating against my eardrums.
He staggered backwards. Caught himself on the wall.
“Brad?”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, swaying.
“Mate, are you—”
He lunged at the door again. The impact was sickening. Bone against iron. His shoulder took the brunt of it, and I swore I heard something crack.
“Stop!” I grabbed his arm.
He shook me off with frightening ease. His skin burned under my fingers—fever-hot despite the freezing air.
Brad’s knees buckled.
I lunged forward, catching him before his head cracked against the stone steps. His weight nearly toppled us both. He was pure muscle, heavy as lead, and my back screamed in protest.
“Brad. Brad.”
The torch slipped from his grip, clattering down the stairs. The beam spun wildly, throwing jagged shadows across the walls before settling at an angle that illuminated precisely nothing useful.
His head lolled against my shoulder.
“Brad? What the fuck?”
I tried to shift him, get a better grip, but he was dead weight. My arms shook.
Something moved in the darkness beyond the torch beam.
Not moved—breathed.
The air thickened. Pressed down. My lungs seized.
Brad’s lips moved. A whisper I couldn’t hear.
“What?”
He said it again. Barely audible.
“Run.”