Chapter 7 | Kate
SEVEN | KATE
There’s not much in life I’ve been terrified of. Sure, when I was younger, I had those typical fears most children navigate—monsters under the bed, vegetables, things that exist in the dark that I can’t see, but I know damn well they can see me.
All of those seemed trivial compared to the one that’s been hunting me since he got one taste.
As if pieces of my flesh are lingering between his teeth, rousing a hunger that has sent him into an unhinged spiral.
As if he finds sick satisfaction in playing with his food before he’s decided he’s had enough and devours me whole.
I never understood what genuine fear felt like until Xander pressed the tip of the blade to my skin.
A blade that was all play.
Until it wasn’t.
It was that first draw of hot crimson slipping down the side of my belly where being scared took on an entirely new meaning.
When my heart, which had always been safely tucked behind my ribcage, bounced so violently that it threatened to crack bones and impale itself, before I got so deep that I would never resurface from the damage.
That sensation has never entirely dispelled since I fled Oregon.
Somewhere along the way, over time, I became desensitized to it.
The lurching ache in my chest may have dulled, but it didn’t stop churning the motors in my feet as I crossed state lines.
Until the temporary feeling of safety settled in enough to let me momentarily rest my soul before the claustrophobia of wondering if he was close had me beginning again.
Starting again.
And again.
The concrete floor digs into my knees through the overly thick fabric of my uniform overalls. The light draft from below, pushing through the metal grate, brushes over my face, creating a shockwave of chills that textures my skin from my head to my toes.
I don’t know when I lowered to my hands and knees.
Maybe it was the shock that pulled me down.
However, being on the ground is doing nothing to calm the way my heart painfully bursts in a chaotic rhythm in my tightened chest. My fingers grip the cool metal, like I’ll fall through if I don’t hold on with every ounce of strength my body can produce, while my brain tries to process what this tunnel could possibly lead to.
It’s the same beating, gnashing, feeling I was hit in the gut with every time I came to the ugly realization that Xander’s sexual appetite was shifting into something violent.
Dangerous.
Growingly lethal.
The reality is that I need to get this girl’s phone. So, what’s the probability that their theories were correct, and it's a secret underworld where demonic people harvest organs?
A more likely explanation is that the tunnels were placed under Lachlan Park when it was first built, allowing staff to access their posts easily.
It's like Disneyland, Kate.
My eye roll at myself exaggerates the headache forming near my temple.
I doubt I'll see someone in a Pooh costume scurrying by to clear my reservations and dark thoughts running berserk in my head. A more realistic version would be Libby Lobster running by to start their daily shift at the fountain in the center of the park.
But it's nearly eleven, and I don’t think there will be many people walking around this time of night. The only workers left now are the cleaners. And me, because I've clearly had a miserable day that keeps testing my patience.
The logical thing would be to locate Vincent and ask him about the tunnel.
My brain freezes on that notion.
That thought ignites a fuse, the spark coursing through my muscles. I jolt upright, nearly hitting my skull on the metal track looming above me. My earlier interaction with him in the break room stirs in my mind like wet paint until each stroke blends seamlessly and creates a bigger picture.
What if Vincent wasn’t hanging out in the dark closet all that time that I was on break?
If there’s an underground tunnel system, there must be different access points, some clearly marked and some not. An easy way for them to navigate the park without all the foot traffic and visitors.
Maybe it is like Disneyland.
I stand up, hopping over the ledge and back onto the faux rocky surface leading to the exit as if I’m attached to a cable that’s dragging me through the building without my consent.
I don’t want to be curious, but I can’t help myself.
It’s not long before I’m staring at the metal door to the closet in the break room.
Remember when I mentioned fears as a child? Isn’t it a common one to be frightened of something loitering in the closet?
That explains why I’m staring at the barrier between me and the small room of cleaning supplies like it will burst open, and a massive beast with fangs will pop out and sink its deadly claws into my flesh and render me helpless.
Truthfully, I might have the same reaction if Vincent is lurking on the other side.
My trembling hand lifts to rest on the door handle, slowly turning the knob to open it toward me.
As I suspected, it’s dark, hitting me with that musty smell containing a hint of chemicals that permeates the air.
I step through the threshold, peering around at the small space, maybe eight by eight feet.
Extra paper towels, bleach, and other various cleaning products haphazardly line the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and per usual, there’s a mop bucket positioned in front of them in one of the far back corners.
You would think that if someone were spending time in here, there would be a chair or a stool. Maybe even one of those old-school metal buckets to place upside down and sit on. But no. There is nothing of the sort.
Jeremy’s words stick like glue at the forefront of my mind.
“I saw him come out of there once with a duffel bag. It was strange, but then, I thought that maybe he was changing or something.”
It only further solidifies my suspicions about Vincent.
I swallow, ambling further into the small space.
My eyes roam over the shelves, flitting over all the things that are usually ignored and disregarded by anyone who isn’t a cleaner.
My eyes drop to the concrete floor that matches the rest of the building—cold and gray with scuff marks and other mysterious markings that signal years of wear and tear.
It’s simple things like this that remind me that even the most solid things aren’t entirely untouchable.
It’s not until my eyes land on a faint, unusual curvature marking on the floor that my pulse throbs in my ears. A gentle bend scuffed into the pavement. It’s only because I’m scanning the floor with laser-focused eyes that I notice; otherwise, I would’ve never registered it.
One cautious step at a time, I approach the back shelves, knowing part of it must swing out.
Peering at the wall between all the items chaotically placed around, I barely notice the crack behind.
If there is anything that I have learned from movies, it is that there is always a secret lever or something that opens the door.
My heart wildly pounds in my chest, reminding me that it is very much alive and not in agreement with my body enslaved to the thoughts in my head.
There aren’t many times when I have an out-of-body experience, but this is one of those.
I feel like I’m floating, my mind hazy as my body works absentmindedly despite the static circulating in my brain from overdrive.
Somehow, I don’t realize what I’m doing when I start picking up every product like a crazed person looking for something they misplaced. I touch bleach bottles, move cannisters, and boxes of unlabeled products. I push aside cleaning supplies and random, unnecessary items that appear out of place.
God, this is so stupid.
I’m sleep-deprived from my nightmares and just need to go home. It’s not my fault that the girl couldn’t follow simple directions and keep her hands inside the cart. Her losing her phone is her own damn fault.
I release a tired breath laced with annoyance that I let myself believe that maybe there’s more to Lachlan Park than I thought.
Turning on my heels, I face the open doorway, my attention drawn to a mounted glass frame in the concrete box they call a closet.
The frame contains information for workplace safety; the same one they have displayed in various places around staff areas.
But it's the tilt of the framed poster drilled into the wall that has me gravitating toward it like I'm a magnet, unable to resist the pull as it clings to my curiosity.
My hair stands on end, my fingers trembling as I tilt it on its axis so it's horizontal instead of vertical as it should be. My eyes widen as I take in the small cutout in the wall, which houses a black button.
That’s it. Nothing else.
You’d think that if they didn’t want anyone touching it, there would be some sign—a warning.
That’s what I tell myself anyway as my trembling fingers lift and press the button.
The silent groan emanating behind me prompts me to turn around, shivering as a breath of cool air drifts up the dark stairs that descend below.
Every step toward the secret door is in slow motion compared to the frantic beating behind my ribs. I take the first few steps down, my skin slowly adjusting to the increasing chill. My body is taut and vibrating, pushing my heart in my throat as the door clicks shut behind me.
My skin may be freezing, but it doesn’t extinguish the heat licking every nerve ending as I warily take one step at a time. A heat that explodes into a chaos of liquid wildfire when the horrifying roar of a man cuts through the tunnels.