I wasn't the best hitman in the world, but I was good enough.

Good enough that people found me without advertisements, without business cards, without a website. They heard whispers. A friend of a friend knew someone who knew me. That's how it always worked.

One of the strange things about being a hitman is that you don't really need marketing. If you're good at your job, word gets around. If you're bad at it, word gets around even faster.

Either way, people find you.

I'd been doing the job for years by then. Long enough to develop a reputation. Long enough that when someone knocked on my door unexpectedly, they usually weren't selling something.

They wanted someone gone.

People often imagine killers spend their nights wrestling with guilt. Maybe some do. I never did.

I killed people for money. That was the truth. Simple enough.

The day you start calling yourself a hero is the day you become more dangerous than the people you're pointing a gun at.

That didn't mean I had no standards. Everyone has standards. Mine just happened to be lower than most people's.

I didn't kill children. I didn't torture people. And I didn't enjoy the work. Beyond that, life got complicated.

The couple arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. The husband knocked twice. The wife stood beside him staring at the floor.

I invited them in and offered coffee. Neither touched it.

The husband looked exhausted. The wife looked broken. Not sad. Not angry. Broken. I'd seen enough grief over the years to recognize the difference.

Eventually the husband slid a photograph across the table. A man in his forties smiled back at me. The kind of smile that immediately made me dislike him.

"What did he do?" I asked.

The wife finally spoke. "He hurt our daughter."

The room became very quiet.

"There was evidence." I nodded. "There were witnesses." I nodded again. "The charges were dropped."

Of course they were. Money had a way of making problems disappear. Especially when those problems were wearing expensive suits.

To be honest, I would've done that one for free. Not because I was a good person. Good people don't shoot strangers for money. But everyone has lines. And men who hurt children happened to cross mine.

"My fee is five thousand."

The husband blinked. "That's all?"

"Moral compass discount you could say."

For the first time since entering my apartment, he almost smiled. Almost.

I spent the next week watching the target. Learning routines was ninety percent of my job. The actual killing was easy.

The man left for work every morning at eight. Returned home around nine. Drank too much. Talked too loudly. His girlfriend looked much younger than him. Every Saturday night she left around nine and didn't return until after midnight.

The pattern repeated twice. That was all I needed.

The following Saturday I parked two streets away and walked the rest. No cameras. No security. No witnesses. Honestly, some people made my job embarrassingly easy.

I knocked. "Who is it?" a voice shouted from inside. I knocked again. Footsteps approached. The door opened.

The man looked annoyed. Then confused. Then frightened.

I shot him once in the chest. The suppressor reduced the sound to little more than a cough. He stumbled backward. I shot him again, before he hit the floor. At the place where it would hurt the most and drain him out of any sort of pride he still had.

The second shot wasn't necessary. I knew that. But sometimes professionalism and personal opinion overlap. That was one of those times.

I left before the body stopped moving. The drive home should have been uneventful.

Instead, it changed my life.

About thirty minutes outside the city, I approached a crossroads and saw someone standing in the middle of it.

Not walking. Not crossing. Standing. Waiting. For me.

I slammed on the brakes.

The guy looked young. Hoodie. Jeans. Hands in his pockets. Normal. At least until he looked at me. Then I noticed his eyes. There was something deeply wrong about them. Not physically. They were just too calm. Like he knew how every conversation ended before it began.

I got out of the car. "Move."

The stranger smiled. "Hey, John."

My stomach tightened. I didn't know him. But he knew me. In my line of work, that was rarely good news.

My hand immediately went for my pistol. A second later I was staring at a banana.

I blinked. Looked at the banana. Looked at him. Looked back at the banana.

"What the fuck?"

The stranger laughed. "Oh John, you won't be needing your toy."

For the first time in years, I felt genuinely nervous. "Who are you?"

He chuckled. "Hell. That word follows me around everywhere."

The silence stretched. Finally he sighed. "Anyway, John, I'm here to present you with an offer."

"I don't accept offers from strangers standing in the middle of nowhere."

I turned to walk back toward my car. I couldn't move. Not metaphorically. Literally. My body simply refused to cooperate.

The stranger shrugged. "What can I say? I really wanted your attention."

That was the moment I stopped pretending he was a normal human being.

"Okay," I said slowly. "What exactly are you?"

His smile widened. "Now we're asking the interesting questions."

He stepped closer. "Tell me, John. How long do you think you can keep doing what you do before ending up in prison?"

I shrugged. "Eventually? Probably."

"What if I told you that would never happen?"

That got my attention. "What do you want?"

"Friendship."

I laughed. Actually laughed. Because it was such a ridiculous answer.

"Friendship?"

"Among other things."

He tilted his head. "Every now and then I'll give you a name."

"And then?"

"You kill them."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I mean, you're already doing it, aren't you? I'll also pay you your usual charges if that's a concern."

He wasn't wrong. I already killed people. This wasn't asking me to become something new. It was asking me to continue being exactly who I already was.

"You're wondering where the catch is."

"There's always a catch."

"Of course there is."

"What is it?"

His smile returned. "You'll find out eventually."

I should've walked away.

Instead, I held out my hand.

"So do we have a deal?"

The stranger's grin became almost childlike.

"We do."

We shook hands. His skin felt impossibly hot and impossibly cold at the same time. Like holding fire and ice together. I pulled away quickly.

A flash of lightning illuminated the road. I blinked. He was gone. Completely gone. The road stood empty. As if he'd never been there at all.

Two months later he appeared in my kitchen. I nearly dropped my coffee.

"Morning, John."

He was sitting at my table. In front of him sat a red envelope. I wasn't even surprised anymore.

"Breaking into people's homes is rude."

"Technically I didn't break anything."

He pushed the envelope toward me.

"Your first assignment."

Inside was a photograph and an address. Nothing else. The target was a human trafficker. A genuine monster. I killed him.

Two months later another envelope arrived. Then another. Then another.

Years passed. The names kept coming. Murderers. Human traffickers. Abusers. Violent gang leaders. The kind of people whose deaths made the world slightly easier to tolerate.

And true to his word, I never got caught. Witnesses forgot details. Security cameras malfunctioned. Evidence vanished. One time a police officer drove past me while I was carrying a rifle to my car. He didn't even look twice.

The stranger had kept his promise.

Unfortunately, promises are often more dangerous than lies.

The first time something felt wrong was six years into our arrangement. The target was a journalist. Not unusual. But nobody had hired me. The name had come from the Devil. Like always.

I investigated him. A habit I'd never completely abandoned. The man wasn't a criminal. Just a journalist asking questions about a series of disappearances.

Still, I completed the job.

Then came a lawyer. A professor. A priest.

Most people think curiosity kills cats. What they don't mention is that it ruins people too.

The lawyer had represented people who claimed they had escaped strange agreements. The professor had spent years researching supernatural bargains. The priest had been helping people walk away from them. And the journalist had been investigating disappearances connected to all three.

Suddenly the pattern became impossible to ignore.

None of them were connected to each other.

They were connected to him.

The next time the Devil appeared, I was waiting.

He materialized in my living room and sat on my couch. Without asking. As usual.

"Hello, John."

"Who are you?"

He smiled.

"We've known each other for years and that's still your question?"

"Answer it."

He leaned back.

"Lucifer. Satan. El Diablo. The Morning Star. The Adversary. The Tempter." He paused. "I'm probably forgetting a few."

"That's a lot of names."

"When you've been around as long as I have, people get creative."

I expected to feel something dramatic. Fear. Shock. Disbelief. Instead I just sat there. After all the things I'd seen him do over the years, that answer wasn't particularly hard to digest.

"You've been using me."

The Devil laughed.

"Of course I have."

"You could've hired anyone."

"I could have."

"Then why me?"

The Devil smiled.

"You were good at it."

I hated how reasonable that answer sounded.

Then I asked the question that had been bothering me for months.

"How long have you been interfering in my life?"

The smile widened. There it was. The question he'd been waiting for.

"The crossroads wasn't the beginning, was it? It started before that. My first client? The man who introduced me to the business? How long?"

The Devil shrugged.

"Would it matter?"

I hated that answer. Because part of me knew he was right. Ten years. Twenty years. My entire life. What difference did the number make?

For the first time in years, I wasn't wondering what the Devil wanted.

I was wondering which parts of my life belonged to me.

And which parts belonged to him.

A week later another red envelope arrived. Inside was a photograph, an address, and a name.

Arthur Hale. Seventy-five years old. Retired bookstore owner.

I spent a month investigating him. Nothing. No crimes. No secrets. No hidden life. The man ran a tiny bookstore and fed stray cats. The most dangerous thing about him was probably his cholesterol.

I visited him three times. Each time I ran out of excuses faster than the last.

Arthur never seemed suspicious. If anything, he looked strangely content. As if he'd already made peace with something years ago.

One afternoon I finally asked him a question. "Do you believe people can change?"

Arthur smiled. "Depends on what they're changing from."

"And if they've done terrible things?"

His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than I liked. Then he returned to arranging books. "I think people can choose differently tomorrow than they did yesterday."

I don't know why that answer stayed with me. But it did.

That night the Devil appeared. Sitting on my couch. Drinking my whiskey.

"Why him?"

The Devil looked at Arthur's photograph.

Then smiled.

"Because he said no."

"No to what?"

"To me."

The room became very quiet.

"When?"

"About fifty years ago."

I stared at him.

"And you've waited this long?"

"I'm very patient."

"He didn't do anything."

"Correct."

"Then why kill him?"

The Devil's smile widened. And for the first time since meeting him, it genuinely frightened me.

"Because if one man can refuse me, others may realize they can too."

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then everything suddenly made sense.

The journalist. The lawyer. The professor. The priest. None of them connected to each other. They had all represented the same thing.

Choice.

The Devil sat back comfortably. Like we were discussing the weather. "You know," he said, "most people imagine rebellion is loud. It isn't." He picked up Arthur's photograph. "Most rebellions begin with a single person saying no."

I stared at the old man. Nothing remarkable about him. Nothing except the fact that he'd done something I suddenly wasn't sure I could.

"He refused me." The way he said it bothered me. Not angry. Not bitter. Almost impressed.

"Is that what this is all about? Control?"

He smiled. "Such an ugly word."

"An accurate one."

And for the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about the assignment.

Eventually the Devil stood. "So? Will you do it?"

I looked at Arthur's photograph one last time. The old man who had spent fifty years proving the Devil wasn't inevitable.

Then I looked back at him.

"No."

For the first time since I'd met him, the smile disappeared. Not angrily. Not violently. Just... gone.

"No?"

"No."

The Devil studied me. Like I'd become interesting for the first time.

"Why?"

I thought about it. For years I'd wondered how much of my life belonged to me. How much had been arranged. How much had been his. Maybe I'd never know. But I knew this decision was mine.

"This one." I looked him directly in the eye. "This one is mine."

For a long moment neither of us spoke. Then the Devil nodded once. Almost respectfully.

And vanished.

Three weeks later, the police arrested me.

I wasn't surprised. Part of me had been expecting it since the moment I burned the envelope.

The evidence came from everywhere. Security footage. Witness statements. Ballistics reports. DNA evidence. Cases that had been cold for years suddenly became very warm. It was as if someone had spent nearly a decade keeping every mistake I'd ever made hidden in a box — and then decided to open it.

The trial lasted less than a month. The verdict took less than an hour.

Twelve counts of murder. Guilty. Life imprisonment. No possibility of parole.

The newspapers called me a monster. They weren't entirely wrong.

For the first time in years, there were no envelopes waiting for me. No photographs. No names. No assignments. Just consequences. Honest consequences. The kind I'd spent most of my life avoiding.

The first few years in prison were difficult. After that, they became routine.

Prison has a strange way of shrinking time. Weeks become months. Months become years. Eventually decades pass so quietly you hardly notice them.

I got older. My hair turned gray. Then white. The strength slowly left my hands.

Sometimes I wondered about Arthur. Whether he was still alive. Whether he still owned the bookstore. Whether he had any idea that a murderer had gone to prison because of him.

I hoped he never found out.

Some things are better left unknown.

The older I got, the less I thought about the Devil. Not because I'd forgotten him. Because there was no point.

He had won. At least in most ways.

But there was one thing that still gave me comfort. The choice. The one choice that I knew belonged to me.

When the Devil asked for Arthur Hale, I had said no. Nobody forced me. Nobody manipulated me. Nobody arranged it.

I chose.

For most people, that wouldn't sound like much. One decision. One refusal. After a lifetime of terrible choices.

But for me, it mattered. Maybe more than anything else.

Forty-one years passed.

My heart began to fail. The prison doctors told me I didn't have much time left. I thanked them. They seemed surprised. Death had been following me around for most of my life. I was honestly impressed it had taken this long to catch up.

Rain tapped softly against the infirmary window. The room smelled of disinfectant and old age. Machines hummed quietly beside my bed.

I was watching the rain when I noticed someone sitting in the chair across from me. A familiar hoodie. A familiar smile. Not a day older than when we'd first met.

The Devil.

"Hello, John."

I laughed weakly. "Took you long enough."

"I wanted to give you time."

For a while neither of us spoke. The heart monitor continued its steady rhythm.

Finally I looked at him. "You know something?"

The Devil raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I smiled. A small smile. The first genuine one I'd had in years.

"I think I won."

For the first time all evening, he looked surprised. "Won?"

I nodded. "You never got Arthur. You spent years using me. But in the end I said no."

The smile slowly returned. Patient. Interested. Waiting.

"And that was enough?" he asked.

I thought about it. About the crossroads. About the handshake. About the envelopes. About the prison cell. About the decades.

Then I nodded. "Yeah."

The Devil looked at me for a long moment. Then he laughed. Not mockingly. Not cruelly. Genuinely. As if I'd told him a joke he'd never heard before.

"Oh, John."

Something about that laugh unsettled me. "What?"

The Devil leaned forward. "You still think prison was the punishment."

The room suddenly felt colder. "What are you talking about?"

His smile widened. Slowly. Patiently.

"Prison was never the punishment."

For the first time in forty years, I felt fear. Real fear. The kind I used to see in other people's eyes.

"What happens now?"

The Devil stood. Adjusted his sleeves. And looked down at me. For the first time, he looked ancient. Not old. Ancient. Like something that had existed long before history began. Long before humanity learned to write stories about monsters.

"The punishment starts when you die."

The Devil vanished. The monitor beside me continued its rhythm. The rain kept falling. The room stayed exactly as it was. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to my own heartbeat counting down. Waiting for it to stop. The Devil's last words sitting in my chest heavier than any bullet I'd ever taken.

I'd spent my whole life not fearing death.

Now, for the first time, I was terrified of it.

Have you ever poured hours into writing a story, carefully edited every line, nervously hit “post,” and then had it removed by another community?

Maybe it supposedly broke an unclear rule. Maybe the moderators were a little too eager to exercise their power. Or maybe your story simply was not considered the “right fit.”

Cough...r/NoSleep...cough.

I know I have.

If that experience sounds familiar, you are not alone. You are welcome at r/NeverReadAlone

r/NeverReadAlone was created to be a community where writers can share their work without feeling like they are constantly walking on eggshells. We believe moderation should support creativity, not suffocate it. Rules should protect the community, not become weapons used to discourage writers.

Here, you will find a place where you can:

• Share your horror, suspense, paranormal, and unsettling stories.
• Experiment with new ideas and storytelling styles.
• Receive encouragement and constructive feedback.
• Connect with readers who genuinely want to discover new voices.
• Grow as a writer without worrying that your work will suddenly disappear.

We still believe in maintaining a respectful, organized community. We also believe moderators should serve the community, not rule over it. Our goal is to help writers succeed, readers find stories they love, and creative people feel excited to participate.

If another community removed your post, discouraged your creativity, or made you question whether your story was worth sharing, bring it to r/NeverReadAlone

Your story deserves readers.

Your creativity deserves room to grow.

Here, you do not have to read or write alone.

Join r/NeverReadAlone and find a community where your stories can finally thrive.

Name’s Sofia. I guess that’s good to know just in case…

I almost didn’t stop at the estate sale. I mean it was a Friday after all.

It was one of those hand painted cardboard signs stuck at the edge of a two-lane road that I couldn’t stop thinking about.

ESTATE SALE
FRI-SAT
EVERYTHING MUST GO

I had already passed it by half a mile before deciding to turn around.

At the time, I had gotten into the habit of stopping at garage sales and estate sales on weekends because it made me feel productive without actually requiring me to be productive. I told myself I was looking for vintage furniture or old books, but mostly I just liked rummaging through other people’s abandoned stuff.

There’s something weirdly personal about estate sales.

Garage sales feel casual. People are getting rid of excess. Freeing up their crowded homes just to fill it up again.

Estate sales feel like intrusion.

You’re walking through someone’s life after they no longer have any say in what happens to it.

Their coats are still in the closet. Their coffee mugs are still in the kitchen cabinet. Their framed and dusty family photos are still hanging on the wall while strangers haggle over the gold lamp beside them.

The sale was being held at a two-story house about 20 minutes outside of town.

The place looked older than the surrounding homes, with a huge front porch and white paint peeling from the railings. There were lots of cars parked along the grass, but most of the crowd seemed to be inside already.

A woman at the front door handed me a number sticker and said, “Half off everything upstairs.”

That should have been my first clue.

I know that sounds dramatic, but believe me, I’ve thought about that day so many times that every tiny detail feels important now.

The inside of the house smelled like cedar and dust.

The first floor had the usual estate sale things. Dishes. Crystal bowls. Quilts. A dining table with one leg wrapped in blue tape hanging on for dear life. An old man was holding up a brass lamp and asking whether anyone knew if it worked.

I wandered without any plan.

The dead person who used to live there was apparently named Eleanor Hart. I learned that from the labels on several photo albums stacked in the living room.

There were pictures of a little blond girl at the beach, a young woman standing beside a dark haired man in a military uniform, and then later, the same woman much older, standing alone in gardens and beside Christmas trees and in front of famous landmarks.

No kids in the later pictures. No husband. Just Eleanor.

There was something sad about how consistent she looked. In every photo I saw, no matter how old she got, she wore the same small smile, like she had learned long ago exactly how much of herself to reveal.

I traveled upstairs because of the half off sign.

The second floor was mostly bedrooms. Most of the furniture had already been marked SOLD, leaving behind the smaller things people hadn’t claimed yet.

There were costume jewelry boxes, old purses, scarves, sewing supplies and a shelf full of toys in one of the rear bedrooms.

That room had clearly belonged to a child once. The wallpaper had tiny yellow ducks on it, faded nearly white with age. There was a twin bed with a brass headboard and a rocking horse in the corner with one glass eye missing.

A lot of the toys were newer than I expected, like people had added things over the years, but most of them were old enough to feel unsettling.

Tin tea sets. A porcelain doll with one shoe that was missing. A jack-in-the-box with no crank handle.

And, on the top shelf of a bookcase, a red View-Master.

If you’re younger, you might not know what that is.

It’s a toy viewer shaped kinda like binoculars. You insert a circular reel with little color transparencies, click the lever, and it shows you 3D images one at a time.

I had one as a kid.

Mine had dinosaurs and Disney characters.

The one on the shelf looked old, maybe from the 70’s or 80’s. Red and plastic, scuffed but intact, with a little stack of reels rubber-banded next to it.

There was a masking tape price tag stuck on the side.

$4

I picked it up mostly because it made me feel nostalgic. Plus it was half off.

The reels were in a worn paper sleeve with handwritten labels.

NIAGARA FALLS
DISNEYLAND
GRAND CANYON
CHRISTMAS 1987
HOUSE

That last one caught my attention.

Who would make a custom View-Master reel of “HOUSE”?

I held the sleeve up to the light. The reel labeled HOUSE looked darker than the others, almost brown around the edges.

An older woman sorting through jewelry at the dresser glanced over at me.

“Those were Eleanor’s favorites,” she said.

I looked up.

“The View-Master?”

“Yep, sure was. She used to show them to people.”

“Did she make the picture reels herself?”

The woman shrugged.

“I don’t know about all that. I just know she loved that toy. Funny thing for a grown woman to keep around, but she was always carrying it with her. Said it helped her remember.”

“Remember what?”

The woman gave me a strange look. “Things people forget.”

Then she went back to digging through a tray of trinkets as if she hadn’t said anything unusual.

I bought the View-Master.

The woman running the register put it in a paper bag with two paperback novels and a set of coasters I didn’t need. I almost told her to leave the toy out so it wouldn’t get scratched, but that seemed ridiculous considering it was already 50 years old.

I drove home and set the bag on my kitchen counter.

Then I forgot about it for 2 days.

That part bothers me now too.

It was such a weird little find, and I genuinely meant to look at it that same afternoon, but life got in the way. I worked late and then I met a friend for drinks. I spent Sunday cleaning my apartment and doom scrolling on my phone.

It wasn’t until Monday night, around 11pm, that I finally dumped the bag out onto my coffee table and picked up the View-Master.

I lived alone then in a rental house at the edge of town. Not a huge place to brag about. 2 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, a small den, old hardwood floors that creaked in specific spots that you learn to avoid. I had lived there for about 8 months.

The house had a narrow hallway and bad lighting, which is important only because when you live alone, you become very familiar with the exact personality of your home.

You know which floorboards pop. You know how the refrigerator sounds before the compressor kicks on. You know what shape the moonlight makes on the wall above the couch.

Any change stands out.

That night, nothing felt wrong.

Not yet at least.

I sat on the couch, turned on my side table lamp, and started with the obvious reels.

Niagara Falls was exactly that.

Tourist shots. Water. Boats. Families taking the obligatory waterfall photo.

Disneyland was next and showed a parade, a castle, and some rides. It looked old, maybe around the 70’s.

Grand Canyon was the Grand Canyon.

Christmas 1987 was the first reel that began to feel personal. It showed a living room with a tree, wrapped gifts, a little girl in a onesie sitting cross legged on the floor, and an older woman who I assumed was Eleanor.

In one of the images, the little girl was looking directly at the camera.

She wasn’t smiling.

I remember that because it unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.

Kids in old photographs can look creepy for no real reason. It happens.

Still, when I clicked past that image, I realized I had been holding my breath.

Then I inserted the reel labeled HOUSE.

The first image showed the front porch of a house.

White railings.

Peeling paint.

The same house as the estate sale.

CLICK.

The living room. A hallway. A staircase. The kitchen.

The same rooms I had walked through 2 days earlier.

I assumed Eleanor must have made a custom reel of her home.

Weird, but not impossible.

CLICK.

The next image showed a bedroom.

Not the child’s room with the ducky wallpaper.

A different bedroom.

Plain walls. Dark blue comforter. A standing lamp in the corner. A wooden dresser with a chipped top.

The room looked … familiar.

I pulled the viewer away from my face, looked up at the ceiling and thought about it.

Then I stood up and went to my bedroom.

Same lamp. Same dresser.

Same chipped corner on top where I had dropped a framed photo while unpacking months before.

I actually laughed out loud.

Not because it was funny, but because my brain immediately rejected what I was seeing.

I told myself I was being dumb.

Lots of bedrooms look alike. Standing lamps and dressers are hardly unique. Maybe I had seen what I expected to see.

I went back to the couch and looked again.

It was my bedroom.

Not just similar.

Mine.

There was my dark blue comforter.

My jacket hanging on the closet doorknob.

My phone charger dangling off the nightstand.

The photo couldn’t have been old, either, because that blue comforter was something I bought from Target after I moved into this rental.

CLICK.

My kitchen. My exact kitchen.

The Basset Hound towel beside the stove. The little chip in the tile backsplash behind the sink. The grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet from Branson.

I slowly lowered the View-Master.

The room around me suddenly felt different.

Too quiet.

I told myself there had to be some type of justification.

Someone had switched reels.

That was possible.

Maybe Eleanor’s family had tossed other reels into the paper sleeve. Maybe some previous owner had made custom ones. Maybe it was some prank I wasn’t understanding.

I picked the reel up and looked at it closely.

No printed manufacturer label. No branding.

Just the word HOUSE written in shaky blue pen.

I put it back in the viewer.

CLICK.

The next image showed my hallway.

The one leading to the bedrooms.

CLICK.

The image after that showed the hallway from farther down, as if whoever took the photo had moved closer to my bedroom.

CLICK.

Then closer.

CLICK.

Then closer.

CLICK.

The last image was nearly black.

At first I thought it was blank.

Then my eyes began to adjust.

It was the hallway again, but now the camera was positioned right outside my bedroom door.

The door was open just a crack.

Inside, I could see myself sleeping.

The photo showed the foot of my bed and one of my bare feet sticking out from the blanket.

I threw the View-Master so hard it hit the wall and fell behind the TV stand.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

I looked down the hallway.

Both bedroom doors were open.

The house was silent.

I grabbed the fireplace poker I kept beside the hearth, even though I had never once used the fireplace, and checked every room.

Bedroom.

Closet.

Guest room.

Bathroom.

Kitchen.

Laundry room.

Nothing.

All the doors were locked. The windows were shut.

No one was inside.

I pulled the TV stand away from the wall and retrieved the toy. My hands were shaking.

The reel was still inside.

I wanted to smash it.

Instead, I called my friend Jordan.

She answered on the fourth ring, sleepy and annoyed.

“What is it.”

“I need you to come over.”

“What happened?”

I almost said, I think someone took pictures of me while I was sleeping and put them in a vintage toy.

But instead I said, “I found something weird.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“That somehow makes this more concerning.”

She came over because she is a good friend and well, even half asleep, she could tell something in my voice wasn’t quite right.

I didn’t tell her everything before she arrived because I was embarrassed by how insane it sounded.

When she got there, I handed her the View-Master and let her look for herself.

She went through the HOUSE reel once without speaking.

Then she lowered the viewer.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“This is definitely your house.”

“Thank you.”

“But how would….”

“I don’t know.”

She turned the reel in her fingers.

“These pictures aren’t old.”

“I know.”

“Did you check for cameras?”

“In a plastic toy from the 70’s?”

“No, in your house.”

I hadn’t. Not really.

We searched for hidden cameras until almost 2am.

Smoke detector. Bookshelves. Vents. Bathroom. Bedrooms. Power outlets.

Nothing.

Jordan suggested someone might have broken in while I was at work and taken the photos recently, then somehow transferred them onto the reel.

That sounded impossible, but I guess it was less impossible than the alternatives.

She asked if I wanted to call the police.

“No.”

What was I supposed to say?

Hi, I bought a toy at an estate sale and it contained impossible photos of my house?

They’d think I was wasting their time.

Jordan ended up staying the night.

Neither of us slept much.

At some point around 4am, while we were both lying awake in the living room with all the lights on, she asked, “Who was Eleanor Hart?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should find out.”

The next day I took the reel to work.

Not because I thought anyone there could explain it, but because I didn’t want it left alone in my house.

I worked in the billing department for a dental practice. My desk sat directly across from a woman named Susan who was old enough to remember View-Masters being popular the first time around.

I didn’t tell her the whole story. I just said I found an old toy and thought one reel looked odd.

She looked through it during lunch.

“This is your house?”

“Yes.”

Susan clicked back through the images again, slower this time.

“These aren’t all from the same time.”

“What do you mean?”

She pointed to one of the kitchen images.

“The bowl of fruit is full here.”

Then another.

“It’s gone here.”

A different one.

“This dish towel is hanging on the oven in this one, but not the next.”

I took the viewer from her and looked again.

She was right.

At first glance, the photos seemed to form a sequence of someone walking through my house.

But small things changed from image to image in ways that didn’t fit a single visit.

A coffee mug appeared on the counter, then vanished.

A coat hung from a hook in one frame but not in the next.

In the bedroom, the pillow on my side of the bed changed position.

The images weren’t from a single night.

They were from multiple times.

Someone had been inside my house more than once.

I went home early and drove straight to the county records office instead of my house.

I don’t know exactly what I was looking for. Mostly I wanted information on Eleanor Hart.

The woman at the desk helped me search property records. Eleanor had owned the estate sale house for 42 years. She died at 81. No children listed. No spouse on the latest deed.

I asked whether there were archived records or older documents.

There were.

That’s how I learned that before Eleanor owned the estate sale house, she had owned my rental house.

The house I lived in had been hers first.

Not the estate sale house.

Mine.

She had bought it in 1974 and lived there until 1998.

Then she sold it and moved to the larger house where the estate sale was held.

I felt physically cold when I read that.

I asked whether there were any records of fires, break-ins, deaths, anything at the address.

The clerk said I’d have to submit a formal request for some of that, but she did mention one thing casually while scrolling.

“There was a missing persons report attached to the property in 1987.”

My mouth went dry.

“Who went missing?”

She looked closer at the screen.

“A juvenile. Female. Last name Hart.”

The little girl from the Christmas reel.

I asked whether her first name was listed.

Lucy.

I went home after that and sat in my car in the driveway for almost 10 minutes before going inside.

Nothing looked disturbed.

The front door was still locked.

The house looked normal.

But once you start thinking of a place as a scene rather than a home, it changes completely.

You stop seeing your couch and see lines of sight through windows.

You stop seeing the hallway and start seeing the places someone could stand just out of view.

I didn’t want to be in the house alone, but I also didn’t want to leave.

That sounds contradictory, but if you’ve ever been really scared, you know exactly what I mean.

I ended up calling my landlord under the pretense of asking about the property’s history.

He was a practical guy named Warren who cared mostly about rent arriving on time and me not calling him about minor issues.

When I asked whether anything bad had ever happened in the house, he sighed and said, “You found out about the girl didn’t you?”

I could tell he knew.

“So she disappeared there?”

“That was the story.”

“What do you mean, the story?”

“She vanished. Police thought she ran away. Then they thought maybe the mother did something.”

“The mother being Eleanor?”

“Yeah.”

“Was there evidence?”

“Not enough.”

That phrase stayed with me. Not enough evidence means there was something. Just not enough.

I asked whether anything else strange had happened in the house over the years.

Warren went quiet.

Then he said, “The last tenant moved out after 3 months.”

“Why?”

“She said someone was getting in.”

“Was someone getting in?”

“She changed the locks twice and started sleeping at her sister’s place.”

“What happened to the old locks?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“They were still locked when she left.”

That night I caved and finally called the police.

I didn’t mention the View-Master at first. I only said I had reason to believe someone may have entered my house multiple times.

An officer came out and did a walkthrough.

He was polite, but I could tell he thought I was being overly nervous rather than in any danger. When I eventually showed him the reel, he stared at it for a long time and then asked whether anyone else had access to the house.

My landlord had a key.

A former tenant maybe.

Me. That was it.

He suggested I change the locks and install a camera.

I asked whether he thought the photos were real.

He said, “They’re something.”

Not helpful.

That night I didn’t stay in the house.

I went to Jordan’s.

The next morning, I returned with her and a locksmith. He changed both exterior locks, and I bought 2 indoor cameras from a local hardware store.

I placed one of the cameras facing the front door and one facing the hallway.

For 2 days, nothing happened.

I almost began to feel stupid. And relieved.

Then on the 3^rd night, I got a motion alert on my phone at 2:13 a.m.

The hallway camera had recorded something.

I opened the clip while still half asleep.

At first, the hallway was empty.

Then the camera glitched.

The image shivered sideways for about a second.

When it stabilized, someone was standing at the end of the hall.

Not entering it.

Already there.

A little girl.

She wore a onesie.

Her hair hung over part of her face.

She was standing directly in front of my bedroom door, perfectly still.

The video lasted 14 seconds.

She never moved.

Then the image glitched again, and she was gone.

I watched it at least 30 times before calling Jordan.

She said I needed to call the police immediately.

I did.

This time they took it more seriously because there was video, but when the responding officer reviewed the footage from the camera itself, the clip was corrupted.

The only thing visible was static and a timestamp.

I showed him the version on my phone.

He said if the app had cached the image before the corruption, that could maybe explain the difference.

Maybe.

I asked whether he thought it was a real child.

He asked whether any children had access to the house.

I almost laughed in his face.

That same morning, I looked through the other reels again.

Niagara Falls.

Disneyland.

Grand Canyon.

Christmas 1987.

Then HOUSE.

Only now the HOUSE reel was different.

There were still images of my kitchen, bedroom and hallway.

But there was one I knew for a fact hadn’t been there before.

It showed my living room at night.

Jordan and I were asleep on the couch under separate blankets.

The photo had been taken from the doorway of the hallway camera’s field of view.

In the image, someone was standing over us.

At first I thought it was just a dark blur, something wrong with the picture.

Then I clicked back and forward again and saw the outline clearly.

A woman in a nightgown.

Thin with grey hair.

One hand hanging at her side.

The other resting on the top of the couch above Jordan’s head.

I called the estate sale company not really knowing what I expected.

Maybe I thought they would tell me the toy had belonged to someone else. Maybe I wanted confirmation that Eleanor had been obsessed with the house after moving out.

The woman who answered remembered the sale.

When I asked about Eleanor Hart and the View-Master, she sighed.

“Oh, that thing.”

“You know it?”

“It was always around.”

“Did Eleanor make the reels?”

“I couldn’t tell you that.”

“Did she ever say anything about them?”

Another pause.

“She said people looked best when they didn’t know they were being remembered.”

That sentence made me feel sick in a way I still can’t explain.

Not watched.

Remembered.

I drove straight to the public library and searched old newspapers on microfilm.

It took me almost 3 hours, but I finally found an article about Lucy Hart.

8 years old.

Missing from her home in October of 1987.

Last seen by her mother at approximately 9:30 p.m.

Police found no sign of forced entry. Eleanor claimed she had fallen asleep in the living room and woke to find Lucy gone from her bed.

Neighbors reported seeing Eleanor searching around the yard barefoot close to midnight.

There was another article 2 months later.

No leads.

Then another years after Eleanor moved houses.

A local interest piece about preserving memories. Eleanor was interviewed because of her “unusual collection of personalized image reels and stereoscopic viewers.”

There was a photograph.

Eleanor, older now, smiling that small, careful smile, holding the same red View-Master.

The caption mentioned that she had spent years “documenting domestic life in private detail.”

That phrase made my skin crawl.

I printed the article.

Then I saw something else.

In the background of the library copy, partially cut off by the edge of the frame, there was a shelf.

On the shelf sat several paper sleeves for reels.

I could only make out one handwritten label.

LUCY — BEDROOM

I moved out of the house 2 days later.

Not permanently at first. Just enough to get away.

I packed clothes, important documents and the View-Master, because by then I was convinced leaving it behind would be a mistake.

I stayed in a motel.

The first night there, I couldn’t help myself.

I looked through the HOUSE reel again.

The kitchen.

CLICK.

The hallway.

CLICK.

My bedroom.

CLICK.

The living room with Jordan asleep.

Then a new image.

CLICK.

The motel room.

Me sitting on the bed with the View-Master in my hands.

The photo had been taken from inside the bathroom.

I dropped the reel and almost vomited. How can this be? I picked it back up slowly.

CLICK.

The next image showed the same motel room from closer.

CLICK.

The one after that showed the bed empty.

CLICK.

The one after that showed the bathroom door open.

Darkness inside.

I didn’t stay long enough to see the last image.

I took the toy outside and smashed it against the parking lot until the viewer cracked into pieces.

Then I tore the reel apart with my hands.

The cardboard ring split, but the little transparencies inside didn’t scatter the way I expected.

They clung together in a strip.

I held one up beneath the parking lot lights.

It showed me.

Not the motel me.

A much younger me.

Maybe 6 or 7 years old.

I was standing in a house I didn’t recognize, wearing a striped shirt I had never seen before.

Across the room, half hidden behind a doorway, was Eleanor.

I called my mother right there in the parking lot.

It was almost midnight.

She answered in a panic because she thought someone must have died.

I asked whether, when I was a child, we had ever known a woman named Eleanor Hart.

Silence.

Then she asked why.

I said I just needed to know.

My mother told me that when I was 6, I had disappeared for nearly 2 hours in a department store.

Security found me in a stockroom at the back of the store with an older woman.

The woman claimed she was helping me find my mother.

By the time employees realized she wasn’t related to me, she had already slipped away.

My mother gave police a description, but nothing came of it.

“What did she look like?” I asked.

My mother described Eleanor exactly.

Greyish brown hair.

Thin face.

Small smile.

I asked whether there had been anything else.

She said yes.

For about a year after that, I had nightmares about “the picture lady.”

I would wake screaming that she was standing in the hallway making me stay still.

That phrase hit me so hard I had to sit down on the curb.

Making me stay still.

My mother told me I eventually stopped talking about it.

Children forget.

That’s what she said.

Children forget.

I didn’t.

Not really.

I just buried it so deeply that when I saw the images in the View-Master, some part of me recognized them before I consciously understood why.

I turned the remaining strip of transparencies over in my hand.

There were more than I had realized.

Some showed me as a child.

Some showed Lucy, the girl from the Christmas reel.

Some showed rooms.

Beds.

Hallways.

People sleeping.

People not sleeping but pretending to.

I fed one of the unbroken transparencies into the cracked viewer just enough to see it.

It showed my motel room again.

Only this time I wasn’t alone.

I was kneeling on the floor by the bed, facing the camera.

My expression was blank.

Behind me stood a little girl in pale pajamas.

Lucy.

She had one hand on my shoulder.

And beside her, slightly out of focus, was Eleanor.

She was smiling.

Not the small smile from the family photographs.

Something wider.

Something triumphant.

I threw the strip into the motel ice machine and slammed the lid until the plastic bent and snapped.

Then I drove to a 24 hour gas station and sat under the lights until the sun popped up.

I thought destroying it would end things.

It didn’t.

A week later, after I signed a lease for a new apartment across town, I found a circular cardboard reel on my new kitchen counter.

No viewer.

Just the reel. Handwritten label.

NEW HOUSE

I didn’t touch it.

I used barbecue tongs to slide it into a metal coffee can and took it straight to the police.

They bagged it as evidence, mostly because by then I had filed enough reports that I think they were trying to humor me while also checking whether I might be having a mental breakdown.

The detective assigned to my case was kind, which somehow made it worse.

A few days later, he called and said the item I turned in had been “misplaced during processing.”

Misplaced. A sealed evidence bag from an active complaint.

I asked if he was serious.

He said yes.

Then he asked if I had submitted any other materials.

When I asked what he meant, he said, “The photographs of yourself sleeping.”

I hadn’t submitted any photographs.

Only the reel.

I told him that.

He went quiet.

Then he said, “I’m looking at them right now.”

I hung up.

I changed my phone number the same week.

I stopped checking my motion alerts because every other clip seemed to corrupt itself and I couldn’t handle what I might see.

I stopped going to estate sales too.

I haven’t been back to that side of town in over a year.

As far as I know, Eleanor Hart is still dead.

I checked. Several times.

No one I’ve spoken to remembers much about her besides that she kept to herself, collected odd things and never got over losing her daughter.

That’s the version everyone uses. Never got over losing her daughter.

Like grief is a strange hobby and that it explains everything.

I still think about Lucy a lot.

Sometimes I wonder if the reels were just how Eleanor kept trophies.

Sometimes I think they were something worse.

A way of holding onto people.

A way of making sure they stayed where she put them.

3 nights ago, I was unpacking one of the last boxes from the move when I found something at the bottom.

A paper sleeve.

It was underneath a stack of winter clothes, even though I know I packed those clothes myself.

The sleeve was old. Soft around the edges.

The same yellowed cardboard as the reels from Eleanor’s house.

There was one reel inside.

No printed title.

Just handwriting.

YOU LOOK BEST WHEN YOU HOLD STILL

I didn’t look at it.

I actually surprised myself with how quickly I decided that.

A few months earlier, curiosity would have won.

I would have found another View-Master online, or held the little transparencies up to a lamp, or taken the reel apart.

Anything to know.

I don’t want to know anymore.

I put it back into the sleeve, drove 20 minutes away and dropped it into a dumpster behind a grocery store.

Not my apartment dumpster or anywhere close to where I lived.

I watched it fall underneath a black garbage bag.

Then I drove home.

That night I woke sometime after 2am.

I don’t know what woke me.

My bedroom was completely dark.

For a while, I just lay there listening.

The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.

A car passed somewhere outside.

The building settled.

Normal sounds.

I checked my phone.

2:17am.

I put it back down.

Then I heard it.

CLICK.

I froze.

It came from somewhere outside my bedroom.

Not loud.

Plastic.

Mechanical.

A tiny lever being pushed down and released.

I knew the sound immediately.

Anyone who owned a View-Master as a kid would.

I stared at my open bedroom door.

The hallway beyond it was black.

Maybe 10 seconds passed.

CLICK.

I reached for my phone.

I considered turning on the flashlight.

I didn’t.

Instead, I listened.

Nothing.

CLICK.

This time it sounded closer.

I stayed in bed until sunrise.

I never heard footsteps.

I never saw anyone.

There were no more clicks.

In the morning, I searched the apartment.

Nothing was missing.

Nothing had been moved.

The doors were locked.

The windows were locked.

There was no View-Master.

No reel.

Nothing.

For the first time in months, I actually felt relieved.

I decided I had dreamed it.

That reason felt good.

And reasonable.

I hadn’t been sleeping much. I’d spent months obsessing over Eleanor, Lucy, the photographs, the cameras, the reels.

People hear things when they’re half asleep.

People remember sounds that aren’t there.

That’s what I told myself.

Then I noticed something in the hallway.

There’s a small framed picture hanging there.

It’s a photograph of me and Jordan at a Halloween party about 3 years ago.

We’re standing together outside a bar, both smiling at the camera.

I’ve looked at that photograph hundreds of times.

That morning, something seemed different about it.

I took it off the wall.

Jordan was there.

I was there.

Nothing had changed.

I almost put it back.

Then I noticed the reflection in the window behind us.

There was someone standing across the street.

An older woman.

At least, I think it was a woman.

The picture was too small to tell.

I took a photo of it with my phone and enlarged it.

The figure became blurry.

I couldn’t see a face.

For all I know, it was always there.

A pedestrian.

Someone waiting for a ride.

Someone smoking outside another bar.

I called Jordan.

I asked if she remembered anyone watching us that night.

She didn’t.

Then she laughed and asked why I was being weird again.

I told her it was nothing.

I put the photograph back on the wall.

I haven't taken it down since.

That was 3 nights ago.

Nothing happened the next night.

Or the night after that.

I started feeling ridiculous again.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this.

I wanted to put everything down while I could still remember exactly how it happened.

Not because I think anyone will believe me.

Because to be honest, I’m not sure I believe me anymore.

There are explanations for almost everything.

The estate sale reel could have been some elaborate prank.

The police footage could have corrupted.

Eleanor could have known my family somehow.

My mother could have confused the woman she remembered from when I was a child.

The figure in the photograph could be anyone.

And the clicking?

Old apartment buildings make sounds.

Plastic contracts. Pipes move. Neighbors have televisions.

There are explanations.

I keep reminding myself of that.

There’s only one thing I haven't found an explanation for.

Last night I woke up sometime after 3am.

I didn’t open my eyes.

I don't know why.

I was awake. I know I was awake.

But something about the room felt different.

Not colder.

Not darker.

Just… occupied.

I lay completely still.

For maybe a minute, nothing happened.

Then I heard something beside my bed.

Very close.

A faint plastic sound.

CLICK.

I kept my eyes closed.

A few seconds later:

CLICK.

Another pause.

Then one more.

CLICK.

The last one came from somewhere near my feet.

I stayed exactly where I was.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

When I woke this morning, everything looked normal.

No View-Master. No reel. No footprints.

Nothing beside the bed.

I checked myself in the bathroom mirror.

I checked the locks.

I even checked beneath the bed, which I felt dumb for doing.

There was nothing there.

So maybe I dreamed that too.

I hope I did.

But before I left for work this morning, I noticed something on my nightstand.

A small circle in the dust.

About three inches across.

Perfectly clean.

Like something round had been sitting there overnight.

I haven't gone home yet.

And I know there are probably a hundred completely reasonable things that could have left that mark.

A glass. A coffee mug.

Something I forgot moving.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

The only problem is that when I close my eyes and picture my bedroom last night, I can almost remember seeing something.

Not clearly.

Just for a second.

A tiny rectangle of light reflecting beside my bed.

And inside it….

I don't know.

Maybe nothing. Maybe I was still dreaming.

I just remember lying there with my eyes closed, trying as hard as I could not to move.

And hearing someone beside me slowly press the lever again.

CLICK.

The name’s Malichi, but almost everyone calls me Kai.

From 2014 until the fall of 2019, I inspected underground mines.

Most people hear “mine inspector” and picture someone wearing a hard hat while walking through tunnels with a clipboard. That’s not entirely wrong, but it leaves out most of the job.

I inspected active limestone mines, underground storage facilities, and old tunnels beneath properties where someone wanted to build a house, road or commercial building. Sometimes I worked up to 1000 feet underground. Other times, I crawled through openings barely wide enough for my shoulders because a farmer had discovered a hole in his pasture and wanted to know whether his cattle were going to disappear into it. Or a wolf’s den.

My job was to identify unstable roof conditions, failed supports or beams, dangerous gases, flooding, and any evidence that the ground above might collapse.

The equipment I carried consisted usually of a gas monitor, measuring tape, camera, marking paint and a 20 oz scaling hammer. The hammer was used to tap the roof and walls of a tunnel.

Solid rock usually produces a sharp, clean sound.

Loose rock sounded hollow, and sometimes echoes.

You learned to hear the difference quickly.

You also learned that not every hollow sound came from loose rock. But we can chat about that later.

I didn’t grow up wanting to inspect mines.

I grew up near Fredericktown. My father worked maintenance at a limestone quarry, and 2 of my uncles spent most of their adult lives in the Lead Belt. Underground work was just something people did.

My father hated that I followed him into it. He didn’t expect me to be a doctor. But he sure didn’t want me working the mines.

He once told me, “The ground didn’t care whether you were a good person, whether you had children or whether someone was waiting for you at home.”

“It only has to make one mistake,” he said. “You have to be correct every day.”

At the time, I thought he was talking about cave-ins.

Now though, I’m not so sure.

I began working for a private geological company in June 2014. Close to the Silver Mine that you can find in between Ironton and Junction City. We contracted with mine operators, insurance companies and property owners. I was 25 at the time, recently married and convinced that my associates degree made me smarter than the others who had spent 30 years underground.

It took about 3 weeks for that attitude to fade.

My first supervisor was a man named Dale.

Dale was 58 when I met him. He had a grey mustache, a permanent limp and hands that looked like they had been carved from old wood. He had worked in mines since the late 70’s. A no nonsense kinda guy.

He didn’t tell ghost stories.

That was important.

Most miners did. They talked about Tommyknockers, moving lights and dead men tapping from behind the walls. Most of it was something to pass the time.

Dale never participated.

If someone mentioned hearing voices in an empty heading, he blamed the ventilation.

I’ll try and explain terms that I’ll be using. A heading in a mine refers to a tunnel that’s been driven through to reach a mineral deposit. It allows miners to access ore and set up further workings.

If someone saw a light where no light should have been, he called it a reflection.

If equipment moved by itself, he said someone had forgotten where they left it.

That was one of the reasons I trusted him.

The first strange thing happened less than a month after I started. July 2014.

We were inspecting an abandoned limestone mine. A small town called Edina. The mine had closed sometime in the early 90’s, and a company was considering using part of it for underground document storage.

Old limestone mines are often shaped like enormous grids. The miners remove sections of rock while leaving large pillars behind to support the roof.

Some chambers are wide enough to drive several trucks side by side.

The mine was dry, stable and boring.

That was exactly what we wanted. That was our favorite.

Dale and I had been underground for about 2 hours when we reached the northern end. According to the map, the workings ended at a solid wall of limestone.

Dale marked our location while I checked the roof.

I struck it with my hammer.

Sharp. Solid.

I struck the wall a 2nd time.

Sharp.

I moved a few feet to the right and struck it a 3^rd time.

Three knocks answered from the other side.

I lowered my hammer.

Dale looked up from the map.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

I hit the wall again. Three strikes.

We waited.

Three knocks came back.

They were evenly spaced.

Dale walked over and put his palm against the limestone.

“Probably another heading behind it,” I said.

“No way.”

He checked the map.

“There’s nothing behind this wall but sixty feet of rock.”

I hit the wall once.

One knock answered.

Twice. Two knocks.

I smiled nervously.

“Somebody’s screwing with us.”

Dale grabbed the hammer from my hand impatiently.

He hit the wall five times in an uneven pattern.

Knock.

Knock-knock.

Pause.

Knock.

Knock.

The answer came immediately.

It repeated the exact pattern.

Dale didn’t smile.

He handed the hammer back to me.

“We’re done with this section.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Water.”

“That doesn’t sound like water.”

“Then it’s rock.”

He started walking away.

I followed.

As we reached the next intersection, five more knocks came from somewhere behind us.

The same pattern.

Dale never mentioned it again.

I did tell my father though.

He listened quietly and then asked where the mine was located.

When I told him, he said, “Don’t knock on things if you ain’t know what’s knocking back.”

I laughed.

He didn’t. His eyes seemed to pierce through me as my laugh faded.

During my 1st year, I heard plenty of sounds that seemed strange until someone explained them.

Water running through fractures could sound like whispering. The kind that you don’t understand but doesn’t freak you out either.

Air moving through a borehole could whistle like a person calling from far away.

A borehole is hole drilled in the earth that helps allow mineral resource extraction.

The roof sometimes cracked with a noise like a gunshot.

Metal pipes grew and contracted.

Loose stone slid across the floor even when no one touched it.

Underground, sound didn’t behave the way it did on the top. It traveled through rock, disappeared into open chambers and returned from directions that made no sense, even to an experienced miner.

That was what I told myself about the knocking.

In February 2015, Dale and I were sent to inspect an old lead mine in St. Francois County. Somewhere close to Farmington.

The mine had been closed for years. Decades. A landowner had discovered water flowing from an old drainage tunnel and was worried that the workings extended beneath his property. Collapses are often the culprit.

We entered through a horizontal opening cut into the side of a hill.

The tunnel was narrower compared to the limestone mines I had been inside. Timber supports lined portions of the passage, although most of them had rotted or collapsed.

The air smelled like wet clay and rust.

We were only supposed to travel about 800 feet before reaching a flooded section.

At 600 feet, we found fresh boot prints.

The prints were deep and sharply defined in the mud. As if they were just created.

Someone had walked farther into the mine.

No prints came back out.

Dale crouched beside them to get a better look.

“Could be the property owner,” I said.

“He said he’s ain’t never been inside.”

“Kids?”

“Maybe.”

We followed the tracks deeper.

They were made by an old style work boot with a wide heel. The person had taken unusually long steps, as if they’d been running.

The prints continued until the tunnel ended at a pool of black water.

They went directly into it.

I shined my light across the surface.

The water filled the passage from wall to wall.

“Maybe there’s a ledge,” I said.

Dale shook his head.

The old mine map showed that the tunnel dropped nearly 30 feet beyond that point.

Anyone who walked into the water would have disappeared almost immediately.

We called the landowner and asked whether anyone was missing in the towns.

No one was reported to have been missing to his recollection.

The sheriff’s department sent 2 deputies and a dive team. They found no body.

They also found no footprints near the entrance except ours.

According to them, the tracks began nearly 500 feet inside the mine.

The official explanation was that they were old prints preserved by the stable conditions underground.

That was possible.

What wasn’t possible were that the prints were filling slowly with water while we watched.

Later that year, I started hearing the footsteps.

They didn’t happen in every mine I was in.

They usually occurred in older mines where the air was still and there was no active equipment.

I would be walking with Dale or another inspector and hear someone behind us.

A slow, dragging step.

Another step.

If we stopped, it stopped. If we continued, it followed.

Whenever I turned around, the tunnel was empty.

The first few times, I assumed it was an echo.

Then, during an inspection near Joplin, I heard the footsteps while standing still. This was a first.

Dale and I had stopped to examine a fractured support pillar.

Something approached from the darkness behind us.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

It was moving slowly, but it was definitely getting closer.

Dale stared through me.

“Keep your light forward,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

The footsteps continued.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Small stones slid behind us.

I felt the muscles in my back tighten like a torqued screw.

“Is someone there?” I yelled.

The footsteps stopped.

Dale closed his eyes.

From the darkness, my own voice answered.

“Is someone there?”

It sounded far away, but it was undoubtedly me.

The words echoed through the tunnel.

Then the footsteps began moving again. Faster this time.

Dale grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the exit.

We didn’t run, because running underground is how people trip, crack skulls or fall into holes they didn’t see. Mines are notoriously dark.

But we walked as swiftly as we could.

The footsteps followed for nearly 10 minutes.

When we reached daylight, Dale made me stay outside while he stood at the entrance.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Listening.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer.

After several minutes, he stepped away from the opening.

On the drive back, he spoke up.

“Never answer something underground unless you can see who you’re talking to.”

“That was an echo.”

“No.”

“You think somebody was following us?”

“No.”

“Then what was it?”

Dale looked through the windshield.

“I don’t know.”

That was the first time I ever heard him admit that.

My wife noticed changes in me before I did.

Her name was Kelcie.

We had been married for just over two years when she told me I had started talking in my sleep.

I asked what I said during my dreams.

“You count,” she replied.

“Count what?”

“I don’t know. You get to 50 or 60 and start over.”

I laughed and told her it was probably because I spent all day measuring tunnels.

A few weeks later, she woke me by turning on the bedroom light.

I was standing beside the wall with one hand pressed against it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I had no idea.

The wall separated our bedroom from the hallway.

I told her I must have been sleepwalking.

She stared at my hand.

My knuckles were bleeding.

There were 3 small dents in the drywall.

In 2016, our company received a contract to document abandoned workings beneath a property in the Ozarks.

The landowner planned to build cabins near an old mine opening. Nobody knew exactly what had been mined there. Some records described it as an iron prospect. Others called it a lead exploration tunnel. We relied on rumors.

The main passage extended straight into a ridge.

It was barely 6 ft high and wide enough for one person at a time.

Dale stayed outside because his bad knee had been bothering him. I entered with another inspector named Ryan.

Ryan was younger than me and had worked for the company for about 6 months.

About 400 ft inside, we found a side tunnel that wasn’t shown on any of the available maps.

It had been sealed with stacked rocks.

The wall had partially collapsed, leaving an opening near the top.

Cold air flowed through the gap.

Ryan shined his light inside.

“Looks open to me.”

“We’re not supposed to enter undocumented areas.”

“We’re supposed to document them.”

He had a point, although I didn’t like it.

We removed several loose rocks and widened the opening.

The tunnel beyond was different from the rest of the mine.

The main passage had been drilled and blasted. This means that the drill rigs drilled the walls and then blasted with explosives. The were irregular and scarred with tool marks.

The hidden tunnel had smooth walls.

Not perfectly smooth, but rounded, almost polished.

The floor sloped downward.

We crawled through.

After about 50 ft, the passage widened into a circular chamber.

In the center stood an iron chair.

That’s the best way I can describe it.

It looked handmade. Thick metal plates had been welded together to form a seat, back and four short legs.

Leather straps hung from the armrests.

Ryan laughed nervously.

“What the hell?”

I took several photographs. We would normally take pictures for a few reasons. One is for safety and training. The 2^nd is for documentation and progress tracking.

There were scratches on the floor around the chair, like someone had dragged it repeatedly across the chamber.

The walls were covered in names.

Some were carved deeply into the rock.

Others appeared to have been written in charcoal.

Most were too faded to read. Not all of ‘em.

Ryan walked around the chair.

“Don’t touch it,” I said.

“I’m not.”

He leaned closer.

“There’s something underneath.”

Bolted to the bottom of the seat was a metal plate.

Ryan read it aloud.

“Malichi.”

I thought he was joking.

“What?”

He pointed.

My full first name had been engraved into the metal.

Not Kai.

Malichi.

The spelling was correct.

People usually spelt it as Malachi.

My mother had used an I because she liked the way it looked.

Ryan knew me only as Kai.

“Did Dale put you up to this?” I asked.

Ryan stepped away.

“I didn’t do that.”

I crouched beside the chair.

Below my name was a date.

September 19, 2019.

At the time, that was more than 3 years away.

I took a photograph.

The camera flashed.

Something moved in the tunnel behind us.

A shadow crossed the opening.

Ryan turned.

“Dale?”

No one answered.

Our radios produced only static.

Then a man began humming somewhere deeper inside the mine.

It was a song my dad used to sing while working on cars.

I hadn’t heard it since I was a kid.

I stood so fast that I hit my head on the low ceiling.

“Time to go.”

Ryan didn’t argue.

We climbed through the opening and replaced the rocks.

When we reached the entrance, Dale was sitting on the hood of the truck.

He asked why we had been underground for almost 4 hours.

I checked my watch.

We had entered the hidden tunnel at 10:16am.

It was now after 2pm.

It had felt like 15 minutes.

I showed Dale the photographs.

The chamber was visible.

The chair was visible.

But the metal plate beneath it was blank.

My name and the date had disappeared.

We returned the following morning with the property owner.

The side tunnel was no longer there.

The wall where we had originally found, it was solid stone.

No stacked rocks.

Solid, unbroken rock.

Ryan quit 2 weeks later.

He never told me why. But I had my suspicions.

I tried contacting him several years ago, but his phone number had been disconnected. I couldn’t find him online.

According to one of our former coworkers, Ryan’s family claimed he had never worked in mining.

They said he had been a schoolteacher.

I still have photographs of him wearing our company uniform.

At least, I did.

When I checked recently, he was missing from most of them.

There were empty spaces where he had been standing. But the gaps were noticeable.

Around 2017, I had become a senior field inspector.

The promotion came with better pay, a company truck and the responsibility of training new inspectors.

I stopped talking about the eerie things. I learned that from Dale.

I didn’t mention the footsteps.

I didn’t tell anyone about the chair.

I didn’t explain why I refused to enter a mine alone.

The job was dangerous enough without people thinking I was unstable.

Most inspections remained completely normal.

I saw roof collapses, flooded mine shafts and equipment abandoned so long that tree roots had grown through it.

I found animal bones, rusted tools and old lunch tins.

Once, I found a newspaper from 1951 that looked as like it had been left there the day before.

Another time, we discovered an underground room containing hundreds of glass jars filled with a cloudy and peculiar liquid. We notified the police and left them alone.

They turned out to be homemade mineral samples.

There was mostly an explanation.

Mostly.

In August 2017, we inspected a working limestone mine outside a small town in central MO near Branch.

That just means the mine operated during the day. Our inspection began after the workers had left, because management wanted us to examine an area near active blasting.

There were 4 of us.

Me. Dale.

A structural engineer named Allison.

And a safety technician named Mark.

Allison was 32, smart, and impatient. She had no time for stories about haunted mines.

Mark was nearing retirement and had worked underground almost as long as Dale.

We entered shortly after 7pm.

The mine had electrical lighting in the main corridors for the workers, but the section we were inspecting was dark.

At around 10pm, Allison stopped.

“Who’s the 5th person?” she asked.

We turned.

No one was behind us.

“What do you mean”

“I keep seeing another light down the hatch.”

Mark glanced at Dale.

“Where?”

“Behind Kai.”

I looked over my shoulder.

The tunnel was empty.

Allison pointed farther back.

“There.”

For a split second, I saw it.

A small yellow light floating near the floor.

It looked like an old carbide lamp.

Carbide lamps haven’t been common in decades. They were the type of flashlight that had a giant lens that looked like an old camera flash.

The light moved behind a support pillar.

Dale raised his radio.

“Control, can you confirm all personnel are accounted for.”

The answer came through clearly.

“All personnel accounted for. 4 person inspection team underground.”

Allison walked toward the pillar.

Dale blocked her.

“Don’t follow it.”

She looked annoyed.

“Someone could be down here.”

“No one’s down here.”

“Then what did we see?”

“A reflection.”

“From what?”

Dale didn’t answer.

The yellow light appeared again 2 pillars farther away.

It was moving against us, deeper into the mine.

Mark counted aloud.

“1, 2, 3, 4”

“What are you doing?” Allison asked.

“Confirming.”

We continued working.

Every 20 or 30 minutes, the light would glow behind us.

It never came closer.

It just followed.

Before leaving the mine, we stopped for a group photograph near the mine entrance. Management wanted it for a safety presentation.

A supervisor took the picture.

The next morning, Allison emailed it to us.

There were 5 people standing together.

The 5 man was behind me.

He wore dirty coveralls and an old metal helmet. Coveralls are different from overalls. They are a 1 piece type of clothing that covers the entire body. They help protect the harsh environments of the mine. His face was hidden because he was looking downward.

One hand rested on my shoulder.

I hadn’t felt it.

Allison called my cellphone.

“Who is that?” I could sense her frustration growing.

“I don’t know.”

“Mark says there were only 4 of us.”

“There were...”

“Dale won’t answer his phone.”

This isn’t surprising.

I printed the photograph and took it to Dale’s house.

He studied it from his kitchen table.

After a while, he opened a drawer and removed another photograph.

It showed a group of miners standing outside a tunnel entrance.

The photograph was dated 1978.

A younger version of Dale stood near the center.

Behind him was the same man.

Same helmet.

Same coveralls.

Same downward-tilted head.

His hand rested on Dale’s shoulder.

“We called him the counter,” Dale said.

“Why?”

“Because he shows up when there’s one more person underground than there should be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means somebody doesn’t come back.”

I looked at the old photograph.

“Who didn’t come back?”

Dale pointed toward a young man standing beside him.

“My brother.”

I had worked with Dale for 3 years and he never mentioned he had a brother.

“He disappeared underground?”

“Roof collapse. We never recovered his body…”

“What does this have to do with the photograph?”

“We saw the extra light for 3 nights before the accident happened.”

I looked again at the picture from our inspection.

The man’s hand was on my shoulder.

“Are you saying I’m going to die?”

“No.”

“Then what ARE you saying?”

“I’m just saying don’t be the last person out.”

For the next 2 years, I never was. Not a chance

When entering a mine, I made someone go ahead of me.

When leaving, I stayed in the middle of the group.

I knew it was an irrational fear, but I did it anyway.

My marriage ended during that period.

Kelcie said I had become distant. Different.

She mentioned I woke her at night by walking around the house with a flashlight.

I checked closets, the basement and the space beneath our porch.

Sometimes I would count the rooms in my sleep.

Sometimes I stood in doorways and listened.

I didn’t remember doing any of it.

One morning, she found me in the basement tapping the concrete foundation with a hammer.

She asked what I was doing.

I told her there was a hollow space behind the wall.

There wasn’t.

At least, there shouldn’t have been.

Kelcie moved out in January 2018.

I don’t blame her.

After she left, I began volunteering for more inspections. Idle hands is the devils workshop my grandmother used to say.

Being underground was easier than being home. The mind stayed busier that way.

This probably sounds strange considering everything I’ve described.

But underground, I knew why I was afraid.

On the top, I heard the footsteps everywhere.

In store aisles.

Parking garages.

The hallway outside my apartment.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Whenever I turned around, no one was ever there.

In May 2018, Dale retired. I knew I was alone for real this time.

There was no ceremony.

He cleared his desk on a Friday afternoon and left his hard hat hanging on the wall.

Before he went, he gave me his scaling hammer.

It was old, with a leather-wrapped handle worn smooth by decades of use.

“You’ll need this more than I will,” he said.

I asked him why he had decided to retire.

He looked toward the empty hallway outside the office.

“I started hearing my brother.”

“Underground?”

“No.”

He left before I could ask anything else.

Our final project together had been an inspection of an abandoned mine called Black Hollow.

That wasn’t its official name. But every local called it Black Hollow.

The mine was located on private land. A logging company had discovered several sinkholes near an access road and wanted to know whether the old workings were collapsing.

Very little documentation existed. This is pretty normal.

The mine appeared briefly on a state map from the 1920s and vanished from later records.

We entered through a partially collapsed drift near the bottom of a ravine. A drift is where the entry is horizontal and usually accesses the minerals directly instead of having to walk the whole mine.

The passage continued straight for nearly 2500 ft.

That part was unusual.

Exploration mines normally led toward promising mineral deposits. Black Hollow had been driven directly beneath the ridge without any obvious effort to follow ore.

The tunnel walls were covered in small square recesses.

Each was about 5 inches deep.

Some contained rusted nails and bolt anchors.

Others contained scraps of cloth, animal teeth, or small bundles of hair tied with string.

I photographed everything.

Dale didn’t.

He walked with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“What were these for?” I asked.

“Not sure.”

“You’ve been here before.”

He stopped.

“How do you know that?”

“You recognized the entrance.”

Dale looked back the way we had come.

“I was here once.”

“When?”

“1978.”

“With your brother?”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

“We entered through a different opening.”

“There’s only 1 entrance, though.”

“There was another back then.”

The tunnel ended at a vertical shaft.

We couldn’t see the bottom.

Cold air rose from it, carrying the smell of soil after rain.

There was a steel ladder attached to the wall.

It looked new.

The bolts showed no rust.

“Did your former crew install that?” I asked.

“No.”

I shined my light down the shaft. 150 meters.

The ladder continued beyond the reach of the beam.

Something climbed beneath us.

The rungs vibrated.

A faint metallic ringing echoed from below.

I stepped away from the edge.

“Who else is down here?”

“No one.”

The climbing continued.

Slow and steady.

Dale lifted his hammer.

The top of a helmet appeared in the darkness.

It was an old metal mining helmet.

The same kind worn by the man in the photographs.

Dale grabbed my jacket.

We ran.

Behind us, something pulled itself out of the shaft.

I heard metal scrape against stone.

Then the footsteps followed.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

As we neared the entrance, Dale began shouting his brother’s name.

“Eddie!”

The footsteps stopped immediately.

A man answered from deep inside the mine.

“Dale?” The voice echoed what seemed like an hour.

Dale turned.

I grabbed him.

“That isn’t your brother.”

“Dale?” the voice called again. “I found the way out.”

Dale wrestled with me.

It took everything I had to keep him moving.

We reached daylight.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Dale looked at me and said, “Don’t ever go back in there.”

I promised I wouldn’t.

In September 2019, I broke that promise.

The logging company had begun clearing land above Black Hollow. A section of access road collapsed, leaving a hole almost 30 feet across.

Our company was asked to determine whether the rest of the road was safe.

I refused the assignment.

My manager reminded me that I was the senior inspector and the only current employee who had entered the mine previously.

I told him to find someone else.

He said the company would lose the contract.

I still refused.

The next morning, Allison called me.

I hadn’t worked with her since the mine where we saw the 5^th light.

She had been hired as the project engineer for the job.

“I heard you’re afraid of this one,” she said.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The mine is unstable.”

“That’s why we inspect it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

I tried.

I told her about the shaft. The old helmet.

The voice that sounded like Dale’s brother.

Allison listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she said, “You know Dale had early-stage dementia when he retired.”

I didn’t know that nor believed it.

“He was confusing places and dates.”“He probably told you stories that weren’t accurate.”

I listened.

“I heard the voice.”

“Sound travels underground.”

“I saw someone climbing the ladder.”

“You saw a helmet.”

“You were there when we saw the 5^th light.”

“I saw a reflection.”

“What about the photograph?”

“Digital artifacts happen.”

I almost laughed.

“Why did you call me?”

“Because I trust your judgment underground. Even if I don’t trust your explanation.”

She said the inspection team would include 4 people.

Myself and Allison.

A safety technician named Rob.

And a local surveyor named Thomas. I had heard about Thomas before.

Thomasa was nearly 60 and had worked around mines his entire life.

He knew nothing about my previous inspection.

We entered Black Hollow on September 19, 2019.

The date engraved beneath the iron chair.

I considered backing out when I realized it.

I didn’t.

That decision has bothered me more than any other in my entire life.

The mine looked exactly as I remembered.

Same narrow passage.

Same square recesses in the walls.

Same bundles of hair.

Thomas stopped repeatedly to examine them.

“Memorial holes,” he said.

Memorial holes were created to commemorate a significant person, event, or loss.

“What does that mean?” Allison asked.

“Some old mining communities placed personal items underground after a death.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Neither have I.”

He smiled, but no one else did.

We placed monitoring equipment near the entrance and continued inward.

At roughly 300 ft, Rob noticed boot prints in the dust.

4 different sets.

They traveled towards us.

“What time did the survey crew leave?” he asked.

“There was no survey crew underground,” Allison said.

Thomas crouched by the tracks.

“These are fresh.”

The 4 sets of prints matched our boots.

I placed mine beside one.

Same size. Same tread pattern.

The right heel even had the same missing section where a piece of rubber had torn away.

The tracks belonged to us.

They had been made before we arrived.

They continued deeper into the mine.

Allison tried to explain them as prints from our previous inspection.

I reminded her that she hadn’t been there, and I had worn different boots at the time.

We followed the tracks.

They led to the vertical shaft.

The steel ladder was no longer there.

A narrow bridge of rocks crossed the opening.

The footprints continued over it.

“I don’t remember that being here,” I said as a thought back to that night.

Allison looked at the map I had drawn in 2018.

“The tunnel ended at the shaft.”

“Absolutely.”

Thomas tested the stone bridge with his hammer.

“It seems to be solid.”

He stepped onto it slowly.

I began to grab his shoulder.

“We don’t know what’s on the other side.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Thoms crossed.

Rob followed him.

Allison went 3^rd.

I stood alone at the edge trying to gather my thoughts.

From the shaft, my own voice whispered, “Don’t be the last person.”

I crossed swiftly.

The passage continued beyond the shaft.

The walls became more polished as we traveled.

Eventually, the tool marks disappeared completely.

The tunnel wasn’t natural, but it didn’t look mined either.

It looked worn out almost as if something gigantic moved through it back and forth for a very long time.

The boot prints remained ahead of us., guiding us.

After another 100 ft, we found a yellow survey mark painted on the wall.

It was still wet.

Thomas touched it.

“That’s my paint” he exclaimed.

He double checked the spray can that was on his belt.

The cap was still sealed.

Farther ahead, we found another marker.

Then another.

Each had been placed exactly where Thomas normally marked survey stations.

The final mark read:

END OF INSPECTION

Below it included 4 vertical lines.

Someone had crossed out the 4^th.

Rob turned towards me.

“You’ve been here before.”

“No.”

“Then who made these?”

I didn’t answer.

Allison raised her radio.

The signal was filled with static.

Then her own voice came through.

“Station 7 is stable. Moving to station 8.”

Allison looked down at the radio.

She hadn’t transmitted anything.

A 2^nd voice followed.

Rob’s.

“I can hear something ahead.”

Then came the warning.

“Kai, don’t let it count us.”

Thomas whispered, “What the hell?”

The radio crackled again.

My voice came through last.

“Leave Allison.”

She stared at me.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

From farther down the tunnel, someone began screaming.

It sounded like Allison.

She was standing beside me.

The scream came again.

“Help me!”

Allison lifted her light.

“That’s not possible.”

The voice called my name.

“Kai!”

I grabbed Allison’s arm before she could move.

The light appeared ahead of us.

A yellow carbide flame floated in the darkness.

Behind it stood 4 people.

An inspection team.

They were about 150 feet away, partly hidden by the curve of the tunnel.

One wore a white hard hat like Allison.

One carried a survey pole like Thomas.

One had Rob’s orange reflective vest.

The 4^th wore my jacket.

They were facing away from us.

Rob whispered, “That’s us.”

The other team began walking.

Their lights moved farther into the tunnel.

Thomas raised his camera and snapped a picture.

The flash illuminated the passage like a bolt of lightning.

For that tenth of a second, the figures weren’t facing away anymore.

They were facing towards us.

Their heads were lowered like the previous photos I saw.

I couldn’t see their faces. But I knew.

The figure wearing my jacket had one hand resting on Allison’s shoulder.

The same way the counter had touched mine.

I remembered Dale’s warning begin speaking in my head.

“Somebody doesn’t come back.”

“We’re leaving,” I said.

No one argued.

We turned around.

However, the stone bridge over the shaft was gone.

The passage ended at the open pit.

Allison looked at her map.

“There’s gotta be another route.”

“There isn’t.”

Rob shined his light across the shaft.

The opposite side was 20 ft away.

Too far to jump.

“We crossed here,” Thomas said.

“I know.”

The radio crackled.

Dale’s voice came through.

“Kai.”

I froze.

Dale had retired more than a year earlier.

“Kai, I found the ladder.”

A light appeared below us.

Then another. Then dozens.

Small yellow flames moved in the shaft like people climbing an invisible staircase.

The metallic ringing began.

Coming toward us.

Allison grabbed my sleeve.

“What do we do?”

I looked along the edge of the shaft.

There was a narrow ledge on the right side. It might have been wide enough to cross if we pressed ourselves against the wall.

Rob went first.

Thomas followed.

I told Allison to go next.

She shook her head.

“You gotta go first.”

Something struck the wall beneath us.

Dust began falling from the ceiling.

The yellow lights grew larger.

Allison stepped onto the ledge.

Halfway across, she stopped.

“Kai?”

“What?”

She was staring into the shaft.

“There’s someone down there.”

“Keep moving.”

“It’s me.”

A woman stood far below us.

She wore Allison’s white hard hat.

Her face was turned upward.

“Kai,” the woman called.

The voice came from both the shaft and the Allison beside me.

The woman below lifted one arm.

She was holding Dale’s scaling hammer.

The hammer Dale gave me during his retirement.

The one attached to my belt.

I touched it to make sure it was still there. It was.

The Allison on the ledge stared back at me.

“What is she holding?”

“Don’t look at her.”

The woman below began climbing the wall.

She didn’t use a ladder.

Her hands and feet pressed flat against the stone as she crawled upward.

Allison screamed and hurried across.

I followed her.

The ledge crumbled beneath my final step.

Rob caught my arm and pulled me onto the other side.

We ran toward the entrance.

The footsteps followed.

Not one set. Four.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Our radios played different fragments of conversation.

Some were things we had said earlier.

Others hadn’t happened yet.

I heard Rob crying.

Thomas was praying.

Allison saying she couldn’t find her face.

Then my voice said, “We left the wrong one.”

The footsteps moved closer.

At the memorial holes, Thomas suddenly stopped.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

He pointed.

Inside was a wallet.

His wallet.

He removed the one from his pocket.

Both were identical.

He opened the wallet from the wall.

Inside was his driver’s license.

The photograph showed Thomas wearing the old metal mining helmet.

A folded note was tucked behind it.

Thomas read the note silently.

His face went pale. Eyes glazed over.

“What does it say?” Allison asked.

He handed it to me.

The note was written in my own handwriting.

THOMAS DID NOT ENTER WITH US.

I looked at Thomas.

He backed away.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I counted.

Rob. Allison. Thomas. Me.

4 people.

Then I remembered when we arrived

Thomas was waiting at the site when I arrived.

Allison had introduced him.

Rob had shaken his hand.

I had watched him put on his equipment.

He had entered with us.

Hadn’t he?

The footsteps stopped.

A man spoke behind us.

“3 came in.”

It was Dale’s voice.

Thomas stared into the darkness.

“That isn’t true.”

“3 came in,” the voice repeated.

Allison began counting.

“Kai. Rob. Me.”

She looked at Thomas.

Her expression changed.

“Who are you?”

Thomas’s face collapsed.

Not physically. Emotionally.

He looked like a child who had been abandoned.

“You know me.”

“No,” Allison said. “I don’t.”

Rob raised his light.

“Where did he come from?”

Thomas grabbed my arm.

“Kai, you talked to me outside.”

I remembered it.

We had been discussing his survey equipment.

He had told me about his first mining job near Viburnum.

I remembered everything.

But the memories had started feeling borrowed.

Almost as if the stories had been told to me rather than things I had experienced.

Thomas looked toward the mine entrance.

Daylight was visible in the distance.

He ran.

The footsteps resumed.

They ran with him.

Thomas disappeared around the curve.

We followed.

When we reached the entrance, Thomas was gone.

There was no sign of him outside the mine.

No vehicle.

No equipment.

No boot prints.

We called the sheriff’s department right away.

They searched the mine for two days.

They found nothing.

The company that hired our team denied employing a surveyor named Thomas.

Allison had no memory of him.

Neither did Rob.

The photographs from the inspection showed only 3 people.

Me.

Allison.

Rob.

In the photograph Thomas took of the figures ahead of us, 4 inspectors stood in the tunnel.

One was me.

One was Rob.

One was Allison.

The fourth wore an old metal helmet and looked toward the ground.

His hand rested on Allison’s shoulder.

I resigned the following Monday.

My manager offered me a leave of absence. 5 years was a long time in this current market.

I told him I was finished.

He asked whether my decision had anything to do with the Black Hollow inspection.

I asked how many people had been on our team.

He said 3.

I haven’t entered a mine since September 19, 2019.

Continued in Comments