CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The loud ticking of a nearby clock seemed almost to have faded from Sarah Thompson’s consciousness through sheer monotony and repetition. Her wrists were raw from her struggle against the chains that held her. They wouldn’t give way at all, but she thought she was making some progress against the pipe the chain looped around. Ancient and rusted, it was finally groaning and bending under her persistent tugging. She didn’t know how long she had been chained to that pipe—a couple of days at least—but she had never given up her struggle, at least not when she was alone.

Then she felt that metal pipe give way. It clattered to the concrete floor, and she held her breath, afraid that the noise might beckon the silent figure with the penlight. But everything remained quiet, and the pipe must have been no longer in use, because neither water nor steam came out of it. She felt her way along the fallen pipe until she found a break that allowed her to slip her chained hands free of it. Her throat was too dry to make a sound, but she relished this small victory in a seemingly endless night.

Sarah’s hands, still fettered together, were of little use as she staggered to her feet. Each movement sent throbbing pains through her bruised body, but she willed herself to move. The dark basement held no comfort, no sign of life except for her own shallow breathing. She leaned heavily against the wall, its rough texture scraping against her skin, guiding her forward like a lifeline.

She remembered where the staircase must be, and found her way over to it. Every step was an agony, every rise a mountain to climb, but Sarah persisted. She ascended on her hands and knees, the chains around her wrists clinking morosely with each labored movement.

At the top, Sarah’s trembling hand found the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open with a force born of fear and hope. It led to a dimly lit hallway. Struggling to her feet, Sarah moved down the corridor, her heart pounding against her chest. The heavy door she saw at the other end looked vaguely familiar. When she got there and pushed it open, a shocking realization dawned on her. She was in the back of the Trentville Public Library, a place that had always been a favorite haunt of hers, a sanctuary. How could this be?

The library was quiet as if holding its breath as Sarah struggled trying to piece together the fragments of her predicament. The hallway, the heavy doors, the old building now took on a sinister significance. They had likely masked her weak cries from the basement. But why …?

As she emerged into the hushed expanse of the library, the clinking of her chains was a discordant sound in the stillness. Her eyes, adjusting to the dim light, fell upon Emily Carson standing behind the circulation desk, her silver hair an austere crown in the quiet domain of books.

Sarah’s strained voice broke the silence. “Emily?” she managed to croak. She staggered toward her friend, expecting safety, expecting rescue. But as she drew nearer, she saw Emily’s expression shift from surprise to something unreadable. Before Sarah could process the change, Emily’s strong hands seized her. The librarian’s grip was unyielding as she dragged Sarah back toward the hallway, toward the basement door. Panic surged through Sarah’s body, her mind reeling at the betrayal. “Emily, why?” she breathed, her voice a mere wisp of sound.

The librarian didn’t answer, her face a stoic mask as she propelled Sarah with a force that belied her years. The familiarity of her touch, once comforting, now felt like iron shackles binding Sarah tighter than any chain.

Realization crashed over Sarah like a wave: Emily Carson, the trusted librarian who had nurtured her love for literature, and had helped Sarah imbue her young pupils with that same love, was her captor. Sarah’s muscles screamed in protest as she struggled against Emily’s hold, but weakness from her captivity leached the strength from her limbs.

“Please,” she implored, but Emily’s face was set, her determination unwavering as they reached the top of the stairs. In a swift motion, Emily heaved Sarah forward, sending her tumbling back down the wooden steps.

Pain exploded in Sarah’s head as it connected with the unforgiving edge of a stair, stars exploding in her vision. The world spun, and the darkness rushed in. As Sarah lay crumpled at the bottom of the staircase, the dull throb of her heartbeat was the only sound that penetrated the encroaching void, her senses slipping away as she teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

*

Emily stood at the top of the basement stairs, her narrow escape playing back in her mind: Sarah’s quiet approach, the whispered plea for help, the swift motion of dragging her back into darkness—all while the library above remained deserted. It was sheer luck that no one else had been there to witness the encounter. What if someone had seen?

She flicked on the light, shut the door behind her, and descended, each step deliberate and firm. At the bottom, she surveyed the scene before her: Sarah lay crumpled on the floor, a disheveled heap. Emily frowned angrily when she saw the broken pipe where Sarah had been chained.

Sarah groaned, stirring from her place on the ground. Her voice was weak, fractured by pain and confusion. Emily approached with a calculated calmness, kneeling beside her former friend.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” she began, her tone even, almost gentle. “I never wanted you to suffer knowing… knowing who held you here. It would’ve been kinder that way.” It was not pity that softened her features, but a clinical detachment, the kind that came from witnessing too much suffering and causing more of it herself.

A persistent ticking sliced through the silence, drawing Emily’s attention to the old clock on the wall. It was louder here, beneath the earth, a constant reminder of time slipping away. She pondered the cruel question that had become her ritual: How long can they last without water? Four days was a harrowing record that she herself had set at the age of ten—a twisted mark of resilience that none had yet surpassed. “Nobody else has lasted more than three days,” Emily told Sarah. “You should have just stayed where you were, and soon it would all have been over.”

There was no joy for her this, no satisfaction—only the fulfillment of a dark need that demanded to be quenched. An undeniable pull, an inexorable compulsion, wound itself around her every five years, compelling her to claim another victim in a sort of hideous experiment in deprivation and endurance.

She stood there, considering the new determination that would surely ignite within Sarah, a will to survive fueled by the knowledge of her captor’s identity. Emily knew all too well the strength that desperation could muster. She had felt it herself, born of thirst and helplessness in the clutches of her own parents. She had been five years old the first time they left her there, her throat parched as hours stretched into an eternity. The second time was worse; at ten, she understood the cruelty behind their actions, the punishment for some imagined sin. If not for the neighbor who heard her weak cries, she would have perished there.

“Your resolve to escape will only grow stronger,” Emily mused aloud. “You know too much about me now. This has to be ended.”

She gazed around the basement. The concrete floor stretched out, cold and unforgiving, until it gave way to dirt—the boundary of the living and the dead in this subterranean world. Emily’s gaze shifted beyond where she had meticulously prepared for the inevitable. A fresh grave, gaping and expectant, lay ready for Sarah. It was an unceremonious twin to those neighboring graves that held Mark Reeves and Melissa Brennan, whose lives had quietly been extinguished amidst the shadows and silence. They had become part of the earth, secrets buried deep within the embrace of Trentville’s soil, their presence marked only by Emily’s memory. Now Sarah had to join them.

A utility knife on the workbench caught her eye, its blade glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. With a sense of inevitability, Emily reached for it, her fingers closing around the cool, textured grip. Her gaze remained fixed on Sarah’s prone form, whose shallow breaths sent ripples through the stillness. The blade clicked into place with an almost imperceptible sound, a sinister whisper in the quiet gloom.

She stepped closer, the knife’s edge catching the sickly light as she positioned herself above Sarah, her posture rigid with resolve. “Forgive me,” she murmured, though she knew forgiveness was absent in this dry chamber of horrors. “But your will to live…your knowledge of me…” Emily’s voice trailed off as the stark reality of her actions crystallized in her mind; there could be no turning back now, no sliver of doubt allowed to take hold. With steely calm, she whispered her grim benediction, “I just can’t let that happen.”