CHAPTER TWENTY

The dweller moved through the tunnels, his bare feet soft and quiet against the stone. Every so often, he clicked his teeth, judging his position by the resonance of the echo. He sniffed the air, his senses focused on his prey.

He was not blind, but sight was of little use in the darker parts of the tunnels. He navigated by memory and his other senses.

He wasn't sure how long he had been underground. His memories of his time aboveground were foggy. He remembered his parents, of course. They were the reason he was here, the reason he killed. This mine was sacred, a shrine to their deaths and the deaths of their friends. Yet people continued to desecrate their graves as though they didn't matter, as though this place was nothing more than a tourist attraction.

He thought he had fixed that problem before when he had caved in the last remaining entrance. Some of the explosives left behind were still viable, and he used them to close the mine off for good. When needed, he could still access the surface through the natural cave network.

And things were good. He survived off of the rats and food left behind by and sometimes stolen from campers and spelunkers who frequented the upper third of the caves. On rare occasions, he was forced to kill when cavers saw him, but that was rare. For the most part, he was able to live comfortably among his parents' ghosts and the spirits of the others who had died.

So many had died here, so many more than the miners who were killed when the mine first collapsed. There were thousands of spirits in this place, and they communed with the dweller as though he were one of their own.

He'd had a name once. He couldn't remember it. The last person who had used it was Uncle, a cruel, sadistic drunk who hated him for being a living memory of his brother who had died a better man than Uncle would ever be.

He had taken his first chance. Uncle lay drunk on the couch, and he had left Uncle's house and come back to his parents.

He had become the dweller in darkness then, preferring the safety of shadow to the harsh glare of the sun. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun. He came close when the second one nearly reached the entrance.

Those lawmen. The police. They had nearly forced him into the light. He feared them, and because he feared them, he hated them. They were bullies, just like Uncle, bullies who refused to leave him in peace, who defended the trespassers and encouraged them to continue to violate his family's grave.

Why couldn't they just stay above where they belonged? Why did they come here to tempt the spirits and provoke the dweller? Why did they open the door to his house again and send their evil, selfish fools here to spit on the memory of his loved ones?

They deserved their suffering. The dweller couldn't suffocate them like his parents were suffocated. He had tried that once and the man he was strangling found a rock and nearly beat him unconscious with it before the dweller was able to kick him into a nearby mine shaft. From then on, he used his knife.

But he still made them fear. His parents had feared. They had screamed in fear. They had begged, and they had been left behind. He wanted the trespassers to know fear as they ran. He wanted them to feel the end coming, to flee it, and to still feel it following them, chasing them until it found them and killed them.

So he played a game. The game was one from his childhood aboveground. It was called hide-and-seek. He played hide-and-seek with the trespassers, and when he found them, he killed them.

He sniffed the air and stopped dead in his tracks. His skin prickled when the scent wafted to him again.

The dog. The dog was back. The dog whose nose—keener even than his own—had nearly forced him into the light. It was back, and so were its owners, the police. They were looking for him.

He stood stock still and listened. He heard footfalls, the trespasser he was hunting, the other trespasser, and two, no… four police.

The other trespasser was with the dog and one of the police.

Rage filled him, fury rising until he felt his lips pull back from his teeth. The police had found one of the trespassers and now protected her with the dog.

He hissed, his anger causing him to momentarily forget the need for stealth. He quieted himself and listened again.

They did not hear him. They were still going the wrong way.

All except the one with the dog. The dog couldn't smell him yet, but it had picked up traces of him left behind as he chased the first trespasser. It would soon be on his trail, and when it was, the dweller would have to flee. He could not outrun the dog, not even underground. He would have to climb into the ventilation shafts and move across the water to hide his scent. Even then, there was no guarantee that would work.

"Damned dog," he whispered.

The sound of his own voice shocked him, as it always did. Most of the time, he forgot he could speak. It was only when hunting trespassers that he remembered his voice.

Well, he was hunting. And she was getting away. He listened to her footfalls and could tell that she approached one of the surface entrances. She had already walked nearly five miles. That was impressive. Maybe he should have seen if she wanted to stay, to dwell with him.

But no, she had not been invited. She had trespassed. She must be punished.

He moved quickly now, no longer pacing the trespasser but rushing. He would need to hurry when he found her. He couldn't take his time scaring her, watching the hope bleed from her eyes before the life bled. He would need to kill her quickly and then hide.

Unfair that one of the trespassers should escape. Unfair that someone should violate his parents' graves and get away with it.

But there was no choice. She had the police, and the police had the dog. He would kill this last trespasser, then he would destroy the cave. He would destroy everything this time. He would make it so that no one could trespass again.