Page 54 of They're Watching You

He passes me his flashlight, which I tuck under my arm before lowering down into the crypt. When my foot lands on the last rung, Remington shuts the trapdoor. The darkness congeals around me like molasses.

I click on the flashlight, light scribbling over the stone walls until it finds a lantern perched in a niche. I fumble through my pack for the lighter Remington insisted I carry and ignite the wick. Double-fisting my light sources now, I continue through the corridor.

The labyrinth from the last game is tucked inside my back pocket, but I’ve basically memorized it. I have to avoid every place I touched last night. Because if Annabelle was telling the truth, Polly is somewhere beyond the reaches of the map.

Our meeting time is 2 a.m. Nearly four hours away.

I really hope I’m not alone down here that long.

Ahead, a staircase leads deeper into the catacombs. I went that way last time, and though I could’ve missed a hidden room or passageway, I opt for the door instead.

When it seems like I’ve traveled a mile of endless stone corridors, I reach an arched doorway marked by an unlit, standing torch on each side. Instead of a door, a wrought-iron lattice gate barricades the entryway. But it isn’t locked, and with a small push, the gate hinges open with an eerie creak. Setting down my lantern, I slide my map from my pocket and hold the flashlight to it. I’ve passed the siren in the lower left-hand corner.

I’m off the map. Somewhere beyond this point, Polly and Jane are being held prisoner.

I grab my lantern and enter a gallery with sunken ceilings. At the far end is a vaulted alcove where a stone altar draped in red cloth stands as the centerpiece to some sort of shrine. All around the wall, unlit candles fill tiny nooks. I don’t even want to know what this place is used for.

I turn to the left, where a dark hole in the wall catches my eyes. It’s the only way out other than the gate I came through, so I duck my head inside what seems to be a pitch-black tunnel. Pushing the lantern ahead of me, I get down on my hands and knees and crawl, my backpack scraping the ceiling, the stone roughing up my knees.

My heart thunders in my ears. This is the part in the movies where any moment now, I shove my lantern a little farther to illuminate the face of the lunatic who’s been living down in this tunnel for decades, feasting on rats. Though I’m not sure how a lunatic would even be able to live down here. It’s frigid. My teeth are chattering, and I get the feeling that if I stopped moving, hypothermia would come on within the hour.

My thoughts swim to Polly.Poor Polly. The chambers aren’t as freezing as this tunnel, but they’re still cold. And she’s been down here for weeks. Her health must be in serious jeopardy. I scramble a little faster, trying to shimmy through the stones without dislodging any of them. The mortar is crumbling in places, trickling down to coat my hair; one wrong move and I could be trapped forever.

The farther I make it, the more a disquieting thought weighs on me like bricks coming down one layer at a time: this could very well be the only way back. If I continue on, I’ll have to do this again. But there isn’t enough room to turn around in here, and besides, I’m nearly to the end.

Ahead, my lantern light flashes on another corridor, this one with standing room. I get up, brush myself off, and pull out my phone. No reception, of course. There’s no way Remington is going to find me. If something happens down here, no one will find me.

Like no one’s found Polly or Jane.

I’ve made it this far, though. Against my better judgment, I press on, through the corridor, turning right into the largest gallery I’ve come across. Some sort of chapel. Pillars line both sides of an aisle, and another stone altar, larger this time, sits atop a platform. The same stone from the rest of the catacombs lines the floor, with one exception: colored tiles are interspersed to form an image. I don’t see any sarcophagi in this room, just more unlit candles and dusty jars. I make my way beneath the arch over the platform, which looks like the kind of place that could hide an entry to the hidden prison. I run my fingers over the rough stones, one at a time. Maybe one of these pushes or pulls and the entire wall swings open.

But nothing works. I swing around, lifting my lantern high. And that’s when the hairs on the back of my neck prickle up.

The colored tiles on the floor—red, I see now, like blood.

They form a linchpin.

Gavin claims the society is all about fun and games, but these catacombs were clearly designed for more. This chamber could be the place where they perform the sacrifices.

Jostling my pack higher on my spine, I head back out the way I came, turning right when I reach the corridor, toward the next level of this inferno.

When it feels like I’ve traveled in a complete circle, I reach a doorway. Like the one earlier, it’s marked by a standing torch on each side, the same latticed iron gate blocking it.

Only this one is locked. I squint at the lock in the dim lantern light, yanking on it. There are only two reasons to lock a gate: keeping people out, and keeping people in.

“Polly!” I yell, lacing my fingers through the bars to shake the gate. “Jane?”

No answer. I set my lantern down and shine my flashlight through the bars, making out stone walls on each side. It looks like the room from the video, but there’s no bed pushed against the wall. Instead, there’s a small desk and a chair with a red coat slung onto the back of it. A shiver dances up my neck. Is Annabelle down here?

A laptop sits open on the desk, the screen timed out. This could be her lair. Whatever’s on that computer may hold valuable information about the society—about Polly and Jane.

I have to get inside. Dropping down onto the cold ground, I dig through my backpack for something to pick the lock. How come girls in the movies always have bobby pins on them? Suddenly, I resent my messy lacrosse ponytail and its flyaways with everything in me. All I have are water and snacks and basically everything Remington forced upon me.

But hope lights up in my chest. When he gets here, he’ll have that Swiss Army knife. It must have some sort of lock picking mechanism. For now, I’ll have to use my time searching for the girls.

I stuff everything back inside the pack and stand, giving the locked room one last glance. But a flash of white snags my eye as the lantern light passes over it. There’s something on the ground, a few feet from the gate. An envelope. Larger than the ones containing our invitations.

I might be able to reach it. Crouching down, I maneuver my hand to make it fit, scraping my skin as I slide it through the bars. Then, I lean into the gate and push all the way to my armpit.

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