[chapter 1]

[chapter 2]

[chapter 3]

———-

Russell Wilson awoke to the sensation of dripping water. As his hands searched for purchase on the slick stone floor, they scraped across several crusty pores and sharp cracks in the uneven surface. He picked himself up slowly, stifling a cough and begging for relief from his aching head. A yellowed gape of light spilled out from is fitting in the rough-hewn crag of stone. An arch had been made there, shaped to form an entryway deeper into the basement under Dove Valley Elementary. The QB checked behind him and took in the monstrous scale of the staircase he’d fallen down. It stretched upward until the pale yellow light lost the strength to illuminate it further. The stairs grew steeper at an odd interval, until a point at which they appeared impassable. There was no choice but to continue forward, downward.

The absurdity of his situation made for poor company as the QB shuffled himself through the dingy corridor. A strange loss of urgency permeated him now. None of the events since he awoke on the 5th hole fairway at the country club felt honest or true. As time had gone on, it felt like he’d drifted further from normalcy into a hostile and off-putting reflection of reality. As if to bolster this new suspicion, a shadow fell across Russell’s face.

The tunnel’s anemic yellow light strobed through gaps in whatever object was intermittently blocking it, like a flashlight through a ribcage. Joints popped in and out of place to the rhythm of the movement. How far from here was it? The lights were oddly spaced, he couldn’t be sure. But there were no alternate paths, no turns or ways around. Whatever it was, it finally finished moving over the light and disappeared into shadow.

Fewer than ten steps later, it had him. Grasping hands swiftly clutched his arms and legs. The basement dweller’s many limbs effortlessly bound him, popping and grinding as they twisted him into position. Wet drips impacted his face, clinging adhesively where they fell before gravity ran them down his cheeks and the back of his neck. Hot breath moved his hair back and forth. It was humming something while it worked.

Absent mindedly, it spoke: “all better soon, baby. Hecate, Hecate has you now.” The humming returned, more upbeat and melodic now. “Take the man, down the hole,” it sang over and over. They were moving at speed, grungy yellow lights passing overhead ever more rapidly.

It was getting humid. Bound as he was, Russ could do nothing to staunch the sweat beading and collecting in more and more places around his body. He felt like he was cooking, slowly, in his own skin. The basement dweller’s song rose and fell with it’s many-pedaled footfalls, maintaining a brisk pace that would have cooled his face if he could feel any wind. Instead the tunnel assaulted him with steam and heat.

The thing began to slow. Though he couldn’t see where they were going, it banked and swerved as if arriving at a terminal where many paths collected. A sharp pain stabbed his abdomen and immediately gave way to dull relief. The crawler released him from it’s grip and he fluttered to the ground. The sounds of others around him was dulled greatly by the narcotic effect of the sting. His captor scuttled away, presumably to retrieve another lost passenger of the tunnels.

An indeterminate length of time passed the QB by in this place. He drifted from consciousness, no longer caring to discern dreams from reality. Eventually, a gale wind pressed into him, forcing air into his mouth and nose. And a man, unreasonably tall, stood towering over his resting place.