The basement smells like rotting eggs, and something else I can’t quite place. Copper? That dull ringing picks up in my ears. I wait for little girls to jump out at me, but when nothing happens, I pull out my flashlight and aim the light at Elliot. His ankle is red and bloated. I grimace, looking away.

“Tell me about it,” Elliot says. I know my reaction isn’t helping, so I try to keep a straight face.

Jackson peers down from above. “You got it down there?”

“Hang on,” I say, holding the ladder. “Okay.”

Jackson swings a leg over the edge. Elliot shifts his body, looking to the left. “Here,” he says. “Shine your light over there…”

I sweep my flashlight across the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Bile rises in my throat. The room is definitely a holding cell of some kind. Strewn fetid mattresses line one corner, dried red and yellow stains splattering the cotton. Crude foam cutouts attach to the exposed overhead beams. On a couple of walls, fingernail scratches etch on the concrete.

As I hold the ladder, Jackson makes his way down. When his feet touch the floor, he freezes. For once, he can’t think of anything to say. He picks up a mangled knot of leather straps and razor teeth off the ground.

“Is that a muzzle?” I ask.

He drops it and wipes his hands on his jeans, glancing at the only wall of the room with neat, paisley wallpaper. He raises his head, looking up to the ladder again.

“We need to get Beth,” he says. “We need to get out of here.”

I nod, though my gaze is fixed on the wallpapered wall. With all the rot around us, it seems strange that section of the room is so orderly. Walking closer, I inspect the delicate flowers on the paper, noticing one piece is frayed and creased.

I peel back the faded floral design to find a scribble carved into the cement. It takes me a second to realize the scribbles are letters, forming a small-four letter word:

h e l p

Studying the word on the wall, my mind blurs with the implications. Did one of the girls write this? How long were Herman’s victims down here before he had his way with them?

I continue to peel the wallpaper, finding more and more etchings. This isn’t happening, I think. Please. This isn’t happening. A door has opened in my mind to a very dark place, and I want that door closed.

“Jackson,” I say.

“What?” His back is to me as he tries to lift Elliot up. Elliot groans, trying to get his footing.

“Jackson,” I repeat. There must be something in the way I say his name, because he stops what he’s doing and actually listens. Stepping back, I show him the bare wall. Words litter the space, the abandoned messages of Herman’s victims…