The forest was alive with noise as Mary rushed through the trees, her feet managing to find their way forward in the dark. She had lost sight of the stranger long before, but something lingered in the back of her head – an innate sense of direction, a dark ebb of evil pulling her in a particular direction. Shadows danced between the trees as rain pummeled her skin and the wailing wind surrounded her. The rifle was heavy in her hands, and her arms were burning from strain, but she refused to stop, refused to give up.

The random assembly of trees gave way to a long path, a thin road, now dominated by mud, leaves, and errant twigs and shrubs. It twisted downhill to her left. To her right, the path rose upward, snaking toward a cliffside where it eventually bent left and turned away from it. In the middle of the cliffside – Mary measured roughly fifty feet up its towering face – there was a large hole, which she presumed lead to a cave.

Instinct flared, and heat pounded with fear in her chest as she walked up the path, moving toward the cliff and its imposing stature. Through the darkness, she could make out clear handholds and footholds, which made their way toward the cave mouth in a linear fashion. The rock was slicked with rainwater, which caused the wet stone to gleam in the darkness. Determination bloomed in Mary’s heart, and she pushed forward toward the rocky cliff and whatever fate it held.

The path ended in another fork, with the left side bending downward, heading deeper into the forest. The right side of the path was more worn, as was evidenced by the deep and wide pool of mud that was visible. Above her loomed the cave mouth. The slick rock seemed to be staring back at her, its irregularities and sharp corners creating a stern face that stared at her with contempt.

Mary took a long breath before wrapping the gun’s leather strap around her shoulders. After she had adjusted her body to the new weight, she reached up with her right foot and her right hand and began her climb. The rock was cold and wet, but her grip remained firm as she pulled herself up and placed her left foot in the next foothold.

The climb seemed to last hours. Every now and then a bad gust of wind would blow, pushing her off-center as she reached upward. Terror would drop her heart into the pit of her gut as she envisioned plummeting to her death below, her body making an imprint upon the muddy road that would soon be washed away with the rain, never to be seen again. Then, after the gust had passed, she would continue her ascent.

When her hands felt the lip of the cave mouth, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her arms were burning from exertion, and her dress – which had previously been a combination of gray, white, and blue – was now a tattered, discolored mess.

Mary pulled herself up over the edge and rolled into the cave, taking a long breath before pushing the palms of her hand against the stone floor and forcing her body to stand.

She slipped the repeater strap over her head, and pushed the butt of the rifle into her shoulder as she adjusted to her surroundings. The cave, which was somehow darker than the storm clouds swirling above, was eerily quiet. She could hear little beyond the wind outside, yet even that was not as loud as it had previously been. The cave was shaped in a large cylinder, with an oddly smooth finish all around. It was also remarkably dry; to Mary – who had sometimes explored in caves, even when her mother and father, when he had been alive – had told her not to, that was the oddest thing of all.

Water dripped from her hair, skin, and clothing as she walked forward. Her feet whispered across the ground while she strained her ears in search of any sound that might denote danger. Yet, she heard nothing. The cave was silent, and the deeper she delved into the tunnel, the less she heard. Eventually, even the wind and rain from outside were all but gone. Though her eyes did adjust to the darkness, it was never quite enough to confidently traverse the yawning black tunnel ahead of her.

The path bent left, and up ahead Mary was surprised to see amber light. Shadows danced on the walls, and as she approached she realized that the tunnel was leading to a large, circular room. Wooden chairs and soft rugs adorned the stone floor, while torches held in sconces cast a harsh, flickering light on the space. Yet, as Mary entered she was surprised to find the room empty. She scanned it quickly, looking down the silver barrel of the repeater as she did, but the cave was as silent and empty as it had been upon her initial entry.

There was another tunnel in the back of the room, or what seemed like the back, to which she was drawn. Lacking any semblance of direction, Mary hoped the route would not lead her to an untimely death.

With caution, she approached the tunnel. Her throat felt scratchy and hot, and her breath quickened as she pushed forward through fear and unease. The feeling in her gut – the dark instinct – was pulsating. The air in the cave was thin and dry; every breath she pulled in seemed to lack substance.

She was plunged into darkness again as she traversed the second tunnel. It twisted to the right, and Mary noticed that the walls were less smooth than the first tunnel’s walls had been. The path was still littered with errant stones and pebbles. Further ahead, she saw another light: this time, a deep shade of crimson.

A bolt of pain exploded through Mary’s head as images of Jackson and her father danced in her mind’s eye. Both were dead, lying on the ground with their eyes wide in shock and their swollen corpses distended and purple from age.

So much sadness.

The stranger’s voice filled her mind, and the pain in her head pulled Mary to her knees. It pulsated and crackled, fire in her brain. Even when Mary tried to force it out, to draw it out as she would a sliver, the pain resisted. In her body, it felt like a force unto itself – with a mind of its own. It was as though someone was attempting to chisel her brain while using a dull pickaxe.

What will this accomplish?

His tone was taunting, arrogant, confident. Mary had met many men who carried the same air to their walk, who spoke with the same bullish disdain, who sneered with the same, glinting grin – the kind of grin built upon years of injustice and power. She had seen those looks, and she had felt those eyes on her back everywhere she went – even when it was common knowledge she was taken, and that Jackson would drive a knife into any man’s heart who dared to harm her. At bars, on the road while riding home, on the street. Even when she had been working on the farm, sweat slicking her brow and dripping down her face, dirt and grime slathered across her palms and under her fingernails, her skin red and burned from the sun, her brow and her eyes dark with focus. Most men she met seemed to have that same tone.

It made rejecting them, beating them, fighting them, angering them, outsmarting them, all the more delicious to savor. Sometimes a man would try and attack her, to swing a wild haymaker because she had spurned his advance, or because she had had the audacity to refuse to smile when ordered to do so. She would dodge it and deliver two sharp jabs: one to the neck, and one to the groin, just as her mother had taught her. The man would topple over, red and purple splotches growing on his face, and she would return to her business.

Gritting her teeth against the agony, Mary pushed herself back to her feet. After shaking her head, she strode forward, pulling the action on the rifle downward.

He was close.

The next room confused her even more than the first. It was filled with rotting food. The pungent odor curled her nose, and she had to resist a gag that was percolating in the back of her throat. Even with the mold and rot, she could see what the food was, though: corn, beans, fruit. The stolen food from their farm.

A mighty feast, the stranger said, his voice echoing in her mind.

Mary continued further, through another hallway. When she entered the final room, she stopped in her tracks.

In the middle of the circular room was an elegant chair with a thick, red cushion. Sitting in the chair was Rose. Her eyes were pitch-black.

Rose’s mouth turned upward in a smile that wasn’t her own.

“What do you think?” she asked. Her black eyes gleamed.

Next Chapter: Emma