I Took a Mining Job. Something is Wrong Here.

Hello and welcome back to another episode by Sleepy Pasta. Before you doze off tonight, don't forget to leave a five star review and a comment where you are watching from. Let's begin. I hit the bottom of the shaft at exactly 630, same as always. The cage rattled to a stop and I stepped out with the rest of the morning crew.

My boots hit the packed dirt floor with that familiar thud that meant another day Underground had officially started. Morning, Pete. Milo called out, already heading toward the equipment room. He'd been down here since 5 getting things ready. Morning.

I said, following the group. We all moved with that same half asleep shuffle. Nobody's really awake at this hour, just functioning on routine. The main tunnel stretched out ahead, lit by those yellowish lights strung along the ceiling every 20 feet or so. I've been walking the same path for 15 years now.

I could probably do it blindfolded if I had to. Greg fell and stepped beside me. You see the Steelers game last night? Missed it. Sarah had me fixing that leak under the kitchen sink.

Man, you missed a good one. Fourth quarter comeback, down by 9 with 5 minutes left. We rounded the corner into the equipment room where everyone was grabbing their gear. The usual morning ritual. Helmets, lamps, gloves, radios.

I checked my lamp battery out of habit. Still had that dent on the side from when I dropped it last month. All right, everyone. Colton's voice cut through the chatter. Circle up for a minute.

We all turned toward him. Colton Lee had been running this shift for almost 20 years. Short guy, always looked tired with those wire glasses that seemed too small for his face. He was standing by the door with his clipboard, and beside him was someone I'd never seen before. Got a new addition to our crew?

Colton said, gesturing to the stranger. This is Roman Johnson, he's transferring in from the Carson operation up north. The guy stood there, didn't nod, didn't wave, just stared. First thing I noticed was the surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face. White medical looking thing, made him look like he was about to perform surgery rather than dig coal.

Second thing was how thin he was, his coveralls hung off him like they were two sizes too big. Roman's going to be working with us on Section 3. Colton continued. Pete, I'm putting him with your team, show him the ropes. I nodded, but something about this guy made my skin crawl.

Can't really explain it, just one of those gut feelings. Nice to meet you. I said, stepping forward and offering my hand. Roman just looked at it, didn't move, didn't speak. After a few awkward seconds, I pulled my hand back.

Not much of A talker. Colton explained, looking uncomfortable. Doctor's orders. Some kind of throat condition. I glanced down at Roman's hands.

They were unnaturally clean. Everyone in this room had calloused, stained hands from years underground. His looked like he'd never touched dirt in his life. Smooth, pale, with long fingers that reminded me of spider legs. He's got all his certifications.

Colton added, flipping through some papers on his clipboard. Just needs to learn our specific operations. Got it. I said, though I didn't like it one bit. The rest of the guys mumbled their hellos, but Roman just stood there completely still, not shifting his weight, not looking around curiously like most new guys do, just staring straight ahead through the crew.

All right, let's get to it. Colton said, clearly eager to move things along. Section assignments are the same as yesterday, except Pete's team adds Roman. Let's move out. Everyone started filing toward the tunnels.

I hung back, waiting for Roman to follow. You ever worked a continuous minor before? I asked him as we walked. Nothing. Not even a nod, just those eyes staring ahead.

Well, stick close to me today. I said. Our section's about half a mile in, we'll be running the CM most of the morning. Still nothing. This was going to be a long day.

The 1st shift with Roman was weird as hell. He followed instructions perfectly, but never said a word, not even a grunt of acknowledgement. He'd just do exactly what you told him, nothing more, nothing less. And he was strong, surprisingly strong for someone so skinny. I watched him lift a support beam that usually takes two guys.

But the strangest thing was how he moved. Most miners develop a certain way of walking underground. Slightly hunched, careful steps, always aware of your surroundings. Roman moved like he was gliding. No wasted motion, no hesitation, like he'd been born down here.

By the end of the week, everyone was talking about him. No one had heard him speak. No one had seen him eat in the break room. No one knew where he stayed above ground. Guy gives me the creeps, Greg said one morning as we were changing into our gear.

Roman hadn't arrived yet. Tell me about it, I said, lacing up my boots. Yesterday. I turned around and he was just standing there behind me. Didn't make a sound, nearly jumped out of my skin.

You notice he never sweats? Everyone sweats down here. It's like 100° in some of those tunnels. I nodded. And that mask, you ever seen him without it?

Nope. Throat condition my ass. Something's off about that guy. The next few weeks didn't make things any better. Roman kept to himself, always lurking at the edges of whatever was happening.

I'd be checking a support beam, turn around, and there he'd be, standing in the shadows, watching. Or I'd be heading down a tunnel and catch a glimpse of him disappearing around a corner ahead of me, somewhere he had no reason to be. He never ate with us, never changed with us, never seemed to need breaks while the rest of us were gulping water and catching our breath.

He'd just stand there waiting, that mask never moving even to breathe. One day, about three weeks after Roman started, I was working in a side tunnel when my lamp caught something in the darkness. Roman was crouched in a corner, his back to me, doing something I couldn't see. I called out to him and he slowly turned his head, just his head, not his body, a full 90° like an owl, the lamp light reflected in his eyes, making them shine like an animal's.

I backed away, mumbling something about checking another section, and got out of there as fast as I could. That night I called. Greg, I'm telling you, man, something seriously wrong with this guy? I said, pacing around my kitchen. You think I don't know that?

Greg's voice came through the phone, sounding tired. Milo says he caught Roman standing outside the mine entrance yesterday morning at 5:00, just staring up at the sky like he'd never seen it before. Have you noticed he always knows where everyone is, like, without looking? Yeah, Greg said. Dan said the same thing, said Roman somehow knew he was coming around a corner before he got there.

I rubbed my face. Colton's not doing anything about it. I tried talking to him last week and he just said Roman's adjusting to our operation. What do you think his deal is? Some kind of autism, maybe?

I don't know, I said. But it's not just that he's weird. He feels dangerous, like when you're in the woods and suddenly all the birds go quiet. I know what you mean, Greg said. Hey, have you checked the new schedule?

It went up today. No, not yet. Why? You might want to take a look. They've moved some people around.

I had a bad feeling about this. I'll check online talk tomorrow. Yeah, Be careful, Pete. I hung up and pulled up the mine schedule on my laptop, scrolled down to find my name. What I saw made my stomach drop.

They'd moved me to night shift starting next week, away from my regular crew, away from Greg and the guys I'd worked with for years. And they're taking my spot on day shift was Roman Johnson. I called Colton immediately. He answered on the 4th ring, sounding half asleep. Pete, it's almost midnight.

What's with the schedule change? Colton, you're putting me on nights. He sighed. Look, I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow. Talk to me now.

Why am I suddenly on night shift? It's temporary Pete, just for a few weeks. That's not what I asked. Why the change? There was a long pause.

Roman requested it. Roman, the guy doesn't even talk. How the hell did he request anything? He wrote it down, said he wanted your specific position and shift. I felt cold all over and you just gave it to him?

I've been here 15 years, Colton, 15 years, and you're shuffling me around for some creepy new guy who's been here a month? It wasn't my call, Pete. Colton said, his voice dropping. The request came down from Glass himself. That stopped me short.

Miles Glass owned Black Rock Mine, but nobody ever saw him. He was just a name on our paychecks, a shadow figure who sent down orders from on high. Glass knows about Roman. Personally. I don't know the details, Colton said.

I just got the directive. Roman takes your position, you move to Knights. Temporary. This is bullshit, Colton, and you know it. What do you want me to do, Pete?

Fight the owner. I've got a mortgage and two kids in college. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to calm down. How long is temporary? They said a month, maybe six weeks.

And then I'm back on days with my regular crew. That's what they told me. I didn't believe it for a second. Something was seriously wrong here. But I also knew Colton was stuck in the middle.

Fine, I said finally. But I wanted in writing that this is temporary and the first sign of any safety issues. I'm filing a formal complaint. That's fair, Colton said, sounding relieved. I'll have the paperwork ready tomorrow.

I hung up and sat there in my dark kitchen, staring at nothing. Night shift with people I barely knew. All because some creepy silent newcomer had specifically asked for my position, and the mine owner, a guy who'd never once involved himself in shift assignments and all my years there, had personally approved it.

I had a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling. But what choice did I have? Jobs were scarce around here and I had bills to pay. I do the night shifts and keep my head down.

What's the worst that could happen? I had no idea that I was about to find out. First day of night shift and I already knew I'd hate it. Walking into the mine at 10:00 PM felt wrong, like wearing someone else's clothes. The admin building was dark except for a single light in the break room, and the parking lot was nearly empty.

Just my truck, Emmett's sedan, and Alexander's old Chevy. There he is. Alexander called when I pushed open the door to the break room. Night shift rookie has arrived. Emmett looked up from his thermos.

You're early. Couldn't sleep anyway. I said, dropping my lunch cooler on the table. Figured I might as well get it over with. Truth was, I've been tossing in bed since 7:00, my body clock completely confused.

15 years on day shift will do that to you. Alexander clapped me on the shoulder. Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Takes about a week for your body to flip around. Great.

I muttered, opening my locker. Something to look forward to. We geared up in silence. The equipment room felt different at night. Too quiet, too empty.

During day shift you'd have 12 guys in here, all talking over each other, complaining about football games or bragging about their kids. Now it was just the three of us, our voices echoing against the metal lockers. So what's the plan tonight? I asked, checking my lamp battery. Emmett zipped up his coveralls.

We're finishing the support work in the West tunnel, then moving equipment to the new section they opened up last week. That Section 3 expansion? I asked. Yeah, your old stomping grounds. Alexander grinned.

Bet you wish you were still there during the day, huh? I didn't answer that. No point complaining about things I couldn't change. The elevator ride down was the same as always, but everything felt different once we hit bottom. The main shaft seemed darker somehow, despite our headlamps.

The darkness beyond our lights felt thicker, more solid. I'd never noticed how the shadows moved when you walked through the tunnels at night, how they seem to follow you this way. Emmett said, heading West. We need to check the new supports they installed yesterday. For the first two nights, I stuck close to them.

We worked together, moving through the tunnels as a team, our headlamps cutting through the darkness. It wasn't so bad when we were together. We talked, made jokes, kept each other company. Alexander had a million stories about his kids that helped pass the time. But on the third night, Emmett split us up.

Pete, I need you to check the new expansion in Section 3. He said, handing me a clipboard. Make sure all the support beams are properly installed and fill out the safety checklist. You want me to go alone? I ask.

It's just a routine check. Emmett said. Alexander and I need to move the continuous miner to the South tunnel. We'll meet up with you in an hour. I didn't argue.

Emmett was technically in charge of our shift, and I didn't want to look like I couldn't handle working alone, so I took the clipboard and headed to Section 3. The tunnel felt longer in the darkness. My headlamp cut a narrow path through the black, but beyond that small circle of light I couldn't see a thing.

The silence pressed in around me, broken only by the sound of my boots on the rocky ground and my own breathing. I was about 20 minutes into checking support beams when I heard it. A wet rasping sound echoing through the darkness behind me, like someone trying to breathe through a mouthful of liquid.

I froze, listening. For a second I thought I'd imagined it. Then it came again, a horrible, gurgling rasp that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Emmett. I called out Alexander.

No response, just that wet rasping sound again, closer this time. I swung my headlamp around, trying to find the source. The beam cut through the darkness, but showed nothing but empty tunnel and rock walls. Guys, if that's you messing with me, it's not funny. I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls.

The rasping stopped. Complete silence fell, somehow worse than the noise. I held my breath, straining to hear anything. Then it started again, from a different direction. Behind me now.

I spun around, heart pounding in my chest. Nothing there. The sound seemed to be circling me, always just beyond the reach of my headlamp. I backed up slowly, moving toward the main shaft. My shoulder blades hit the wall, and I jumped, cursing under my breath.

That's when I saw it. A thin figure at the far end of the tunnel, just at the edge of my light. Unnaturally tall and skinny, standing perfectly still. I raised my lamp higher, trying to see better. The light caught the figure's face for just a second before it moved deeper into the darkness, but that second was enough.

I recognized the pale, smooth skin and the surgical mask covering the lower half of the face. Roman Johnson. Hey. I called out, pushing off from the wall. Roman, what are you doing down here?

No answer. He was gone, disappeared into the darkness beyond my light. I stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what I just seen. Roman wasn't supposed to be here. He worked a day shift now, my old shift.

What was he doing in the mine at midnight? I hurried back to the main shaft, keeping close to the wall. The rasping sound followed me, always just behind or beside me, but I didn't stop to look again. I found Emmett and Alexander in the South tunnel, working on the continuous miner. You guys seen Roman tonight?

I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. They both looked up, confused. Roman. Emmett frowned. Why would he be here?

He works mornings now. I just saw him in Section 3. I said. At least I think I did. Alexander laughed.

Your eyes playing tricks on you, Pete. Happens to everyone their first week on nights the darkness messes with your head. I know what I saw. I insisted, and I heard something too, like someone breathing weird or, I don't know, a rasping sound, Probably just air moving through the ventilation shafts. Emmett said, turning back to the machine.

Sound carries weird down here at night. I wanted to argue, but what was the point? They hadn't heard it. They hadn't seen him. The rest of the ship.

I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every shadow seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at it. Every sound made me jump. By the time we headed up at 6:00 in the morning, I was wound tight as a spring. The next night was the same.

I didn't see Roman again, but I heard that wet rasping sound several times, always when I was working alone and things started to happen that I couldn't explain away. Tools disappeared from where I'd left them. A section of tunnel light secured the night before was disturbed when I returned the next night, Support beams slightly out of alignment.

Equipment moved a few feet from where we'd left it. You sure you put that drill there? Alexander asked when I mentioned it. Positive, I said. Someone's been in here during the day, or you're forgetting where you put things, he said with a grin.

Night shift brain fog happens to everyone, but I knew I wasn't forgetting something was wrong, and it had started the moment Roman Johnson arrived at Black Rock. On the fifth night. I brought a flashlight from home, bigger and brighter than our standard headlamps. I kept it clipped to my belt, ready to use if I heard that sound again.

Around 2:00 in the morning, Emmett sent me to check the far end of Section 3 again. Take readings on the methane levels, he said, handing me the gas detector. Day shift reported some unusual numbers yesterday. I took the detector and headed down the tunnel alone, flashlight in hand. I was about halfway there when the rasping started again, louder this time.

I stopped, unclipped my flashlight, and switched it on, sweeping the powerful beam through the darkness. For a split second. I caught something moving at the edge of the light, something that shouldn't have been there, something that looked like Roman but moved all wrong, like its joints bent in directions they shouldn't. The light didn't seem to bother it.

If anything, it moved toward me, staying just at the edge of visibility. I backed away slowly, keeping my flashlight trained on the spot where I'd seen movement. Who's there? I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. The rasping grew louder, more urgent.

It sounded almost hungry now. I turned and walked quickly back toward the main shaft, not quite running, but close. The sound followed me, sometimes from behind, sometimes from the side tunnels I passed. When I got back to Emmett and Alexander, they were checking support beams in the West tunnel. Did either of you go into Section 3 today?

I asked. During day shift, I mean. Emmett shook his head. No reason to why someone's been messing with our work. I said.

And I think it's Roman. Alexander laughed. Still on about that. Come on Pete, why would Roman be sneaking around during night shift? I don't know, I said.

But I'm going to find out. After our shift ended, I waited in my truck until I saw the day crew arriving. Roman was among them, walking with that same fluid grace that had always seemed off to me. He glanced my way once, and even from across the parking lot I could see his eyes catch the early morning light in a way that human eyes shouldn't.

I started my truck and headed home, my mind racing. Why would Roman be in the mine during night shifts? What was he doing in those tunnels when no one was supposed to be there? And why had he specifically asked for my position on day shift? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that something was deeply wrong at Black Rock.

And somehow Roman Johnson was at the center of it all. I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those eyes of Romans catching the light all wrong in the parking lot. I tossed and turned for hours before giving up and making coffee around noon. My apartment felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in while my mind kept spinning with questions I couldn't answer.

When I got to the mine that night, I kept my head down and my mouth shut. No point bringing up Roman again to Emmett and Alexander if they weren't going to believe me. I just sound crazy, and I needed this job too much to get labeled as the guy who couldn't handle night shift.

We started in Section 4, replacing support beams in a tunnel that had shown some stress fractures. The work was straightforward. Measure, cut, position, secure. The kind of routine that usually lets your mind wander. Except mine kept snapping back to every shadow movement at the edge of my lamp.

Hand me that wrench, Emmett said, pulling me back to the task. I reached for my tool belt, but the wrench wasn't there. I was sure I'd put it there after tightening the last bolt. Sorry, must have set it down somewhere. I glanced around, scanning the ground.

It's right there. Emmett pointed to a spot about 10 feet away, near the tunnel wall. The wrench lay perfectly centered in a small clearing of rock dust. I walked over and picked it up, frowning. I didn't leave it here.

Emmett shrugged. You probably set it down without thinking, but I hadn't. I never set tools down away from where I'm working. That's how things get lost in a mine. The rest of the shift went by with more of the same.

My tape measure disappeared from my belt, then showed up 20 yards back in a tunnel we'd already finished. The extra bolts I'd put in my pocket somehow ended up neatly stacked by the ventilation shaft. Each time, Emmett and Alexander had the same response. I must have forgotten I was tired. Night shift does that to people.

By the end of the week I stopped mentioning it, but I started keeping closer track of my tools, double checking my belt every few minutes, setting things down in specific patterns so I'd know if they moved. And they kept moving. One night I was alone in Section 3, checking methane levels while Alexander and Emmett worked on a pump in Section 5.

The silence down there was different than anywhere else, a heavy quiet that seemed to swallow up even the sound of my own breathing. I just finished testing the last sensor when I heard it again, that wet, rasping breath circling around me. I spun, my headlamp cutting through the darkness, but caught nothing. The sound stopped immediately.

I stood perfectly still, listening. Nothing. Then it started again, this time from behind me. I turned more slowly, trying to catch whatever was making the sound before it could hide. My light swept across the tunnel wall.

And then I saw them. Markings scratched into the rock face about chest height. They weren't normal, not the usual survey marks or inspectors chalk. These were symbols carved deep into the stone, curved lines that twisted around each other in patterns that made no sense. They almost looked like writing, but not in any language I recognized.

I stepped closer, running my fingers over the grooves. They were fresh, the edges sharp against my skin. Some of the marks were still dusty with newly crushed rock. The rasping sound came again, much closer this time, almost at my shoulder. I jerked away from the wall, heart hammering as I swept my light around the empty tunnel.

Hello. My voice sounded thin and useless in the heavy darkness. I keyed my radio. Emmett, you need to see this. I found something weird in Section 3.

His voice crackled back almost immediately. What kind of weird? There's markings on the wall, cymbals or something. They're fresh. Stay put, we're heading your way.

I kept my eyes on the markings while I waited, afraid they'd somehow disappear if I looked away. The rasping sound had stopped completely, but that almost made it worse. The feeling of being watched pressed in from all sides. 10 minutes later, I heard Emmett and Alexander's footsteps echoing down the tunnel. Over here.

I called, not taking my eyes off the wall. What have you got? Emmett asked, coming up beside me. I pointed at the wall. Look at these.

Someone carved these into the rock. Emmett frowned, moving his light where I was pointing. What markings? These right here. I reached out to touch the grooves again, but my fingers met smooth stone.

I blinked, moving my hand across the wall. The surface was completely unmarked. They were right here. I swear to God, there were symbols carved into this wall 5 minutes ago. Alexander sighed.

Pete, man, you're seeing things. I'm not seeing things. I touched them. They were deep cuts in the rock. Emmett gave me a concerned look.

There's nothing here. Walls smooth as it's always been. I ran my hand over the wall again, desperately searching for any trace of the markings I'd seen Nothing. The rock face was untouched. Maybe you should take tomorrow night off?

Emmett suggested. Get some proper sleep. I wanted to argue, but what could I say? The evidence was gone. Either I was losing my mind or something very strange was happening in this mine.

Neither option was good. The next day I stopped at the hardware store and bought a small notebook, the kind with the waterproof pages that construction workers use. If things were going to keep happening, I needed to start keeping track. Maybe I'd see a pattern, something I could use to convince the others that I wasn't imagining things.

I started that night writing down everything I could remember about Roman and the strange occurrences since he'd arrived. His unusual strength, the way he moved, those eyes that reflected light like an animal's. The disappearing tools, the markings on the wall. Every shift after that, I added new entries. Monday found my methane detector, moved from Section 2 to section 4:00.

Tuesday heard rasping breathing in South tunnel for 5 minutes. 2.17 to 22 AM Wednesday Footprints in the dust leading into a dead end tunnel. None coming out. After two weeks the notebook was half full. Looking through it, the incidents seemed to be increasing.

What had started as occasional oddities was now happening multiple times every shift. During a rare day off, I drove to the Public Library 2 towns over. I didn't want anyone from Black Rock seeing what I was researching. The librarian helped me find old newspaper archives and county records going back 50 years. I started with the most recent decade and worked backward scanning for anything related to Black Rock mine.

Most articles were mundane production reports, minor accidents, union negotiations. But then I found it, A small article from 1998 about a miner who disappeared during a night shift. The official report called it an accident, suggesting he'd wandered into an unstable area that collapsed. I kept digging, 1987. Two miners missing after a section flooded, 1976.

A night shift supervisor lost during a routine inspection. Body never recovered 1965 Four men vanished over a three month period, all officially attributed to a cave in. Though no bodies were found, the pattern was clear. Every decade or so, people disappeared at Black Rock, always during night shifts, always with plausible explanations that didn't quite add up.

I copied down every name, date, and detail I could find, adding them to my notebook. On the drive home, my mind kept circling back to Roman. He'd only been here a few months. Was he connected to these disappearances somehow? Or was he something else entirely?

The next morning, I had to go in early to sign some paperwork Colton needed before my night shift started. The day crew was just finishing up when I arrived. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact as I walked through the locker room. The last thing I needed was questions about why I was there early.

I was almost to Colton's office when I turned a corner and nearly collided with Roman. He stepped back, those unblinking eyes fixed on my face. We stood there for a moment, just staring at each other. Up close he looked even worse than I remembered, skin too pale, too smooth, stretched tight across his face above that ever present surgical mask.

Excuse me? I muttered, trying to step around him. He didn't move, just kept watching me with those wrong eyes. Then something happened that made my blood run cold. He took a deep breath, not the normal kind, but a deliberate inhale that seemed to be drawing in my scent.

As he did, the surgical mask shifted slightly, pulling inward against his face. The material slipped just enough for me to see what was underneath. It wasn't a mouth or a chin or anything remotely human. The skin beneath pulsated and moved, rippling in ways that skin shouldn't be able to move. It looked wet and segmented, like something living independently from the rest of his face.

I stumbled backward, my shoulder hitting the wall. Roman made no move to follow me, but his head tilted slightly, like he was curious about my reaction. Pete. Colton's voice called from down the hall. That you?

When I looked back, Roman was gone, disappeared in the seconds I'd looked away. I signed Colton's paperwork with a shaking hand, made some excuse about not feeling well, and got out of there as fast as I could. That night before my shift, I called Greg. We hadn't talked much since I'd moved to Knights, but I needed someone who wouldn't think I was crazy.

You still up? I asked when he answered. Yeah, just watching the game. Everything OK? No.

Can I come over? 20 minutes later, we were sitting on Greg's porch with beers. Neither of us were drinking. I saw under Roman's mask today, I said, after explaining everything else. The notebook, the research, the disappearances.

Greg's expression tightened. What did you see? Not a face, not human. The skin was moving, pulsating like it was alive on its own. I expected him to laugh it off, or tell me I needed sleep.

Instead, he took a long breath and set his beer down. I've seen things too, he admitted. Not that, but he doesn't cast a shadow sometimes, did you know that? Certain angles, certain lighting, and there's just nothing there where a shadow should be. You believe me?

I don't want to, but yeah, I do. Greg leaned forward. What are you going to do? I don't know. Nobody's going to believe us without proof.

Greg was quiet for a moment. What if we follow him after work, see where he goes? It wasn't a great plan, but it was the only one we had. The next day, Greg arranged to leave his shift early and I came in late. We met in the parking lot and waited in his truck, watching the mine entrance as the day crew filed out.

Roman was one of the last to leave. He walked past the parking lot and headed down the road toward town. That's him, I said, and Greg started the engine. We kept our distance, following Roman's thin figure as he walked along the shoulder of the road. He never looked back, never seemed to notice us trailing behind him.

At the edge of town, he turned onto a dirt access Rd. that led into the hills. Where's he going? Greg muttered as we followed, keeping our headlights off and using just the moonlight to guide us. The road grew rougher, winding through dense trees. About two miles in, Roman suddenly veered off the road and into the forest.

Shit. Greg said, stopping the truck. We can't follow in this, we have to go on foot. I said, already opening my door. We grabbed flashlights from Greg's toolbox and hurried into the trees where Roman had disappeared.

The ground was rocky and uneven. Making it hard to move quietly, we swept our lights across the underbrush, searching for any sign of him there. Greg whispered, pointing to a flash of movement about 50 yards ahead. We pushed forward, trying to close the distance. The trees grew thicker, branches scratching at our faces and arms.

We lost sight of him several times, only to catch glimpses of movement farther ahead. Then, suddenly, nothing. We reached a small clearing and stopped, panting and confused. Roman was nowhere to be seen. The trees stood silent around us, no sign of disturbance in any direction.

Where did he go? I whispered, sweeping my light in a complete circle. Greg shook his head. It's like he vanished into thin air. We searched for another 20 minutes, working in expanding circles from the clearing, but found nothing.

No footprints, no broken branches, no sign anyone had passed through the area at all. This isn't right, Greg said finally, his voice tight. People don't just disappear like that. But Roman had one minute there, the next gone, as if he'd never existed at all. We should go, I said, suddenly aware of how dark and quiet the forest had become.

We can try again another day. As we turn to head back to the truck, I couldn't shake the feeling we were being watched from somewhere in the darkness, and for a brief moment I thought I heard it, that familiar wet, rasping breath circling around us in the night. So there's no record of him before Black Rock.

Nothing at all? I asked Greg as we hunched over his laptop at my kitchen table. We've been searching for two hours straight after our weird experience in the woods. Greg shook his head, clicking through another search result. Not that I can find.

No social media, no previous addresses, no vehicle registration. It's like Roman Johnson didn't exist until he showed up at our mind. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. It was almost noon, and I hadn't slept since getting off night shift. My apartment felt too small, the walls closing in with each new dead end we hit.

Everyone has some kind of paper trail. I said. Credit history, driver's license, something. Not this guy. Greg pushed the laptop away and reached for his coffee mug.

I even called my cousin who works at the DMV in Carson. She couldn't find any record of a Roman Johnson with his description in the state database. That's impossible. Yeah, well, welcome to my world for the past week. Greg drained his mug and stood up, stretching.

I'm going to make more coffee. While Greg rummaged around in my kitchen, I flipped through the notebook I'd been keeping, pages of incidents, times, dates, the strange carvings in the wall that disappeared, the tools that moved on their own, that wet, rasping breathing that followed me through the tunnels. We need to talk to Colton, I said when Greg returned with two steaming mugs.

He must have employment records, references, something. Greg nodded. I'm off today. You. Yeah, night shift starts tomorrow, then.

Let's go see him now. We found Colton in his office at the mine, bent over paperwork. He looked up when we knocked on his open door, surprise flickering across his face. Pete, Greg, it's your day off, isn't it? Yeah, I said, stepping into the small room.

We need to ask you about Roman Johnson. Colton's expression changed, a wariness entering his eyes. What about him? His employment records, Greg said. We're wondering about his background, where he worked before Carson operation, Colton said automatically.

I told you that his first day, right? I said. But we can't find any record of him working there, or anywhere else for that matter. Colton set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. Why are you looking into this?

I glanced at Greg, who gave me a slight nod. Because there's something off about him. Way off, and I think you know it, too. Colton didn't respond right away. He looked at his office door, then got up and closed it.

When he sat back down, his voice was lower. Roman's paperwork came directly from corporate, from Miles Glass himself. That stopped me short. Miles Glass owned Black Rock Mine and three others in the region, but he was practically a ghost. In my 15 years working here, I'd never seen him in person.

No one had Glass sent his paperwork? Greg asked personally. Colton nodded with explicit instructions to put him on the crew, no questions asked. But that's, that's how it is. Colton, cut me off.

Look, I don't know what you 2 are digging for, but my advice is to stop. Roman does his job, Leave it at that. His job, I repeat it. Which includes being in the mine during night shifts when he's scheduled for days. Colton's eyes widened slightly.

What are you talking about? I've seen him down there, Colton, at night when no one's watching. And whatever I saw, I don't think it was human. You're tired. Colton said, his voice hardening.

Night shift plays tricks on your mind. I've seen it happen to guys before. This isn't in my head. I insisted. Greg's seen things too.

And what about the symbols I found carved in the wall, the ones that disappeared before you got there? Enough. Colton stood up. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. Roman Johnson is an employee of this mine, hired by Miles Glass himself.

That's all you need to know. We left the mine with more questions than answers. In the parking lot, Greg turned to me. You believe me now, right? I asked.

I believed you before, he said. But now I'm scared too. The next night at the mine was worse than all the others. I kept hearing that wet, rasping breath, closer than ever before. It followed me from tunnel to tunnel, always just around the corner, just out of sight.

Emmett and Alexander stayed together most of the night, leaving me alone to check methane levels in the older sections. Around 2:00 AM, I was in a rarely used tunnel in Section 4 when my headlamp caught something reflecting back at me. I moved closer and felt my blood go cold. It was a miner's helmet, dusty and abandoned, wedged between a support beam and the wall.

I picked it up carefully. The name Vargas was written on the side in faded marker. Vargas. I remembered him. Quiet guy, worked mostly in Section 2.

Colton had told us a month ago that he'd quit, moved back to his hometown without notice. It happened sometimes in mining. Guys just reached their breaking point and left. But why would his helmet be here? I tucked it under my arm and headed back to find Emmett and Alexander.

I didn't mention the helmet to them, not after how they dismissed everything else. Instead, I finished my shift in silence, the helmet hidden in my locker until morning. When the day crew started arriving, I waited for Colton in the hallway outside his office. He looked surprised to see me still there after shift end.

Pete, something wrong? I pulled the helmet from behind my back and held it up. Found this last night in Section 4. Vargas's helmet. Colton stared at it, his face unreadable.

Where exactly did you find it? Support tunnel off Section 4, the one we haven't used in months. I turned the helmet in my hands. Funny place for it to be, considering Vargas supposedly quit and left town. He probably forgot it.

Colton said, reaching for the helmet. I'll make sure it gets returned to him. I held onto it. You have his address. I could mail it myself.

That won't be necessary. Colton's voice had an edge. Now give me the helmet, Pete. Not until you tell me what's really going on. 1st Roman shows up with no history, hired directly by Miles Glass.

Then people start disappearing. No one has disappeared. Colton snapped. Vargas quit, end of story. Then why was his helmet hidden in an abandoned tunnel?

Colton stepped closer, lowering his voice. Listen to me carefully. You're a good worker, Pete, one of my best, but you're starting to cause problems that neither of us needs. Focus on your job and leave the rest alone. Is that a threat?

It's advice. He held out his hand. The helmet now. I reluctantly handed it over, watching as he tucked it into his office and locked the door. Take tomorrow night off, he said.

Get some sleep, you look like hell. I didn't take the night off. Instead I convinced Greg to come with me. He called in sick for his day shift and met me at the mine just before my night shift started. We told Emmett that Greg was helping with some equipment training.

A flimsy excuse, but Emmett didn't seem to care much. I need you to see what's happening, I told Greg as we geared up. The sounds, the weird stuff, all of it. I'm with you. Greg said, checking his headlamp.

Where do we start? Section 4, where I found the helmet. We split off from Emmett and Alexander as soon as possible, telling them we needed to check some equipment in the South tunnel. Instead, we headed straight for Section 4. The tunnels were quieter than usual that night.

No distant dripping water, no settling rocks, just silence pressing in around our headlamps. It's colder down here than I remember, Greg whispered as we move deeper into Section 4. It's always cold on night shift. I said. Different than days.

We reached the support tunnel where I'd found Vargas's helmet. I pointed to the spot. It was right there, wedged behind that beam. Greg knelt down, running his hand along the rock floor. There's something here.

He brushed away some dust, revealing a thin crack in the floor that ran along the wall. That's not a natural fracture, I said, crouching beside him. The line was too straight, too regular. Greg pressed his fingers against the wall where the crack met it. To our surprise, a section of the Rockwall shifted slightly.

What the hell? I pushed harder, and a section of the wall swung inward like a door, revealing A narrow tunnel beyond. Greg and I exchanged looks. This isn't on any mind map I've ever seen, he said. No, I agreed.

It's not. We had to Crouch to enter the hidden passage. It was roughly carved, unlike the carefully engineered main tunnels of Black Rock. The air inside was stale and unusually cold. How is this even possible?

Greg whispered as we moved forward. How does a tunnel get built without anyone knowing? I don't know. My headlamp caught something on the wall, more of those strange symbols I'd seen before carved deep into the rock. This time, they didn't disappear.

Look, the markings. Greg ran his fingers over the symbols. What language is this? Not one I've ever seen. The tunnel narrowed further and suddenly opened into a small chamber about 15 feet across.

Our headlamps swept the space, revealing what looked like a storage area, but what was stored there made my skin crawl. Personal items, dozens of them. A worn leather wallet, a set of keys, wedding rings, watches, photos, and plastic sleeves, all arranged neatly on crude stone shelves carved into the walls. Oh my God, Greg whispered.

I moved closer to the shelves, examining the items with shaking hands. I picked up an old style digital watch. The name Martinez was engraved on the back. Martinez, I said. He supposedly transferred to Carson three years ago.

Greg picked up a wallet, opening it to find a driver's license. Hoffman left for a job in construction last year, according to Colton. We moved around the chamber, finding item after item belonging to miners who had left town or quit without notice over the years. They didn't leave, I said, my voice hollow.

They disappeared, all of them. But why? Greg asked. What happened to them? Before I could answer, we heard it, that wet rasping breath echoing from the tunnel we just come through.

But this time it was louder, faster, almost excited. Greg's face went pale in the headlamp light. What is that? It's him, I whispered. It's Roman.

We backed away from the entrance, deeper into the chamber. The breathing sound grew louder, punctuated now by a strange clicking noise. We need to get out of here. Greg said. Grab something as evidence and let's go.

I quickly pocketed a watch and a driver's license while Greg took a wedding ring and what looked like a work ID card. Just as we turn to look for another exit, the rasping sound stopped suddenly. In the silence that followed, we heard something worse. The sound of something moving through the tunnel toward us.

Something that dragged itself along the walls with too many limbs. This way. I shouted to Greg, bolting toward what I thought was the main tunnel. We'd stumbled into something terrible. Those personal items weren't lost.

They were trophies, and whatever collected them was coming for us now. I sprinted through the narrow passage, my headlamp beam bouncing wildly across the rough hewn walls. The cymbals carved into the rock seem to writhe, or in the shifting light, my boots slipped on the uneven ground and I nearly went down hard.

Greg. I called over my shoulder. Right behind you. His voice sounded farther away than it should have been. The tunnel forked unexpectedly.

I hesitated for half a second, then darted left, following what looked like our original path. The rasping breath grew louder, echoing from multiple directions at once. Greg, stay with me, I shouted. No answer. I spun around, sweeping my light across the empty tunnel behind me.

Greg was gone. The fork. He must have gone right when I went left. Greg, I yelled louder. My headlamp flickered once, twice, then dimmed dramatically.

I slapped it hard with my palm. It brightened momentarily before fading again. No, no, no, I muttered, hitting it again. The light stabilized, but remained dangerously dim. Without it, I'd be completely blind down here, lost in tunnels that weren't even on the mind maps.

I stopped to listen, the wet rasping breath had faded, but something else reached my ears, Greg's voice distant and muffled. Pete, where are you? Greg, I'm coming. I shouted back, turning to follow the sound of his voice. My lamp flickered again as I retraced my steps to the fork, casting jumping shadows that seemed to move independently of my movements.

I took the right passage this time, moving as quickly as I dared with my failing light. Greg, keep talking. I'm trying to find you. Pete, it's in here with his words cut off abruptly. Then a scream.

A horrible, gut wrenching scream that made my blood run cold. It stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving nothing but silence and the sound of my own panicked breathing. Greg. I yelled, my voice cracking. No response.

I forced myself forward, moving deeper into the tunnel where I'd heard his scream. My headlamp was getting worse, the beam narrowing and dimming with each step. I fumble in my pocket for my phone turned on its flashlight for backup. The additional light was weak, but better than nothing. Greg, answer me.

I called again. The tunnel widened into a small chamber with three more passages branching off. I stopped sweeping both lights across the ground, looking for any sign of which way Greg had gone. That's when I saw it, a small metallic object catching the light. I approached cautiously and crouched down.

Greg's pocket watch, the silver 1 he always carried, a gift from his father when he started at the mine, and it was lying in a dark puddle that my failing light couldn't properly illuminate. I picked it up and my fingers came away wet with something thick and viscous. I shined my phone directly on my hand.

Blood fresh, blood still warm. Oh God, I whispered. Greg. I stood quickly, heart hammering in my chest. I needed help.

I needed to get to the emergency phone near the main shaft and call for backup. I couldn't find Greg alone, not with my light failing and whatever was down here hunting us. Just as I made that decision, every light in the level went out. The ambient glow from distant work lights that had been faintly visible at the edges of my vision vanished, plunging the mind into absolute darkness except for my dimming headlamp and phone light.

This wasn't a coincidence. Something had cut the power. I picked the passage that seemed to head toward the main shaft, moving as fast as I dared. My headlamp was barely functioning now, casting just enough light to see a few feet ahead. My phone light helped, but its battery was already at 30%.

It wouldn't last long. The tunnel curved sharply, and as I rounded the bend, my light caught something on the wall that made me stop cold. A handprint, but not a normal handprint. This one was distorted with impossibly long fingers, stretching nearly a foot down the rock face. It was wet, glistening in my light, fresh blood dripping slowly toward the floor.

I backed away from it, bumping into the opposite wall. My breath came in short gasps as panic rose in my chest. I needed to get out now. I turned and ran, no longer caring about making noise. The main shaft couldn't be far.

If I could reach the elevator I could get to the surface and bring help. I rounded another corner and another, the tunnels all starting to look the same in my failing light. The sound of movement came from somewhere ahead. Footsteps. Human footsteps.

Hello. I called out, desperate for it to be another miner, Anyone who could help. Is someone there? The footsteps stopped. I moved forward cautiously, my light scanning ahead.

A figure stood in the middle of the tunnel, blocking my path. The silhouette was human shaped but somehow wrong, the proportions off in subtle ways that became more apparent as I got closer. My light caught the face and I recognized the surgical mask. Roman Johnson. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

His coveralls were soaked with something dark that my light couldn't quite define. It dripped slowly from his two long fingers to the ground. What did you do to Greg? I demanded, my voice shaking despite my attempt to sound strong. Roman didn't respond.

He never did, but he tilted his head at an angle that should have been impossible without breaking his neck. I took a step back, and he took a step forward. His movements were different now, no longer the careful mimicry of human motion he'd maintained above ground. He moved with a jerking insect like precision.

Stay back. I warned, though I knew it was pointless. Roman's hand, if you could call it that, reached up to his face. His fingers hooked around the edge of the surgical mask. For the first time, I realized he was going to show me what was underneath.

The mask slipped down. What I saw wasn't a face. Not a human one, anyway. The skin itself seemed alive, shifting and writhing as if something was moving beneath it. Where a mouth should have been, the flesh parted to reveal wet, segmented tissue that pulsated independently.

It wasn't damaged or diseased human anatomy, it was something else entirely, something wearing a human shape like an I'll fitting suit. I couldn't scream, I couldn't breathe. I could only stare in horror as Roman's body began to contort, the joints bending in impossible directions. The thing that had been pretending to be Roman Johnson took another step toward me, and the wet, rasping sound I'd been hearing for weeks emerged directly from the pulsating flesh where its mouth should have been.

My headlamp gave one final flicker and went out completely. The darkness swallowed everything. My headlamp was dead. The battery in my phone was at 30%, but my hands shook so bad I couldn't get to it fast enough. I backed away, feeling the rough wall behind me.

The wet rasping sound got louder, closer. Stay back. I said, my voice breaking like that would do anything. I finally got my phone out and thumbed the flashlight on the beam caught Roman or whatever it was mid transformation. His body was stretching, joints popping and cracking as they bent in directions no human body should move.

The coveralls hung loose in some places and strained tight in others as what was underneath rearranged itself. The surgical mask had fallen completely away. There was no face there, no mouth, no nose, no features at all. Just a mass of pale, writhing flesh with what looked like segments shifting beneath the surface. The whole thing pulsated, opening and closing like something trying to breathe through skin.

Jesus Christ, I whispered. The thing that wasn't Roman tilted its head at an impossible angle. The movement was jerky, mechanical, like it was trying to figure out how human necks worked. I didn't wait to see what it would do next. I turned and ran.

My boots pounded against the stone floor. The tunnels were pitch black, except for the bouncing beam of my phone light. I had no idea where I was going, just away from that thing. Behind me, I heard it moving. Not footsteps, something else.

A horrible scrabbling sound, like too many limbs dragging across rock. It was fast, much faster than me. I took a right turn, then a left, trying to remember the way back to the main shaft. My lungs burned. The air felt too thick, too heavy.

I couldn't remember which tunnel LED where. Everything looked the same in the dark. Another turn, and I realized my mistake. Immediately the beam of light hit solid rock about 30 feet ahead. Dead end.

I spun around, ready to backtrack, but froze. The thing that had been Roman Johnson stood at the entrance to the tunnel, blocking my only way out. It had changed even more in the brief time I've been running. Its body had elongated, stretching to nearly 7 feet tall. The arms hung too low, reaching past where knees should be.

The coveralls had torn in places, revealing pale skin that didn't look like skin at all. What are you? I managed to ask, pressing my back against the Rockwall. It didn't answer, it just made that wet rasping sound and took a step toward me. Then another.

Its movements were smoother now, like it was getting more comfortable in whatever body it had created for itself. I looked around desperately for anything I could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Just me trapped in a dead end tunnel with something impossible. The creature reached for me with impossibly long arms.

The fingers had stretched too, becoming more like claws than human digits. I pressed myself harder against the wall, as if I could somehow pass through solid rock. Hey. The shout came from behind the creature. It turned, joints cracking as its head rotated too far around.

Greg stood there, breathing hard, a mining pickaxe gripped in both hands. Blood ran down the side of his face from a gash on his forehead, but he was alive. Get away from him, Greg said, raising the pickaxe. The creature made a strange clicking sound deep in what passed for its throat. It turned fully toward Greg, its body twisting in a way that made my stomach turn.

Greg didn't hesitate. He charged forward and swung the pickaxe with everything he had. The point buried itself deep in the creature's back with a sound like a shovel hitting wet clay. The thing's reaction was immediate and horrifying. It let out a shriek that was nothing like any sound I'd ever heard.

High pitched and layered like multiple voices screaming at once. The sound bounced off the tunnel walls, amplifying until I had to cover my ears. Run. Greg shouted at me, yanking the pickaxe free. I didn't need to be told twice.

I pushed off the wall and sprinted past the writhing creature. Greg was right behind me. The thing screams followed us down the tunnel. Left. Greg shouted.

Main shafts this way. I followed his directions, taking a hard left. At the next junction we ran side by side, our headlamp and my phone light bouncing wildly behind us. The creatures screams had changed to a furious rasping and the scrabbling sounds were getting closer. How are you alive?

I gasped as we ran. I heard you scream. I found your watch in blood. Tell you later. Greg panted.

If we make it out of here. We reached the main tunnel and I could see the elevator shaft ahead, just 100 feet to go. The emergency lights were on, casting a dim red glow that barely cut through the darkness. Come on, I said, pushing myself to run faster. We reached the elevator, and I slammed my hand against the call button.

The ancient machinery groaned somewhere above us. It's coming, Greg said, looking back down the tunnel. And it's pissed. I hit the button again and again, as if that would make the elevator come faster. What the hell is that thing, Greg?

I don't know. He gripped the pickaxe tighter, positioning himself between me and the tunnel we just come from. I don't think it's anything that's supposed to exist. The scrabbling sounds grew louder. I could hear it breathing, that wet rasping sound that had been haunting me for weeks.

The elevator cables creaked and groaned. Too slow. It was going to be too slow there. Greg pointed down the tunnel. My phone.

Light caught movement. The creature was coming toward us, but it didn't look anything like Roman Johnson anymore. It moved on all fours, but wrong. Too many joints, limbs bent at impossible angles. What was left of the coveralls hung in tatters from its pale body.

Its head was stretched featureless except for what looked like a vertical split where a mouth might be. The stairs, I said, pointing to the emergency stairwell next to the elevator shaft. Greg shook his head. We'd never make it up 800 feet before that thing caught us. The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open with agonizing slowness. Get in, Greg shouted, backing up toward the elevator, keeping his eyes and the pickaxe pointed at the approaching creature. I stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the surface. Come on. Greg waited until the last possible second before jumping into the elevator beside me.

The creature lunged forward with shocking speed, covering the last 20 feet in seconds. The doors began to close too slowly. The thing reached the elevator just as the doors were about to meet. Its elongated fingers, now more like pale tentacles, shot through the gap. I pressed myself against the back wall of the elevator.

Greg swung the pickaxe, catching the creature's fingers between the doors. It screamed again, that horrible multi layered shriek. The doors closed with a final thud, severing whatever had been reaching for us. Something thick and pale fell to the floor of the elevator, twitching. It wasn't blood that oozed from it, more like clear Jelly.

The elevator began to rise. Jesus. Greg whispered, staring at the severed appendage. What the hell is that thing? I couldn't take my eyes off it either.

I don't know, but it's been down there all this time, pretending to be human. Pretending to be Roman Johnson, The thing on the floor stopped moving. Its color changed from pale white to Gray, then began to dissolve into a puddle of clear liquid. You think it's what happened to the others? Greg asked quietly.

All those miners who disappeared? I nodded, thinking of the trophies we'd found. How many others do you think there have been over the years? How long has that thing been down there? Greg didn't answer.

He was looking at the elevator control panel, watching the floor numbers slowly change as we ascended. It knew my name, he said finally, when it had me cornered. It knew my name. Pete. The elevator continued its slow climb toward the surface.

Neither of us spoke again for several seconds, couldn't stop thinking about what we just seen, what was still down there in the darkness beneath us. We need to tell someone. I said finally. Whatever that thing is, it's not human. It's not from this world.

The elevator doors opened with a mechanical groan, and the fluorescent lights of the main floor hit us like a slap. Greg stumbled out first, still clutching the bloodied pickaxe. I followed my legs, feeling like they might give out any second. The night shift security guard, Tony I think his name was, jumped up from his desk.

Jesus Christ, what happened to you 2? He asked, eyes fixed on Greg's bleeding forehead and the pickaxe in his hand. Call Colton. I said. Now Tony reached for his phone, punching in numbers while staring at us like we were ghosts.

I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My phone was down to 25% battery and I pulled up the photos I'd taken of the chamber with all those personal items, the trophies, evidence we needed, evidence he's on his way, Tony said. After a brief conversation said to wait in his office, Greg finally set the pickaxe down against the wall, then pressed his sleeve against his head wound.

We need to get out of here, he muttered. That thing could come up. The elevator needs a key card to operate from below without someone sending it down. Tony said, clearly confused. What thing are you talking about?

I didn't answer him. Instead, I guided Greg toward Colton's office, which was just down the hallway. Inside, I found the first aid kit mounted on the wall and pulled out some gauze pads. Here. I said, handing them to Greg.

Better than your sleeve. Greg pressed the gauze to his forehead. Thanks. We sat in silence for maybe 15 minutes before Colton arrived, looking like he dressed in a hurry, shirt buttoned wrong and hair sticking up on one side. His eyes widened when he saw Greg's condition.

What the hell happened? He demanded, closing the door behind him. Roman Johnson happened, I said. Over the next 30 minutes. We told him everything.

About following Roman into the forest that night, about finding Vargas's helmet, about the hidden tunnel in the chamber full of personal belongings, about Roman transforming into something inhuman, about how it attacked Greg and chased us through the tunnels. I showed him the photos on my phone, the chamber, the shelves lined with watches and wallets and wedding rings.

Greg pulled out the items we'd taken as proof, a wedding band with an inscription and a work ID for someone named Martinez. Colton listened without interrupting, his face growing paler by the minute. When we finished, he sat down heavily in his chair. Jesus Christ, he whispered. He picked up his phone with a shaking hand.

I need to call Miles Glass, the owner, Greg asked. It's 4:00 in the morning, this can't wait, Colton said, already dialing. He turned away from us, speaking in a low voice that grew increasingly agitated. I caught fragments, attacked 2 of my men and something in the tunnels and need to shut down operations.

When he hung up, Colton looked 10 years older. Glass is sending a security team. They'll be here within the hour. He wants you 2 to stay and show them exactly where this happened. I'm not going back down there.

Greg said immediately. You don't have to go into the tunnels. Colton assured him. Just point them in the right direction and I need to get you to a hospital for that head wound. Greg touched the gauze pad, now soaked with blood.

It's not deep. Stopped bleeding already. Still needs checking. Colton insisted. But first the security team.

We waited. Intense silence. I tried calling my mom to tell her I'd be late getting home, but there was no signal. In Colton's office, Greg stared at the floor, occasionally touching his forehead wound. Colton kept checking his watch in the window.

The security team arrived just before 5. Four men in tactical gear with. Black Rock security emblazoned on their backs. They carried flashlights, radios, and what looked like tranquilizer guns. Their team leader introduced himself as Mercer, a hard faced man with a military bearing.

Take us to where this incident occurred. He ordered. We rode the elevator down with them. My stomach nodded with every floor we descended. Greg stood rigid beside me, his knuckles white around the elevator rail.

I kept my eyes on the floor numbers, watching them tick down. The hidden tunnel is in Section 4I explained as we reached the bottom, near where I found Vargas's helmet. We LED them to the entrance of Section 4, but refused to go any further. Mercer nodded curtly and motioned for his team to follow him.

They disappeared into the darkness, their flashlight beams bouncing off the walls until they turned a corner and vanished completely. Now we wait. Colton said. Three hours later, the security team returned. Their expressions told me everything before they even spoke.

We found nothing. Mercer reported flatly. No blood, no hidden tunnels, no chamber with personal items. That's impossible, I protested. We were just there.

Look at my photos. I pulled out my phone, but the battery had died. Greg stepped forward, holding out the wedding ring and ID card we'd taken. Then explain these, He demanded. Mercer took them, examining them briefly before handing them to one of his men.

We'll investigate these items. But we found no evidence of a struggle or any kind of attack in the tunnels, and certainly nothing matching the creature you described. It was there, Greg insisted, his voice rising. Look at my head. You think I did this to myself?

I'm not saying you weren't attacked, Mercer said carefully. But there's no evidence of what attacked you or where it happened. Colton intervened before Greg could respond. Let's get you to the hospital. We'll sort this out after you've both had some rest.

The drive to the hospital was silent. Greg stared out the window, jaw clenched. I kept thinking about the security team finding nothing. No hidden tunnel, no chamber, no blood. How was that possible?

We weren't crazy, we knew what we saw. At the hospital, they cleaned and stitched Greg's head wound. The doctor asked how it happened. Workplace accident? Greg muttered.

We were released around noon. Colton drove us back to the mine to get our vehicles. As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a sleek black car parked near the entrance. Not the kind you usually see at a mine. Is that glass?

I asked. Colton nodded grimly. He arrived while you were at the hospital. He wants to speak with both of you. Miles Glass was nothing like I expected.

In my mind, the mine owner had always been some faceless corporate type, but the man waiting in Colton's office was tall and imposing, with silver hair and the kind of tan you get from vacations not working outdoors. His suit probably cost more than my monthly salary. Mr. Riley. Mr.

McCormick, He greeted us, not offering to shake hands. I understand you've had quite an experience. Something in his tone made me bristle. That's one way to put it. Glass gestured for us to sit.

I've reviewed the security team's findings. They found no evidence to support your claims. We know what we saw, Greg said firmly. I'm sure you believe that, Glass replied smoothly. But facts are facts.

There is no hidden tunnel in Section 4, there's no chamber filled with personal items, and there is certainly no creature lurking in my mind. Then how do you explain these? I asked as Greg placed Martinez's ID and the wedding ring on the desk. Glass barely glanced at them. Old items that could have been found anywhere in the mine, dropped by workers years ago, perhaps.

And Roman Johnson? I pressed. What about him? A flicker of something annoyance, concern crossed Glass's face before his expression smoothed again. Mr.

Johnson was a temporary worker who has since left our employment. Bullshit. Greg snapped. He wasn't human. He tried to kill us.

Glass's smile didn't reach his eyes. Mr. McCormick, you suffered a head injury, and Mr. Riley, you've been working night shifts for weeks now. Sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations, paranoia.

We're not hallucinating. I cut in. Nevertheless, Glass continued as if I hadn't spoken. I'm concerned about safety at Black Rock. We'll be temporarily suspending operations for a security review and some improvements to our systems.

For how long? Colton asked. Two weeks, possibly 3. All employees will receive full pay during this time. Glass stood, signaling the meeting was over.

I suggest you both use this time to rest. When the mine reopens, we'll discuss your return to work. He left without another word. Colton sighed heavily. That's it, he thinks we made it all up?

Greg demanded. He's calling it a security incident, Colton said wearily. Official story is there was a vagrant living in the mine who attacked you and then fled. That's why we're improving security. A vagrant?

I repeated flatly. Right, look. Colton lowered his voice. I believe something happened down there. But Glass is right about one thing.

There's no evidence. The security team checked every inch of Section 4. No hidden tunnels, no blood where you said Greg was attacked. Nothing. It was there.

I insisted it knew we found its collection. Maybe it moved everything. Colton didn't answer. Just look tired. Go home, get some rest.

I'll call when the mine reopens. 3 weeks later, Black Rock Mine resumed operations. I returned to morning shifts, my old schedule. Before all this started, Roman Johnson's name had vanished from the employee roster, from the schedules, from everything. Like he never existed at all.

When I asked about employment records, the HR manager just shrugged and said they had no file for anyone by that name. Greg came back too, though he wasn't the same. I'd catch him watching the dark corners, jumping at sudden noises, checking behind him in the tunnels. We never openly talked about what happened, not after that first day.

But sometimes our eyes would meet, and I knew he was thinking about it too, about Roman, about what we'd seen in those tunnels. The other miners whispered about us for a while. They'd heard rumors about a fight, about someone getting fired, about the mine closing for security improvements. Nobody knew the whole story, and neither Greg nor I corrected them.

I started researching during my off hours, other minds with strange incidents. Workers who appeared suddenly with minimal background, disappearances explained away as transfers or resignations. I found patterns, not many, but enough to make me uneasy. Something was happening in these places, something people like Miles Glass knew about but weren't talking about. One thing kept nagging at me.

How quickly Glass had arrived after the incident, how prepared he seemed with his explanation and solution. He knew something, and whatever was down in that mine, whatever had been pretending to be Roman Johnson, I was certain Glass knew about that, too. I kept digging, kept looking for connections, because whatever was in Black Rock, mine might still be there, hiding in the darkness, and I needed to know the truth about what lurked beneath us.

I didn't expect to get Colton's job. That's not something you wish for, especially not the way it happened. But three weeks after the mine reopened, Colton called me into his office, closed the door, and told me he was retiring. Just like that. 32 years at Black Rock and he was done.

You're taking my position. He said, not asking. His hand shook when he slid the paperwork across the desk. Colton, I don't understand, this is sudden. He looked tired, not normal.

End of shift tired. Something deeper. Glass approved it already. You start Monday. I tried asking more questions, but Colton just shook his head when I mentioned Roman.

His eyes darted to the corners of the room like he was checking if someone was listening. Take the promotion, Peter, he said quietly. And be careful. That was two months ago. I took the job because we needed the money and because I thought maybe a supervisor.

I could protect the guys better, keep an eye on things, make sure nothing like what happened with Greg and me could happen again. For a while, it seemed OK. The mine was quiet. No strange noises in the tunnels, no tools moving around on their own. Whatever that thing pretending to be Roman Johnson was, it seemed to be gone.

Then the new hire started coming in. First was a woman named Sarah Chen. Her paperwork said she transferred from a mine in Wyoming. She wore a scarf wrapped around her lower face, claiming severe asthma that required filtering the air. Her hands were too smooth for someone who'd worked in mines.

Her movements were stiff, mechanical. 2 weeks later, a guy named Marcus Elliott showed up. Spoke in a whisper because of vocal cord damage. Always kept to himself. Wore gloves, even in the break room.

I watched them. They never ate, never used the bathroom, never sweated despite working in 90° heat. Just like Roman. I tried calling Greg about it, but he wouldn't pick up. He'd quit three weeks after coming back, said he couldn't handle being underground anymore.

I didn't blame him. Then Emmett disappeared, just didn't show up for his shift one day. His truck was still in the parking lot. His locker was untouched. The official story was that he quit without notice, but I knew better.

I'd seen Sarah following him into Section 4 the day before. A week later, Alexander vanished too. Same story, just up and left. No notice, no goodbye, nothing. His wallet was still in his locker.

I called the police. They took a report, but nothing came of it. They said there was no evidence of foul play and adults have the right to leave their jobs. When I mentioned the hidden tunnel and the collection of personal items Greg and I had found, the officer looked at me like I was crazy.

Sir, the mine security team found nothing like that, he said, checking his notes. And you have no photos because your phone died. That's right. But. And the items your colleague claimed to have found were turned over to mine.

Security, correct? Yes, but. And you believe these disappearances are connected to some kind of creature pretending to be human? I knew how it sounded. I stopped trying.

Instead, I started documenting everything. I bought a new notebook, Waterproof like the last one. I wrote down every detail about Sarah and Marcus, their movements, their habits, the way they seem to communicate without speaking. I noted which sections of the mine they preferred working in. I mapped where the miners had disappeared from.

But I needed more. I needed to understand what we were dealing with. And for that, I needed to know more about Miles Glass. The regional manager, Davis, came for a quarterly inspection last week after he finished his walkthrough. I caught him in the parking lot.

I need to talk to you about Glass, I said, blocking his path to his car. What about him? Davis looked nervous. When was the last time you actually saw him in person? Davis hesitated.

Mr. Glass prefers to communicate through proper channels. That's not what I asked. Have you ever met him face to face? This is highly inappropriate.

Riley, I suggest you. 3 miners have disappeared in the last month. Emmett Patel, Alexander Shaw and now Dan Harvey. All from my crews, all with their vehicles still in the lot, all with personal items left behind. Davis's face went pale.

What are you suggesting? I'm suggesting that whatever was pretending to be Roman Johnson is back, and I think Glass knows about it. Davis looked around the parking lot, then grabbed my arm. Listen to me carefully. No one has seen Miles Glass in person for decades.

Not me, not the board, no one. But he still sends directives, still controls everything. That's not possible. Tell that to the paychecks that keep coming. Tell that to the detailed operational plans that arrive every quarter.

Davis let go of my arm. Glass bought this mine in 1947. He should be, what, 100 years old now? But the signatures match, the directives keep coming. So who's really running things?

Davis shook his head. I don't know, but I've heard stories about BlackRock, about other mines Glass owns, stories about workers who aren't quite right, like Roman. I've said too much already. Davis got into his car. Be careful, Riley, Whatever you're digging into, it might be digging into you, too.

After that conversation, I knew I needed hard evidence, something the police couldn't ignore, something that would explain what was happening at BlackRock. I decided to break into the administrative offices, not the supervisor office where I worked, the main administrative building on the north side of the property, the place where all the historical records were kept, where Glass's office was, even though no one had seen him use it in years.

I waited until Friday night, when the security guard, Tony, was on duty. Tony was a good guy who always took his dinner break at exactly midnight, leaving the monitors unwatched for 30 minutes. I parked my truck behind the maintenance shed and used my supervisor key card to enter the building. The administrative wing was quiet and dark.

I used my phone's flashlight, keeping the beam pointed down to minimize the chance of being seen from outside. The main office area was just cubicles and filing cabinets, nothing useful there. What I needed was in the records room at the end of the hall. My key card worked on that door, too. Inside, the walls were lined with filing cabinets and shelves of binders.

Everything smelled like old paper and dust. I started with the personnel files, looking for anything on glass. Most of the cabinets contained recent records, tax forms, payroll, maintenance logs. But in the back corner of the room, I found an old metal cabinet that looked like it hadn't been opened in years. The label on it read Historical Archives 19401960.

The lock was old but still functional. I tried several keys on my supervisor ring before finding one that worked. Inside were folders yellowed with age, the paper brittle and smelling of mildew. I carefully lifted out the first folder labeled Black Rock Acquisition 1947. Inside was the original deed of sale, transferring ownership from the previous mining company to Miles Glass.

There were photographs of the signing ceremony. One showed a man I assumed was Glass. Tall, commanding, with piercing eyes that seemed to stare right through the camera. He looked to be in his 40s. But what made my blood run cold was the man standing next to him.

Thin, pale, with an unnaturally smooth face. Roman Johnson, except the photo was from 1947, and he looked exactly the same as when I'd met him. I flipped through more photos. Found another from 1952, Glass and Roman standing at the mine entrance. Glass had an age today.

Neither had Roman. My hands shook as I kept searching. In a folder labeled Geological Survey 1948, I found something even more disturbing. It was a report about an unusual chamber discovered during the initial excavation of the mine. The report described anomalous rock formations and symbols of unknown origin carved into the walls.

There was a photograph of the symbols. They matched exactly what I'd seen in the hidden tunnel, the report continued. Mr. Glass has expressed particular interest in these findings and has personally taken charge of this section of the excavation. All workers previously assigned to this area have been transferred to other projects.

I flipped the page and found a handwritten note. Chamber appears to be artificial in nature. Carbon dating suggests the space was excavated approximately 10,000 years ago. Purpose unknown. At the bottom of the page, someone had scribbled.

They were here before us. I kept digging, found more photos of glass from different decades. 1960s, nineteen seventies, 1980s. Always with Roman or someone similar nearby, always looking exactly the same age. Then I found a folder labeled Special Personnel.

Inside were records of workers throughout the decades who match the same pattern. No background before arriving at the mine. Unusual physical characteristics. Workers who were later reported to have transferred or resigned without notice. It was happening in cycles.

Every 20 years or so the disappearances would increase, then operations would temporarily suspend, then everything would go back to normal until the cycle started again. I pulled out my phone and started taking photos of everything. The pictures of Glass and Roman, the report about the chamber, the list of special personnel, the symbols.

That's when I heard it. The sound I'd hoped never to hear again. That wet, rasping breathing. It was coming from outside the door. I froze, phone still in my hand.

The sound wasn't moving away. It was staying right outside, like whatever was making it new. I was in here. Then I heard another rasping sound from a different direction. Then another, and another.

I moved to the window, carefully peering through the blinds. What I saw made my stomach drop. They were surrounding the building, 5, maybe 6 figures standing in the darkness. Their proportions were wrong. Too tall, too thin.

They stood unnaturally still, heads tilted at impossible angles. In the dim security lighting, I could make out their elongated forms, arms hanging too low, fingers too long. One of them was Sarah Chen, another was Marcus Elliot. The others I didn't recognize. Maybe workers from other shifts or other mines, or maybe they've never been human at all.

They weren't moving to enter the building. They were just waiting, watching. And then it hit me. A terrible realization that made everything suddenly horribly clear. They hadn't been trying to stop my investigation.

They'd been allowing it, leading me to these files, wanting me to understand. The creatures weren't infiltrating the mine. They were the mine, some ancient hive or colony that had been there long before humans arrived. Glass hadn't discovered them. He'd awakened them, and now he was working with them.

Or perhaps he was one of them. All those disappearances over the decades weren't random. They were feeding, harvesting, and the cycle was starting again. I looked back at the photos in my hand, at the symbols carved into rock 10,000 years ago, the unchanging faces of glass and Roman Johnson across decades. They weren't just in Black Rock.

They were in other minds too, spreading, waiting, watching from the darkness beneath our feet. I realized then why they had let me live after the encounter with Roman, why they'd promoted me to supervisor. I wasn't a threat to them. I was part of their plan, another piece in whatever ancient game they were playing.

And now, surrounded by these creatures, I understood that I'd never really escaped that night in the mine. I just been given enough rope to hang myself with. The door wouldn't hold much longer. I dragged the filing cabinet in front of it, metal legs screeching against the tile floor. Something heavy slammed against the other side, making the hinges groan.

I backed away, watching the door shutter with each impact. The wet rasping breathing filtered through from the hallway. Not just one set, but several, like they were taking turns testing the doors strength. I glanced around the records room looking for anything else I could use. The window was too small to climb through and we were on the 2nd floor anyway.

The cabinet wouldn't hold forever, there had to be something. The office phone sat on a desk in the corner. I grabbed the receiver and punched in Greg's number, praying he'd answer. It was nearly midnight, but Greg rarely slept well these days, Not since what happened with Roman. Three rings 4.

The door buckled inward an inch before catching on the cabinet. Hello. Greg's voice was groggy. Greg, it's me. I'm trapped in the admin building.

I kept my voice low, though I doubted it mattered. They knew exactly where I was. Sarah Marcus. They're not human. None of them are.

They've got me cornered in the records room. What? Pete, slow down. No time. Listen to me.

I found files. Photos from the 40s showing Roman with miles glass. They've been here for decades, Greg. Maybe centuries. Another slam against the door.

The cabinet slid an inch. I need help. Bring whoever you can trust. Bring lights. Bright ones.

The industrial floods from the equipment shed. Lights, Pete. What, they don't like bright light? Remember how Roman always stayed in the shadows? How he flinched when your headlamp hit him directly?

I think that's their weakness. The line went quiet for a second. I'm on my way. 20 minutes, Hurry. I hung up and looked around again.

20 minutes might as well be 20 hours. I needed to buy time. The desk lamp caught my attention. It wasn't much, but it was something. I grabbed it, yanked it free from the wall, and positioned myself in the corner farthest from the door.

When I switched it on, the bulb seemed painfully weak against the darkness. The pounding stopped. The sudden silence felt worse somehow. I could hear them moving outside, that strange scratching sound of too many limbs against the walls and floor. They were communicating, somehow.

Soft clicks and that horrible wet breathing. Something scraped against the door. Not a slam this time, but a deliberate probing sound. Like fingers. Too many fingers testing for weakness.

I checked my watch. Greg wouldn't be here for at least 15 more minutes. I needed to understand what I was facing. The photos I'd taken were still on my phone. I scrolled through them quickly.

The survey maps, the 1940s photographs, the handwritten note. They were here before us. Whatever these creatures were. They'd been here long before the mine, waiting beneath the earth until humans dug deep enough to find them. The door buckled again.

One of the hinges popped loose with a metallic ping. The cabinet shifted another inch. I raised the desk lamp, aiming it at the widening gap. A long, pale appendage snaked through. Not quite a finger, not quite a tentacle, but something in between.

It recoiled instantly when the light touched it, withdrawing with a hiss from the other side. That confirmed my theory. They avoided direct light, but the desk lamp wasn't nearly powerful enough to keep them at Bay for long. I needed those floodlights Greg was bringing. Minutes ticked by.

The creatures kept testing the door, applying steady pressure now rather than slamming into it. The cabinet slid another few inches with each push. I could see parts of them through the gap, pale, writhing flesh that didn't hold a consistent shape. Then I heard it. Engines in the parking lot, doors slamming.

Voices. Pete. Greg's voice called from outside the building. Records room, 2nd floor. I shouted back.

They're in the hallway. I heard the main entrance door crash open downstairs, followed by the sound of heavy boots on stairs. Flashlight beams swept under the door, and the creatures made that high pitched shrieking sound I remembered from when Greg had struck one with the pickaxe. We're coming up. Greg called.

Get ready. I heard a strange mechanical whine, then the hallway outside suddenly flooded with brilliant white light. The creatures shrieked again, the sound multiplied and layered like a chorus of pain. Pete, you OK in there? Greg's voice was closer now.

Yeah. Cabinets blocking the door. Stand back. I moved to the side just as something heavy slammed into the door from Greg's side. The cabinet toppled forward and the door flew open.

Greg stood there with a pickaxe in one hand and a powerful flashlight in the other. Behind him, 3 miners I recognized, Martinez, Wilson, and Reyes, carried industrial floodlights, their beams cutting through the darkness like solid things. The hallway was empty, but I could hear the creatures retreating, their many limbs scrabbling against the walls and floor.

Jesus, Pete. Greg looked at me, his face pale. What the Hell's going on? I grabbed my phone and the files I'd collected. I'll explain everything, but we need to get out of here first.

We moved as a group down the hallway, the miners keeping their lights trained on every shadow. At the end of the hall, I caught a glimpse of something pale and twisted disappearing around the corner. Marcus or Sarah or whatever they really were fleeing from the light. We made it to the stairwell and down to the main floor.

The administrative building's lobby was empty, but the glass front doors showed shapes moving outside, elongated silhouettes circling the building, keeping to the darkness between the parking lot lights. They're surrounding us, Martinez said, his voice tight with fear. Keep the lights on them, I said. They won't come near. Bright light.

Greg handed me a flashlight. What are these things, Pete? And why were you in here in the middle of the night? I showed them the files and scrolled through the photos on my phone. I've been tracking them for weeks.

Something felt wrong after what happened with Roman. Then two more showed up, Sarah and Marcus. Same strange behavior, same excuses for covering their faces. Workers started disappearing again. I needed proof, so I broke in tonight to search the records.

I pointed to a photograph from 1947. That's Roman Johnson standing next to Miles Glass. Same Roman we saw last month. Unchanged in 70 years. And here's another from 1962 and 1988.

They've been here all along, cycling through our workforce, taking people. The miners stared at the photos in stunned silence. Look at this, I continued, showing them the Geological Survey in 1948. They found an artificial chamber deep in the mine, estimated to be 10,000 years old. It had symbols carved into the walls, the same ones I saw in that hidden tunnel where we found the personal items.

So what are you saying? Wilson asked. That these things have been living under the mine for thousands of years. I nodded. And Miles Glass found them or made some kind of deal with them.

That's why no one's seen him in person for decades while he still controls everything from a distance. The disappearances happen in cycles, every 20 years across all of Glass's mining operations. So what do we do? Reyes asked, keeping his light trained on the windows. Call the police.

Greg shook his head. We tried that before. They didn't believe us. We need to stop them. I said permanently.

How? Martinez asked. I thought for a moment, and then remembered something from the Geological Survey. The chamber where they nest is deep in Section 5. According to these old maps, there's an underground river that runs about 50 feet above it, separated by a layer of rock.

If we could breach that layer, we could flood the chamber, Greg finished. Exactly. Drown them out. We'd need explosives, Wilson said, And we'd have to set them in exactly the right spot. I know where the blasting supplies are kept, Reyes said.

I helped inventory them last month. I looked at each of them. This is dangerous. I can't ask you to. You're not asking, Greg interrupted.

We're volunteering. These things killed our friends. The others nodded in agreement. All right, I said. Here's the plan.

We make a break for the equipment shed, grab what we need, then head down to Section 5. We set the charges, detonate them from a safe distance, and flood the chamber. What about them? Martinez gestured toward the windows, where the shadowy figures still circled. We use the lights form a perimeter.

They won't come near us as long as we stay in the light. Greg checked his watch. It's almost 1:00 AM. We've got about 5 hours until sunrise. Let's do this now, while they're still outside.

We gathered at the front doors, lights ready. I counted down from three. Then we burst outside, sweeping our beams and wide arcs. The creatures shrieked and retreated into the darkness beyond the parking lot. We moved as a tight group toward the equipment shed, our lights forming A protective barrier around us.

The night was just beginning, but I finally understood what we were facing, and for the first time since this nightmare started, I felt like we had a chance. We reached the equipment shed without incident, the creatures keeping their distance from our lights. Reyes unlocked it with his supervisor key, and we quickly gathered what we needed.

More floodlights, blasting caps, detonation cord, and enough explosives to breach the rock layer between the river and the chamber. I'll need to see those survey maps again. Wilson said he'd worked in demolition before coming to Black Rock. We need to place these charges precisely or we'll just cause a cave in. I showed him the maps on my phone and he studied them carefully.

OK, I think I've got it. We'll need to access the river tunnel through Section 5, then place the charges here. He pointed to a spot on the map that's about 800 feet down. I said we'll take the elevator to Level 6, then work our way over. We loaded everything into two mine carts and pushed them toward the main shaft.

The creatures followed at a distance, staying just beyond the reach of our lights, their rasping breath audible in the quiet night. At the main shaft, Greg called the elevator. While the rest of us kept our lights trained outward, the creatures had grown bolder, edging closer, testing the boundaries of our light. I caught glimpses of them, twisted, elongated forms that seemed to shift and change as they moved, with too many joints and limbs that bent at impossible angles.

The elevator arrived with a mechanical groan. We loaded the carts and descended into the mine, the surface world disappearing above us. Level 6 was dark when we arrived, the emergency lights casting weak red pools that did little against the oppressive blackness. Stay close, I said as we push the carts into the tunnel.

Keep your lights moving. We made our way through the familiar passages, now transformed into something alien and threatening by the knowledge of what shared them with us. Every shadow seemed to move, every distant sound a potential threat. How much farther? Martinez asked, his voice echoing slightly.

About 200 yards, I replied, checking the map. Then we turned N into the river tunnel. We continued forward, our footsteps and the squeak of the cartwheels the only sounds. Then I heard it, that familiar wet rasping breath coming from somewhere ahead. They're down here, Greg whispered.

They've always been down here, I said. This is their home. We turned a corner and found ourselves facing a dead end, a solid Rockwall where the tunnel should have continued. This isn't right, I said, checking the map again. The tunnel should go through here.

Wilson ran his hand over the rock face. This is new, recently cut and sealed. He knocked on it, producing a hollow sound. There's space behind it. They've been changing the mind, Reyes said, blocking off access to certain areas.

Can we breakthrough? Greg asked. Wilson examined the wall more closely. Yeah, but it'll make noise. They'll know exactly where we are.

We don't have a choice, I said. This is the only way to the river tunnel, according to the maps. Wilson nodded and began setting a small charge while the rest of us kept watch, our light sweeping the tunnel behind us. I could sense them gathering in the darkness, waiting and watching. The charge was small but effective, blowing a hole large enough for us to pass through one at a time.

As the dust settled, I shined my light through the opening. Beyond was the continuation of the tunnel, just as the map showed. I'll go first. I said, climbing through the hole. The others followed, bringing the carts through with some difficulty.

The air felt different on this side, colder and somehow heavier, with a strange ancient smell that reminded me of wet stone and something organic like mold, but sharper. The walls were different too, smoother and marked with those same curved symbols I'd seen before. We're getting close, I said. The river tunnel should be just ahead.

We moved forward cautiously, the weight of the earth above us suddenly more noticeable. The tunnel widened into a large cavern with a high ceiling that disappeared Into Darkness above and there, cutting across the cavern floor, was the underground river, about 20 feet across and flowing swiftly there. Wilson pointed to a section of the cavern floor near the river.

According to the survey map, the chamber should be directly below that point. We set up the floodlights, creating a perimeter of brightness while Wilson prepared the explosives. The plan was simple. Place the charges in a pattern that would direct the blast downward, breaching the rock layer and allowing the river to flood into the chamber below.

How long will it take? I asked Wilson as he worked about 10 minutes to set everything up. Then we can detonate from a safe distance. He carefully positioned each charge, connecting them with detonation cord. That's when we heard it, the rasping breath, louder now and coming from multiple directions.

They knew we were here. They knew what we were doing. Hurry, I told Wilson, keeping my light trained on the tunnel entrance. Pale shapes appeared at the edge of our light perimeter, twisted parodies of human form that seemed to flicker between solidity and something else. They circled us, testing the boundaries of the light, looking for weaknesses.

Almost done, Wilson said, his voice tight with concentration. One of the creatures moved forward into the light. Sarah, or what had been pretending to be Sarah. In the direct glare of the floodlight, her disguise failed completely. Her body elongated, joints popping as limbs bent at impossible angles.

Her face split vertically, revealing not a mouth, but a massive, writhing, segmented tissue. Behind her, more creatures advanced, their human facades melting away in the light. Aunt Wilson? Greg shouted. Done.

Wilson backed away from the charges, detonator in hand. We need to get to the other side of the river. There was a narrow maintenance bridge about 50 yards downstream. We grabbed the light sever and ran for it, the creatures following at the edge of our light perimeter. Their movements were faster now, more desperate.

We crossed the bridge 1 by 1, Wilson last with a detonator on the other side. We set up the lights again, creating our protective circle. Everyone ready? Wilson asked, finger on The detonator switch. We nodded.

The creatures had gathered on the other side of the river, more of them now. Dozens, perhaps, their twisted forms writhing and agitation, as if they sensed what was about to happen. Fire in the hole. Wilson pressed the switch. The explosion was deafening in the confined space, the shockwave hitting us like a physical blow.

The cavern floor on the other side of the river collapsed inward, creating a massive hole. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the river changed course, water pouring into the new opening with a roar that echoed throughout the cavern. The creatures shrieked, that same high pitched, multi layered sound I'd heard before, but multiplied now the chorus of inhuman voices raised in protest or pain.

They rushed toward the collapsing edge, some falling into the growing Whirlpool as the river drained into the chamber below. It's working. Greg shouted over the noise. The water level in the river dropped rapidly as more and more of it poured into the hole. The creatures that hadn't fallen in began moving toward the bridge, their movements frantic now they're coming across.

Martinez warned, raising his light. The first creature reached the bridge, its elongated form moving with terrible speed. We trained our lights on it, forcing it to retreat slightly, but more were coming behind it. We need to go. I shouted back to the elevator.

We began moving, keeping our lights focused on the approaching creatures. They followed, staying just outside the lights reach, their rasping breath audible even over the roar of the water. The tunnel seemed longer on the return journey, each step in effort against the fear that threatened to overwhelm us. The creatures kept pace, occasionally darting forward, only to retreat when caught in our beams.

Finally, we reached the elevator shaft. Greg pressed the call button, and we waited. Backs against the wall, lights trained outward. The creatures had gathered at the edge of our light perimeter, more numerous than I'd realized. 20, maybe 30 of them, all watching with that same hungry intensity.

Come on, come on. Reyes muttered, glancing up at the elevator indicator. The car arrived with a mechanical clunk that seemed impossibly loud in the tense silence. We backed into it, never taking our lights off the creatures As the doors began to close, they rushed forward as one, a wave of pale, twisted forms.

Martinez's light caught the lead creature full in what passed for its face. It shrieked and recoiled, colliding with those behind it. The doors closed completely just as another creature reached them, it's elongated fingers scraping against the metal. The elevator began to rise, taking us away from the horror below. We stood in silence, processing what had just happened.

Do you think it worked? Reyes asked finally. Did we get all of them? I don't know, I admitted. But we've sealed off their chamber, flooded their nest.

That has to count for something. The elevator reached the surface and we stepped out into the pre dawn darkness. The sky to the east was just beginning to lighten, the first hint of sunrise not far off. What happens now? Greg asked, looking at me looking.

We make sure everyone knows the truth about miles Glass, about what's been happening in this mine for decades. I held up my phone with the evidence I'd collected. No more disappearances, no more cover ups. The sun crested the horizon as we stood there, it's light spreading across the mine complex. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again.

Whatever was down there in the darkness, we'd fought back. We'd reclaimed something that had been taken from us. Our safety, our Peace of Mind, our lives. Black Rock. Mine would close, I was certain of that.

But the truth would finally come out.