The Missing Person

Chapter 2: The Forgotten Voices

Peter's heart pounded as he stumbled backward, the cold, clammy grip tightening around his ankle. His breath hitched in his throat, a rush of panic flooding through his chest. The darkness seemed to close in, oppressive and thick, as if the walls themselves were alive, holding him there, refusing to let him escape.

He kicked out, trying to break free, his foot connecting with something solid, but the hand wouldn't let go. The grip was almost unnatural—cold as ice, but with a strength that didn't belong in the fragile body he imagined it belonged to.

"Cathy?" Peter gasped, his voice barely more than a breath. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples, his limbs stiff with fear.

The voice came again, faint but unmistakable. "Please... help me."

Peter's stomach lurched. The voice sounded weak, desperate, as if it had been pleading for a long time.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Peter twisted and yanked his leg free from the icy grasp, stumbling back up the stairs to the trapdoor. He slammed it shut with a force that echoed throughout the room, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wasn't sure if what he had felt was real—or if it had just been his mind playing tricks on him—but one thing was clear: something was down there. Something or someone. And it was waiting.

He stood in the darkened hallway for a moment, hands trembling, trying to catch his breath. Every inch of him screamed to get out, to call for help, to leave the cursed farm behind. But Cathy's voice lingered in his ears, desperate, frantic. If he walked away now, he would never be able to live with himself.

Peter reached for his satellite phone, his fingers cold and clumsy. The light from the screen flickered weakly before it died completely.

"Damn it," Peter muttered under his breath. He was running out of time. If the voice had been real, then Cathy—and perhaps others—were still alive down there. But if not, then he had just sealed his own fate by making himself a target.

He wasn't alone in the house.

---

Peter's mind raced as he paced through the dimly lit hallway, torn between fear and resolve. He had been trained to handle dangerous situations, but this was something different. He had dealt with criminals, corrupt officials, and unsolved cases. But this... whatever this was, felt like something he couldn't quite grasp.

The house was silent now, almost suffocatingly so. No more creaking. No more whispers. Just the sound of his own rapid breathing and the oppressive quiet that seemed to swallow every noise he made.

Peter didn't waste any more time. He would have to descend again, into that suffocating darkness, and find Cathy before whatever—or whoever—was down there found him first.

He crouched beside the trapdoor once more, his flashlight casting a shaky beam of light over the jagged edges of the wooden stairs leading down. For a brief moment, he thought he heard something—like a soft shuffle or a distant groan—but when he listened, there was nothing.

With a sigh, he unslung his backpack and pulled out a rope, attaching it to a sturdy beam in the ceiling. He double-checked the knots and the strength of the rope before he grabbed hold and lowered himself into the pit below.

The air grew colder as he descended. A dampness clung to his skin, and his breath came in clouds of mist. The faint whispers grew louder, like the soft murmur of distant voices, overlapping and indistinct. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he felt the weight of them, pressing against his ears, pressing against his thoughts.

"Cathy?" he called again, his voice hoarse in the silence. "Cathy, is that you? I'm here to help you. Where are you?"

The darkness seemed to swallow his words whole, and the silence that followed was deafening. The smell of damp earth mixed with something far worse—decay, rot, and the underlying stench of something long dead.

Peter's flashlight flickered again, casting long shadows across the narrow space. The stone walls seemed to close in on him as he stepped down onto the hard floor of what appeared to be a basement—or a cellar—far older than the house itself. There was something ancient about the place, as though it had been forgotten for centuries, its walls imbued with the silent stories of people who had been buried long ago.

And then he saw it.

A series of old, weathered cages, their bars rusted and broken, were scattered along the walls. Some were empty. Some were not. A cold chill shot up Peter's spine as his flashlight flickered over the cages, and he felt the unmistakable presence of eyes watching him. Hundreds of them.

It wasn't just Cathy he was searching for anymore.

"Who's down here?" Peter demanded, his voice now shaky with fear. "Who's been locked up?"

The air grew thicker, heavier with each passing second, and the voices in the dark grew louder. Peter could almost make out individual words now—some were pleas, some were threats, and some... some were laughter.

Suddenly, a figure moved in the shadows.

Peter spun around, his heart hammering in his chest. His flashlight flickered wildly before illuminating the figure in front of him—a pale, gaunt woman, with hollow eyes and matted hair, her mouth moving in silent words. Her skin was ashen, stretched thin over bone. She looked as though she hadn't seen the light of day in years.

For a moment, Peter froze, unable to process what he was seeing. His mind screamed at him to run, to escape, but something kept him rooted to the spot.

The woman's lips parted slowly, and her voice—hoarse and broken—came out in a whisper.

"They won't let you leave..."

Peter took a step back, his eyes wide with shock. "What do you mean? Who won't let me leave?"

Before the woman could respond, a loud, hollow crack echoed through the basement. The woman's head snapped to the side, her eyes wide with terror. Without warning, she turned and sprinted toward one of the dark corners, disappearing into the shadows before Peter could react.

"Wait!" Peter shouted, but it was too late. She was gone.

His mind was reeling. He had to focus. The disappearance of Cathy and the others wasn't random—it was deliberate. There was something deeply wrong with this place, something that had taken root in the very foundation of the house.

Peter took a deep breath and steadied himself. He couldn't allow fear to control him now. He had a mission. And if he didn't act quickly, Cathy and the others would vanish just as mysteriously as the first six.

He turned back toward the cages, scanning them carefully. Something caught his eye—at the far end of the room, partially obscured by a pile of old, rotting wood, was a door. It looked like an afterthought, hastily built, as if someone had tried to conceal it.

Peter moved toward it, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. He reached for the handle, and as his fingers brushed it, he heard a loud crash behind him—a violent thud that made the ground beneath his feet tremble.

He spun around, flashlight aimed at the source of the noise.

In the distance, he saw something moving. No—someone.

A figure, shrouded in darkness, moving toward him. Fast.

Too fast.

Peter's breath caught in his throat. He didn't have time to think. He had to move—now.

---

**To be continued...**

---

Please follow and vote for more material and read for free - provide any feedback, comments or suggestions on storylines

Happy reading! - Sage

Do NOT Plagiarize this work? That includes translating it. This is a work of fiction, name, characters, place and incidents either are the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (C) 2024 by Sage