Silence pressed in like a physical weight, freighted with that unnatural scraping echo. I stood paralyzed in the narrow passage, every sense stretched to breaking. The darkness felt sentient, observing me with ancient patience. My ragged breathing echoed impossibly loud, each inhale scraping my fear-constricted throat.
Had the sound ceased? Or was it merely... waiting?
I forced slow, deliberate breaths, battling the frantic drumming in my chest. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Think. Listen. *Feel*.
I extended that nascent energy sense again, ignoring the spike of pain behind my temples. The ancient vibration hummed beneath the stone, constant and indifferent. But now, layered above it—a discordant thread. Cold and sharp, imbued with undeniable predatory hunger. Not physical presence but *intent* slithering through oppressive darkness.
And it was closer.
The scraping resumed—slower, more deliberate. *Scrape... drag... scrape... drag...* Moving toward me from the tunnel's depths. Whatever stalked me wasn't attempting stealth. Perhaps it didn't need to.
My back pressed against damp stone. Retreat? The entrance was sealed, likely swarming with police. Forward? Toward that unnerving sound? Neither promised salvation.
My fingers scrabbled desperately against rough walls, seeking any advantage—a loose stone, a crevice, anything. My other hand clutched Eleanor's bag containing her identity and that cryptic note. Useless trinkets against whatever approached.
Unless...
The chaotic energy that had flared within me earlier—residue of Eleanor's ritual, the force that had thrust my soul into this vessel. It coiled like a viper inside me: volatile, dangerous, unpredictable. Could I harness it?
I closed my eyes briefly, focusing inward, past fear and pain. Reaching for that alien energy, attempting to shape it with desperate will. Like grasping water in a sieve. Images assaulted me—swirling symbols, the terrifying vortex, Julian Blackwood's pale face, the raven crest. Hatred surged, threatening to overwhelm my fragile control.
*Resonance, not force,* the note had said. Resonate with what? The passage? This place's energy? The approaching threat?
The scraping sound loomed closer—perhaps twenty paces away. The air stirred with its passage, carrying a faint, musty odor overlaying damp stone. Decay. Old bones. Grave dirt.
No more time for finesse. Force would have to suffice.
Gritting my teeth against intensifying head pain, I visualized the energy within—not as weapon but shield, a burst of raw, unfocused *push*. I poured desperate will into it, picturing it exploding outward, a concussive wave through darkness.
Something *snapped* behind my eyes. Blinding internal light followed by agonizing pain that buckled my knees. The air *shimmered* briefly. I felt a faint *thrum* against my skin like static electricity, then... nothing. No visible effect beyond my own choked gasp.
Had it worked? Or merely depleted me further while advertising my presence?
The scraping stopped.
Silence descended, heavier and more menacing than before. Had I scared it away? Or made it pause to reassess?
A low hiss slithered through darkness, impossibly close. Not escaping air but something organic, ancient, filled with cold malice.
My eyes flew open uselessly. A shape coalesced in absolute blackness—not through sight but through that primal energy sense, heightened perhaps by my failed attempt to wield it. A distortion, a patch of *wrongness* absorbing even residual light. Long, segmented, moving with unnerving fluidity near the ground. Larger than expected.
The bone-deep cold radiating from it leeched warmth from my already chilled body.
It wasn't alive by any definition I understood. It felt... constructed. Animated by something old and hungry. A guardian? A scavenger drawn by ritual energy?
My back hit solid wall. No retreat possible. My hand instinctively clutched the bag, fingers wrapping around the useless metal rectangle inside—Eleanor's "phone."
The hissing intensified. Decay smell strengthened as the segmented shadow flowed closer. My mind raced through useless knowledge—swordsmanship against shadows, courtly intrigue against stone and malice.
Then another flicker—Eleanor's memory. Not image but sensation: intense claustrophobia mixed with directional fear *away* from something on the left wall. Knowledge of a turn, a side passage easily missed in darkness.
Trusting a dead woman's residual fear, I didn't hesitate. As the hissing shadow lunged—cold air brushing my cheek—I threw myself sideways, scraping against rough stone. My feet frantically searched for the opening Eleanor's memory had indicated.
My outstretched hand hit emptiness—a gap in the left wall, narrower than the main passage, almost at floor level.
I scrambled inside just as something *crunched* against stone where I'd stood fractions of a second before. The scraping intensified outside the opening, moved past, then faded as it continued down the main passage.
Had it missed my deviation? Or was it simply following its programmed path, ignoring minor divergences?
I huddled in the cramped alcove, heart hammering, muscles screaming. The air hung stale with stagnant water and something metallic. I barely breathed, listening intently.
The scraping faded to near silence. Gone? Or waiting?
Cautiously, I explored the tiny space. Not deep—barely an arm's length. The back wall felt different—smoother, colder, metallic. My fingers found a recessed lever, a cold T-shaped bar resistant to movement.
Pull? Push? Twist?
A new sound reached me—faint but distinct over the distant scraping. A rhythmic *thump-thump*. Steady. Mechanical. Coming from *behind* the metal wall.
Where in the blighted hells had Eleanor Vance's secret passage led me?