The elevator slowly moved deeper into the darkness. The only light was that from a single flickering lightbulb above his head. The elevator slowly moved down, rattling as it went.

“You've got this. You can do it,” Henry reassured himself, mostly so he could keep calm.

Honestly, his affirmations did little to lessen his nerves. He had never liked enclosed spaces. As a kid, he toured a local cave system, and it terrified him. He liked the concept of being in an enclosed space, even less knowing that a Ghost Story roamed somewhere in its labyrinth.

“You're doing this for the others. They need your help. You can do this."

The elevator clicked to a stop. Henry reached out and unlatched the door, sliding it open. There was nothing but darkness waiting for him. He fished out the flashlight from his bag and flicked it on. It provided some light, but not nearly enough to fight back the omnipresent darkness. Using his flashlight’s beam, he searched along the wall of the mine until he found what he was looking for. A large metal lever was mounted to the wall. Several ancient-looking wires ran off it in every direction. It was just as Mark had described it.

Henry flipped the large metal switch with an electric pop. Electric lights began to glow, shooing away the darkness. The tunnels, now illuminated, seemed to go on forever. Henry unhooked the string from his belt and tied it to the metal door of the elevator. He hooked the spool onto his belt, then checked the bird cage hanging there once more. The golden bird inside the cage hopped around happily, occasionally singing to itself. It seemed unaware of the sheer horror that awaited them both. He wanted to feel guilty about what fate would await the bird in the mines, but he knew that it was pointless. Death was a reality of this place. Besides, it would just wake up tomorrow anyway, happily in the forest, just as before.

Henry checked his oxygen tank and the string tied to his belt once more. Both seem to be functional. He took in a nervous breath and then turned to travel deeper into the mines.

***

Henry followed the string of lightbulbs mounted to the roof for what felt like an hour. The stuffy earthly air of the mines was suffocating at first, but slowly he'd grown used to it. He'd been getting used to a lot of things lately. He'd seen no sign of Pickaxe Pete or any other ghost story, for that matter. In some ways, that was a relief, but part of him just wanted to rip the bandage off, as his mother used to say.

As he moved his flashlight along the wall, he noticed a series of arrows chipped into the stone. They had to be the map that Mark had left for himself. Henry had to admit that Mark was something else to survive down here for as long as he had alone. The endless darkness was the kind of thing that could easily drive men mad. Maybe Mark hadn't survived it with his sanity fully intact. After all, the man did do and say some strange things. He'd nearly slit Henry's throat just a few days ago.

A soft thump pulled Henry from his thoughts. He looked down at the small cage hooked to his belt and felt a jolt of fear rip through him. The little bird had fallen off its perch and was now on the floor of the cage. Pickaxe Pete was near.

Henry pulled the breathing apparatus over his face. He turned the oxygen valve just as Mark showed him. He could feel the pressurized oxygen fill the mask. He looked up and focused on finding Pete. His vision was limited by the glass eyes of the mask. As he breathed in and out, fog formed on the glass and vanished. He could feel the beating of his heart as it hammered in his chest. Worst of all, he couldn't see any sign of the ghost story that stalked him. If it hadn't been for the little bird in the cage, he probably would've already died.

The little songbird now sputtered around the bottom of the cage, desperate to cling to its life. It tried flapping its golden wings aimlessly before falling still. The colorful feathers on its chest had begun to turn a putrid, dark black. Henry was more grateful for the breathing apparatus keeping him alive than he had been for anything else in the world.

Henry kept looking for any sign of the miner. It didn't come until he heard the shuffling of feet echoing through the mines. Almost as soon as it started, he heard wheezing and coughing. It was raspy and dry, almost like the cough of a tuberculosis victim. The sounds were coming from behind him. Henry unhooked his spear from his bag and prepared himself.

The first thing Henry saw of Pickaxe Pete was his shadow. It filled the intersection cast by the flickering mine lights. Slowly, Pete shambled into view. He was of average height, maybe 5 feet, 9 inches. He was dressed exactly as Henry had imagined him. He wore a button-up cloth shirt and a large pair of overalls. All the clothes on his body were covered in black soot. If it hadn't been for a few splotches of clean fabric, he would have assumed the clothes were dyed black.

Pete's face was gaunt from his starvation. The decrepit old respirator mask covered only his nose and mouth. Any skin that remained was black with coal dust. Much like Undertow, his eyes were milky white. Dead eyes like those of a corpse.

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As he breathed, he wheezed through the breathing apparatus. Occasionally, he would launch into sputtering coughs. All of these things weren't what really got Henry's attention. His eyes were firmly centered on Pete's pickaxe. A pickaxe, which was at the moment embedded into the miner’s helmet. From the opposing end, Henry could tell it was lodged deep in Pete's brain.

Pete lifted his head up to study Henry. As he did, the bones in his neck popped like snapping branches. He launched into another coughing fit, then wheezed weakly. Both Henry and Pete stood still, each staring the other down. Henry felt himself still breathing heavily. The eye pieces on his mask began to fog up slightly. Even still, he never took his eyes off Pete.

He raised his spear and took a cautious step toward Pete. He could do this. He'd already survived the worst of it.

As if in answer, Pickaxe Pete moved his own hand slowly upwards in an almost methodical way. It wrapped its coal-stained fingers around the wooden handle of the pickaxe jammed into its brain. Pete began to pull on the pickaxe. His eyes rolled deep into the back of his head. The rusted tool came free with a sickening pop, and his dead eyes rolled back to stare at Henry. The undead miner lowered it into his hand. Its sharpened tip was still coated with dark black blood. Pickaxe Pete let out another series of ragged coughs.

Henry pointed his spear out towards Pickaxe Pete.

“All right, fucker, let's go,” he growled.

Henry rushed towards the Ghost Story, spear in hand. He had to get that breathing off the monster's face as soon as he could. Mark had warned him that, even with his breathing apparatus to protect him from Pete's deadly aura, the monster itself was plenty dangerous on its own. Henry wasn't going to take chances. He had to kill Pete and survive the fight, or the escape plan would be shot. He would keep his distance using this spear for its long range.

The miner continued to shamble towards him. For every step the ghost story took, Henry took one back as well. He always kept this spear between himself and Pete. They continued like that for some time. Pete showed no signs of changing his strategy. The ghost story just kept walking forward towards Henry. Before he'd come to Paradise, it'd been Henry's job to watch over an empty parking lot, waiting for anything to happen. Compared to that, waiting for an opening was nothing. Henry could be very patient when he needed to be.

The opportunity he'd been waiting for came when Pete began another coughing fit. His hacking and coughing were much more violent this time. It seemed to have thrown him off his balance. His eyes left Henry as he coughed into his breathing mask. Henry didn't hesitate. He took a few steps towards Pete and thrust his spear out. It sank deep into the Ghost Story's chest, just below his heart. Pete stopped his coughing and looked down at the spear in his chest, just in time for Henry to pull it free.

It was not blood that flowed from the spear wound, but a blackish-purple sludge with a texture almost like slime. It seemed to bubble from the wound in black spurts, like oil leaking from a drill. It oozed down Pete's shirt, standing at it even darker black than it already was. The monstrous Ghost Story let out a shrill scream. Henry let out a scream of his own and charged the undead miner again. He twisted the spear through the air and planted it into Pete's neck, just barely missing the mask's oxygen tube. He tried to pull a spear free, but Pete's hand caught it. The Ghost Story's milky-dead eyes turn to look back at Henry. It wheezed into its mask, then snapped the spear in two. The wooden handle shattered beneath his hand as if it were little more than a toothpick.

Henry felt a wave of fear wash over him. He'd failed. The ghost Story rose its pickaxe into the air and swung it towards Henry. Henry dove back, barely dodging the attack. This was beginning to feel all too familiar. Unpleasant memories of the knight nearly decapitating him with his sword came flooding back. Only this time, Henry had no anchor to destroy. There was nothing to spare him. His luck had finally run out.

Henry began to quickly back away from the monster. Pete twisted its arm back and threw its pickaxe at the retreating teen. It spiraled through the air, whizzing by Henry's head. It tore off a piece of his cheek as it went. Henry let out a scream of pain and clutched at the wound left by the flying pickaxe. He felt his blood flow between his fingers. The pickaxe embedded itself deep into the stone wall behind him with an echoing sound of vibrating metal. Henry wondered just how strong this fucking thing was.

At first, he was worried the attack had broken the seal on his mask. He was so distracted by checking his oxygen that he didn't notice Pete closing the distance. By the time Henry had regained his composure, it was too late. The undead miner was standing right before him.

Pete grabbed Henry by the throat and held him up. Pete was inhumanly strong. This thing was far beyond Undertow or the Skeleton Man. It was a monster unmatched by the others. Mark hadn't undersold his Ghost Story. Once again, Henry briefly wondered how Mark had managed to survive by himself for years in these mines.

The miner began to cough into his breathing apparatus again. This close to the monster, Henry could hear just how rough that cough was. The ghost story didn't loosen its grip on his neck as it hacked. It got control of its coughing fit and slowly reached its free hand towards Henry's face. It was going to remove his mask. Henry used his own hand to hold back the monster, but it was useless. This thing was too strong.

He was about to give up and let himself drift into death once more. This time, he wasn't that afraid. He knew he'd wake up alive and well after all. Yes, he could just slip away. The corners of his vision began to vanish into darkness. Pete's hand was pulling on the mask now. Luckily for Henry, he'd pulled the straps tight, and the monster didn't seem smart enough.

His hand went limp and fell to his side. There, he felt the cool metal of his belt knife. How had he forgotten it? He pulled the knife free from its sheath and, with the last of his strength, slashed up. He felt the blade connect with the tubing of Pickaxe Pete's mask. It tore through it like butter. The hissing sound of air escaping filled the mine. Pete immediately dropped Henry, sending him sprawling to the floor.

The Ghost Story lumbered back, coughing violently. It desperately clawed at its mask, trying to fix what was broken. It was no use; the monster was doomed. Henry saw the darkness slowly fill his vision as he gasped for air. He was so light-headed. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the pale face of Pickaxe Pete consumed by dark splotches of corruption.