The shaft beneath The Haunted Haven dropped Ethan Ward into darkness, the steel hatch clanging shut above him like a guillotine. His boots hit uneven stone, the impact jarring his knees, and his flashlight beam spun wild, catching jagged walls that pulsed with that low, living hum. Sophie Bennett landed beside him, her wrench clattering against the floor, her breath sharp in the icy air. The scream they’d heard—faint, raw, human—echoed again, closer now, threading through the drone like a needle through fabric.

“Round five,” Sophie said, her voice tight but steady as she scooped up the wrench. “This place really knows how to roll out the welcome mat.” She aimed her flashlight ahead, revealing a tunnel—wider than the last, its stone walls carved with those same eerie symbols, spiraling deeper into the earth.

Ethan gripped the brass key, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold seeping through his jacket. “Yeah, five-star service,” he muttered, steadying his light. Lydia Kane’s words—The signal’s below, stronger, louder—drove him forward, the locket in his pocket pulsing in time with the hum. His parents had crossed this threshold, heard this “voice,” and he wasn’t stopping until he found them—or whatever was left.

They moved on, the tunnel twisting downward, the air growing thicker, heavier, like it was pressing back. The symbols on the walls glowed faintly, a sickly green that flickered with their steps, and the scream came again—sharper, splitting into laughter, then silence. Ethan’s gut twisted. “You hear that?”

“Hard not to,” Sophie said, her wrench tapping nervously against her leg. “Sounds like a party I don’t wanna crash.”

“Too late for RSVP regrets,” Ethan said, pushing ahead. The tunnel opened into a chamber—vast, circular, its ceiling lost in shadow. The hum spiked, vibrating in his teeth, and his flashlight caught the center: a carousel, smaller than the one above but pristine, its horses gleaming black and gold, their painted eyes glinting like glass. The platform spun slowly, a warped carnival tune drifting from it, off-key and wrong.

Sophie whistled low. “Okay, that’s freaky. Another merry-go-round?”

“Looks like it,” Ethan said, stepping closer. The locket burned against his leg, and the journal’s weight—They found the signal—pulled at him. “Radio said ‘the carousel spins for the lost.’ Maybe this is what it meant.”

Before Sophie could reply, the tune shifted, speeding up, and the horses’ heads turned—slowly, deliberately, locking eyes with them. A laugh erupted, high and jagged, the same one from the park above, and shadows bled from the platform—vague figures, human-shaped but hollow, drifting toward them like smoke on a breeze.

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“Round two of the shadow freaks,” Sophie said, raising her wrench. “Any bright ideas, boss?”

Ethan’s mind raced, the key glowing faintly in his hand. “Hold ‘em off,” he said, lunging for the carousel. “I’ll figure it out.” He leapt onto the spinning platform, the wood slick under his boots, and the shadows surged, their laughter swelling into a scream. Sophie swung her wrench, a clang echoing as one dissolved, but more poured from the horses, tendrils curling toward her.

“Ethan, hurry!” she shouted, dodging a clawing shape, her flashlight beam slashing through the dark.

He scanned the carousel, heart pounding, and spotted it—a control box at the center, rusted but intact, an eye-shaped slot carved into its lid. The key pulsed, hot now, and he slammed it in, twisting hard. The platform jolted, the tune warping into a screech, and the shadows froze mid-lunge, their forms trembling. Then a voice cut through—not the radio’s, not Lydia’s, but softer, sadder, echoing from the box.

“Find us,” it whispered, and Ethan’s breath caught. His mom’s voice—shaky, faint, but hers. The locket flared, searing through his pocket, and he yanked it out, flipping it open. The blurry photo sharpened for a heartbeat—his parents, standing in this chamber, their faces pale but alive—before fading back to haze.

“Mom?” Ethan’s voice cracked, the shadows shimmering around him. The carousel slowed, the horses stilling, and the shadows sank into the floor, their laughter dying. Sophie stumbled over, wrench raised, her chest heaving.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, eyes wide. “Was that—”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, staring at the locket. “They’re here. Somewhere.” He pulled the key from the box, and something clicked—a panel in the chamber wall slid open, revealing a narrow passage, the hum pulsing stronger from within.

Sophie exhaled, lowering her wrench. “Okay, scoreboard: us one, creepy carnival zero. What’s with the disappearing act?”

“Dunno,” Ethan said, pocketing the key. “But they’re tied to this.” He held up the locket, then grabbed the journal, flipping to a page near the end—his dad’s scrawl: The signal’s in the lost. They scream to be found. Below it, his mom’s note: We’re close. The carousel’s the key.

“They knew,” Ethan said, voice low. “They built this—or found it. The Haven’s a… trap, maybe. For whatever’s down here.”

Sophie nodded, her grin flickering back. “Then we’re winning the game. Next level?”

Ethan glanced at the passage, the hum calling him deeper. “Yeah. But we’re not alone.” He turned as a flicker of red caught his eye—Lydia Kane, standing at the tunnel’s mouth, her crimson dress vivid in the dark. She didn’t speak, just watched, her gaze heavy with something Ethan couldn’t read—anger, pity, maybe both.

“Thanks for the assist,” he called, half-sarcastic, but she didn’t flinch.

“You’re fools,” she whispered, voice carrying despite the distance. “But you’re close.” She faded into the shadows, leaving them alone with the carousel’s silence.

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Mood-lifter, that one. Think she’s rooting for us?”

“Doubt it,” Ethan said, stepping toward the passage. “But she’s not stopping us either.” He tucked the journal away, the locket warm in his hand, his mom’s voice echoing in his skull. “Let’s keep going.”

Sophie gripped her wrench, flashlight steady. “Carnival game’s on, boss. Lead the way.”

Ethan nodded, the hum pulling him forward, the threshold’s scream growing louder. Whatever was lost down here—his parents, the signal, or something darker—he was playing to win.