The tunnel beneath The Haunted Haven stretched into darkness, its walls rough concrete streaked with damp stains that glistened in Ethan Ward’s flashlight beam. The air was frigid, heavy with that sharp, metallic tang—like rust or blood—and every step echoed too loud, bouncing back from the unseen end. Sophie Bennett stuck close behind him, her flashlight trembling slightly, though her voice stayed steady. “So,” she said, “on a scale of bad ideas, where does walking into a creepy basement tunnel rank?”

Ethan gripped the brass key, its eye symbol warm against his palm despite the cold. “Somewhere between ‘genius’ and ‘get me a priest,’” he replied, his breath fogging in the beam. The woman’s whisper—You shouldn’t have come—still rang in his ears, soft and sharp, like a blade brushing skin. He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a threat, but it had lit a fire under him. His parents’ photo, their journal, the locket—they were pieces of a puzzle, and this tunnel felt like the next move.

Sophie let out a shaky laugh, her light darting across the walls. “Good thing I’m an optimist. Maybe it’s just a shortcut to the snack bar.”

“Yeah, ghost popcorn’s a big seller,” Ethan said, managing a smirk. He kept moving, the journal tucked under his arm, its weight a tether to his dad’s cryptic words: Signal’s stronger below. She’s here. Whoever “she” was, she’d stopped the carousel, stared him down from a painting, and now haunted this hole. He wasn’t leaving without answers.

The tunnel sloped downward, the ceiling dropping low enough that Ethan had to duck. Scratches marred the walls—random at first, then forming patterns, symbols he couldn’t read but felt familiar, like echoes from the journal’s sketches. Sophie traced one with her finger, frowning. “These look old. Older than the park, maybe.”

“Or older than Hopeville,” Ethan muttered. His flashlight caught something ahead—a flicker of red against the gray. He froze, beam steadying on a figure at the tunnel’s end: the woman in the crimson dress, her pale face stark in the light, dark hair spilling loose. Her eyes locked on him, piercing and unblinking, the same gaze that had tracked him from the manor portrait.

“You,” Ethan said, voice rough. He stepped forward, Sophie’s hand brushing his arm in silent warning. “Who are you? What do you want?”

She didn’t move, her form solid but flickering at the edges, like a flame fighting a draft. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her whisper filling the tunnel, sharp enough to cut. “This place isn’t yours.”

“Bullshit,” Ethan snapped, anger flaring. “It’s my parents’. They built it, they disappeared for it, and now it’s mine. Tell me what’s going on—where are they?”

Her gaze hardened, but something flickered in it—pain, maybe, or regret. “They heard too much,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “They crossed the threshold. You will too, if you don’t stop.”

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“Threshold?” Ethan’s hand tightened on the key. “What’s that mean? And who’s lost—them? Someone else?” He took another step, the air growing colder, his flashlight flickering. “Talk, or I keep going.”

She tilted her head, studying him, then raised a hand. The tunnel shuddered, dust raining from the ceiling, and a low hum rose—familiar, like the radio’s static, but deeper, angrier. Shadows bled from the walls, not the vague shapes from the theater, but sharper, clawing tendrils that snaked toward them. Sophie yelped, stumbling back, her flashlight clattering to the ground.

“Ethan!” she shouted, grabbing his sleeve. “She’s not kidding around!”

“No kidding,” he growled, swinging his light at the shadows. They recoiled from the beam, hissing, but pressed closer, the hum swelling into a roar. The woman’s hand stayed raised, her expression unreadable, and Ethan’s mind raced. The key burned in his grip, pulsing like a heartbeat, and he remembered the theater—how it stopped the mirror.

“Worth a shot,” he muttered, lunging forward. He slammed the key against the nearest shadow, and a shriek tore through the tunnel—high, inhuman, slicing through the hum. The tendrils jerked back, dissolving into the walls, and the woman’s hand dropped, her form flickering harder.

“Stop,” she said, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re waking.”

“Then tell me!” Ethan shouted, chest heaving. “My parents—what happened? Where are they?”

She stared at him, silent for a beat, then stepped closer—too close, her cold radiating like frost. “They found the signal,” she whispered, her breath brushing his face. “The Haven’s voice. It called them below, and they answered. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen.” Her eyes softened, just for a second. “Like you.”

Ethan’s throat tightened. “Below where? Here?”

“Deeper,” she said, stepping back. “Past the threshold. You’ll hear it too, if you keep this up—the lost, the screaming, all of them.” Her form shimmered, fading. “Leave, Ethan. Before it claims you.”

“No chance,” he said, voice firm. “I’m finding them.”

She shook her head, a faint, bitter smile crossing her lips. “Then you’ll need more than a key.” She vanished, the tunnel falling still, the hum gone. Ethan stood there, flashlight trembling, Sophie’s grip tight on his arm.

“Okay,” Sophie said, breathless, picking up her light. “That was… intense. She’s not exactly a cheerleader, huh?”

Ethan didn’t answer, staring where she’d been. “They found the signal,” he repeated, the words sinking in. He pulled the journal out, flipping to a page near the end—his mom’s handwriting, softer, shaky: John says it’s alive down there. I hear it now. We can’t stop. Below it, a sketch of a door, steel, like the one they’d opened, with a single word: Threshold.

“Ethan?” Sophie’s voice was quiet now, no quips. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied, snapping the journal shut. “She said deeper. There’s more down here—my parents, maybe that signal.” He turned to her, jaw set. “You don’t have to come.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow, a spark returning to her eyes. “And miss the night shift? Fat chance, boss.” She flicked her flashlight back on, aiming it down the tunnel. “Let’s go deeper.”

Ethan nodded, the key warm in his hand, the locket heavy in his pocket. Whatever was below—his parents, the woman, or the Haven’s voice—he was done running. The tunnel stretched on, dark and endless, and he stepped forward, ready to hear it all.