Page 85 of Psycho Obsession
We scramble toward the coal chute, a yawning black maw in the floor that leads into the lightless tunnels beneath the estate. Jex goes first, disappearing into the dark with a heavy thud. Ryker lifts me, his eyes locking onto mine for one last, desperate second—a silent promise that he’ll kill me before he lets me become a puppet.
Then, he drops me into the abyss.
As I slide down the cold, metal neck of the chute, the humming in my head reaches a deafening crescendo. And then, a whisper, as clear as if she were sliding down right beside me:
“That’s it, darling. Fall into the dark. I’m waiting at the bottom.”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
JEX
The bottom of the chute isn’t a landing; it’s a collision. I hit the pile of ancient, fossilised coal dust with a bone-jarring thud, the impact sending a plume of black soot into the air that tastes like a century of rot. I barely have time to roll clear before Hallow comes sliding out of the darkness, a tangle of white skin and black coat, followed immediately by Ryker.
The air down here is different. It’s heavy, damp, and carries the low-frequency hum of the tide hitting the sea wall a few hundred yards away. This is the mansion’s secret plumbing—the tunnels where the “maintenance” was done so the neighbours didn’t have to hear the screams.
“Hallow!” I scramble over the coal, my hands finding her shoulders.
She’s shaking so hard her teeth are clicking together—afrantic, telegraphic sound. Her eyes are rolled back, showing only the whites, and her hands are clawing at the dirt, her fingernails already jagged and bleeding.
“She’s seizing,” Ryker gasps, shoving me aside to get to her. He doesn’t use a needle this time. He slams his palm against her chest, right over her heart. “Hallow! Stay with the pain! Don’t let the signal smooth it out! Feel the cold!”
I stand up, my rifle raised, my eyes darting to the shadows of the tunnel. We’re in a narrow, brick-lined artery that smells of salt and sewage. Above us, the mansion groans—a deep, structural shriek as the upper floors begin to pancake into the basement.
“Ryker, we don’t have time for a medical intervention!” I shout, the sound of the countdown still echoing in my skull like a phantom limb. “The whole fucking hill is about to go vertical!”
“I’m not treating her, I’m grounding her!” Ryker snarls. He grabs Hallow’s face and leans in, biting his own lip until it bleeds, then pressing his mouth to hers. It’s not a kiss. It’s a transfusion of reality.
Hallow’s back arches, a wet, guttural sound tearing from her throat, and then she snaps back. Her eyes focus, the blue returning with the force of a tidal wave. She gasps, a huge, racking lungful of soot and salt, and clings to Ryker’s tactical vest.
“She… she’s everywhere,” Hallow chokes out, her voice a shredded whisper. “She’s not just in the signal. She’s in the walls. Jex, the tunnels… they aren’t for coal. They’re for the pipes.”
“What pipes?” I ask, my skin crawling.
“The waste,” she says, her eyes wide with a new, freshhorror. “The things they cut out of us. They didn’t burn them. They kept them. Down here.”
I look down the length of the tunnel. In the dim glow of our tactical lights, I see them. Thousands of glass jars, lined up on rusted iron shelves like a library of nightmares. Suspended in yellowing formaldehyde are the pieces of the children Oakhaven outgrew. Fingers. Eyes. Organs. Parts of us that were deemed ‘imperfect.’
This isn’t a tunnel. It’s a mass grave in a jar.
“Keep moving,” Ryker commands, his voice sounding hollow. He hauls Hallow up. “Don’t look at the shelves. Just look at the light.”
We run. The brick gives way to slick, moss-covered stone as we get closer to the sea wall. Behind us, the mansion finally exhales. A muffled thump ripples through the ground—not a sharp explosion, but the heavy, final collapse of a mountain. The countdown hit zero. The “purge” has begun.
The vibration sends hundreds of glass jars crashing to the floor. The sound is a cacophony of shattering glass and splashing liquid—the smell of a thousand deaths suddenly released into the air.
“There!” Ryker points to a heavy iron grate at the end of the tunnel. “The outlet. The fast-boats should be tethered to the pylon.”
We hit the grate, Jex and I throwing our shoulders against it until the rusted hinges scream and give way. We spill out onto a narrow concrete ledge, the black harbour water churning ten feet below.
The city of Oakhaven is a wall of fire behind us. But out on the water, silhouetted against the burning docks, three white tactical cutters are idling. They aren’t Choirboats. They’re sleek, silent, and flying the silver emblem of the Vance Corporation.
“They’re waiting for us,” Hallow whispers, standing at the edge of the ledge.
A spotlight from the nearest cutter snaps on, pinning us against the sea wall. A voice comes over a long-range acoustic device, so clear it feels like it’s inside our ears.
“The prototype is compromised,” a man’s voice says—flat, professional, the voice of a man who kills for a salary. “Authorised for retrieval of the primary asset. Eliminate the male siblings if they resist.”
