Page 39 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Cold,” I murmur, more observation than complaint.

“We’re below the frost line now,” Silas explains, his voice gaining confidence as the immediate danger recedes behind us. “The oldest sections follow natural limestone formations beneath the property. The water table is close here.”

As if to confirm his words, something cold and wet drips onto my forehead from the ceiling. I wipe it away, fingers coming back damp. The walls glisten with moisture, the stone darker in places where water seeps through invisible cracks.

“How far down does it go?” I ask, trying to imagine the full scope of this hidden world beneath my property.

Silas pauses at another junction, this one opening to a slightly wider passage where we can finally walk side by side rather than single file. The reduced proximity seems to relax something in him, his movements becoming more natural again.

“The deepest chambers are approximately thirty feet below the basement level,” he says, holding the penlight higher to illuminate the passage ahead. “Some connect to natural caverns that extend beyond the property boundaries. My grandfather mapped the entire system in 1952, but we’ve made modifications since then.”

“For better escape routes?” I guess.

His mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. “And to create confusion for anyone who might discover the entrances. False passages, dead ends, sections designed to collapse if used incorrectly.” He glances at me, something like pride flickering across his features. “The house protects its own.”

We turn a final corner, and the passage opens into a section where the ceiling rises several feet, the walls carved from solid bedrock rather than built of individual stones. The air feels different here, not just colder but somehow charged withage and purpose. I trail my fingers along the wall, feeling the chisel marks left by hands that turned to dust a century ago.

“This section dates to 1847,” Silas says, his voice taking on that subtle shift it gets when he speaks of the house’s history, reverent, almost tender. “My ancestors expanded the natural limestone caves to shelter people escaping north. These marks—” he points to a series of small symbols carved into the stone “—directed travellers to safe harbours, indicated how many days’ journey to the next station.”

I trace the symbols with my fingertip, feeling suddenly connected to something far greater than a legal inheritance. This house was never just a building passing through owners’ hands — it was a mission, maintained by people who understood that some responsibilities transcend personal safety.

From somewhere above, Garrow’s muffled voice carries down through the ventilation shafts, angry and frustrated. But here, in the deepest part of a house that has sheltered the vulnerable for generations, his threats feel almost pitiful.

Silas extends his hand, hesitant but deliberate. “There’s more I need to show you. People you should meet.”

I place my fingers in his, noticing how he no longer flinches at the contact. “Lead the way.”

Silas leads me through one final turn, the passage wider here, the stone walls chiselled smooth. Ahead, a warm amber glow spills across the floor — softer and steadier than his penlight. The air changes too, carrying the unexpected scent of… coffee? Just when I think this house can’t possibly surprise me again, it does.

We emerge into a chamber that has no business existing thirty feet beneath my house. The ceiling arches high enough for Silas to stand with room to spare. Oil lamps hang from iron hooks, casting golden light across what can only be described as an underground emergency room crossed with a survivalist’s bunker.

Metal shelving lines one wall, stocked with enough canned food and bottled water to outlast a nuclear winter. Another section holds neatly labelled medical supplies, gauze, antiseptics, and prescription bottles organized with pharmacy precision. A small wood stove radiates blessed heat in the corner, a kettle steaming gently on its surface. Thick rugs cover sections of the stone floor, their faded patterns suggesting they once graced much grander rooms above ground before being repurposed here.

But what stops me cold are the people, because I’m not the only living soul Silas has been hiding from Garrow.

Dr. Rao kneels beside a cot where a young woman lies curled on her side, her delicate frame shaking beneath a heavy woollen blanket. Dr. Rao—the same woman who deflected all my questions about the estate’s previous owners with practised vagueness when I visited her office last month—is carefully cleaning a series of nasty cuts on the girl’s exposed arm.

“Almost done,” Dr. Rao murmurs, her bedside manner as gentle as it was in her official office. “The antiseptic stings, but infection would be much worse.”

The young woman’s head jerks up at our entrance, eyes wide with fear. She can’t be older than nineteen, with the kind of face that belongs on college brochures, if it weren’t for the purple bruise blooming across her left cheekbone.

Dr. Rao follows her patient’s frightened gaze, turning to face us with remarkable composure considering we’ve just appeared from a secret passage in a subterranean chamber.

Dr. Rao’s eyebrows lift slightly at the sight of me behind Silas. “I see you’ve finally shown her,” she says, her tone carrying the weight of a conversation they’ve clearly had before. She turns to me with a small nod. “Ms. Hale.”

Silas steps aside, allowing me to fully enter the chamber. “Dr. Rao,” he says with a slight bow of his head, the gesture carrying an undercurrent of respect that goes beyond mere formality between colleagues.

“The estate’s rightful owner,” Dr. Rao explains to her patient, whose trembling subsides slightly. “You’re safe with her. She’s part of the sanctuary now.”

Part of the sanctuary. The words settle over me like a weight — one I didn’t ask for but can’t bring myself to put down.

“You two know each other,” I say, stepping further into the warm chamber. It’s not a question.

Dr. Rao’s lips curve into a tired smile as she applies a bandage to her patient’s arm. “Eight years now. My predecessor brought me into the network when I took over his practice.” She secures the bandage with practised efficiency. “The town doctor sees patterns others miss—who’s injured too frequently, which children flinch when touched, which spouses suddenly stop scheduling their own appointments.”

“And you’ve been working with Silas all this time.” I try to reconcile this calm, composed woman running a secret underground clinic with the same doctor who prescribes antibiotics and flu vaccinesabove ground.

“I identify those in danger,” Dr. Rao explains, rising from her kneeling position with a slight wince that speaks of too many hours in that posture. “Silas provides the sanctuary. Between us, we’ve helped quite a few people disappear from Garrow’s reach.”