Chapter 1 - The Voice Beneath the Stones
"Daddy, don't let Grandma close the lid!"
Lily's scream came from somewhere under the garden, so thin and frightened that Mark Whitcomb almost ran past the old stone well without recognizing his daughter's voice.
He stopped hard enough to skid on the wet grass.
"Lily?"
"Down here!"
Mark reached the circular opening and looked into darkness.
A rusted pulley hung above him, and a length of rope disappeared over the rim.
Far below, his five-year-old daughter crouched on a narrow shelf of stone, one hand clamped around the rope, her pink dress streaked with dirt.
"Don't move, sweetheart. I'm here."
He reached for the rope.
His mother caught his wrist.
"Mark, stop. You have no idea what's underneath this property."
"My daughter is underneath this property."
Margarethe Whitcomb looked past him toward the neighbors' roofs, checking for witnesses.
"Keep your voice down."
The words hit harder than a slap.
Mark twisted away from her and pulled the rope taut.
"Call 911," he ordered.
"You can't bring anyone here."
He stared at the woman who had raised him in this house, the woman who had welcomed Lily for a weekend visit while he handled an emergency at work.
"What did you do?"
"She was snooping where she didn't belong."
"She's five!"
Below them, Lily began to sob.
"Daddy, there's another well. A scary one. I can hear water."
Mark peered down and saw, beneath the ledge holding his daughter, the dark ring of an even narrower shaft.
The stones around it carried an old painted symbol: a white circle split by a black line.
Margarethe's face drained of color when she saw where he was looking.
"You were never supposed to find that."
"Find what?"
Her answer was almost a whisper.
"Everything we own depends on what stays buried there."
Mark took out his phone and called emergency services.
As he gave the address, the rope moved beneath his hand.
May you like
Not from Lily's weight.
Someone had begun pulling it from the other end.
