Lyra ran panting onto the beach from the trail; her car was indeed gone. The crafty old man had kept her talking whilst Kane had disposed of it. Somehow, he knew that she had visited the sheriff; he knew she would go straight to Harlon. Lyra looked up and down the beach hopelessly; there was no sign of her vehicle, even its tracks had been raked over. Her phone; she could call Sean for help. Lyra rushed into the cabin. As the door swung closed behind her, she froze; she had locked the cabin before departing for the town in the morning. She gazed about the room; her bag had been dumped on the sofa. Kane must have left it there before he took her car. Lyra tipped the contents of the bag out and rummaged furiously through it. Her phone was gone. She was alone, alone with a serial killer. Outside, dark clouds crossed the sky and a heavy rain started to fall.
Lyra thought quickly. She threw the deadbolt across on the front door and rushed from room to room, slamming the shutters and locking the windows. At the far end of the hall, there was an old back door, and even though she had kept that locked, she double-checked and pulled the lower bolt across on that door too. She cast her mind back to the gun, the gun so kindly given to her by Sean. She had left it in her car. Lyra cursed under her breath; how could she have been so foolish? Closing the shutters darkened the cabin. Lyra did not want to draw attention by putting the lights on, so she rummaged through the cupboards until she found an old torch that she kept for emergencies. She pressed the button and again went from room to room, checking all the cupboards and under the furniture.
There were no shadows, no dark figures hiding in wait for her. Lyra breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she was overreacting, perhaps she had been drawn into local superstition, or perhaps the locals were trying to scare her. Lyra slumped down on the sofa; her heart was still palpitating in her chest. She panned the light of the torch about her in the darkness; everything seemed calm and quiet until she spied the rug in the hallway. It was moving, shivering as if a breeze was blowing at it. Lyra swallowed and focused on the movement. The shivering continued. Cautiously, she rose and marched to the mat. Her fingers looped around the frayed edges and she pulled it from the floor.
There underneath sat an old, unlocked trapdoor. The breeze was ever so slight, but certainly coming from beneath the door. She tugged at the black, looped handle until the door loosened and she pulled it open. The light of the torch shone into the crevice. There, below the house, a tunnel or shaft ran. She drooped her head over the edge and directed her torch one way and then the other. It was a long shaft and ran much further than the breadth of her cabin. Lyra thought about her options; exploring the shaft seemed foolhardy, but then so did backing herself into the corners of the cabin.
Carefully, Lyra lowered her body into the tunnel, bringing her torch with her. Her leggings clipped and tore slightly as she used the shaft walls to help her climb down. She waved the torch about, deciding which way to go. She did not want to go east as Harlon lived in that direction, and she reasoned that if Harlon was taking care of Kane, then she would be less likely to encounter the killer if she headed in the other direction. Lyra waved the torch west; the shaft was empty as far as she could see. Unfortunately, the glow of the torch was limited, and she could not see as far as she had hoped. Reluctantly, and feeling there were few choices left available to her, Lyra wandered down the shaft, not knowing what to expect.
She walked for some time. Occasionally, she noted trapdoors above her, but the last thing she wanted was to climb out and find herself lost in the depths of the woods. The mineshaft walls held a few unlit torches and a clear path had been worn into the ground. Her heart had calmed somewhat, and her breathing slowed. Lyra’s pace had quickened, and she moved almost robotically; her mind was still trying to absorb her terrible situation. The glow of the torch started to fade as she continued, and she noted that the passage was widening. It continued to widen until she found herself in what appeared to be a series of basement rooms. Relief flooded her; she must have found someone’s home. She hoped that the residents were home, then she could get help and escape from Maple Lake. Again, she cursed herself, this time for not having listened to Sean.
There were old bags, wood and tools strewn everywhere. Lyra waded through the mess until she found another trapdoor. She pulled on the cord; the door did not budge. She pulled again; her breathing had lightened, but she could hear breathing, heavy breathing. Lyra bit her lip; her hands dropped from the cord and very slowly she turned towards the sound.
He was there, standing at the far end of the basement, an imposing figure. Kane breathed in; he could smell the light fragrance of Lyra’s skin. He had followed her cautiously for some time. She was brave, this one; most would have run screaming aimlessly through the woods, but not Lyra, not yet. He breathed in deeply. Lyra watched as his chest heaved beneath the navy-blue boiler suit. His feet were clad in black boots and his face covered by a worn hockey mask. He towered over her, and in his hand, he wielded a machete. Lyra’s heart seemed to miss a beat.
Kane stared at Lyra, waiting; he knew what would come next.
‘Help,’ Lyra yelled, tugging again at the cord. ‘Someone help me.’ Very slowly, Kane took a few steps forward. With all her might, Lyra yanked on the cord and the door flew open, dropping a ladder. She rapidly climbed the ladder, not daring to look behind. Kane waited; she would soon realise where she was.
‘Help, help me,’ Lyra continued to call as she scrambled into the cabin. It looked rugged, almost disused; her heart sank. ‘Help me, please,’ she called. No one answered. Behind her, she could hear his heavy footsteps climbing the ladder. She ran from the room into the corridor; at the end, she could see a candlelit crevice. Her breathing deepened as she moved towards it. Curiously, she peered in; the empty eyes of Kane’s mother stared back at her. A yell left her mouth; she turned again to leave, but Kane was there waiting.
His giant physique took up the width of the corridor; there was no way she could get around him. She pushed on a side door; it was jammed. With one furious, frightened kick, the door jutted open. Inside, there was an old bed, table and window. Lyra picked up the table and threw it as hard as she could against the window. The glass shattered and some shards cut into her arms as she pulled herself through the hole.
This was his home; she had walked further into Kane’s territory. The twisted, dark shapes of trees loomed about her, rain belted from the clouded skies, and the sound of a door being thrown open drove a sickening horror into Lyra’s soul. She was running; her survival instinct had kicked in and she found herself bolting into the woods like a frightened deer.
Kane’s senses were highly attuned to the wilderness; he could hear every step, see every movement. He could see her running. He thought of Lyra lying on the sofa, so fresh and ready for the taking. He could have taken her there and then; he could have done anything that he wanted to her. He thought of her chest heaving in her sleep, the shape of her breasts in the night chill. Her art, her mind on paper, her understanding of good and evil through the duality of man. But he was not a man, not anymore; that part of him died as the beast within had emerged. A beast full of anger, rage and bloodlust.
Lyra could hear him thumping through the forest behind her; he was fast and his footsteps were wide. Her tiny legs could hardly outrun him. She was tiring; only the adrenaline pumping through her body drove her on. At length, the fatigue and soreness in Lyra’s thighs overwhelmed her; she looked behind her. Kane was still advancing. She pushed herself to run harder and changed direction, hoping to throw him off of her scent long enough for her to hide. The darkness was consuming; she could only make out shapes and shadows. Lyra lost her footing and slid down a muddy bank, soaking herself in wet mud.
Kane stopped and listened; the woman had fallen, and he knew exactly where. He veered in her direction. Lyra struggled to her feet and looked about her; there was a lot of shrubbery. She crawled underneath a particularly prickly shrub and slunk under its foliage. She could hear him again, and he was close. Her hand covered her mouth to try and quieten the deep breaths that panted from her. Kane ran down the slope and stopped dead, listening carefully. He could smell her and knew that she was there, hidden somewhere.
Lyra could make out Kane’s boots as he stood motionless before her. Her hand tightened over her mouth. She had come here to live, not to die. For the first time in her life, she had felt at home, shut away from the world, lost in nature, just her and her art. Was this the price of happiness? Time froze; Kane waited. He loved this part of the game; he loved to give his victims a little hope. He could hear Lyra’s breathing; she had tried to cover it up, but he could hear her soft breaths.
Lyra watched; death stood so close to her. The brambles had stung her body and she ached with fatigue, but she held as still as possible. Eventually, Kane’s legs moved, and he stalked off into the darkness. Lyra stayed perfectly still for a while before moving slightly forward on her belly. She looked deep into the shadows but could see nothing. She hesitated, frightened to expose herself, but she had backed herself into a corner and that was dangerous.
At length, she pulled herself from under the bushes and received another dose of scratches. Apart from the torrential rain, the forest was still; no footsteps, no hulking monsters, nothing. She was a mess, a mixture of cuts, blood and dirt. She rolled onto her back, giving herself a moment to prepare for the arduous journey out of the forest. In an instant, he was looming over her; the beast had dropped from the trees above and straddled her weakened form with his legs. Lyra screamed and pushed herself backwards on the palms of her hands in a bid to escape.
Kane gazed on his struggling prey; this game was far too delicious to stop playing, and besides, there was something different about this woman. He had spared her once; he had watched her and warmed her, and looking at her breathing had warmed him in ways he had not experienced. He stared coldly into her pleading eyes. Lyra tried desperately to get up, but the tide of mud simply caused her to slip and struggle more. Her body flailed, and tears built up in her eyes. To Kane, she looked so ravishingly helpless.
He was going to kill her; Lyra was sure of it. Perhaps Bob had interrupted him the previous night. There was no doubt in her mind that he had killed Bob and Amy, probably because they had sold her the property, or as Sean had suggested, because they had warned her about Kane. He knew for sure that she had spoken to Sean, so he most likely knew that Amy had also warned her about him. Kane stepped forward and raised the machete over his shoulder.
