At the bottom of the stairs, a short corridor branched left and right. To the left was an exit leading into a walk-out alley where the dumpsters were kept. To the right, the door to the old part of the church basement.
The light from the stairwell bled weakly across the floor before it was overtaken by darkness. I found a switch on the wall and was about to flip it but reconsidered. Someone passing by upstairs might see it on and come to investigate. Instead I let my eyes adjust for a second, pressed one hand against the wall, and moved forward.
A doorjamb met my fingers, and I jerked at the unexpected contact. The boiler/maintenance room. When the church had employed a full-time handyman, this doorway had always been open. Now it was shut. My hand grazed the knob, but I didn’t turn it. They wouldn’t be inside this room, not that close to the bottom of the stairs.
Another few steps and I was completely blind. Nothing but empty air in front of me, groping for the door I knew was there, lost in the abyss.
As I was digging for my cell to light the way, my fingertips brushed something, and the door materialized before me. Just a tall rectangle of deeper darkness. Hand on the knob. Turn.
It wasn’t locked, but the door wouldn’t move either. Something was blocking it.
I saw Rachel’s and the boys’ bodies piled up against the other side, and my stomach lurched. No, wait. There was a hasp built into the doorjamb above the knob. My hand traced the shape of a padlock.
Oh God.
For a few seconds my mind freewheeled. Thoughts of going back upstairs and searching for the key in Father Mathew’s office came and just as quickly went. I needed something to get the lock open swiftly and quietly.
Backtracking to the boiler room, I turned the knob and sent up a silent thanks that it wasn’t locked. Inside I closed the door and flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness.
A simple room, long and low. Huge boiler in the corner along with snaking pipes coating the ceiling. And at the very back, exactly what I was looking for.
The rack of tools was neat and organized. Hammers in one section, wrenches and pliers in the next. My eyes traveled over everything before landing on something hanging near the bottom.
Bolt cutters. Bingo.
Back in the hall to the door. Two tries to line the cutters up with the padlock, then it was pinched between the jaws. I set my feet, clenched my teeth, and pulled the handles together.
Snick.
Almost too easy.
I set the bolt cutters down and twisted the snipped lock from the hasp. Put it in my pocket. Opened the door.
The worst thing that could’ve happened next would’ve been feeling the drag of a body pressed against the door. Or smelling the terrible scent of decomposition. There was neither.
When the door was closed behind me, I reached out and swept a hand along the wall. Spiderwebs, dust, grime, bank of switches. I flipped the first one up.
A naked bulb came on a dozen feet away and sprayed wan yellow light. The entry to the basement was just the same as when I’d been locked down here nearly twenty-seven years ago. A wide hallway partially filled with cardboard boxes. Doorways on opposite sides before the corridor made a T. I flipped the next switch in the bank, and light spilled around the corner to the left. The last switch did nothing. I toggled it up and down. Dead.
“Rachel?” I whispered, heart slamming hard against my ribs, longing for a reply. None came. I said her name along with the boys’ a few more times a little louder, then moved deeper into the basement.
The first two rooms were piled full of storage. Boxes, chairs, tables, a few ancient desk lamps. The floor hall was scuffed with decades of use, but I couldn’t tell if someone had walked through recently.
At the entry’s junction, I paused. Left—another single bulb glowed. Right—darkness.
Left.
My footsteps were loud in the hanging silence. Any and all sound down here was dampened by layers upon layers of concrete in all directions. It was why I’d been able to scream my lungs out when I was a kid and no one had come. Even during Mass, someone could be calling out for help down here and no one would ever hear them.
A series of rooms opened up ahead. One after the other, all connected by doorways. Here were stacked desks, feet pointing at the sky like a mound of dead bugs. There a line of old file cabinets with some of the drawers missing or placed on the floor beside them. The next room had a switch, and I flipped it. Cases of wine and wafers. The next room—boxes of old toys and musty clothing donated and never dispersed.
Then I was at a blank wall.
A hint of uncertainty wound through me. Up above in the world of light and sound, my theory had been rock solid. All the pieces coming together to form the whole. Circles all closing.