Synopsis: The survivors of the mountain said nothing. They kept the experience locked tight inside their hearts. No wonder their grandchildren are so curious about the history of their grandparents. So when they all receive a letter in the post tempting them to the mountain, what will they discover? And what really went down on that mountain?

Genre: Mystery, Humour, Romance, Angst, Horror

Ending: All survive

Rating: T/M – Just in case, you know...

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews from last chapter! I'm excited to see Chandler too!

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Chapter Ten

Because air vents are dusty

"Should we move?" I ask stiffly under my breath, glad that I'm not alone. And even more glad that it is Emmett with me. He has this kind of comfortable air about him. He's familiar. A piece from home, some kind of reality to cling onto.

But he doesn't need to know that.

"I don't know," he whispers back, twisting his head just enough to peer above the window sill. Even if Weylyn was going to abandon us and Ester, we weren't. It was kind of common sense, right? The more people you have on your side, the less that are against you.

But when we'd moved to help her, to try and communicate between the two windows, a black figure had pounced, grabbing her and stealing her out. And Emmett and I had dived to the floor, pressing our backs against the wall underneath the window and trying not to breathe.

"It's clear," Emmett breathes, stretching his muscles to climb to his feet. The worst thing about clinging onto someone's hand is that, when they move, you have to move too.

I groan, Emmett tugging me to my feet. "Thanks," I grumble, dropping his hand and flexing my fingers, my palm clammy. What kept me holding his hand, I don't know. Blame it on instinct. Blame it on comfort.

Maybe fear.

I shuffle my feet as my hand finds my cellphone that I stuffed in my pocket in panic. I balance the familiar weight in my palm, checking the screen again.

"Is it really...?" Emmett starts, finding his way to my side and peering over my shoulder. I know he doesn't even need to ask that question. He already knows. It's my phone.

I flick off the screen before he can see the last text I got, dropping the phone back in my pocket. He doesn't need to see. Maybe if I hide it away, I can pretend it didn't happen.

"Let's go," I hook my hand into the crook of his elbow, yanking him towards the door. There is no way in hell I'm staying in this room longer than I have to.

The floorboards creak underneath the weight of our footsteps as we hurry forward. They groan in time with my heartbeat. Mingle with our breaths.

And slow as we approach the gaping, black hole where the door used to be. It's like a sticky, dark mouth ready to gobble us up. I can almost feel it's inky, smoky breath against my skin.

My stomach curdles. I can see the conflict battling inside Emmett's eyes too. He steps back.

That's when the voices begin.

"Home sweet home."

My breath hitches. They're far away. Distant. But distinct, droning. Trickling through a speaker. And so eerily existent, like they're in the same room as us.

"Sweet is not the word I'd use."

The rustling of paper snaps my gaze away from the door frame, landing on Emmett's hands. His eyes are skimming the script, his breathy heavy and so close to my ear. A tongue slips out of his mouth to wet his dry lips. A nervous tick he's had since I met him. Before, I used to think it was annoying. Now it's familiar. Reassuring. A little piece of reality.

"They're on the script," he breathes, finger skimming under sentences.

"What?" I swallow, hooking my chin over his elbow, following the tip of his finger with my gaze.

There it is. The exact lines we're hearing, typed out on paper, trickling with glistening, black ink. Real. Predicted. Making our hearts beat faster and our throats clog up with hitched breaths. This is so creepy.

A scream breaks our thoughts. Our eyes snap up. Loud, heavy footsteps running upstairs. I swear underneath my breath. Emmett does it repeatedly.

"We need to get out of here," Emmett's voice almost breaks with panic as he roughly rolls the script up and stuffs it into his back pocket. It'll be like a map. It'll show us the way not to go. The things not to do.

The things to be prepared for.

Like being confronted with a maniac torturer who can perform magic tricks with destroyed phones

I yank my staring eyes from open, eerie doorway, filled with darkness, smoky and thick like fog. And the ominous sound of danger. The rhythm of death. I almost choke on it.

Instinctively, we scurry around the room, our eyes frantically searching for a way out. Almost immediately, I leap towards the window, trying to pry it open with my fingers. But it's stuck. Stiff. Unmoveable. I swear, letting out a cry of frustration.

"Issie!" Emmett hisses from across the room.

I dart around. My eyes meet Emmett who has climbed on top of the bed, the scraping of metal against wood high pitched and screeching as he heaves across an air vent cover.

"Up here," he ushers me forward. Without even thinking, without even giving myself a second to doubt his actions, I dive over to the bed, lunging on top of it and, with Emmett pushing me up, squeeze into the small, tight tunnel shaped hole.

"Emmett," I hiss, ushering him up as he swings himself into the vent behind me, grunting as he does.

I don't give myself enough time to hear whoever ran into the room as I crawl frantically along the dusty, cramp, metal vent. The air is clogged up here. Tight. It's like it hasn't been working for years. How ironic.

Our breaths choke the spaces around us, metallic echoes of our scraping and shuffling limbs. "Emmett?" I whisper. Just to make sure he's behind me. Just to make sure he's still there.

"I'm here," he puffs out. Like he's out of breath. Like the vents of stolen it just to get some air back. But his tone is reassuring. As if he instantly understands exactly what I'm thinking, how I'm feeling.

Metal walls press against my shoulders, wedging me between them as I force my way through. The unstable slabs underneath us groan with our weight.

"Just keep going," Emmett encourages me forward. But the crack in his voice tells me he's not so sure. But what choice do we have? We have to keep on going. There's no way back.

A scream rips through the metal, vibrating it underneath us. Like an earthquake. I shriek.

"Issie?" Emmett's panicked voice breaks behind me.

I breathe, swallowing stiffly before glancing behind me. I think this is the first time I've shown him the fear in my eyes. It bubbles like tears. I choke on them. "I'm alright," I whisper.

I can't tell what's real anymore. Are the screams real? Are the voices real? Is anything real?

"No, you're not," Emmett says simply. A sentence that cracks open my soul. How can anyone see so much inside of me? "It's alright not to be okay."

"No it's not!" I snap back at him, twisting my head enough that I can see him. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows creased. His lips are parted, frozen in a word. Dust has fallen onto his black hair, making it look grey. "I need to be okay! To get through this, I-"

"Issie," Emmett breaks my words off, his hand effortlessly stretching forward to scoop up my hand.

But before his fingers can brush my skin, another voice croaks, low and gruff. "Help?" It's a little whimper. A question, unsure of whether he needs help at all.

Our eyes pass a glance between them. Wordless but knowing exactly what the other is thinking. Should we?

Light cracks out from the metal a few paces away, breaking through slits in the vent. With trepidation, I shuffle forward, feeling Emmett close behind me.

"Issie, I'll-"

"I can do it," I say. The snap in my voice cuts Emmett off. I try not to show the guilt in my features. But it digs its claws in my stomach.

Slowly, I curl up at the side of the vent grate and, cautiously, peek through the slits. And there, strapped to a chair in the centre of the room below is a burly, drowsy figure.

Brayden.