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Description
06/08/2001
It's been three weeks since I've heard from my brother.
Wait…let's back up.  My name is Rachael and I am sister to the infamous "Ted" of internet caving fame.  In case you are unfamiliar with his exploits, Ted and his friends "B" and "Joe" (I will continue to dignify their anonymity until told otherwise) spent weeks enlarging a hole in a relatively well-known cave wall so that they could explore the area on the other side – areas they assumed to be "virgin" territory.
Along the way, Ted kept a journal that spoke of noises and strange winds and even demonic screams.  While I played off most of the more "bump in the night" incidents as attention seeking nonsense, the changes that his trips into the cave engendered were not so easily dismissed.
For perspective, it's been three weeks since I've HEARD from Ted: it's been more than twice that long since I've SEEN him.  Like most of you, all I know of his last foray into the cave is what he posted on his website.  Shitty, I know, but I figured it was all just a ploy to punch up the effect of his little stories, so I didn't push the issue.  If he wanted some space to "make the evil more tangible" or whatever he was doing, I was willing to indulge him.
Not anymore.  Two days ago, the last time I stopped by his house, all the lights were on and his cat had chewed a hole in a window screen to escape and find food.  After using my spare key to get in, it was obvious that no one had been home for a couple weeks AT LEAST!  Now, Ted has been known to be irresponsible, but he's a dedicated pet owner and I can't imagine that he would leave Boots – that's his kitty – to starve while he went to muck around in a cave.  Exciting hobby or not, that's just not like him.
In his room, I found the journal he had been keeping.  If the cat thing had me concerned, the journal had me genuinely worried.  The handwriting became less and less legible; the writing more erratic as the dates passed the events of his last web post.  He describes the use (and eventual abuse) of the medication he was taking for his anxiety and his inability to sleep because of hellish nightmares.
The final 83 pages are filled from top to bottom with the simple sentence, "IT'S HERE.  IT'S HERE.  IT'S HERE."
I'm going to go talk to B and Joe to see if they know anything.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/09/2001
Joe isn't home.  His girlfriend says that she hasn't seen or heard from him in three weeks.
Great.
After dealing with her hysterics as calmly as I was able, I made my way to B's house.  It's usually annoying trying to pick his driveway out from the others on the dark road, but his house was lit up like a torch.  I didn't even know his little place had that many lights.
Stranger still, his drive was PACKED with cars.  At first I thought he might be having a party, but when a woman identifying herself as his mother answered the door, I figured something was wrong.
"Is B home?  I wanted to talk to him about my brother."
She paused just long enough before answering that I knew I had said the wrong thing.  "My son isn't here, no."
"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to his wake."
I stepped back to keep the closing door from hitting me in the open mouth.  B was dead?  How could that be?  I hadn't read anything in the local paper about his death, and in a town this small, it was bound to show up.  Upset and dissatisfied – and even more scared – I drove to the library to put in a bit of computer time before they closed.
A cursory Google search confirmed his death.  I guess I should be honest and call it what it was – a suicide.  It seems he avoided talking to anyone for weeks and then hung himself.  If not for his brother's trip into town, his body might have hung from the rafters for MONTHS before anyone found him.
Whip, B's puppy, went home with his brother, refusing to eat and whimpering constantly in the rare moments of sleep he was able to find.
I think it's time to involve the authorities.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/11/2001
I was awakened at 3 A.M. by the police.  They found Ted's truck in the next county over, about 34 miles from the motel he had been staying at while exploring the cave.  They found two empty boxes of 9mm shells, six empty cans of energy soda and a hastily written note that said cheerfully, "Be back in six hours!"
I told them I'd be there in a couple hours.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/11/2001
There were more police than I thought there'd be.  I had to answer about 4000 questions before I was able to convince them to sweep the surrounding area for caves.  It took another hour for an experienced pair of cavers to arrive, but they found the cave entrance quickly and agreed that the entrance showed signs of frequent use.  One of them even said that he'd explored the cave years ago and that it's one of the least challenging, most mundane formations he's ever visited.
This did nothing to dispel the panic whelming within me.  Something felt very wrong and everything was very…I guess STILL is the easiest way to describe it.  Not a CALM still, but an UNNATURAL still – like the surrounding area was universally terrified.
The cavers, we'll call them "Leo" and "Ben", seemed unfazed by the atmosphere and even seemed to take some joy in the fact that they were being relied upon by the authorities.  With three huge generators and enough lighting to keep Manhattan going on a Friday night, the combined authorities made their way slowly down into the mouth of the cave.
I followed, shivering in the warm night air.
The cavern was, as Leo had remarked, mundane.  There were even a few beer cans scattered around the more comfortable looking formations.  Although I am not a caver, it felt like exploring the immediate surroundings was something that anyone with a flashlight and two legs could do.  Ted and B and Joe were virtually professional cave explorers.  I just couldn't see this cavern proving a challenge to any of them.
And then Ben found Floyd's Tomb.
There were eight police officers, two cavers and myself crammed into a relatively small space in front of a hole that looked far too small for someone my brother's size to fit through.  Even with the massive floodlights focused on the hole, it seemed to swallow the radiance about fifteen feet beyond the obviously-widened mouth.
"This look like something your brother would wear?"  One of the police officers lifted up a canvass equipment vest full of small climbing supplies and light equipment.  I told him that I didn't know, but that it would make sense.  That simple answer begat a cascade of tension that rippled through the police force like something tangible.  Several of them fired up heavy-duty radios and began shouting orders at others closer to the cave mouth and, within ten minutes, two German shepherds in neon vests came bounding into the pit ahead of their handlers.
"We have some blood here too," Ben called out from the Tomb.  "It's nothing major – looks like someone scuffed their scalp on the tunnel ceiling.  It's a common problem when you can't wear your helmet in a tight spot."
I don't know when I began to cry, but at some point I was curled into an officer's chest bawling like a baby.  The site of the blood just set me off.  I was embarrassed, but my display of emotion provoked the men to even greater urgency.  A massive, two-man drill with an augur bit the size of my arm was leveled at the opening.  After everyone was moved out of the way, the lights dimmed and the machine roared to life amidst a shower of rock chips and dust.
The shriek of metal on stone was deafening in the cave, but it was good to see how much progress was being made.  Ben and Leo looked horrified that the cavern was being defiled, but at least one of them was curious enough to see the other side that his concern was matched to a slight grin.
After being told it would be a couple hours before the hole was wide enough to be passed, I was taken back up to a cruiser, given a blanket and put in the back to sleep.
-Rachael
*     *      *
06/12/2008
The sun was setting fire to the horizon when my eyes opened.  After downing a cup of bitter coffee and wiping lines of salt from my cheeks, I was again helped into the pit.  It was brighter inside than out and I had to shield my eyes against the grit and glare.
The noise of the drill had stopped, but the omnipresent muddle of human voices speaking in hushed tones was pervasive.  After my eyes had adjusted I was able to make out the forms of both dogs, curled up around one another and pressed into the cave wall like they had just been whipped with a cattle prod.
"What's wrong with the dogs?"
"Don't know," one of the officers replied.  "Maybe the room on the other side used to have a bear or something in it.  They're pretty spooked."
It was then that Ben emerged from the Tomb.
"There's a hieroglyphic or something on the wall in there," he said excitedly, "and if we can get four or five guys to help, we can roll this huge stone away from the wall.  I'm sure there's something behind it."
Another head poked out of the tunnel.  "Any forensics guys here?  I found bullet casings and a video camera."
"Foul play?" another cop asked.
"Doubtful," the first man said.  "No blood, no signs of a struggle."
My head swam as they bantered back and forth about possibilities.  Just fucking go find my brother!  I wanted to shout, but instead I buried my head in my hands and curled up against the wall.
And that's when we heard the scream.
Describing the noise with mere words would not do it justice.  There was something fundamental about the sound – something ANCIENT and, above all else, ANGRY.  In the moment after it abated, there was utter silence.  Again, that horrible STILLNESS fell over the area and the boisterousness of the policemen shrank away entirely.
"The FUCK was that?"
The question came from everyone, but was vocalized by a single mouth.  In this instance, Leo's.
"They might still be alive!" one of the officers shouted, clapping his hands to snap the collective inertia. "Let's get through that hole, move some boulders and find these guys!"
I watched as eight men crawled unceremoniously through the too-small passageway.  Ben and one of the dog handlers remained behind, staring at each other with a stupid look on their faces – embarrassed that each knew what the other was thinking.  The sound of scraping stone echoed through the tunnel, followed by a series of gasps and retching.
"If there's not a corpse in this hole, I don't know what the hell makes a smell like that," a voice said softly between heaves.
"More bullet casings," another man said, "and look – holes in the ceiling.  What is that, like thirty degrees?"
"I found a fingernail."
All conversation stopped.  Beams of light danced crazily as the area was swept on hands and knees.  "Scratch marks here…long ones.  Like someone was being dragged into the tunnel."
My heart sank.  Fresh tears began to run through the cracks between my fingers.
"Seriously.  What the fuck is that smell?"
"Let's go see," Leo's voice suggested.  Footsteps dappled the silence as men stooped to follow the caver further into the deep.
"Jesus Christ!" Ben said suddenly.  I forced my eyes open to see him silhouetted against one of the huge lights, camcorder in hand and earbud dangling from his hand.  "Somebody else listen to this real quick."
The dog handler took the device and placed the spare headphone in his ear.  Fifteen seconds later he recoiled like something had slapped him in the face.
"What language was that?" Ben asked.  The policeman shrugged.  "C'mere and have a listen, girly.  Maybe you can help us out."
Reluctantly, I placed the bud in my ear and listened to the audio track as it hissed with low static.  About eight seconds in, I could hear what sounded like labored breathing, but faintly, as if from the other side of the room.  Another few seconds passed and the breathing was replaced with a canine growl that seemed to rise gently until, very suddenly, there was a stream of words in a language that seemed some mix of Latin and the bleating of goats.  Footsteps slapped wetly off among more of the labored breathing.  Ben pressed stop.
"I…I don't know."
Ben nodded and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.  "I guess we'll pass this on to the lab guys and see what they come up with."
"What was on the video?" I asked.
"Nothing.  The track is corrupted."  He opened the viewfinder and showed me the feed of Ted's journey through Floyd's Tomb and where it stopped amidst a fragmenting shock of static as he exited the crawlspace.
[TO BE CONTINUED]

Description
06/08/2001
It's been three weeks since I've heard from my brother.
Wait…let's back up.  My name is Rachael and I am sister to the infamous "Ted" of internet caving fame.  In case you are unfamiliar with his exploits, Ted and his friends "B" and "Joe" (I will continue to dignify their anonymity until told otherwise) spent weeks enlarging a hole in a relatively well-known cave wall so that they could explore the area on the other side – areas they assumed to be "virgin" territory.
Along the way, Ted kept a journal that spoke of noises and strange winds and even demonic screams.  While I played off most of the more "bump in the night" incidents as attention seeking nonsense, the changes that his trips into the cave engendered were not so easily dismissed.
For perspective, it's been three weeks since I've HEARD from Ted: it's been more than twice that long since I've SEEN him.  Like most of you, all I know of his last foray into the cave is what he posted on his website.  Shitty, I know, but I figured it was all just a ploy to punch up the effect of his little stories, so I didn't push the issue.  If he wanted some space to "make the evil more tangible" or whatever he was doing, I was willing to indulge him.
Not anymore.  Two days ago, the last time I stopped by his house, all the lights were on and his cat had chewed a hole in a window screen to escape and find food.  After using my spare key to get in, it was obvious that no one had been home for a couple weeks AT LEAST!  Now, Ted has been known to be irresponsible, but he's a dedicated pet owner and I can't imagine that he would leave Boots – that's his kitty – to starve while he went to muck around in a cave.  Exciting hobby or not, that's just not like him.
In his room, I found the journal he had been keeping.  If the cat thing had me concerned, the journal had me genuinely worried.  The handwriting became less and less legible; the writing more erratic as the dates passed the events of his last web post.  He describes the use (and eventual abuse) of the medication he was taking for his anxiety and his inability to sleep because of hellish nightmares.
The final 83 pages are filled from top to bottom with the simple sentence, "IT'S HERE.  IT'S HERE.  IT'S HERE."
I'm going to go talk to B and Joe to see if they know anything.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/09/2001
Joe isn't home.  His girlfriend says that she hasn't seen or heard from him in three weeks.
Great.
After dealing with her hysterics as calmly as I was able, I made my way to B's house.  It's usually annoying trying to pick his driveway out from the others on the dark road, but his house was lit up like a torch.  I didn't even know his little place had that many lights.
Stranger still, his drive was PACKED with cars.  At first I thought he might be having a party, but when a woman identifying herself as his mother answered the door, I figured something was wrong.
"Is B home?  I wanted to talk to him about my brother."
She paused just long enough before answering that I knew I had said the wrong thing.  "My son isn't here, no."
"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to his wake."
I stepped back to keep the closing door from hitting me in the open mouth.  B was dead?  How could that be?  I hadn't read anything in the local paper about his death, and in a town this small, it was bound to show up.  Upset and dissatisfied – and even more scared – I drove to the library to put in a bit of computer time before they closed.
A cursory Google search confirmed his death.  I guess I should be honest and call it what it was – a suicide.  It seems he avoided talking to anyone for weeks and then hung himself.  If not for his brother's trip into town, his body might have hung from the rafters for MONTHS before anyone found him.
Whip, B's puppy, went home with his brother, refusing to eat and whimpering constantly in the rare moments of sleep he was able to find.
I think it's time to involve the authorities.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/11/2001
I was awakened at 3 A.M. by the police.  They found Ted's truck in the next county over, about 34 miles from the motel he had been staying at while exploring the cave.  They found two empty boxes of 9mm shells, six empty cans of energy soda and a hastily written note that said cheerfully, "Be back in six hours!"
I told them I'd be there in a couple hours.
-Rachael
*     *     *
06/11/2001
There were more police than I thought there'd be.  I had to answer about 4000 questions before I was able to convince them to sweep the surrounding area for caves.  It took another hour for an experienced pair of cavers to arrive, but they found the cave entrance quickly and agreed that the entrance showed signs of frequent use.  One of them even said that he'd explored the cave years ago and that it's one of the least challenging, most mundane formations he's ever visited.
This did nothing to dispel the panic whelming within me.  Something felt very wrong and everything was very…I guess STILL is the easiest way to describe it.  Not a CALM still, but an UNNATURAL still – like the surrounding area was universally terrified.
The cavers, we'll call them "Leo" and "Ben", seemed unfazed by the atmosphere and even seemed to take some joy in the fact that they were being relied upon by the authorities.  With three huge generators and enough lighting to keep Manhattan going on a Friday night, the combined authorities made their way slowly down into the mouth of the cave.
I followed, shivering in the warm night air.
The cavern was, as Leo had remarked, mundane.  There were even a few beer cans scattered around the more comfortable looking formations.  Although I am not a caver, it felt like exploring the immediate surroundings was something that anyone with a flashlight and two legs could do.  Ted and B and Joe were virtually professional cave explorers.  I just couldn't see this cavern proving a challenge to any of them.
And then Ben found Floyd's Tomb.
There were eight police officers, two cavers and myself crammed into a relatively small space in front of a hole that looked far too small for someone my brother's size to fit through.  Even with the massive floodlights focused on the hole, it seemed to swallow the radiance about fifteen feet beyond the obviously-widened mouth.
"This look like something your brother would wear?"  One of the police officers lifted up a canvass equipment vest full of small climbing supplies and light equipment.  I told him that I didn't know, but that it would make sense.  That simple answer begat a cascade of tension that rippled through the police force like something tangible.  Several of them fired up heavy-duty radios and began shouting orders at others closer to the cave mouth and, within ten minutes, two German shepherds in neon vests came bounding into the pit ahead of their handlers.
"We have some blood here too," Ben called out from the Tomb.  "It's nothing major – looks like someone scuffed their scalp on the tunnel ceiling.  It's a common problem when you can't wear your helmet in a tight spot."
I don't know when I began to cry, but at some point I was curled into an officer's chest bawling like a baby.  The site of the blood just set me off.  I was embarrassed, but my display of emotion provoked the men to even greater urgency.  A massive, two-man drill with an augur bit the size of my arm was leveled at the opening.  After everyone was moved out of the way, the lights dimmed and the machine roared to life amidst a shower of rock chips and dust.
The shriek of metal on stone was deafening in the cave, but it was good to see how much progress was being made.  Ben and Leo looked horrified that the cavern was being defiled, but at least one of them was curious enough to see the other side that his concern was matched to a slight grin.
After being told it would be a couple hours before the hole was wide enough to be passed, I was taken back up to a cruiser, given a blanket and put in the back to sleep.
-Rachael
*     *      *
06/12/2008
The sun was setting fire to the horizon when my eyes opened.  After downing a cup of bitter coffee and wiping lines of salt from my cheeks, I was again helped into the pit.  It was brighter inside than out and I had to shield my eyes against the grit and glare.
The noise of the drill had stopped, but the omnipresent muddle of human voices speaking in hushed tones was pervasive.  After my eyes had adjusted I was able to make out the forms of both dogs, curled up around one another and pressed into the cave wall like they had just been whipped with a cattle prod.
"What's wrong with the dogs?"
"Don't know," one of the officers replied.  "Maybe the room on the other side used to have a bear or something in it.  They're pretty spooked."
It was then that Ben emerged from the Tomb.
"There's a hieroglyphic or something on the wall in there," he said excitedly, "and if we can get four or five guys to help, we can roll this huge stone away from the wall.  I'm sure there's something behind it."
Another head poked out of the tunnel.  "Any forensics guys here?  I found bullet casings and a video camera."
"Foul play?" another cop asked.
"Doubtful," the first man said.  "No blood, no signs of a struggle."
My head swam as they bantered back and forth about possibilities.  Just fucking go find my brother!  I wanted to shout, but instead I buried my head in my hands and curled up against the wall.
And that's when we heard the scream.
Describing the noise with mere words would not do it justice.  There was something fundamental about the sound – something ANCIENT and, above all else, ANGRY.  In the moment after it abated, there was utter silence.  Again, that horrible STILLNESS fell over the area and the boisterousness of the policemen shrank away entirely.
"The FUCK was that?"
The question came from everyone, but was vocalized by a single mouth.  In this instance, Leo's.
"They might still be alive!" one of the officers shouted, clapping his hands to snap the collective inertia. "Let's get through that hole, move some boulders and find these guys!"
I watched as eight men crawled unceremoniously through the too-small passageway.  Ben and one of the dog handlers remained behind, staring at each other with a stupid look on their faces – embarrassed that each knew what the other was thinking.  The sound of scraping stone echoed through the tunnel, followed by a series of gasps and retching.
"If there's not a corpse in this hole, I don't know what the hell makes a smell like that," a voice said softly between heaves.
"More bullet casings," another man said, "and look – holes in the ceiling.  What is that, like thirty degrees?"
"I found a fingernail."
All conversation stopped.  Beams of light danced crazily as the area was swept on hands and knees.  "Scratch marks here…long ones.  Like someone was being dragged into the tunnel."
My heart sank.  Fresh tears began to run through the cracks between my fingers.
"Seriously.  What the fuck is that smell?"
"Let's go see," Leo's voice suggested.  Footsteps dappled the silence as men stooped to follow the caver further into the deep.
"Jesus Christ!" Ben said suddenly.  I forced my eyes open to see him silhouetted against one of the huge lights, camcorder in hand and earbud dangling from his hand.  "Somebody else listen to this real quick."
The dog handler took the device and placed the spare headphone in his ear.  Fifteen seconds later he recoiled like something had slapped him in the face.
"What language was that?" Ben asked.  The policeman shrugged.  "C'mere and have a listen, girly.  Maybe you can help us out."
Reluctantly, I placed the bud in my ear and listened to the audio track as it hissed with low static.  About eight seconds in, I could hear what sounded like labored breathing, but faintly, as if from the other side of the room.  Another few seconds passed and the breathing was replaced with a canine growl that seemed to rise gently until, very suddenly, there was a stream of words in a language that seemed some mix of Latin and the bleating of goats.  Footsteps slapped wetly off among more of the labored breathing.  Ben pressed stop.
"I…I don't know."
Ben nodded and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.  "I guess we'll pass this on to the lab guys and see what they come up with."
"What was on the video?" I asked.
"Nothing.  The track is corrupted."  He opened the viewfinder and showed me the feed of Ted's journey through Floyd's Tomb and where it stopped amidst a fragmenting shock of static as he exited the crawlspace.
[TO BE CONTINUED]