Heap of Trouble (Trouble, Tennessee 2)

“Wanna smoke? Gotta a drink? Wanna sip?” The chanting continued. The vocals faded in and out, the man clearly content to ramble right on and talk to himself.

She ran her hands up and down the wall, took another sidestep or two, and let out a defeating sigh. Nothing.

Maybe she wasn’t in the same hole. Perhaps the Vance brothers had two or three similar wells on the property. Maybe they housed the troublemakers together. Considering what she’d done and her level of betrayal? Anything was possible.

“Why are you here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she took another sliding step.

“Psst! Got a light! Got a match!” A wicked laugh resonated with an eerie vibration. “Got a name? Wanna name? Break it down now, bitch.”

“What?” Heather shook her head. Were there two people there? She slid against the wall again, reaching with her fingers before she dragged her body behind her arm, scooting alongside the funnel-like area and praying for that ladder.

“Are you alone here?”

“Are you?” A childlike squeaky voice filled the hole. Evil laughter resonated.

Goose bumps scattered along her spine and arms, and she covered her mouth to mute a cry. Multiple squeals, like those from rats or mice, resounded.

“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to disconnect from the moment. How had she ended up there? What poor decisions had she made in life? Would those choices make it virtually impossible to bounce back, to regroup and move on?

Had she really been that terrible? Had she been the kind of person who deserved to end up in a dark hellish space with talking walls or ghosts or whatever the hell it was in there with her?

“Oh, Heather!” Toms Vance called out to her. “You doin’ all right down there, honey?”

“No!” She looked up, hoping and praying Toms had taken pity on her. “I’m here, Toms. And I’ll do anything.” She tiptoed away from the wall, counting out each of her ten small steps in case she needed to return to her starting place.

“Ah now, darlin’,” he crooned. “Of course you’re there. Where else would you be, cupcake? I mean, it ain’t like you and Longs are goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

“Longs?”

“Jims. He’s down there with ya, girl. Who ya think has been talkin’ to ya?”

“Longs? Jims? Are there two of them?”

“Just Longs. That’s the name we give him when he gets himself in trouble.”

“Jims, is that you?”

“Gotta drink? Wanna sip?”

“What have you done to him?” She looked up but only saw blackness.

“Me? Girl, it ain’t me that did that. Longs went on a binge, ya see. While we were a’tendin’ to ya? Longs here got in the stash. Snorted that shit until his eyes bugged. Didn’t ya, Longs?”

“Gotta smoke? Gotta drink? Gotta bump?” His chanting had slowed.

“Jims. It’s Heather. Be still. Trust me. I’ll get us out of here.”

“Out of here?” The childlike voice returned. “I don’t think so.”

The hair on Heather’s neck stood up. The drastic change in his voice frightened her, but what frightened her more was the possibility of spending time with him. Normally, Jims was harmless. At the moment, he sounded just plain scary—or fucked up.

“Let Jims go,” she pleaded. “He’s your brother.”

“Ha! Girl, ya think I’m that stupid? Think I’ll come on down there and save ole Longs and then you’ll make a ‘scape for it?”

“Please, Toms. I’ll do anything.” Her mouth was dry. Her lips parched.

“And that anything is what concerns me and Rons. Want to tell me what ya meant by sendin’ out an email to a complete fuckin’ stranger?”