The Horse Knew First

Cassandra Bell had no intention of uncovering anything unusual that morning. She’d set off just after breakfast, the mist still clinging to the hedgerows, with her leather gloves tucked neatly in her saddlebag and no one expecting her back until lunch. Her horse, Rowan, a chestnut gelding with a streak of mischief, trotted easily across the moor’s upper edge, where the land dipped in broad, silent folds.

She loved this part of Northumberland—untouched, windswept, and secretive. The only sounds were the rhythmic clop of hooves, the soft creak of leather, and the occasional caw from a distant rook. She let Rowan slow to a walk, giving him the reins while she tipped her face up to the pale sun and let her thoughts drift. The exact path she’d ridden dozens of times. The same field, the same weathered stone markers. Nothing new. Nothing wrong.

Until the ground gave way.

There was no warning—just a sharp, splintering sound like frozen mud cracking, and then Rowan reared with a violent jerk. Cassandra had time to shout but not to hold on. Her world tipped, the reins slipped through her hands, and then she fell—not just off the horse, but into the earth itself.

What Waited Below

She landed hard on a slope of damp, packed soil. No bones were broken—just bruises and breathlessness. The light above had narrowed to a jagged slit, and Rowan’s frantic hoofbeats faded fast. Cassandra blinked against the dimness, heart thudding. She wasn’t in a hole. She was in a tunnel.

The air was cool and musty but not ancient. She could see fresh shoeprints in the dirt, made by someone not too long ago. The walls were smooth, not natural—carved deliberately and reinforced by wooden beams every few feet. She pushed herself upright, brushing leaves from her coat, and began to walk.

A turn, a low archway, then a door. Not old. Heavy, metal, and half-open. Inside: a room with no windows, lit faintly by a battery-powered lantern. A table. A chair. Papers. Notebooks. Names. Hers. Neighbors. A local constable. Next to each: numbers, dates, some crossed out.

A noise. Not behind her—but ahead. Someone else was down here.

She didn’t wait to meet them. Grabbing one of the notebooks, she backed out the way she came, retracing her steps. The shaft of light was still there, and when she reached it, she could see a rope had been dropped from above and tied to a saddle. Rowan had come back. Or someone had sent him.

She climbed breath ragged, notebook under her arm. At the top, the moor was still quiet. But the grass had been flattened by more than hooves.

Someone knew she’d fallen.

And someone had helped her get back out.