Free Crude Sunlight 1 by Phil Tucker

elevators.
    She had sent him a large envelope with a bulky object in the middle. A book? It wasn't overly heavy, but what on earth could it be? Something of Henry's? Resisting the impulse to open it immediately, he instead tucked it under his arm and rode the elevator up this floor.
    Opening his door, he dumped his briefcase on the couch and set the envelope on the kitchen counter, moving past it to the fridge where he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He stood eyeing the package as if it might contain some sort of dangerous animal. He decided to finish his glass first, but halfway through he stepped forward, set the glass down and tore the envelope open.
    A video cassette slipped out with "#8" written in Henry's writing on the label. "Huh," said Thomas. He turned it over slowly in his hands, his mouth suddenly dry. Henry, Julia, Eric, and the other kid about to go down into that dark stairwell. That sound. That photograph of somebody running away into the far reaches of a tunnel. Cut off, truncated, and here was tape #8. Setting it carefully aside, he reached into the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. A letter. Moving over to a stool, he sat down and began to read.

Hey Thomas,
    I've spoken with Eric. Or, more accurately, he got back in touch with me. He is very serious about proving that he's not crazy. I was skeptical, but then he gave me this tape and told me to watch it. I don't know what to think now. Please watch this, and then give me a call.
    Julia
    Thomas frowned and reread the note. He finished his glass of orange juice and then rose and took the tape over to his television, where he leant down and slid it into the VCR. He stepped back, sidestepped the coffee table, and he lowered himself onto his leather couch and took up the remote control. He ran the tip of his finger over the plastic buttons, unsure. Did he really want to watch this? A premonition arose within him that bade him set the control down and think things over. To not act rashly. To not follow Eric's story further. He felt as if he stood on the cusp of something terrible, and thinking of Eric's sepulchral eyes, he was unsure if wanted to proceed. For a moment he hesitated, and then he took a breath and pressed Play.

Chapter 8
     
     
    The television screen went black, and then showed the stairwell descending like a gullet into darkness. Several figures were walking down it, flashlight beams wandering before them. Thomas recognized Julia, Eric, the third kid. Henry was still holding the camera, it seemed, and then after a moment he began to descend after them, going quickly so as to catch up, the shot on the screen jerking up and down as the camera hiccuped in his hand.
    The stairwell let out onto a corridor similar to those they had traversed above. Wallpaper blistered and peeling, empty doorways yawning into existence as their flashlights played over them. The floor was covered with curls of paint that had fallen from the ceiling, and their steps crackled and crunched faintly as they crept forward. Eric took the lead, moving cautiously, with Julia and their friend in the center. A flash of white as Julia turned to Henry, her gaze focusing on a point to the side of the camera, her face now devoid of humor, slightly tense.
    They walked on, peering into rooms and opening the occasional door. Thomas thought of turning on his own lights to offset the creepiness he felt from the environs they were exploring, but then actually shook his head in irritation. It was just a video tape.
    Eric paused, turned down a side corridor. A second turn, all of them moving in silence now. Then Eric stopped before a heavy iron door and turned to the camera.
    "This should be the entrance to the boiler room. If we can open this up..." he turned and tried the handle, but it was stuck. He placed his shoulder to it and shoved hard. A horrid scraping sound filled the air, and the door budged. Eric tried again, and then a third time, and finally it shuddered open,