He and the professor spelunked, ignoring legends and rumors.
We arrived at the opening, slid off the backpacks, and took a few minutes to hydrate.
The professor put away his water bottle and asked, “I have a strange question: Why do they only paint an Omaha orange line to keep people from entering the side cave?”
I had no right answer, only rumors and mythology told as I was growing up. I threw up my hands, “I don’t know the real reason.”
“Well, it won’t stop us from going in,” he defiantly stated. I, again, voiced my objections, reminded him of the legends of missing people, of ungodly screams, and others.
“You’re a man of science,” he began as he put his hardhat on. “You should know better than to believe in such malarkey.” He turned on the light and stepped over the line. He turned to me and told me to hurry. I put on my gear and felt the air become even heavier.
I stepped over the line.
“What happened next?” the detective asked.
I looked up at him and shook my head. “I woke up, rain falling on my face, my phone outside my pocket.”
There were more questions he wanted to ask, but was told I needed to rest. He told me he was returning in the morning. I just nodded.
As the sweet relief of medication came over me, I hoped that the nightmares wouldn’t return. I hoped the professor wouldn’t plead for my help. I hoped the monsters would leave me alone.