It was almost ten by the time I got home that night, and I was starving. Meals were optional during tax season. It seemed as though the majority of clients my small tax firm catered to were surprised by the news that the I.R.S. preferred they file their taxes annually. Every April, I lost ten pounds, just because I didn’t have time to eat.

I kicked off my navy pumps at the door and shrugged out of my blazer as I bypassed the couch for my kitchen. I tried to rub some of the tension from my neck as I opened the fridge with false optimism, and was disappointed to see that all I had left was three swallows of milk, half a bag of wilting lettuce, and a slightly shriveled tomato. Not for the first time, I thought to myself that I needed a roommate, if for no other reason than to have someone who could do the shopping for me and make sure I had food in the house from late February to April 16th.

I sighed in frustration and grabbed my keys off the counter. I should have known. Today had not been a good day for me. One client had neglected to bring her W-2's, and had been quite irate when I told her I couldn’t help her without them. My last client of the day had become so angry at the amount he owed that I was afraid he was going to attack me. Good thing Taco Bell was open late, I thought to myself. I hoped that the drive-through crew weren’t clients of mine.

I slipped back into my shoes and stepped out onto my front steps, and nearly fell down them. Laying just inches from my threshold was a cardboard box that hadn’t been there when I’d gotten home no more than five minutes ago. I glanced around to see if anyone was there. Odd. Street lamps flicked with yellow halogen light, casting the usual shadows on parked cars and manicured shrubs. Nothing seemed out of place. I tentatively nudged the box with one foot. Nothing happened. With a shrug I picked it up and set it inside, and then continued to my car. I’d worry about it when I returned with dinner.

It was another half hour before I returned, and I’d forgotten about the box in my entryway. I tripped over it, pitching tacos and soda across my livingroom. Cursing, I scrambled to salvage some of what was to be my only meal of the day. By the time I’d cleaned up the mess and had a chance to investigate the box, it was nearly midnight.

It was the sort of box you get from high-end department stores when you buy clothes and have them gift wrapped. There were no markings on it anywhere to suggest where it had come from, but I noticed a white card tucked in the string tying the box shut. My name was neatly typed in blocky font. I pulled the string to the side and lifted the lid. Under the many layers of tissue paper, I found scraps of red lace and black satin. Ew. Not only was I not a fan of anonymously receiving sleazy lingerie, but I noticed something red and sticky on my hands after I lifted it from the box.

Blood.

Startled, I flung the box out of my lap and tried to rub the goose bumps off my legs. The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. I saw something else fall from the box, and gathering up my courage, I walked over to investigate it. The spicy taste of taco rose in the back of my throat when I realized that it was a dead hamster. At least, I think it was a hamster. Its head was missing.

Who would leave such a thing? My hands trembled as I fumbled with my phone. I was just starting to dial when the lights went out in the house.

“I wouldn’t advise that,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear. A strong hand covered my mouth, while another pried my phone from my hand. I glanced in the ornate mirror that hung above the couch, and my suspicions were confirmed.

I really should have tried harder to find more deductions for that last client.

Little Joey's fists clenched as his anger became uncontrollable.

"Tomato face!"

His big sister Suzy remained calm. Calm, but cruel. She was well-practiced in eliciting fury, and most of her practice had been on Joey.

"I know you are, but what am I?" she retorted.

Joey was only five years old, and his rage was pure. It was not mitigated by the conflicting emotions that adulthood brings. It consumed him. It was faultless. It was also far beyond what he was capable of expressing with his current vocabulary.

"Hamster butt!"

"I know you are, but what am I?"

Suzy put a calculated sing-song lilt into her voice. She was getting bored. Joey was too easily enraged, and she was tired of toying with him. She didn't really dislike her brother; she just enjoyed provoking him. It had entertainment value, and it made up in some small way for all the torments she herself was suffering in ninth grade. Joey was like a television set, and Suzy knew all the channels. Or so she thought.

This time, she had pushed Joey too far. His rage was transcendent, and it was much too powerful to be contained within his own undeveloped mind. Wrath is called a deadly sin for a reason; once unleashed, it demands satisfaction. When adults experience anger this intense, gory headlines follow: Deranged postal worker shoots six. Four I.R.S. auditors slaughtered by machete-wielding madman. Children orphaned in murder-suicide. Road rage leaves five dead.

Joey had no such outlet; he was physically incapable of murder, and his unhindered fury grew until it surged out of his soul. An unstoppable wave of hatred overwhelmed Joey. It upset his world, and then reached out for other worlds to upset.

Suzy felt it, and instantly knew that she had gone too far. For the first time in her life, she felt truly guilty. Without warning, a cold dread wrapped itself around her, bringing her to her knees. It was as if all of the color had drained out of her world.

"Joey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad."

It was too late. Joey was not in command of his wrath; the vengeance was no longer his to control. It took possession of Suzy, and turned into remorse. It had inhuman strength, and supernatural abilities, but it saw the world through a child's eyes, and reasoned with a child's black-and-white view of right and wrong.

It swept through her, searching for weakness. All of the secrets in the diary Suzy had hidden in her lingerie drawer became available to it, and it used those secrets to enter her mind. It feasted on her thoughts, and then tortured her with them. Her sins were exaggerated beyond all reason, and then thrown back in her face. She could not make the visions go away; closing her eyes made them stronger. Her thoughts became her purgatory.

Beelzebub berated her for her gluttony. Indulgence was twisted into overindulgence; a large order of French fries became a sin beyond absolution. Lucifer then tormented her for her pride. Satisfaction became the sin of narcissism; her honor-roll grades became a cause for eternal damnation. Asmodeus came next, afflicting her with waves of guilt over her youthful lust. She had yet to kiss a boy, but she'd wanted to, hadn't she? There could be no forgiveness without atonement, and atonement was not possible.

Legions of demons followed, wave after wave of them. She was tortured by her greed and shamed by her envy. She was lazy. She was impatient. Apathetic. Untrustworthy. Disloyal. She foresaw a future of joylessness.

And still it continued; there was no end to it. Suzy looked into Joey's eyes, and saw more despair there, and responded with more guilt of her own. She had been unkind, and it had been her undoing.

"You called me bad!" Joey said, and remorse struck her down again.

Suzy cried, "Joey! Please! I'm sorry! You're nice! You're good!"

Joey looked at her with wounded eyes. "I know I am, but what are you?"

She did not know the answer.

Suzy knew then that she was doomed; the memories would punish her for the rest of her life. Her childhood innocence was gone forever.

It was August the 4th 1979 when we found the first bodies. It wasn’t an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, he had scattered the remains everywhere. One was found squashed into a cupboard in the kitchenette, another had been dissected and left carelessly in black bin bags by the front of the house. The child under the bed was the worst however, she had been suffocated and her lifeless eyes bore a hole through me. All I could hear was the screeching sound of the little girl’s hamster on it’s wheel. Just thinking about it…

On December the 5th 1982 I was called out to another house in the same suburban area. An elderly neighbour had seen hide nor tail of the young couple that lived next door for a few weeks and she was beginning to get worried. My mind didn’t make the connection until I smelled the burning flesh coming from the back garden. He had been torturing them for a few days, but we had only missed him by a couple of hours. Now, three years later, the radio clicks into life and utters something that makes my spine tingle with both anticipation and dread.

“Sir, the house is a mess, this is going to be one hell of a cleanup operation. Forensics have already checked it out, he left no traces. This one is different though sir. We received an ‘anonymous’ tip-off at the station a couple of hours ago, detailing the murders precisely and giving the location…he also left a message for you, sir. I’ll play it for you now if you’d like.”

“Yes, please do Kent.”

“Detective Inspector Jones, it has been a while hasn’t it. You were taking too long in finding this one, so I called it in myself. A warning letter from the taxman on your bedside table, naughty, naughty Jones. Your wife really does look like an angel when she sleeps, doesn’t she? Or can’t you remember? Goodbye Jones.”

“He’s playing games with us Kent. Norah is…out of the country so he is lying about something, but the jibe about my taxes, what made him say that? Did he leave anything behind that would give us a clue as to where he is going next?”

“No sir, but I think he placed one of the victim’s belongings on the hall table for us to find. Why don’t you go in and take a look? You know this guy’s case better than anyone.”

So, the victim works as an Information Technology Specialist for the I.R.S, or so his business card says (it was on the hall table like Kent said). I still feel that I’m missing something though, something that’s right under my nose, although I doubt the victim’s blood spattered lingerie magazines will help much.

****

“Listen Kent, I know it’s been two weeks without any breakthroughs, but there hasn’t been anymore murders either. So lets look on the bright side shall we, it’s my day off and I’m going to try and put it to the back of my mind. Hold on Kent I have another call coming through, talk to you later. Hello, DI Jones speaking…”

“It’s me. I want to meet you face to face, no guns, no police. It’s your day off right?”

“I’m busy right now so…”

“No you’re not, you are sitting across the room from me eating a hotdog with onions and tomato sauce. I like mustard myself. Come and join me at my table, I’m the guy eating the omelette, how coincidental that we should be eating at the same place eh? Please sit down DI Jones.”

If you were walking down the street, you would pick this guy out as a serial killer. Long greasy dark hair, long leather coat, a crooked smile and a semi-automatic nestling firmly in his right hand. Hardly playing by the rules, but then again, neither was I. Kent is waiting just across the road with five, plain clothed officers, waiting for him to exit the door after our little meeting has concluded. We’ve been shadowing him for a couple of days now.
“So, are you here to tell me that you are giving yourself up, or is this another joke? I know that the I.R.S thing was you just trying to lead me in the wrong direction, so put down your gun and take a walk with me to the police station. How about it?”

“You think I can’t see your man Kent waiting for me just outside the door? I’m taking my pills already, I’ll be dead within five minutes.”

“So why did you kill all those people?”

“The same reason you killed your wife a few weeks ago. We just didn’t get along.”

Rev. Cecil lay handcuffed in the corner of the cellar.. Cecil tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes on his shoulder, but his vision was no clearer. So instead he tried to remember how he arrived here, handcuffed and surrounded by pentagrams, black candles and a poor dead hamster.

*****

The grocery store was where it began. The Reverend had stopped in to buy milk, bread and dog food. Loaded with his purchases he was right behind a young man in line when the young man pulled a gun.

“Give me your money!” He yelled. People screamed, but Cecil could see that the young would be thief was as scared as anyone else in the store.

“Easy.” He said.

“What.” Suddenly the gun was pointed straight in his face. “Who are you?”

“My name is Cecil.” The groceries were getting heavy. “Do you mind if I put these down? They’re getting heavy.” He put action to words placing his load on the counter. The gun followed him, but somehow Cecil looked past it to the scared young man who had backed himself into a corner. It was as if they were the only two people in the store. Soon Cecil was deep in conversation with the young man, by the time the police arrived the gun was beside the dog food on the counter and the young man in tears.

Cecil was an instant and embarrassed celebrity. His face was on the front page of the local paper, and he was a guest on the local radio talk show. It was on that show that he first heard the voice of the man who would kidnap and torture him. The question was jarring in the midst of people asking ‘Weren’t you scared?’

“Do you believe in evil?” The voice asked. Cecil began to give his safe minister’s explanation of humanity’s separation from God.

“No” The voice interrupted. “I mean real evil – devils and spirits.” Cecil was dumfounded, but the talk show host was making frantic signs at him to say something, anything.

“Since God is a Spirit, there must be other spirits as well.” The rest of the show went normally, but Cecil felt out of sorts. He wondered if he had somehow failed the strange caller. He added the voice to his prayer list.

Then the phone call came.

“I would like you to come and visit, Reverend.” Cecil didn’t know the address, but he was always willing to help out.

“I would be glad to.”

He arrived at an old farmhouse. It was ramshackle and isolated, but the door opened to his knock. Inside the house was chaos. Moldy tomatoes jostled with lingerie catalogs. His host was unable to sit still. He handed Cecil a glass of water. Then perched on the chair across from him. Cecil sipped from his glass searching for an opening. ‘Help me,’ He prayed.

“Do you believe in evil?” Cecil’s blood ran cold. There was more threat in that simple question than in any number of loaded guns. “I used to believe in God.” Continued his host. “I would obey the rules and pray and do everything I was supposed to. What was God’s response? NOTHING!” He was up and moving around again. “The freaking I.R.S. shows more interest in my life than your God does. God doesn’t care.” The man’s spittle showered Cecil’s face. “But the Devil; he cares. I look at filthy pictures and he is right there to tell me what to look at next. I poison the rats, and he is there telling me how much better it would feel to torture them.”
Cecil tried to get up, to run, to scream, but his body refused to obey him. His limbs felt heavy and cold. The last thing he heard was “I am going to call the Devil, and see if God cares enough to rescue you.”

Cecil woke in the basement. He was handcuffed, and knives were set out in clinical fashion beside him. The man began by cutting off his clothes leaving only the clerical collar around his neck. Then he cut signs and symbols right into Cecil’s flesh, unconcerned with the Reverend’s screams. The hamster died to give blood to draw the signs and symbols of evil. When ever Cecil tried to talk the man would kick and beat him. Now the last symbols were in place and the man came over with his knife.

“Are you ready to find out how much your God cares for you?” He raised the knife and began to chant. Darkness filled the cellar with a miasma of despair.

*****

Everything had happened because Cecil was trying to do God’s work God wanted him here.

“Of course God cares. Why else would He send me to you?”

It was just like every other day in the shop. One o’clock and the lunch crowd gone. I sat at the counter and began eating my standard bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. Whatever I don’t eat, I just toss in the window display for the hamsters to finish.

As punctual as ever, the postal worker drops my mail through the slot in the door. I still prefer to call them mailmen, even though the last one on this route was a gorgeous female. Her name was Shirley. She used to bring my mail in, instead of just dropping it through the slot. She’s gone now, replaced by a guy, so let him just put the mail through the slot. Don’t think I could have a decent conversation with him anyway.

Just the standard junk mail everyone gets; credit card gimmicks, sweepstakes winner, valuable coupons (ha), insurance scams. Figure that must be what this I.R.S. one is, since I seem to remember getting some of those before. They all go into the trash can to become furnace fuel. The only item of interest today is the new Victoria’s Secret catalog. I take it back to the counter to look through while finishing my lunch.

Looking through the lingerie I have to grin. The last item I bought is still just sitting on the table in the basement. I got it because I thought Shirley would like it. Oh the look on her face when I said she should try it on. And the cursing that came out of her mouth! It was so funny, I thought I’d die laughing.

The door opens, and in walks this pretty lady. I put the catalog below the counter, and toss the remains of my sandwich to the hamsters. I ask her if I can be of service. I misunderstood what she said next, probably because I was still stunned by her beauty. I thought she said her name was Iris, and was looking for the pet shop owner. I told her I thought Iris was a lovely name, and that I was the owner. She then explained that her name was not Iris, but that she was from the I.R.S.

She proceeded to inform me that there were no records of any taxes having been filed for this business in the last five years. They had sent numerous letters, but never received a reply. Since there appeared to be no phone number, she had been dispatched to investigate the situation. I told her that I knew nothing of this tax business. My wife had done everything that required paperwork, and she had died about then.

She told me that was impossible. No business could run that long without all the paperwork involved. What about all the bills for gas, water and electricity? Surely if I hadn’t done the paperwork, others would have been around? I explained I had a well for my water, a furnace and a homemade generator in the basement that handled all my needs.

She seemed to be perplexed. What about food, pet supplies, the taxes I collect every time I sell something? I told her that I grow my own food. I have a garden, chickens and some pigs out back. Whenever I need new supplies, or even new pets for that matter, I buy them from a traveling guy that comes around once a month or so. As for collecting taxes, I didn’t know I was supposed to. People want to buy something, I just tell them how much. Doesn’t seem to be a problem.

She was getting real upset, and asked if I had any records of any transactions. I said sure, I keep records of all the stuff I sell. My wife insisted on that, and I just put them all in the cabinet she used for that, though I don’t really see a need for it.

Her face was bright red when she managed to ask if she could see those records. I took her to the basement door, and said they were down there. Then being polite, I said ladies first. When she started down the stairs, is when I hit her on the head.

When she woke up, naked and in the oversized hamster cage, I explained the rules to her. In order for her to eat, she would have to spin the wheel to lower a basket that held food. That spinning wheel was also what turned my generator, and supplied the light. No light, no food!

Then I took the lingerie off the table and offered it to her. I told her she might be more comfortable in it. But anyway she looked at it, she was going to be there until she was dead!

When Eleanor Griswald was being interviewed for her job as an auditor at the IRS the supervisor warned her that she might have to deal with some crazies.
"There are a lot of people out there who don't want to pay their taxes and they will try to intimidate you," he told her solemnly. "No worries," she responded confidently, "I'm not afraid of criminals."
Over the years she had been threatened many times and once had a man lunge at her across her desk. She simply rolled her chair back a little and stared him down. He backed off. Something in her eyes stopped him. Eleanor Griswald was a little bit scary.
When she came home Tuesday afternoon she was tired. It had been an aggravating day. She heard the familiar squeak, squeak, squeak of her HAMSTER Eddie running on his wheel. She dropped her purse on the table and walked into the living room to say hello. Eddie was running happily. He was always energetic after a meal and there were remnants of diced TOMATO on the floor of his cage.
'Tomato?' she thought, 'Where did he get a tomato?' Eleanor hated tomatoes. She never ate them and had never thought about feeding one to Eddie. 'Maybe Irma gave it to him,' she thought, 'today is Tuesday. She was here this afternoon.' Irma was her cleaning lady. Eleanor had a deeply rooted hatred for dirt and Irma was her one real luxury. It was a little odd, though. Irma had never fed Eddie before.
She suddenly noticed an odor. Not the odor of Pledge and Comet that usually filled the air on Tuesdays. This was something else. Something unpleasant. It seemed to be coming from her bedroom. As she walked down the hall of her small one-story ranch home she could see that the LINGERIE drawer of her bureau was open. The smell got stronger. On her bed was a dummy dressed in her prettiest nightgown. The dummy was made of clear plastic bags filled with rotting tomatoes. A large knife was sticking out of it’s chest and rotting tomato goo oozed around the knife and spilled down the ivory silk like a smelly bloodstain.
“Lionel Babcock!” she thought. He was an 84 year-old tomato farmer whom she had audited the week before. He had never, ever, paid taxes. Because of his age and the delinquency of the IRS in discovering this fact they had decided against pursuing criminal charges and greatly reduced his penalty and tax amount to $48,000. As Eleanor outlined the details of his payment plan Mr. Babcock remained silent. He just sat and stared at her with an odd little smirk on his face. Eleanor was used to angry or frightened reactions from people. His odd little smirk irritated her.
“We realize that at your age you might be DEAD before you ever pay this off, Mr. Babcock,” she told him rather mean spiritedly. He signed the papers and left without ever saying a word. She hadn’t thought about him since.
As she reached for the phone to dial 911 there was an incredible noise and her whole house shook violently. “Perfect, an earthquake,” she thought. Another noise came from the rear of the house and knocked her to the floor. Chunks of plaster and pieces of wood started raining around her. Every side of her house was being bombarded. She tried to get up but couldn’t. She dragged herself to the hall and saw that a huge dump truck had backed through the wall and was dumping tomatoes into the wreckage.
Each side of her house had a dump truck wedged in it. Her house was caving in around her and she was soon covered with debris and tomatoes. She was fighting for air. Then a huge hunk of ceiling came down on her and she lost consciousness.
Police were stunned when they arrived a short time later. The trucks were long gone. They found a giant mock-up of a check lying on the front lawn.
It read Pay To: The IRS
Amount: $48,000 in tomatoes.
Signed: Lionel Babcock.
Memo: “Just paying my debt”.
They found Eddie the hamster happily munching a tomato and miraculously unharmed. His cage had protected him. The coroner said that Eleanor Griswald’s cause of death was suffocation but he did find several broken bones.

I ran for the train and just jumped on before the doors closed. I’d get home early from work for once. I work at “Underpass” – A lingerie store for the more rounded woman (as our Advertising Slogan says). Customers always seem to choose 5 minutes to closing time to come in and then spend at least 10 minutes browsing. Fortunately today was one of the rare times that nobody came in and I was cashed up on time.
I was surprised how few people there were on the train, but they must all catch the later train like I normally do. I soon arrived at my station and walked the short way to my house. Mum would be surprised to see me so early!

“Hi Mum!” I called out, as I opened the front door. There was no reply. Out with her new boyfriend Greg again, I thought. I didn’t really care for this new guy, but he seemed to make her happy, which is all that matters I guess. When I was younger I could never understand how Mum could be happy with other men, when I always believed Dad is still out there somewhere. He went out to buy Fish & Chips one night when I was 5 and he never came back. The police always said we should expect the worst, but they never found his body. Gradually I’ve come to realise that he probably is gone forever, but just occasionally I imagine coming home one day and finding him at there, although I imagine the young, loving Dad he always was, with a new teddy or doll for me. If he really did come home now I probably would hardly recognise him, and of course there would be no dolls now.

I entered the kitchen. Feeling hungry, I decided to make myself my favourite Tomato & Cheese sandwich (you might not think that’s a very exciting flavour, but I like it!). I opened the fridge, to find there were no tomatoes left. Oh well, I’d just have to make do with a plain cheese sandwich.

I sat down in front of the TV with my sandwich and turned it on. It was the News - Some sort of representative from the I.R.S. was being interviewed. “We don’t know how this could have happened,” she was saying. Same old. I turned the TV back off. There was always something or other up with those people. They’re always quick enough to take our money and then moan that they haven’t got enough.

I quickly finished my sandwich and took a bag of hamster food from the kitchen up to my room to feed Sammy. I entered my room and let out a scream. Sammy was lying on the floor in front of his cage, in a pool of blood. He was dead. I felt sick and ran to the bathroom. I opened the door. And stopped. Standing in front of me was a middle-aged bearded man. A man I had thought never seen before, though he seemed vaguely familiar. He was holding a knife. I was about to turn and run, but he didn’t seem to be able to see me.
“You killed Sammy!” I shouted at him. But he still acted as if I wasn’t there. He walked past me towards Mum’s bedroom. As he passed I noticed he had a security pass around his neck. It had the letters I.R.S. on. This seemed too much of a coincidence for my liking. I followed him into Mum’s bedroom.

I’m not sure I can explain what I saw next. But I’ll try. Mum was lying on the bed with Greg next to her. They were asleep. The man reached over and grabbed a photo from the table next to the bed. It was the photo of Dad. He waved it over Mum and Greg. And somehow it wasn’t Greg lying there, it was Dad. It was then that I realised why the knife man looked so familiar. I looked at him again, and there was a man who looked just like the one that had just metamorphosed into Dad in the bed. But this man was 20 years older and the beard made him look very different. He turned in my direction and for just a few seconds his eyes seemed to focus on me. “Nessy!” He said. That was the pet name he always used for me, though nobody dared call me that these days. “Dad?” I said, but as I said it he disappeared. I looked back to the bed. Mum and Greg were lying there but this time they didn’t look as if they were sleeping. The covers were soaked in blood. They were dead.

I am now sitting in a police cell – I have been charged with murder. I think they used the words “Criminally insane”. They’d found me with a knife in one hand and the photo of dad in the other. I didn’t do it – you believe me don’t you?

Today my hamster was chewing on a piece of tomato but he choked on a piece of my mums lingerie and is now dead. When I went to sue the pet shop but they got the I.R.S. To help them! But that's not to do with this story.
It was a dark and stormy night and rain poured down on the tiny village of Yarn. The river had flooded and bank was muddy as heck. A lone car drove along the main road, the window wipers were on full throttle and the lights weren't on as the rain had fused them. Inside the car Tom Winters sat straining his eyes to see past the seemingly opaque mist. Tom was a man of hate, he was a man of torture, he had a odour of animosity wherever he went as he was a tax collector.
Tom wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and his hands shook madly. Why you ask? Did I forget to tell you that Tom was also and ex-murder and the police were hot on his tail as they found the piece of evidence he dreaded for them to find, the murder weapon. He had killed a young girl, she must have been about eighteen. She was a prostitute and he had gotten drunk and beat her to death with a brick.
Up ahead he could see a vague outline of a barn, perfect! He thought. He was right there was a barn there, but the only problem was is that it was locked. He stepped out of the car and open the boot a grabbed a crowbar. He walk to the door of the barn and gave the lock a couple of swings. It came off with out any trouble and he opened the door. Inside the barn was dark and was full of dust. Cobwebs surrounded Tom and his car, he shut the doors and got back into his car. He lay back and fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly when there was a loud crack of lightning, which illuminated the room for a split second and then plunged Tom back into darkness. He tried to find his torch, his hand searched around in the darkness finding nothing, that's when tom realised that his door was open. He got out, still seeing nothing, and felt around on the floor. The floor was wet, Tom followed the trail until it ended. It didn't end, it just had gone under the floor boards. Tom felt around more and found his torch. It still worked fine. Tom got his crowbar again and hacked away at the floor where the trail had ended.
Under there was hollow and Tom could see the bottom of the hole clearly. It was only nine feet. Tom lowered him self down and looked around. He was in a tunnel, at the end he could see a faint blue glow, which got more intense the further Tom walked.
He finally got to the end of the tunnel. He was in a vast cavern with a dusty floor, all around him he could see blue diamonds giving out a blinding glow. This place was beautiful but gave gave off a sad vibe.
Tom was stunned, he couldn't move a muscle, he was complexly paralysed. Suddenly one of the blue diamonds bulged and began moulding it's self as if invisible hands were shaping it. It froze all of a sudden and was what appeared to be a button. Tom walked over there and pressed it.
Nothing happened for a minute and then the blue glow intensified tremendously. The Diamond in front of Tom began to crack. Blue light shone out of the cracks and then the diamond exploded into liquid. Tom hadn't moved since he pressed the button and he still didn't. Millions of spiders scuttled out of the hole covering everything until it was complete darkness. Then Tom screamed. And that was the last of him.
Some things are not meant to be found by man and if they are they will destroy them. So if you do see something amazingly beautiful JUST GO HOME.