The stairs ahead were crumbling, a jagged gap splitting their path.
"Gotta jump!" Mike warned, leaping across without hesitation.
Arthur followed, boots slamming onto the other side with a grunt.
They didn't stop.
Mike scrambled up the left wall, fingers clawing for purchase. He grabbed a rusted pipe with his left hand, planted his boot on a bent metal beam, then lunged for an old support frame.
"Ho-kay. Ho-kay," he panted, hauling himself up.
Arthur exhaled sharply. "Christ, kid—you climb like a damn squirrel."
Mike didn't answer—he jumped again, grabbing onto a loose metal plate.
It ripped free with a screech.
"SHIT—!" Mike dropped, arms flailing—but at the last second, he caught himself on the frame again, fingers white-knuckled. He kicked his foot higher, pulling himself back up.
Arthur watched, unimpressed. "Yeah… no," he muttered.
Instead of following Mike's reckless path, he climbed methodically—jumping to a sturdier frame, planting his boot on a solid iron rod, then pushing up with a grunt.
Within seconds, he was level with Mike again.
They hauled themselves onto the ledge, then turned—spotting a narrow tunnel ahead.
A shadow moved in the darkness.
A man.
"Shit! There he is!" Mike hissed.
They kept their distance, trailing him through the winding passage. Mike raised his rifle, lining up the shot—
Click.
Nothing.
"What? Come on. Come ON! Piece of shit..." He shook the gun, then, in frustration, hurled it aside.
The man ahead suddenly dropped through a hole in the ground, a heavy gate sliding shut behind him.
"Christ! Gotta make it!" Mike bolted forward.
Arthur snatched the discarded rifle off the ground without breaking stride.
They sprinted—
The gate was inches from sealing shut.
Mike slid through first, Arthur right behind him, the metal slamming closed with a final clang the moment they cleared it.
Mike spotted a lantern on the ground. He grabbed it, flicking his lighter until the flame caught.
Arthur, meanwhile, inspected the rifle. With a few quick, practiced motions, he cleared the jam.
"Kid," he called before Mike could take off again.
Mike turned—just in time to catch the revolver Arthur tossed him.
"Easier to use than a rifle in close quarters," Arthur grunted, strapping his own lantern to his belt and lighting it.
Mike nodded, gripping the pistol. "Let's move."
They ran.
The tunnel spat them out into the freezing night.
Snow crunched underfoot as they emerged, breath fogging in the air.
Mike's eyes locked onto a building in the distance—a looming, skeletal structure against the moonlight.
The same man they'd been chasing was walking toward it.
"Oh, fuck..." Mike whispered. "Jesus! The fuck is that place?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Nothin' good, that's for damn sure."
The wind howled around them as they stared at the eerie silhouette.
Then, without another word, they started forward.
******
They crept closer to the looming sanatorium, its broken windows like hollow eyes watching them. Then—movement.
Arthur grabbed Mike's arm, yanking him behind a crumbling wall.
"Jesus," Mike hissed, pressing his back against the stone.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Goddamn mutts..."
They peeked again.
The Stranger walked slowly along the front of the building, his tattered coat swaying. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the night—then a dark gray wolf emerged from the shadows, padding beside him.
"Damn it," Mike muttered.
"Easy," Arthur murmured, keeping his voice low. "Don't spook 'em."
Another wolf—this one lighter, almost ghostly in the moonlight—joined the first. The two beasts flanked the Stranger like loyal hounds.
Mike swallowed hard. "That's not good. That's really not good. Really not good."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. "Let's get a closer look."
Mike nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
They scaled the wall, dropping silently onto the other side.
The wind carried distant howls as they moved through the snow. Arthur's boot kicked something—a rusted metal sign, half-buried. He brushed the snow off.
"CONDEMNED," he read aloud, voice grim.
Mike glanced over. "Yeah, no shit. Place looks like it's held together by mold and bad memories."
Arthur smirked despite himself. "Ain't wrong."
Arthur smirked despite himself. "Ain't wrong."
Mike crouched near the foundation, peeling back a rotted wooden covering to reveal a small, jagged entrance.
"Come. On."
The moment they crawled inside, a putrid stench hit them like a punch to the gut.
"Ugh. Barf. What was this place, a sewer...?" Mike gagged, covering his nose.
Arthur grimaced. "Worse. Smells like death got lazy and left its laundry in here."
They dropped down into the dank darkness.
"Damn it. Alright," Mike muttered, spotting a path forward. He shoved a rusted barrel against the wall, creating a makeshift step. They climbed up, boots scraping against the damp stone.
Arthur followed as Mike hoisted himself onto an old drain system, his head poking through a hole in the floor above.
"Whoa. That's different," Mike whispered.
With a grunt, they pulled themselves up into the main floor.
The place was a graveyard of shattered furniture and peeling wallpaper. They moved carefully, stepping over rubble as they whispered.
"You ever seen wolves act like that?" Mike asked.
"Not unless they were starvin' or rabid," Arthur muttered. "And those things didn't look either."
They reached a hole in the wall, peering into the next room—a ruined chapel.
The Stranger stood in the center, running his hands over the wolves' fur as they nuzzled against him.
"Whoa, what the..." Mike breathed.
Then, as if sensing them, the Stranger turned—and walked out of sight. The wolves followed.
Mike immediately tried the chapel door. "Locked. Of course."
They backtracked, turning left into an administrative area. Before entering, Mike spotted a yellowed piece of paper on the ground.
"Memo-randum?" He squinted at the faded text.
Arthur leaned over his shoulder, reading silently.
MEMORANDUM
*4th January 1952*
To: Sanatorium Staff
From: Mr. Rouche
RE: Rescue of Miners
Be advised that the miner rescue is due to be completed tomorrow (5th January). As the number of surviving miners is unknown, prepare all beds in Ward A.
The press shall be in attendance tomorrow. We must be seen to be giving the miners the best possible care.
Note that the press visitors are not to be allowed into the Psychiatric Ward.
Failure in this regard will reflect badly upon Mr. Bragg and the Sanatorium as a whole, and shall result in an on-the-spot dismissal.
Rouche
(On reverse side)
You'll need a nose peg. Those guys smell awful!
Mike frowned. "That's weird. They just forced them all out?"
Arthur didn't answer.
His blood had gone cold.
1952.
That was… impossible. He'd been in the mountains in the Grizzlies just hours ago. In 1899.
This was more than fifty years in the future.
And this building had clearly been abandoned for decades.
"Hm?" Mike glanced at him. "You okay?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Yeah. Just… thinkin'."
He didn't say the rest.
What the hell kind of nightmare have I stumbled into?
******
The admin office was a mess of rotting furniture and scattered papers. Arthur's boot knocked against something solid—a small safe, half-buried under debris. Next to it lay a rusted iron stake, like some macabre tool left behind.
"Now what's this doin' here?" Arthur muttered, picking up the stake. He turned it in his hands before eyeing the safe. "Huh."
With a sharp thrust, he jammed the stake into the safe's mechanism, forcing it open with a metallic groan. Inside, a stack of yellowed cards sat neatly bundled.
"Mike. Come take a look at this."
Mike crouched beside him, flipping through the cards. "Clocking-in cards… thirty of 'em. Means thirty miners were trapped down there."
Mike crouched beside him, flipping through the cards. "Clocking-in cards… thirty of 'em. Means thirty miners were trapped down there."
Arthur nodded grimly. "And if that memo's right, only twelve came out."
Mike exhaled sharply. "Jesus. What the hell happened to the rest?"
"Nothin' good, I'd reckon."
A silence hung between them before Mike finally spoke again.
"So… Arthur Morgan, huh? You never did say how you ended up on this mountain."
Arthur wiped dust off his gloves. "Honestly, son? I don't know. One minute I'm ridin' through a blizzard, next I'm here. Ain't makin' a lick of sense."
Mike studied him for a long moment. "Yeah. Welcome to my nightmare."
Nearby, a broken camera lay in pieces, its lens deliberately smashed.
"Someone didn't want pictures taken," Arthur noted.
Mike picked up a crumpled newspaper nearby. "Huh. Intrigue on Blackwood Mountain."
Arthur's stomach dropped. Blackwood Mountain. He'd heard that name before—some distant rumor about a cursed place up in Canada. But how in God's name had he gotten here from the Grizzlies?
Mike smoothed out the paper, reading aloud:
"THE ALBERTA POST, 9th January, 1952. Reporter Assaulted on Blackwood Mountain..."
The article detailed a journalist named Chuck Bernstein who'd been attacked by sanatorium security after trying to interview the rescued miners. His camera had been confiscated—likely the very one now shattered on the floor.
"Jefferson Bragg," Arthur muttered, scanning the name of the mine and sanatorium owner. "Man's hidin' somethin'. Ain't no reason to beat a reporter 'less you got secrets worth bleedin' for."
Mike's jaw tightened. "Yeah. And I'm betting Jessica's caught in the middle of it."
Before heading toward the morgue, Arthur turned into a side room, where a set of medical notes lay atop a decayed desk.
"Huh?" Mike picked them up, skimming the faded ink.
MINER MEDICAL REPORT
Dr. N.H.F. Bowen
The report described the twelve surviving miners—cognizant, oddly healthy despite weeks underground, but psychologically shaken. Some had respiratory issues, others… stranger symptoms.
"One of those guys actually tried to bite me!" Mike read from the back of the page. "What the—? They were biting people?"
Arthur's grip tightened on the paper. "Somethin' ain't right with 'em. Men don't just turn feral like that." His mind raced. Unless whatever was in that mine changed them.
Mike shuddered. "You think… whatever took Jessica… is one of them?"
Arthur didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The howl of the wind outside sounded almost like laughter.
"Come on," Arthur said, tossing the notes aside. "Morgue's next. And I got a feelin' we ain't gonna like what we find."
Mike nodded, gripping Arthur's revolver tighter.
Mike held up a hand, stopping Arthur before they could descend into the morgue. "Hold up. Let's look around more. I ain't walkin' into whatever the hell's down there without knowin' exactly what we're dealin' with."
Arthur gave a slow nod. "Fair point. This place is rotten to the core—might as well see how deep the rot goes."
Mike pushed open a partially ajar door, hinges screeching. Inside, a black bird perched on a rusted bed frame, its beady eyes locking onto them. With a sharp caw, it took flight, wings beating past their faces as it escaped through a broken window.
"Christ—!" Mike flinched, then spotted the machete buried deep in a wooden table. He yanked it free, testing its weight. "Well. That's handy."
Meanwhile, Arthur stepped into another room, peeling back a mildewed curtain to reveal a restraining chair, its leather straps cracked and stained.
"Holy shit..." Mike grimaced. "Ugh. What happened here?"
Arthur ran a finger along one of the buckles, his jaw tight. "Torture. Or 'treatment,' if you ask the bastards runnin' this place." The chair reeked of sweat and old blood. "Ain't no way them miners left here sane."
As they moved down the hall, a wolf's shadow flickered past a doorway to their left—silent, swift. Both men froze, but when they peered into the room, there was nothing.
"You see that?" Mike whispered.
"Yeah," Arthur muttered. "And I don't like it."
They turned right instead, entering a cluttered office. A telegram lay atop a dusty desk.
Mike picked it up, reading aloud:
"REPLY IMMEDIATELY: Reporters and other snoopers to be kept away at all costs!"
Flipping it over, he continued:
"DR. RICHARD CASTLE / BLACKWOOD SANATORIUM. To: Mr. J Bragg. INCIDENT UPDATE. 12 survivors received at Sanatorium = showing signs of mental trauma may need to contain = local press now have scent of blood = becoming a problem = please advise further."
Mike scoffed. "Gee, who wouldn't want press snooping around in this paradise?"
Arthur's voice was low. "Bragg's hidin' somethin'. And whatever it is, it's bad enough to beat reporters and lock up miners."
The next room held a macabre sight: a severed arm on a table, fingers curled, a note tied to its wrist.
Arthur stepped forward.
"Whoa whoa whoa—" Mike grabbed his shoulder. "Is this what he was feedin' them?!"
Arthur didn't answer. He reached for the note—
SNAP.
A bear trap sprang shut, teeth sinking into his fingers.
"GODDAMN—!" Arthur snarled, pain shooting up his arm. His free hand instinctively went for his gun, but Mike was already moving.
A wolf stood in the doorway, eyes glowing in the dark.
"Mike—!"
Mike swung the machete, not at the wolf, but at the trap. "Hold still!"
Arthur gritted his teeth as Mike wedged the blade between the jaws, prying. The metal groaned—
CRACK.
The machete's tip snapped off, falling into the trap. The jaws clamped tighter.
Arthur hissed, slamming his fist on the table. "Son of a—!"
Mike paled. "Shit. This thing's rusted to hell—you could get infected—"
Arthur shot him a glare that could melt steel. "Now ain't the time."
They tried again. Another piece of the machete broke.
Mike swallowed. "Arthur... I could—"
"Don't. Say it." Arthur growled. He studied the trap, then nodded. "One more time."
With a final heave, the jaws sprung open. Arthur yanked his hand free, fingers bloody but intact.
"Hah!" Mike exhaled in relief. "Thank fuck—"
Arthur didn't celebrate. He pulled out his whiskey bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and doused his wounds. The burn made his vision flash white, but he didn't make a sound.
Mike winced in sympathy. "That's one way to do it."
Arthur took a swig, then tossed the bottle to Mike. "Your turn. Drink. Then we find that bastard and end this."
Mike caught it, nodding.
Mike took a swig from Arthur's whiskey and immediately choked, eyes watering. "Jesus Christ—!" He coughed, wiping his mouth. "What the hell is this, turpentine?!"
Arthur smirked, snatching the bottle back. "That's proper liquor, city boy. Not that watered-down piss you're used to."
They finally pushed into the morgue, the air thick with the stench of decay and formaldehyde. The flickering lantern light cast long shadows across the rusted metal drawers and stained tile floors.
On the shelves to their right, a jar sat containing a grotesque, malformed skull, floating in murky fluid.
Mike leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "'Sup, chatterbox. Hangin' out? Me too."
Arthur gave a dry chuckle. "Reckon that's one conversation we ain't havin'."
Mike moved to a heavy door, spotting a sign beside it:
"CHAPEL SECURITY PASS REQUIRED."
"What—are you serious?!" Mike threw his hands up. "Now we gotta find a fucking keycard?!"
Arthur didn't answer. Instead, he yanked open one of the body drawers, revealing a name tag inside.
EMERGENCY MEDICAL TAG
Name: Nicholas Bowen
Tagged Date: Feb 24th 1952
Description: Attack by inmate. Fatal lacerations to throat.
"Doc Bowen," Arthur muttered. "Guess he didn't make it out either."
He opened another drawer. Inside lay a death certificate.
REGISTRATION OF DEATH
Name of Deceased: Sarah Smith
Date of Death: February 24th, 1952
Cause of Death: Severe lacerations to the abdomen. Intra-abdominal injuries. Subsequent blood loss.
Manner of injury: Laceration by sharp impalement. Possibly FINGERNAILS!
Arthur flipped it over, reading the additional notes:
*Body was not discovered until 6-8 hours after death. Sections of the intestine and kidneys were apparently EATEN by the attacker.*
Mike's face twisted in disgust. "What the fuck happened here?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Somethin' got loose. Somethin' hungry."
He pulled open another drawer—this one holding an uncovered corpse, its sunken flesh mottled with decay.
"Ugh... fuckin' sick!" Mike gagged, turning away. "That's fucking sick!"
As if to emphasize his point, a fat rat wriggled out of the corpse's mouth, scurrying away into the shadows.
Mike shuddered—then spotted something glinting on the body.
A keycard.
"Okay... let's check this out," he said, gingerly plucking it from the corpse's stiff fingers.
Arthur nodded, slamming the drawer shut. "Chapel's next. And if that Stranger's there, we end this."
Mike flipped the keycard in his hand, exhaling sharply. "Yeah. Let's hope we're not the ones who end."
Mike swiped the keycard, and the Chapel door buzzed open. They barely made it two steps up the stairs before the white wolf lunged from the shadows, teeth bared, snarling.
"Oh f—! Oh fu—! Oh shit... oh shit! Okay okay okay okay okay okay... Fuck fuck fuck fuck—!" Mike babbled as they bolted up the steps, the wolf snapping at their heels.
Arthur slammed the Chapel door shut just as the beast crashed into it, claws scraping against the wood.
Both men panted, catching their breath. The Chapel was eerily silent—pews overturned, stained glass shattered, the air thick with dust.
"Well," Arthur muttered. "Ain't exactly a holy place no more."
They moved forward, jumping down to the main floor.
Mike wiped sweat from his brow. "Oh. Right, back in here."
They used the keycard again to unlock the Chapel's inner door—only for the same white wolf to leap in front of them, hackles raised, barking furiously.
Arthur immediately shouldered his rifle, finger on the trigger—but Mike threw up a hand.
"Okay... okay... Easy boy... Easy... Easy..." Mike crouched slowly, voice soft. "That's a good boy..."
The wolf growled, lips curled back over razor-sharp teeth.
Mike didn't flinch. "That's a good boy. That's right. Easy..."
He reached out, hand trembling just slightly, and patted the wolf's head.
The beast hesitated.
"Yeah! Good Boy! Yeah. Hey guy, you like that?" Mike scratched behind its ears, grinning. "Yeah. Everyone likes a little lovin' right? Mmm?"
Miraculously, the wolf sat down, panting.
Arthur exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. "Well I'll be damned."
Mike rummaged through a nearby chest, pulling out a bone.
"Ah-ha!" He whistled, holding it out. "Yeah that's it... yeah... Easy boy... easy..."
The wolf sniffed, then gingerly took the bone, tail wagging slightly.
"That's a good boy... that's right." Mike gave it one last pat before standing.
Meanwhile, Arthur had moved to the far wall, where a cigar box sat beside a half-smoked cigar stub. But what really caught his eye was the clippings wall—a chaotic collage of madness.
Newspaper fragments, maps of the mountain, dates of disappearances scrawled in frantic handwriting. A photo of the twin sisters was pinned.
"Mike," Arthur called, voice low. "Come look at this."
Mike joined him, eyes widening. "What the hell...?"
Mike shivered, rubbing his bare arms. "Christ, it's freezin' in here." He spotted an old army jacket draped over a pew and quickly shrugged it on, the heavy fabric a welcome relief from the biting cold.
Then his eyes locked onto something even better—a revolver sitting on a high shelf, just out of reach.
"Come on!" he grunted, stretching uselessly.
Arthur watched, unimpressed, as Mike grabbed a wooden leg from a broken chair and swiped at the gun, knocking it loose. It clattered to the floor, and Mike scooped it up with a grin.
"Here," he said, tossing Arthur back his revolver. "Thanks for the loan."
Arthur caught it smoothly, holstering it with a nod.
Mike turned toward the exit, raising the new revolver to shoot the lock—
"Whoa there," Arthur snapped, grabbing his wrist. "You wanna bring the whole damn mountain down on us?"
Instead, he reversed his rifle and smashed the lock with the buttstock, the metal groaning before it gave way.
As the gate creaked open, Mike spotted a framed photo on the wall near the stairs.
"The Miracle Men," he read aloud, squinting at the plaque beneath the image of twelve haggard miners. "The successful rescue of all 12 miners trapped in the disaster of 5th January 1952."
His blood ran cold.
"But... there were thirty clocking-in cards," he muttered. "Where the hell are the other eighteen?"
Arthur's expression darkened. "Ain't no miracles here, kid. Just lies."
They descended into the underground passage, the air growing thicker with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal. A locked gate blocked their path, but Mike shoved an empty barrel aside with a grunt.
"Oof! Okay..."
This time, Arthur didn't stop him when Mike raised the revolver and shot the lock.
The bullet sparked—
And the spark caught.
"Shit... shit... shit... URGH!" Mike backpedaled as flames licked up the spilled liquid from nearby barrels.
Arthur's curse was lost in the deafening explosion that followed.
Heat roared toward them as they sprinted back, diving to the ground just as the blast wave hurled debris over their heads.