The beam of light illuminated a crude, hand-dug cellar about eight feet deep.
A shaky-looking wooden ladder was propped against the dirt wall. My brain screamed at me to call the police right then, but morbid curiosity is a powerful thing.
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I tested the ladder gingerly before climbing down into the musty space. The floor was packed dirt. The walls were shored up with stolen construction plywood and tarps.
It wasn’t an empty bunker. Someone was living here.
In the corner, there was a filthy sleeping bag on top of a pile of cardboard. Empty tuna cans and water bottles were scattered everywhere.
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