Glasswater Falls thundered behind us as we squeezed into the cave mouth. Three headlamps swung across wet limestone. Old Hennig's map promised a miner's vault down here, and there it was: a steel door, factory-gray, slick with damp. But the scratches around the lock looked fresh. Somebody had been here recently. "Guys," Priya whispered, "that's not rust."

Marco held up a hand. "Wait. Fresh scratches means someone's still down here." He clicked off his headlamp. We stood in the dark, listening over the roar of the falls. Then we heard it—boots on stone, somewhere deeper in the cave. Coming our way.

Marco panicked and bolted toward the exit. His foot caught a loose rock and the clatter echoed everywhere. The boots stopped. Then they came fast, sprinting toward us. "Run!" I yelled. We scrambled for the cave mouth, the falls roaring louder with every step.

We burst out behind the waterfall, soaked and gasping. The boots stopped at the cave mouth. A park ranger stepped into the light, furious. "This mine's been condemned for years! You kids could've died down there." We got a long lecture and a ride home—but at least we made it out.