“…managed to get power to the transmitter again, just for a little while. I need help. I don’t know exactly where I am, but it’s underground somewhere. Some kind of building or bunker maybe? I don’t know. I…I’m really scared and I’m getting weak. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten, I’m trying to ration but I’m running out of food. Please, come help me…Oh, God!”
I listened to the recording over and over. I’d decided early on that if I ever heard it again I’d be ready to record it. I thought about using an app on my phone, but I worried it would freeze up or an ad would pop up at the crucial moment. So I went to an office supply store and bought a small digital recorder. I kept it charged and nearby as I drove, and thankfully remembered it when I heard the woman’s voice over the car’s speakers again. The sound of her panic-stricken voice was so sad and lonely, but it suddenly felt like the car was filled with rich, oxygenated air, sharpening everything and giving me a light buzzed feeling as her words washed over me. I tried to pay attention to what was being said, but I had been so close to giving up that the sense of euphoria and nervous desperation to make sure it was recorded overrode real comprehension.
The angry buzz of static cutting off the message brought me back, and I fumbled with the recorder to play it back again. All but the first couple of words was there. I listened to it several times more carefully and then began driving in the vicinity, back and forth, tweaking the dial a little but not overly much. It made sense any transmission would be on the same frequency, but I couldn’t be sure, especially when I hadn’t paid attention to the frequency the first time in my desperate fumbling to get the signal back.
But there was nothing. Over several days I memorized the recording, even dreaming of it the little bit that I slept. Then on the fourth day, I heard her.
“I remembered a…a sign that is outside somewhere. It said something about tatters I think. Look for the sign and a door. A strange door that goes into the ground. I think I hear…” The voice stopped, but instead of static, a strange song began to play. It sounded as though it was being played on some kind of flute or piccolo, and if it ever looped back on itself or repeated, I couldn’t tell it. I had stopped the car as soon as the voice started, triggering the recorder again. After listening to the music for several minutes, I felt new hope flare in my chest. If it would only keep playing, maybe I could use it to narrow down where the signal was coming from.
For the next four hours I went in different directions, carefully tracking which directions caused the signal to get weaker and stronger. Eventually, I reached the point where I couldn’t get closer on a paved road. Spotting what looked to be something between a dirt road and a trail, I headed for it and began to work my way out into the desert. The moon was bright and high in the sky, lighting everything up like some kind of silver and blue daytime. The path curved this way and that, but eventually it petered out at a clump of desert scrub. But I was too close now. I pulled out a pocket radio I’d gotten when I picked up the recorder and dialed it in to the frequency. There was a strange doubling effect of the music as the radio came to life, making my head swim for a moment until I shut the car off. Grabbing a flashlight, I headed out toward the signal.
It occurred to me absently that once the signal was clear there should be little to no way for me to tell if it was getting stronger just by the sound of it. But it was, as I said, an absent thought, pushed away casually as I fumbled through the dark shadows cast by the cold desert moon. The fact remained that I could feel it getting stronger somehow, and I knew I was heading in the right direction, very close to my goal. Then I saw the door.
It reminded me somewhat of the doors I’ve seen in old movies of small airplane hanger doors, not the ones for the planes, but for personnel. Metal and utilitarian, but with small curve to the outer frame, as though to introduce an element of whimsy. This door was clearly old and rusty, but it didn’t appear to be locked or secured in any fashion. More strangely, it was sunk in to the side of a rock rather than a building, almost as though someone had just attached a fake door to a giant boulder.
At first there seemed to be no signs at all, no indication as to what this place was, but then I noticed a metal sign in the shadow of the boulder. I reached and picked it up carefully, suddenly the image of a rattlesnake underneath it burning brightly in my mind. But there was no snake. Just a rusted sign, half rotten from the elements. Turning it in the moonlight, I could dimly see the name that had been painted on it: Tattersall Security.
I already knew this was the place of course, but that just confirmed it. I felt my heart leaping in my chest as I reached for the door, the terrible certainty that it would be locked and impenetrable filling me with dread. Instead, the latch offered no resistance and the door swung open easily to reveal a cold, yawning darkness. It was a tunnel, traveling down and curving out of sight to the left some forty or fifty feet away. I felt a thrill of fear, and for a moment I thought about calling for help, getting someone else out here to help look for the woman and help her. But a dozen reasons and excuses for not doing that crowded my mind as soon as I had the idea. I debated internally for a moment, but just a moment. Then I went down into the dark.
The tunnel became a more proper hallway around the corner, concrete
walls and ceiling, with metal mesh underfoot. The hallway then opened
up to become much wider, the edges of the walls just visible in my
flashlight’s reach. The air was thick and coppery, making every breath
seem like an effort. I thought about calling out, but the weight of my
fear and anxiety kept me quiet as I went.
I began to wonder about the purpose and practicality of such a big, empty subterranean space. What was the point? Had something been stored here? If so, there was no sign of it. Speaking of signs, there were none here. No labels or icons, no symbols of any kind. It made me even more uneasy. Something wasn’t…
Just then I saw the far wall, four doors set within it. These were
the first doors I’d seen since entering this area, and I felt sure
behind one of them I would find the author of those transmissions. Two
of the doors were larger cargo doors, so I focused on the smaller,
outermost doors first. The first one led down a much smaller hallway
with several turns before coming what appeared to be a series of
cubicles and outer offices. Again, there was no writing or other
signs of what was done here. No sign of people ever being here at all.
I mean, there was furniture and all, but no messy desks or mementos, no
indications of hasty retreat or a controlled shutdown. It was almost
like a stage or movie set that was exacting in its attention to detail
but still felt artificial because it had no spark of life.
Still, I searched the area thoroughly. I tried a few lights and computers, but no luck. The power seemed dead, which made me wonder if the air was getting recycled or if I was breathing the dead air of years or decades earlier. I pondered distantly if I could be breathing in primarily carbon dioxide and not realize it, passing out and dying in here, smothered to death by this place. But I pushed it aside and continued back to the main hall.
When I went through the other door, I saw that it led to a large
area filled with crates. Most were empty, but some were partially full
of MREs, clothing, and various equipment I didn’t understand the
function of in the slightest. In the back I saw a set of double doors
and went through them into another hallway. There were a few rooms here
and there along the hall, their purposes apparent from the items they
contained. A small kitchen/mess hall, several rooms with beds and
lockers, one larger space that seemed to be a rec room, complete with a
couple of decks of cards and an ancient looking pool table hulking in
the shadowy back corner. Everything still had the air of artificiality
to it though, every feature that should show signs of people and be
somehow comforting was wrong in some intangible way, and more worrying
for it.
I would periodically try the radio, but I got no signals inside this place at all. Everything was dark and silent, and I found it hard to shake the fear that my flashlight might peter out and leave me lost and wandering forever in utter blackness. But it was still burning bright, pushing back the darkness in a blue-white cone before me. Soon it highlighted another set of doors, and beyond them, another set of stairs going deeper down.
I went down the stairs, feeling the concrete growing slicker as the air became moist and sticky. There were four flights with no other branches off to other levels before the bottom. At the bottom, another set of doors, these solid steel and secured with three thick bolts that appeared to be operated by large gaskets set in a row along one side. But the doors were open now, and I saw that the hall beyond was much different.
It appeared to be made of some old stone laid carefully in some strangely ornate fashion. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of Mayan and Aztec structures in some strange way. The air was thin and freezing here, and as I moved forward, I saw that a gray mist hung limply in the air, reflecting my light and making it harder to see past into the darkness. For a moment I thought I saw something or at least sensed something, but then my entire mind was taken up by the searing pain cutting through my foot.
Screaming, I instinctively crouched and grabbed my leg, dropping the flashlight in the process. As the light pinwheeled around, I again thought I saw a glimpse of something beyond the stones, but then it was gone and my brain was on fire with pain.
Fumbling for the light, I grasped it and shined it down on my foot. Three metal blades in a triangular formation rose two inches from the top of my right foot like bloody stalagmites. Feeling faint, I passed my light over the floor and saw several more outcroppings of sharp metal hidden within the mist. Cursing, a realization settled over me. My foot was bleeding badly and I needed to get out of here right now or I could die. Soon.
Standing again slowly, stifling little screams, I stood again and prepared to pull my foot free. Gripping my leg at the knee with both hands, I began to pull up. The pain was incredible, and my foot seemed no closer to being free. I tried again, but while I felt my foot lift some, it seemed stuck somehow. Feeling around with shaking hands, I probed the blades gingerly looking for some sign of what the problem was. I felt my stomach twist as I felt downward curved barbs along the lower portion of each blade. They had hooked into the muscles, bones and tendons of my foot and didn’t want to let go.
But it didn’t change anything really. I had to get out of here and get help. And there was no way but pulling my foot loose. There was no one here to help…I suddenly felt a giddy rush of hope. Maybe the woman really was here, and if so, she could help.
I began yelling, explaining why I was there and that I needed help. The words barely echoed at all, as though the stone walls were swallowing them. I tried again, my voice cracking with the strain and my growing terror. I could feel coldness starting to press in on me as the loss of blood started its inexorable process of pulling me down. Cursing again, I cast aside the hope I’d held for a moment and gripped my leg again. I had no way to cut my foot or pry at the metal. I would just have to tear it free or I’d die here in this tomb.
“One…two…” I yanked as hard as I could, feeling more than hearing something pop in my foot as it came free with pain so blinding that I faded out for a few moments. When I came back, I was on the ground, but free. I thanked God I was wearing a belt and cinched it tight around my thigh before trying to stand again with limited success.
The next hour was terrifying and excruciating as I hopped and crawled my way back up, wary of other traps and fighting the cold darkness crowding the edges of my vision. The pain and adrenaline dilated time in such a fashion that before I knew it, I was back on the highest level in the long, giant hallway. Then stumbling across the desert toward my car. Then inside, when I had a moment of panic at the realization that it was my accelerator foot that was injured before tucking that leg under, tightening the belt around my leg again, and using my left foot.
I’d like to say I made it all the way to the emergency room by myself, but that’d be a lie. I passed out and rolled to a stop about eight miles from the nearest hospital, and when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. My first thoughts were confused and fearful, wondering what had happened to put me there. Then I remembered, and I felt such a wave of relief and gratitude that I started crying.
That’s when she came in the room. She looked to be in her early thirties, and even if I wasn’t in the middle of some kind of survivor’s euphoria she would have been beautiful. She smiled as she came in and I embarrassedly tried to scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I felt very weak and disconnected from my body, and my head felt cottony. Painkillers, I thought thankfully.
“So you’re awake, huh? About time.” She smiled warmly at me. “Know why you’re here?”
My mouth felt dry and thick. “Uh…I fucked up my foot, right?”
She laughed and nodded with a grin. “You did indeed fuck up your foot. And I want to hear about how that happened when you feel up to it.”
I nodded again. “Ok…” I felt myself blushing slightly despite the medication. “What’s your name?”
Her smile widened a bit. “Alison. What’s yours?”
“Don’t you have it on my chart?”
Alison’s brows drew together. “I do. You had your wallet on you. But I want to make sure you didn’t lose so much blood you went retarded. So what’s your name?”
Her serious expression and tone made me laugh unexpectedly, sore throat protesting. After a moment I nodded and croaked, “Ok ok. It’s Julian.”
Still looking serious, she said, “Cool. No retardation.” She broke into a grin, but it fell from her face after a moment. “But seriously, you did get badly hurt. The doctor won’t be in until tomorrow, but there’s a lot of damage to your foot. Good news is you get to see me for at least a few more days.”
I was in the hospital for six more days, and when I was released, it
was with the diagnosis of permanent nerve and muscle damage to my right
foot. Loaded down with antibiotics, steroids and pain meds in my
complimentary plastic sponge bath tray, I was wheeled back out to the
front of the hospital.
I was glad to be out of the hospital, but I felt a desperate, gnawing sadness that Alison wasn’t here. We had talked a lot during my time here, and I wanted to keep seeing her when I got out, but I was worried she wouldn’t want to, that I’d somehow misread the connection that seemed so strong between us. But when I asked where she was that morning, I was told she wasn’t working. After a couple of hours of paperwork and me trying to stall, one of the other nurses patted me on the back and asked did I need them to call me a cab service to get home.
But out at the front of the hospital, there was no cab. Instead, there was a beat-up looking hatchback that had seen better days idling at the curb. And then Alison was getting out and coming around to help me get in the car.
“Thought you were getting away from me? No cabs for you.” I was grinning at her like an idiot but I didn’t care.
“After I get home and take an actual shower, I want to take you out on our first date.”
She was easing me into the passenger seat smoothly, but she stopped a moment, her eyes widening slightly before she smiled. “I think we’ve already been dating at least a couple of days. But we can iron out the details later.”
We were living together a few weeks later and were married by the next spring. After some saving and vacillation, we decided to move to the northeast. There was a clinic in Vermont that had a nursing program Alison had finally been accepted in, and I had gotten a job at a local small town pharmacy. The old pharmacist decided he liked me and encouraged me to go to pharmacy school, letting me work part-time and study during slow periods. Before I knew it, we had been there for five years, had a house and a dog, and were insanely happy. She had mentioned the idea of children, but I told her about Mary and that I wasn’t ready yet. She said she understood and I believed her.
I had told her about the transmissions of course, and what I’d found in that strange place. I never suggested going back out there and neither did she. There were times that I felt like the entire purpose of those strange nights of driving desert roads, going through that door, getting hurt, was just to lead me to her. There were other times that I still felt the strange call of that place, of unresolved mystery and unfinished business. But more than that. The feeling of something being wrong.
It was a feeling that I couldn’t understand or control, and as time went on it grew stronger. It invaded my sleep, with my dreams leading me back to that strange stone hallway, something watching me from deeper in the darkness. But instead of terrifying me, it just made the drive to return and finish…something…that much stronger.
So when I got word through some old work friends that Ricky had died of a heart attack, I used it as an excuse to fly back. Alison wanted to come with me, but I convinced her not to miss work and that I’d be back in a couple of days.
When I went back to the car after the graveside service, I already had my change of clothes and supplies with me.
It took a couple of hours, but even without the transmission I found my way back to the dirt road, to the door, to the rooms below the earth. They seemed undisturbed since I had left, the only notable new feature was the trail of old brown blood I’d left escaping last time. I followed the trail back down the stairs and to that hallway, taking care to watch for blades in the floor or any other trap. I walked with a cane now, and it was a constant reminder of watching where I stepped.
I saw the spot I had gotten hurt at, blood crusted on the barbed blades, and I moved past it. I had the sense of not being alone, but I didn’t see anything. Then I saw the far wall, completely bare and featureless other than the same types of ornate stone that swirled around in every direction. There was nothing here.
Sighing, I almost started to leave when I stopped myself. Something still wasn’t right. Something was being kept from me. So I stood still, closed my eyes, and tried to concentrate on being empty and opening my senses, my mind, ready to accept the truth.
At first, there was nothing. Then suddenly I didn’t know what
direction I was in, and I wasn’t aware of my body any longer. I had a
body, or so it seemed, and I had eyes, or so I thought, but everything
was dark and cold and strange. And yet, I could still see. I could see
some gigantic monstrosity I was somehow a part of, melted and merged
into this vast horror. I felt the cells of the green-grey mottled mass
of flesh shifting constantly, containing the DNA and imprints of
hundreds or thousands of different organisms, the wills of those beings
still not fully absorbed sparking periodically along the surface of its
slick and slimy surface like fireflies dancing above an open sewer pipe.
I could hear some of the thoughts of those other lights, and could hear the madness in most of them.
But most of all, I could hear the titantic black will of the Other, whose being stretched back beyond the confines of this space into some other realm, but whose mass and power here continued to grow. Its will sounded light and musical, and I instantly recognized it as being the song I had heard, the song that had led me here. This memory led to others, and I realized that what I was seeing, what I was experiencing now, was the truth.
I never left this place. I was led here and fell into this terrible
thing’s trap, whatever it is, and had been made part of it as it fed
off me as it had others. It digested its meals slowly, and filled them
full of false memories and lives like a spider filling a fly with venom.
The more I tried to discern truth from lie, the more I realized I
didn’t know what was real any more.
Had my parents died? Had I ever taken care of Mary? Did Alison exist? I just didn’t know anymore. Somehow, that thought terrified me more than everything else.
But still, if it pacified its victims, this thing might have some weakness to the other wills it consumed. If I could just remember long enough, not slip back into the lie, I could fight back, maybe even stop it. I just have to…
I wake with a start in my seat as the stewardess is announcing that we are beginning final decent into Montpelier airport. Alison is waiting at the terminal when I land, and after hugging and kissing we head to the car and start the drive home. She asks about the trip, the funeral, and I tell her. I want to tell her something else, about a dream I had while I was gone, but it’s faded out of my grasp. Reaching out, I grip her hand and give it a squeeze. She squeezes it back.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
I look out at the dark trees passing by as we drive along. Then I turn back to her, studying her silhouette in the green glow of the dashboard. “Yeah, me too.”
---
Credits
Comments