Dear reader, allow me to spin you a tale of mystery, suspense and intrigue. A tale which may chill the bones and quicken the heart. A true story, of course*. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin…
This evening, I found myself sitting idle, restless, so decided to cross a task off my to-do list and replace a broken floorboard which has been bothering me. I took my toolbox from the hall cupboard, set aside the rug and sat down on the floor, ready to achieve this small win for the day. Little did I know that like Alice, I was about to discover the true depths of the rabbit hole. Prying back the board, I took a curious look beneath and rather than finding the expected dust and detritus of a rarely seen crawlspace, I was astonished to discover a large area beneath my house which seemed to be lit by some eldritch glow and set in the floor beneath, a heavy iron hatch.
I can almost hear you now, crying out to leave well alone. Admittedly, being a horror fan myself, I felt a moment of fleeting dread but I am, at heart, a sceptic. Deciding to investigate, I removed some of the surrounding floorboards and dropped down into the space beneath, finding myself in a cubic room, approximately five feet along every dimension. Stooping, I reached down and tugged at the hatch, expecting to find it sealed shut but to my amazement it swung open with a gentle ease, as though it’s hinges had been recently oiled. Taking a deep breath of the musty air, I peered below and saw a long shaft which sank gradually into darkness, with iron rungs bolted to one side to allow someone to climb further into this strange undercroft.
Having clearly come too far to abandon my mysterious adventure, I checked my phone battery was reasonably high should I need a flashlight, made sure to secure the hatch lest it slam shut above me and began my descent. Counting the rungs ten at a time, placed as they were some six inches apart, I reasoned that I should be able to get an approximate sense of the depth of the shaft. Ten, twenty, thirty, soon I reached the first hundred and still the opening dropped away beneath me. Two hundred, three hundred, I began to question my decision to explore this gloomy pit before suddenly my feet found solid ground. I stood in the pitch black, calculating in my head. Having climbed near three hundred and twenty rungs, I came to the realisation that I was now some one hundred and sixty feet below my house. Taking out my phone, I flicked on the flashlight and shone it around excitedly, eager to see what strange sights might greet me. Truly, friends, I wish I had never shone that bright beam into the clinging darkness which surrounded me.
The walls around me seemed almost to be made of some alien flesh, slick with blood and ichor. The floor beneath me, while solid enough, had that same strange texture and here and there I fancied I saw small buds, not unlike the taste buds which line the tongue in your mouth. Disgusted, I very nearly began to ascend the ladder immediately but something kept me rooted to the spot, some strange sense that there was yet more to see. The room, which I was beginning to think of as something more akin to the stomach of some great beast, retreated back into darkness beyond the light from my phone and steeling myself, I began to move forward.
How long I walked, I have no idea. My feet ached and my heart pounded but I carried on into that awful, yawning void ahead of me for what felt like an eternity. Little by little, I began to take in more of my surroundings and I noted that the walls occasionally pulsed, embued perhaps with some alien life force. From time to time I passed thick cables pressed into the walls which eventually, with a stifled groan of dismay, I identified as some kind of vein or artery. Everything within me screamed to turn and run back to the ladder and escape this bizarre tunnel of flesh but I could do nothing other than press forward, as though drawn by some unseen force.
Eventually, I was both relieved and confused to find that the tunnel gave way to a more traditional concrete shaft, something like a fallout shelter or sewer. Tendrils of that hideous flesh crept along the walls for a short while, but before much longer I found myself stood in what could well have been a windowless hallway in any normal building. Stopping for a short moment, I breathed deep of the air and was delighted to find it sweet and clear. I wondered if perhaps I had been moving on an imperceptible upward incline for all this time and turned to look back the way I came, gasping as I saw that the opposite was true and i’d been gradually working my way deeper and deeper below the earth as i’d walked, with no sense of time.
Still, the quality of the air and the shift in surroundings cheered me somewhat and I pressed on, wondering what new mysteries lay ahead. Again, I walked without any understanding of the hours of the clock, moving forward steadily. The walls, floor and ceiling were all the same uniform grey the entire time and my previous sense of cheer turned to a strange tedium. I began to grow impatient, even having bizarre moments where I missed the unsettling nature of the flesh tunnel. At least there, each few steps brought some new configuration of oddities, here there was nothing but grey. Grey surrounded me and blackness stretched on ahead and behind.
I think the uniformity of my surroundings lulled me into an almost walking sleep and so I barely noticed the changes around me. Gradually, the uniform grey gave way to textured walls, like old brick. The floor had, I realised, shifted from concrete to painted wood and I heard the occasional creak of a board beneath my feet. Slowly, the grey paint gave way to dark wood stained floors and red brick walls. I found myself in what seemed to be the hallway of some old house and gradually, far in the distance, I noticed a flicker of light. I hurried onward, hoping to find some sense of normality but that hope was dashed as I realised the light ahead was the soft glow of candles, sat in ornate brass sconces on the walls. The walls themselves were now lined with oak panelling and soon I came upon a series of portraits hung on either side. Portraits which, to my horror, showed images of me in various scenes of agonising torture and painful death. I rushed from painting to painting, taking in each gruesome scene as tears began to run down my cheeks. Who would do something like this? What madman had dug this elaborate tunnel and furnished it thus and for what reason? To torture me? To drive me mad? I broke into a full fledged run at this point, ignoring the grotesque art which adorned the walls and fleeing into darkness…
After an endless, madcap sprint into the black I collapsed to the floor. I glanced back briefly and realised I had left that gallery of agonies far behind me and once more sat in utter darkness, a darkness that seemed to have weight to it which hung heavy on my shoulders like a cloak of sorrow. I lay there, sobbing, panting, exhausted and terrified and fearing that my sanity would shatter but after a time, my nerves settled. Somehow, I found the strength to once more reach for my phone and shine my light ahead of me and what I saw brought me immediately to my senses.
The corridor ahead was lined with soft carpet and only then did I realise that I had been lying on that carpet this entire time. The walls were painted in soft cream and the ceiling a bright white. This could be my own hallway, save the decor, but that wasn’t the thing which brought clarity back to my racing mind. Ahead, perhaps sixty or so feet in front of me, the corridor ended and there was a door. A simple, white glossed wooden door, slightly ajar. I stood, summoned my last reserves of courage and I walked slowly towards it until I was close enough to reach out and clasp the cold, brass door handle. With a twist and a gentle pull, the door creaked open and I stepped through.
What I expected to find, i’m not sure. A torture chamber perhaps? The bottom of some dismal oubliette with the night sky far above me? Any number of awful images swam through my mind but I shook them off and looked around me in astonishment. I was stood in a well lit, comfortably laid out study. Bookcases on every wall were lined with heavy leather tomes, a comfortable, worn suede armchair sat flanked by a pair of mahogany side tables. On one, a bottle of good malt whisky and a crystal glass and on the other, a bowl filled with assorted fruits. A fire roared in an old brick hearth and the air was filled with the comforting aroma of burnt cedar. This was the kind of room I had long wished for myself, a quiet nook to escape the stress and strain of daily life.
Tentatively, I stepped forward and took a seat in the chair and it was only then that I noticed the small wooden box which lay in the centre of the room. A simple, pine construction not more than six inches across and perhaps four inches deep. I reached down and picked it up, laying it in my lap and spied a single word scratched into the lid. Just one word.
Fucks.
I opened the box and it was completely empty.
After going through all of that, I still couldn’t find a single fuck to give about Rob Schneider’s drivellings about the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. Not a single fuck.
*Load of utter bollocks, this was
