Something in the Void

Be it curiosity, a sense of amusement, or something much darker, the man found himself walking toward the dilapidated structure that peeked through the trees at him. His feet swept through the grass as he approached the treeline. The sun was shining and the bright rays warmed his skin. He raised his hand to his brow, blocking the sun, he looked again, now closer. It was an ancient farmhouse, long forgotten and leaning severely. The rotting frame struggled to hold up the rest of the structure which was splintered and sagging. Whatever paint previously coated the pine-wood exterior had all but vanished. Everything was deteriorating from the roof to the floor. To most, it would have been as simple as taking a peek and forgetting about the thing. The house did not appear to be significant, especially not outwardly, but the man was drawn in.

He trudged through the unkempt foliage as the temperature among the trees dropped a few degrees. The man shivered and stepped over the threshold, entering the house. He took in his surroundings, gazing upon relics from the past. The farmhouse appeared to be built in the late 18th century. It was a single room home with little distinction between the kitchen area and living area.

The man ran his hand across the ornate wallpaper that lined the home. It was laden with dirt and peeling off in spots but was still largely intact. It was green wallpaper with gold interlaced in intricate patterns. He walked along the wall, careful to watch where he planted his feet. Under the wallpaper were various, thickly plastered, newspapers with dates as early as 1701.

A shelf full of wax-sealed jars sat along the wall, opposite to the man. The jars were filled with thick murky liquids. Deep reds and browns stained the glass. He stepped across the floor joists and picked one up, inspecting it above his head. Tilting the jar, he watched the thick concoction slowly drift back and forth. He placed the jar back on the shelf and looked around the home. It may have been cozy in its time but in the man’s time, the place was anything but.

He made his way outside and around to the back, glancing over a multitude of rusted farming implements that were scattered about the yard. As he looked for something of interest, his eyes fell upon a wooden door that lay recessed into the ground.

The door looked to be that of a cellar or shelter, not uncommon around the locale. It had a concrete foundation that sealed the outer edges. A large brass ring was bolted just off center. It had been painted midnight black with a series of incongruous white characters etched, and then painted, across the surface of the door.

The man grasped the latch and gave a hefty wrench. He pulled with all his strength and with every inch he managed to pull, the door let out a series of groans. The door was unnaturally heavy for its size. It acted as if it didn’t want to be opened, yet he continued to heave. He was sweating. Pulling. Pulling. Pulling. Until finally…

A cold burst of air escaped the hatch and the man, muscles burning, took in a deep breath at that moment. It was like ice in his lungs. On exhale, his breath could be seen as a foggy cloud gathered and dissipated into the warm summer air.

He crouched down, rocking back on his heels. He peered through the doorway and into a dark set of stairs that descended into the earth. His eyes fought to see and his ears strained to hear. Curious, he stood and looked back over his shoulder, ensuring that he was alone. The uncertainty drew him in further; nearer.

As he took the steps slowly downward, arm outstretched, keeping his palm to the rough concrete, the void in the stairway grew more and more vast, enveloping his whole being with each step.

Step. Step. Step.

Slowly.

Step. Step. Step.

It was entirely black and unbelievably cold. The man shivered and, again, looked over his shoulder. The light from the doorway reached as far as it had dared into the chasm but the inky blackness was unrelenting, dominating the space. The doorway was small. He was quite a ways in.

Step. Step. Step.

His feet faltered as he attempted to take the next, non-existent, step down. He was on relatively flat ground and felt loose rock under him. He shuffled forward, barely lifting his feet. Blind, he outstretched his arms and probed the space in front of him, trusting his limbs to the void. After a few steps, his hands landed on a surface. Wood.

The splinters, crude and jagged, pricked his palms and he pulled them back dramatically. Lighter now, he felt around. Wood, wood, concrete, wood, a hinge, wood, wood, and a doorknob. His now prickling palms were relieved by the icy touch of the doorknob. He grasped it and turned. The door opened with a low creak and the man stepped through.

Be it curiosity, a sense of amusement, or something much darker, the man found himself delving deeper into the darkness. He walked slowly. Each breath that the man took was too loud. The temperature dropped steadily as he progressed and, in turn, each breath grew shakier and shakier.

A sense of dread would overtake most people that found themselves in the man’s shoes but he must not have felt dread; he must have felt an overwhelming mystique because he continued onward.

As it was, utter blackness was all that this underground dwelling had room for. The man looked down at his hand and his mind fought to agree that it was truly there. He stared hard at the nothingness and when he moved his eyes back up, nothing changed. Nothing was everything. If the man had his bearings, it was not by miracle.

The air grew warmer now and with it came a twinge of rot. It was a sweet rot, like fruit that had been left out for far too long in an entirely inhospitable environment. It tickled his nose and he followed the scent. It grew stronger and more distinct. The smell festered in his nostrils and he gagged, covering his nose and mouth with a cupped hand. He wretched but he did not stop.

Step. Step. Step. Squish.

He stopped.

He went to lift his foot but something viscous made him exert more effort to do so. The man’s boot slopped and sloshed as it came unstuck from the saturated floor. He stared into the darkness but it refused to give ground. His foot fell back to the ground. Slowly, he bent down to a squat and dipped his fingers into the sludge. It was warm and thick, like molasses left in the sun.

The man stood. He turned his body and went to leave the place. It was time for him to go. He took several large strides, both hands grasping for the pocket knife that he kept on his waist. He found the knife and gripped it tightly. Several more strides. He dry heaved and found the wall with his nose.

Falling back onto his rear, the man cussed and clasped a hand over his bloody nose involuntarily. The act made him wretch and vomit onto the floor. Either the smell or realization of contact made him empty his gut. His heart was racing. The man was frantic. He pushed himself up and set off into the dark.

He ran with his arms in front of him, ready to catch himself before he incurred further injuries.

Faster.

Step, step, step, step, step.

He must have realized at this moment that he was lost in the darkness. The man slowed his gait and came to a stop. He listened. He closed his eyes and noticed that, somehow, the back of his eyelids seemed lighter than the void that he had placed himself in. He pressed his eyes shut tighter.

There was someone with the man. If not someone then something. The unmistakable pattern of breathing faintly echoed across the concrete walls. A light gurgle accompanied the shakey intake of air. Each breath was labored and wet. The sound crept closer until the man was forced to cede ground.

He silently backed away from the sound, extremely cautious of each step. He felt concrete as he found himself in a corner of the room. He waited. His legs shook with anticipation but he remained silent.

The thing breathed. In and out. Slowly. Closer.

The man gripped his knife as sweat traced his brow. He muffled his breathing and slowly lowered himself into the corner. His muscles sent violent tremors that rattled his skeleton. His body shook erratically with each breath.

Slowly.

So slowly.

The thing’s labored breathing subsided.

The man sat, still shaking. He remained planted in fear and began sobbing to himself, ever careful to muffle his soft moans. His back was pressed tightly into the corner as he stared into blackness. The unknown lurked everywhere, all at once, heaving its devious claws deep into the man’s mind.

Shakily, he stood and shuffled forward, hand outstretched. He was unnerved and each step felt tremendously difficult, as if he had just sprinted a marathon. The man wanted out. He wanted to go home. He had had enough. Hobbling deep into the impossible black, he cursed his curiosity. His feet seemed to move for him as he went and he prayed that they were heading toward solace.

Through the oppressive darkness, possible whispers that might have been the wind, or something else entirely, emanated. The low tap of his worn boots sent a disquieting pulse throughout him as he padded forward, terrified. The whispering seemed to intensify. They surrounded him like unseen threats, poking and prodding at his sanity. Were they real or simply tricks that his mind had played in the utter absence of light? The uncertainty gnawed at his already frayed nerves as the man unknowingly went deeper.

Step, step, step.

Credit: B.C. Peniman