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The street light shone
weakly through the shop’s single window. Martin pushed back
the papers on the desk, glancing at his pocket watch to make
sure of the time. It was after 6 pm. Closing time. Striking
a match, he lit the candle at his right. The flame
flickered, spilling its frail light. Martin stretched,
looking at the unfinished work before him.
It could wait until
morning.
The work of a solicitor
was not something he found overly exciting. And increasingly
he found that he was just doing enough to get by. The office
was paid for by his father-in-law. A nice, quaint little
shop at the bridge side. Businesses had come and gone for
over a century which didn’t bode well when he thought about
it. After all that would have to mean that he was at the end
of a long line of failures. But it was no matter; no amount
of reflection, good or bad, was going to make him finish the
stack of paper.
Standing from his seat
he placed the pocket watch in his waistcoat and picked up
the candle gingerly, careful not to spill the gathering wax.
The flame shook as he turned. The office was almost
completely dark now, the street lamp lighting nothing save a
small space at the base of his front window. Martin watched
as the light came and went, blotted then revealed by the men
and women who conducted their business in the street this
time of evening. The bridge side was no stranger to scarlet
women, street singers, and the like. It had once been a
place for respectable business exclusively. But that time
was gone. Some men of respect still remained, Martin among
the rest.
Martin walked to the
front entrance, locking the door quickly. He looked out the
window into the street in distrust, holding the candle below
the seal. He couldn’t lie to himself. He thought about
slipping one of the passing ladies a couple schillings,
having her come in to the office for a good time. He was
alone after all. The fantasy passed through his mind.
The back room.
He and a complete
stranger that bent at his will.
And his wife, at home
waiting for her dedicated husband.
Martin shook his head
and laughed.
He bit his lip and
turned. He would resist for tonight at least. The candle
flame danced as he walked towards the back room, scattering
the shadows on the floor. Martin stepped carefully, mindful
of the clutter, strewn across the wooden floor. He needed to
clean up, the place was a mess. But that could wait until
morning as well.
Martin sat the candle
upon the table beside the coat rack. The office bothered him
when it was this quiet. He made as much noise as possible as
he pulled his coat from the hook. The place filled with
racket for a moment but then again fell silent.
He began to hum.
An old tune. Well he
didn’t know exactly – it sounded old. He’d heard one of the
street singers bellowing it out one evening. He needed to
ask his father-in-law about it. He seemed to have an endless
knowledge of those old folk songs. He hummed it still
louder, pleased at the melody.
Martin slid on his coat,
and again picked up the candle. Taking a step back, his foot
caught upon the crumpled rug and he tumbled mindlessly
backward. His back slammed loudly against the filing
cabinet, nearly knocking the bulky thing over. He let out a
loud moan as he slid to the ground. The candle fell to the
ground as well, fizzling out against the hardwood floor. The
office was completely enveloped by shadow. Martin shook his
head, grimacing at the pain he felt in his back. He twisted
from side to side, nothing was broken at least. Nevertheless
he was going to awake tomorrow morning with a bruise the
size of a small island. “Damn it,” he growled to himself,
reaching around to rub his back. Martin felt around in the
darkness for the candle. It had fallen from the holder. He
found both pieces, putting them again together as he stood.
Blindly he grabbed another match from his waistcoat,
lighting the wick.
He had hit the filing
cabinet so hard that it had been moved six inches or so to
the left. Martin shook his head in frustration. Then he gave
a swift kick to the rug that had tripped him in the first
place, pushing it to the side. Martin again sat the candle
upon the table and walked to the filing cabinet. He bent,
grimacing as the sharp pains flashed like lightning down his
back.
“Damn it,” he said
again.
Just as he reached
around to the back of the cabinet, he stopped, unsure of
what he was looking at. He moved his face still closer,
pushing around the side of the cabinet. It was too dark, but
it looked like the outline of a door. The cabinet had been
there when he’d moved into the office, he’d never thought of
moving it. Martin quickly grabbed the candle from the table;
shining its light behind the cabinet. There was no doubt
about it; behind the filing cabinet was a thin door.
Unusually thin in fact,
Martin wondered to himself if he could even slide through
the narrow opening.
Curiosity drowned out
the soreness of his back, and with a great push he moved the
cabinet aside. The candle sat upon the top of it. The door
hadn’t a lock or any other type of hindrance. A small wooden
handle was all that broke the monotony of the solid wood.
The thing seemed crudely fashioned, unfinished and
splintering.
Martin reached down,
pulling the small door back. It opened easily, though it
creaked on the time-worn hinges. A musty, mildewed smell
assailed his senses. So quickly in fact that he didn’t
grimace until the worst of it had passed. How long had the
room beyond been shut up? Martin shook his head in
disbelief, this was better than a mystery novel.
Whatever lay beyond,
Martin couldn’t say. Carelessly he reached his hand inwards,
but felt nothing save the thickness of stale air.
It was getting late, but
his wife would simply have to wait. Taking the candle in
hand, Martin lit the entrance. It was not a room at all. It
was a tunnel of sorts, stretching beyond the reach of his
light. Martin stuck his head through the door illuminating
the ceiling. It was vaulted stone; the walls were stone as
well. The floor was lined with cool sand, fine and soft.
Martin got on his hands and knees, placing the candle within
on the ground. Positioning his body sideways, he squeezed
through the open door and into the tunnel. The tunnel
stretched in two directions. The first led straight from the
doorway, the second led away to the left. Martin sat at the
fork for a moment, seeing if he could feel air coming from
either of the passageways. He had heard once that that was
the simplest way to tell if something was open or had a dead
end.
There was nothing coming
from the tunnels. One choice was as good as the other.
Martin turned left.
The air in the tunnel
seemed abnormally cold.
Martin moved cautiously
on his hands and knees, observing the walls on either side.
The ceiling had burn marks on it, where someone had gone
through with a torch before. Martin stopped suddenly,
sitting upon the ground. Maybe it was foolish to go into
these tunnels at night. There was no telling where these
things led. There were vaults underneath the city, but very
few knew the way to get into them. That kind of knowledge
had died out with the usefulness of the vaults. Maybe this
was a way in. The tunnels could have just been a place for
storage.
But something told him
that their existence was not as mundane as that. It was the
very thing that had made him want to turn around and go back
in the first place. Not only were there torch marks on the
ceiling, there were also long scratches. Maybe from where
boxes had been dragged. Yet it looked like the scrapings of
fingernails.
One. Two. Three. Four
squiggly lines that stretched continuously through the
tunnel, save for intermittent breaks. White, desperate
scratches.
Martin felt a rising
heaviness in his chest. The hair on his neck stood on end,
his arms prickled with chills. The air seemed to grow colder
with every inch he moved forward. He sighed, trying to
gather himself. There was nothing to be frightened of. It
was simply an abandoned tunnel. He was acting like a child.
Martin let out a laugh, more to break the silence than
anything else. The sound faintly echoed once in the
distance. He would just go a bit further, then he would turn
around. He promised himself.
Martin crawled further.
To his relief the scratches stopped. Holding the candle out
he stopped, at first thinking that he had reached a dead
end. But as he moved closer he could see that another door
was before him.
The tunnel was a
labyrinth.
The door was shaped in a
similar fashion as the one in his office, yet wider. Martin
turned the handle, looking over his shoulder as he did so.
The tunnel stretched darkly behind. He swallowed nervously
and pushed it in. The door swung open heavily. Martin shone
the candle through the frame. To his amazement the door
opened into another passage, yet one that was significantly
larger. Swinging around his feet, Martin stood in the open
passage. There was no fork, just a passageway that led
further on. Martin stretched his back, which was still tight
from his fall. For a moment he contemplated going back.
But the draw was too
great. He had to see where the tunnel led. Looking around
the room, a piece of graffiti caught his eye. Something was
crudely written on the wall to his right. Martin moved
closer. The letters were uneven as if hastily written.
Woe is Death, for this
road is sleepless.
Below the words was a
drawing of some sort. It was a symbol maybe, though it
seemed more like scribbling. Martin couldn’t tell. But what
did the words mean?
Just as he began to move
forward, another scribbled passage caught his eye.
For the resurrection
men, even death is dead.
Martin studied the
passage again, quietly confused. Maybe some of the homeless
men lived down in the vaults. He was probably looking at the
demented ravings of some forgotten soul. It was nothing to
worry about. Yet Martin again wasn’t so sure. He had a
threatening feeling. The thick air clogged his lungs, making
him feel short of breath though he hadn’t exerted himself in
the least. The atmosphere of the tunnel was oppressive, and
he found himself increasingly unable to think clearly. He
could only think of moving forward, just lifelessly moving
forward. Yet he still had enough bearing to catch himself,
and in the moment he stood reading the passage on the wall
he felt the overwhelming need to turn back and leave the
vaulted tunnels.
He stood confused,
thinking to himself in the middle of the passageway.
Yet he was drawn
suddenly as the deep silence of the tunnel was broken by the
unmistakable sound of dragging in the distance. His body was
frozen in place as he listened. The worst of it was that the
sound was coming from the stunted tunnel which he had just
left. He would have to confront it if he turned back now.
Even worse, he thought to himself, something may be
following behind.
Martin was on the verge
of panic, when he finally, anxiously moved forward, away
from the sound. After a short distance, he stopped again,
listening. The sound was gone, whatever it had been. The
tunnel again was silent; the sound of his own heartbeat
resonated alone in his ears.
The candle still
flickered in his hand. The flame danced as a rush of cold
air crept through the tunnel. Martin grasped at his
forehead, thinking himself crazy for the entire enterprise.
What was he doing, after all? He had to go home sometime.
Turning around he had had enough. Yet just as he prepared to
start back, something caught his eye.
It was the outline of
something in the darkness. A shadow. He waited, watching.
But it didn’t move; it stood perfectly still in the
distance. Martin shuddered, holding out his candle to get a
better look. It looked like the outline of a man, just
standing there.
“Hello? Sir? Hello?”
Martin said in frail, frightened voice.
The thing didn’t move.
It stood frozen against the wall – a relaxed statue.
Martin moved cautiously
forward. Watching the man; waiting for a reply.
Nothing. There was a
faint, chill wind in the tunnel that whistled slightly as it
passed. But nothing more. The thing was perfectly silent.
Martin swallowed
nervously, fidgeting the candle in his hand. Quickly he
pulled back, disoriented by the thing that stood before him,
lifeless or not.
He had to go back.
Martin turned and with a
gathering quickness in his step moved forward. He paid no
attention to the writing on the wall as he passed into the
open chamber where the door led to the smaller tunnel. He
stopped, and in haste sat the candle on the soft sand within
and hunkered down to crawl.
He could hear the sound
of dragging once again, yet this time it was coming from
behind. Coming from the tunnel he had just left. Martin,
safely within, turned to shut the door in his stead. Yet
just at that moment something emerged from the tunnel. He
could scarce believe the thing that lurched from the
darkness. It was the very think he had seen silhouetted in
the tunnel.
It couldn’t have been
human. Martin reassured himself as he shut the door with all
of his might. It couldn’t have been human. But …
Shutting it out of his
mind he dropped the candle and moved forward in the
darkness. He would navigate by clinging to the wall. The
candle was of no use. With all the speed he could muster he
crawled on his hands and knees until he felt the opening of
the narrow door in his office. He could hear the door open
behind him, and the sound of stilted breathing as the thing
he had saw crept after him. Martin stuck his feet through
the narrow doorway and turned once more as he exited. It was
coming, still faster, its breathing coming in harsh lurches.
He breathlessly squeezed out.
Martin slammed the door
shut and moved the heavy cabinet in place, blocking it.
He wheezed desperately,
blind in the overwhelming darkness.
Without a further
thought he moved to the door, unlocking it and stepping into
the cold night air. He slammed it shut locking it in his
stead. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily. His
head rested against the wall.
A woman passed by,
giving him a queer look.
The thing in the tunnel
was albino white. And as much as he argued with himself he
couldn’t deny that the thing had once been human. The
writing from the wall again passed through his mind.
For the resurrection
men, even death is dead.
Martin walked away from
the shop, his heart still racing – his mind swimming
deliriously - oblivious to the hollow eyes that watched him
closely through the single window.
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