Catacomb Crunch

Where There's Weirdness - Segment III

Catch up here: segment I, segment II.

There had been shoes on the table, Alicia recalled as she squinted into the woodland that surrounded her. They were on the table, for a second, maybe two, before they were quickly gripped and tossed aside. The superstition had taken hold and there had been a shout, and then the shoes were tumbled to the floor. Her children - George and Grace - looked awkward, guilty. Unsurprised. What had followed was the usual: frowns of concern, doubt, judgement. Alicia had felt crazy again - returned to the stasis that had formed the majority of her adult life - but then slipped into an anger that was all too familiar. Why risk it? Why expose yourself to the potential rage of a vengeful universe? These superstitions exist for a reason.

Something must have happened to cause this. Something must have happened. The alternative, that random chaos lurked at the edge of reality like a heavy-breathing stalker, waiting to pounce, was simply unbearable to her.

The Squawker had been on over-drive since she had turned it on. Seven road-traffic accidents in the centre of town, birds falling from the sky to their death, buildings collapsing from no clear cause. Her radio picked up all of the emergency services’ chatter and this morning it had been conspicuous by its chaos.

Then the weather: the thick, black cloud that hung like a veil, casting a shadow that made day feel like night. It all felt rather apocalyptic. And now this.

Alicia ran her hand over the stone and shivered. It was cold and damp with dew from the dense overnight weather. But, crucially, it was completely out of place. It was the side of a squat structure, consisting of clean, weathered stone of a bright yellow-white. Feathered cracks ran down its length and clumps of opportunistic weed sprouted from occasional holes. There was a heavy wooden door with rusting iron hinges encased in the structure’s frontage. But it hadn’t been there yesterday. Alicia ran this route through the woodland every morning as part of her routine, and she was certain this building hadn’t been there before. She removed her earphones that were connected to the Squawker in her pocket, and gazed baffled at the building’s dumb stillness. She looked over her shoulder, at the path she had run along moments before, checking it matched the expected layout she knew so well, checking that there hadn’t been a wrong turn. But it was precisely as expected, exactly the same as normal.

What on Earth.

Her fear began to rise in her throat, merging with the pre-existing superstitious anxieties, and exacerbated by the repeated alerts of abnormal occurrences across the radio-waves. Something was very wrong. But, as a journalist, she was obliged to investigate further. To do something. She could call it into the local police - as daft as that might sound (“yes there is a new, old building in the woods…”) - but they sounded busy enough. She had to go in. The realised obligation calmed her somewhat, removed any decisioning that might be wrong or bad, and made this all part of some master plan.

“Fine.” She said aloud and marched at the heavy door. It clicked open and then wheezed as she pushed it aside. Light flooded the space within and revealed a slim set of stairs.

The air inside was wet, cool; Alicia shivered and took a deep breath. She followed the steps that led down into a darkness. The light was frail and each step became more precarious than the last. As she reached the bottom she paused to catch her breath, listen carefully, allow for her eyes to acclimatise to the low light. The corridor ahead continued on out of sight, into a deep black. Doors led off on each side repeating on and on into the darkness. There was no sound at all.

She reached the first door and ran her hand over the clean, smooth wood. It was a juxtaposition to the rough, ancient stone that housed her, as though it had been installed that morning. And it was warm. She gripped the cool metal handle and twisted, easing it away from her. Light flooded the catacomb. Alicia clamped her eyes shut as the bright white glow drenched her, and it took a moment for her to notice the sound that came with it: children playing. Squinting, she slowly allowed the world to come into view. Her jaw dropped. The soft play was a vibrance of rich, primary colour, with children and toddlers leaping, running, rolling, climbing all over it. Parents leaned and stared at phones, or shouted pleadingly, pathetically for some calm, or sipped over-hot and over-priced coffee with a vacant gaze.

And then she saw herself. Sitting, focused, smiling at George and Grace who gamboled into the plastic balls and laughed. The memory was fixed and beautiful. The emotion was suddenly overwhelming, seeing herself and her two children at such a precious age: the joy, and raw experience of life that was once so normal and yet now so distant. Her face a picture of joy and fatigue. The memory of giving everything she had into her children was crystal clear in her mind. It was her entire essence, the focus of every decision and every thought in her head. She missed it, but winced at the remembered exertion of it all. Ten or twelve years had passed since this moment, it felt like several lifetimes ago.

The memory disappeared with a snap and then an almighty crunch sent the walls tumbling and twisting away. Darkness filled the space and Alicia could only cower as stone and rock flew past her in all directions. A distant laugh echoed through a corridor she couldn’t see; it was bright and metallic and made her shiver. What am I doing down here? What is happening?

Another memory built itself ahead of her with the sliding and groaning of stone and mud. She could place it immediately; it was well-rehearsed and well-viewed, almost degraded like the celluloid of an old tape, or a disintegration loop. He was halfway across the road, smiling, clutching the wine, the flowers, slightly hunched and excitedly calling her name. The road was wet but the rain had stopped; the night was clear and beautiful and stars lined up in every direction, orderly queuing or mournfully waiting. Someone nearby was playing guitar and some football fans were drunkenly chanting in a bar four doors down. A moped started its engine, overladen with pizza and fizzy drinks. The neon light of an off license flickered. A well-dressed elderly couple walked arm in arm behind her, leaning in and muttering, giggling like teenage lovers. It warmed her heart. Then: the skid of breaks, the scream of tires sliding on the wet, frozen in a half-spin, steam and smoke dancing off in grey wisps behind them. A scream for somewhere, then another, one of them hers. The bottle smashing, the burst of red wine, the battered flowers, the upturned smile, the inability to look away. There was a pause and then the screaming didn’t stop.

Alicia clamped her eyes shut and longed for the darkness to consume her. It’s not real. She told herself, and waited. Several seconds passed and then she eased her eyes open, grateful for the darkness.

There was a wet thud and then a blue light gathered a few steps ahead of her. It pulsed and then faded, then pulsed again, revealing a translucent sack of liquid, busy with swimming objects that shimmered like silver. With each pulse, the swimming things had increased in number and coalesced to a central point; a ball of gathered life that swelled and pulsed with the rolling blue glow. The swells became more pronounced, heavier, and she could feel them underfoot. They became dense, organic slaps; roiling against the thinning casing, against the atmosphere, livid and vengeful. She backed away, fearful, her breath shortening and eyes widening. The sack burst and left the glowing blue form. It was angular, sprawled and lifeless for a moment as liquid ran away from it at pace. A hum filled the room that rose to a roar. The form twitched three times, pulsing a deep blue again with each, before everything exploded.

“You are good.”

Alicia hovered in the darkness. The voice was detached and distant, and yet all around her; she felt the cold breath on her exposed arms. Its owner - the blue form she had seen emerge - was somewhere in the darkness. She said nothing.

“Pure of heart.” The voice was cold, austere. “No good to me.”

“Let me go.”

“You have value alive.” There was a pause and then a light laugh. “I wish you knew how worthless your endeavours will be.”

“Please.”

“I pity you.”

“And I, you.” She said blindly into the void, and something changed. A grip tightened. The blackness became deeper, and she felt it closer. It was just beyond her skin, bristling with rage, surrounding her like a hateful fog.

“What did you say? You worthless form.”

“I saw you.” She managed, but the words had to be squeezed beyond her closing throat, out of teeth that rattled in the gathering pressure imposed on her. “I saw you. You grew from whatever that disgusting thing was. You are nothing. You disgust me.” Alicia’s bravery reached its limit with the last syllable, she felt her body go weak as the fear enveloped her.

“Know this, human: when this is done, I will drain your body and make you watch. I will keep you in this half-state for an eternity. Take you with me, back across the stars, on the edge of life and drenched in pain. You will live an endless nightmare.” The words were dense and flowed into one another; composure had been lost to rage and Alicia held her breath, waiting for it to spill over into her death. “I mark you now,” a burst of burning pain found her stomach and she screamed silently, “and release you.”

Alicia opened her eyes into the dying daylight and drew in a deep, cool breath. I am alive, she realised with a wave of relief. But the relief quickly gave way to pain and her hands went to her stomach. She sat up and lifted her shirt carefully, anxiously. Three lines ran across it horizontally, raised and white, like scars, perpendicular to those from her caesareans. They were hot to touch and terribly tender, despite looking years old.

“Hello.” A voice came from behind her and she spun, in instant panic and fear.

“H-Hello.” She managed, slowly rising to her feet.

“Are you okay?” The voice emanated from a smile that was not at all reassuring.

“Yes, I fell.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine. What are you doing out here?”

The boy looked at the catacomb entrance, suddenly awkward and sheepish. “Nothing.”

“It’s late, can I give you a ride home?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I’m Alicia.”

“Randall.” The boy said, his grin steady and violent.