I approached the dark abyss cautiously and peered down. There below me, glistening like onyx in the lunar rays, were the remains of a city. Seaweed hung from its primeval towers like tattered banners; a thick mist floated along its streets, obscuring the lower edifices from view; and all manner of underwater creature scuttled and scurried along its walls, their claws and shells clicking in the hush of the night. At its center stood a megalith, intricately carved into a tiered temple reminiscent of the Kalinga architecture of the Utkala kingdom on India’s eastern shore. The tower of the temple was the highest point of the city, and with a thrill I understood that its pinnacle was the rock that had called to me from the bay.
Frantically I began scanning the edge of the pit for a passable route down into the city. My uncle would have warned me to wait until morning, but my curiosity would not be ignored. I paced the shoreline, gazing into the dark for some way down. The wind hissed in my ears, and out of the corner of my eye I spied one of the men from the jungle further down the shore on the eastern arm of the island. He stood as still as stone, staring at me, his mouth moving silently. I started toward him, but as I drew closer he flitted further away. That’s when I knew he was leading me to what I sought. I followed the phantom like that for nearly a mile until suddenly he faded and did not reappear. I stopped, wondering where he had gone when I spotted him halfway down the wall of the pit. He hovered there for a moment, then disappeared.
As I gazed at where the phantom had stood, I saw a ledge jutting out from the wall of earth, descending down to the city and disappearing into the mist. It was dangerously narrow; I would have to traverse it with my back pressed up against the wall. A thousand words of warning rang in my ears, but I heeded none of them. The pull was simply too strong. My feet would tread the streets of Zrazis this night; I, Thomas Xavier Vandemar III, would be the first to wander amongst her forsaken, crumbling edifices in countless centuries. I, and no other.
I eased my way onto the ledge, inching along slowly, my hands brushing the damp wall as I descended. The pit was, from my estimation, close to two hundred and fifty feet deep and stretched the full three and a half miles from the western peninsula of the island to the eastern. As I descended further down, the air grew colder and a putrid stench rose up from the pit. I attributed it to the dead fish littering the city, deprived of water in the aftermath of the cyclone. Covering my nose and mouth with one hand, with the other I continued to feel my way steadily along the ledge.
I was about fifteen feet or so from the bottom when my excitement got the better of me and I picked up my pace. It was difficult to see in the white mist, and suddenly my foot slipped over the edge and I was falling. I landed on my side, the sodden floor of the pit breaking my fall with a muddy splat. I was bruised, but thankfully I had not broken any bones. Gingerly, I sat up. The ground made a soft sucking sound as I pulled myself free from the mud and rose to my feet, gazing in wonder at the ancient city.
Seawater dripped from every structure, filling the air with a quiet plip, plip, plip sound. Apart from the creatures crawling and slithering along the ground and over the buildings, everything was still. My eyes fixated on the temple at the center of the city. It towered over everything around it, dark, solemn, and imposing. This was not the temple of a benevolent god; whatever idol the people of Zrazis had worshipped, whatever deity dwelt within that ominous, brooding house of devilry had surely been as bloodthirsty and exacting as any of the heathen gods before or after it. And yet I marveled at its age-worn stones, its sinister secrets, its hidden, unwholesome relics.
In and out amongst the wasted ruins I roamed, watching for a sign, a carving or inscription that might tell of the the ancient race who built the city however many eons ago. But there were none, only the rudely hewn, squat stone houses in which they must have dwelt, radiating out from the center of the city in concentric circles. Every door and window faced the temple, and I could imagine its shadow passing over each abode and darkening each doorway as the sun traversed the heavens. What fear and dread must the people of Zrazis have felt in the shade of the unholy structure I now wandered toward eagerly; what reverence they must have had as they looked upon its carven pillars and high stone steps. The adulation and awe of thousands of years past seemed to echo in Zrazis’s desolate streets, and as I approached the temple I felt its weighty significance bearing down upon me.
The mist had grown thicker and the full moon cast long shadows as I approached the dark, yawning entrance to the temple. Though there was no wind down in the pit, a rank exhalation issued from the black void. It was not decaying fish I had smelled; it was something else, something within the abysmal chamber. Hesitation threatened to quench my curiosity. While the moon had provided ample light for my journey through the city, it could not penetrate into the inner reaches of the temple. Just when I had decided to return to camp and wait until dawn to continue my exploration, I fancied I saw a flicker of light…
“You know what you need, old sport?” Ian announced one January evening as he lounged on my bed, watching me work feverishly at my desk. This was our typical arrangement: Ian came to my dormitory, since it was easier than me hauling my books and papers to his, and he talked while I studied. It was a good deal, seeing as how Ian loved to talk and I loved to study.
“Hm?” I mumbled. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I was saying you need a vacation,” Ian stated matter-of-factly.
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” Ian said. “You’re working yourself to death. Look at you!”
I paused, glancing up at him from over my pile of papers and books. “What do you mean?”
Ian rolled off of the bed, tromped intentionally over to the desk and lifted me by my arms out of the chair.
“Hey!” I protested as he dragged me over to the mirror just above my dresser. “What’s the big idea?”
“Look!” he cried, pointing at my reflection.
The eyes staring back at me were bloodshot, with dark, ink-like stains underneath. My cheeks had a slightly hollow look to them, and my usually glossy chestnut hair sat lank and flat against my head. I had always been awkwardly tall and thin, but since the start of my college career I had lost nearly ten pounds. When set alongside Ian with his glowing, ruddy complexion and his athletic build, I looked rather sickly.
“Tell you what we’re going to do, Johnny boy,” Ian proclaimed, slapping me heartily on the back. Even though he knew I hated it, Ian always called me “Johnny boy” when he was feeling an especial surge of camaraderie. “We’re going to take a trip, you and I.”
“A trip?” I exclaimed. “Where?”
“Anywhere!” Ian boasted. “The world is our oyster!”
I could always tell when Ian was waxing poetical; he would begin to throw his arms about in wild, emotional gestures and pace the dormitory with a fiery look in his eyes, the same look I now saw as he led me back to my desk and began gesticulating and talking at a frenzied pace.
“As soon as this lamentable term is finished and the vengeful gods of knowledge have sated themselves with the last few drops of our precious young blood, we’re going to march forth from these marbled halls, down the stone steps of the university’s colonnaded portico, heads held high, degrees in hand, and we shall sail away into the sunset! See the world! Fall in love! Squander our money on drinks and dames and forget all about books and exams and studying and these godawful curtains!” He threw back the threadbare, dingy curtains covering the dormitory’s small window and, with an exultant cry, thrust the frost-laced panes open into the wintry January air. A flurry of snowflakes rushed inside, covering my books and papers and landing on the desk, the floor, and Ian’s head as he leaned out and shouted into the muted hush of the outdoor commons, “Ad astra per aspera!”
“Quiet, Ian!” I pleaded, trying to pull him back inside. I’d been blamed for Ian’s peace-disturbing, late night outbursts from my dormitory on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, there was no calming him down once he’d gotten started; you simply had to ride it out and hope for the best. These outbursts were typically followed by several weeks of melancholy in which I hardly saw Ian at all. There was rarely any middle ground with my passionate colleague, but since I enjoyed Ian’s company I learned to weather his temperamental storms.
“Nonsense!” Ian yelled into the night. Several lights in the neighboring dormitories clicked on. “I’m on top of the world, Johnny boy! Ha ha!”
After no small amount of coaxing, I managed to convince Ian to shut the window and return to his own room on the condition that I promise to delay my pursuit of a professorship for one year to travel abroad with him and “see the world,” as he put it. I breathed a sigh of relief as I shut the door behind my jubilant companion. I often found Ian’s energy overwhelming and, at times, even a bit frightening. His odd, uncontrollable emotional highs and vigorous outbursts followed by moody, lethargic lows should have been warning signs, but I was so preoccupied with my studies that I simply did not dwell on them as anything more than mere eccentricities. Over time, however, the dark nature of Ian’s volatility would come to light, but by the time it had, it was already too late.
Monday came, cloudless and sunny, and Anne and Abigail were well on their way to becoming fast friends. Unlike most of the children Anne had nannied who seemed hell-bent on eating her alive, Abigail was soft-spoken and well-mannered with a heart of gold. She accepted every activity Anne supplied eagerly, ate what was given her at mealtimes, took walks around the property without complaint, and napped without making a fuss. She was, Anne decided, the child every nanny wished for—calm, compliant, and cute as a button.
“What do you like to do, Abigail?” Anne had asked her on their first day together.
“Umm, I like to draw, and play with my dolls, and read.”
“What’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world?”
Abigail’s eyes suddenly lit up. She looked at Anne excitedly, leaned in and whispered, “I like to make faces.”
“You like making faces?” Anne repeated, chuckling. “You mean like silly faces?”
“No, not silly faces,” Abigail said absently, tugging at one of her shiny golden curls. “Other kinds of faces.”
“Well, can I see one?”
Abigail’s eyes grew wide as she answered, “You really want to see?”
“Of course! I’d love to.”
Abigail smiled eagerly and said, “Okay, but you have to wait.”
“Can’t you show me one now?” Anne asked, poking Abigail’s ribs playfully.
“No, silly!” Abigail laughed, squirming away from Anne’s tickling. “It’s not ready yet!”
“Oh, okay,” said Anne seriously. “Promise you’ll let me know when it is?”
“Promise,” Abigail nodded.
At first, Anne visited the city every weekend. But as time went on she began to find it dirty, noisy, crowded, and overstimulating in comparison to the quiet, peaceful stillness of her cottage. Eventually she stopped going altogether. She was making a sizable dent in her student loans each month and found that in the clean country air, her overall health seemed to be improving. In fact, Anne’s only complaint was that her cell phone’s service out in the country was spotty at best, but most of the time simply nonexistent, and that her jeans had become a little snug around the waist due to Mrs. Metalmark’s fantastic cooking. But, she thought one evening after a second helping of cherry cobbler, it was a small price to pay for the most perfect job in the world.
Winter arrived and with it crackling fires in the cottage hearth, piping hot mugs of Mrs. Metalmark’s famous, velvety cocoa, and pristine hills draped in glittering white which Anne and Abigail frequently mounted, sleds in hand, their cheeks and noses rosy with the cold. Soon the snows came back to back, like waves breaking on the shoreline, and the house on Old Oak Lane was surrounded by drifts piled up nearly to shoulder height. As the landscape faded to tones of gray and the bitter winds of late winter frosted over the windows on Anne’s cottage like crystal lace, she noticed a change start to come over Abigail.
The normally cheerful and carefree little girl suddenly became solemn and moody, her characteristic exuberance smothered by a heavy, brooding cloud that would not lift. She played halfheartedly. She poked at her food. She would not go outside and she absolutely refused to sleep. Dark circles like blotches of ink formed under her glazed eyes, and her usually round, pink cheeks grew hollow and pale. Anne feared that perhaps some disease was at work in the poor child, so she mentioned her concerns to the Metalmarks…