Fog rolled in from the entrance, following on their footsteps like a chiding nanny, keeping them moving forward. A switch for the wall mounted electric lamps was mounted close to the entrance, but flipping it brought no illumination. The electricity was dead here, as was the still air.
Walking forward, all seemed well. Boiler suits and hard hats were hung at intervals and metal lockers stood in neat rows. An occasional tool was tucked to the side or a pair of boots peeked out under a bench. When this place had shut, it had been sudden and everybody thought that they would be coming back. There were even metal lunchboxes patiently waiting for their owners.
A little further was when things started to change. The lamps changed, became fitted with brass, the glass seeming more clouded. Soon, they ceased completely, becoming gas lamps hung by their handles, ready to be picked up. An old track emerged from the ground, waiting for a trolley that would never come. The lockers became wooden trunks, the suit style changing until they were different garments entirely.
And at the end of all of this, the elevator. Yellow paint peeling, no upper cage, only railings surrounding the platform. It was hard to gauge how old it was. But there was no other exit, and it sat, expectant, waiting for passengers.
The normal door in the abnormal wall. It was not locked, instead left on the latch. It swung open and out poured music and chatter and body heat. In the middle of the mine there was a perfectly normal house.
First, the wallpaper. If it was paper. At first glance, the nodules could be mistaken for constellations. They shone with a soft golden light, lines glowing between them. But unlike constellations, points flickered into being and disappeared into darkness within seconds. Links came and went and it pulsed with something that felt like life. It was easy to be hypnotised, watching the patterns, but none of the parties attendees spared it a second glance.
And the attendees - they were talking. Laughing. Kissing. Fucking. Empty drinks cups in their hands as they raised them to their lips. Their conversations were empty word salads, barely connected. Their eyes were glazed. When they kissed, they kissed like they were in a romance movie, they didn't close their eyes. They switched partners, dropped and regained clothes, poured out empty bottles. The house seemed to have to grow to contain them all.
Not that there was much else in there. Ikea furniture built perfectly and placed the same places they were put in the catalogue. Books chosen from '100 Greatest Books' lists. No pictures. No posters. No CDs or films in little plastic boxes.
The windows looked out into a backyard with a square of green grass and a picket fence. The sky soared upwards, contained by the stone walls of the mine. There were no stars, no light, just two plastic chairs and an overflowing ashtray.
Push through the swinging double doors and suddenly the fluorescents hit you. Six long, long plastic tables, little red stools attached and immovable. The linoleum was faded and mildly sticky underfoot. There were innumerable scuffs from heavy work boots and water stains from spilled drinks.
The tables were laden. Groaning under the weight of the food piled there. Whole chickens, joints of beef and pork, long portions of salmon and trout. Piles of mashed and roast potatoes, topped with butter and parsley. Plates of broccoli and red cabbage and even that most fanciful of vegetables, asparagus. Parsnips and carrots and peas. Jugs full of gravy and bread sauce.
There were desserts too - fruit bowls with everything from apples to mangos to bananas. Cakes baked with icing and glace cherries topping them. Custard and apple crumble. Cherry pies. Chocolate mousse, cheesecakes in every flavour possible, biscuits arranged in pretty patterns on China plates.
And it was all rotting. Mould climbed on every item, maggots swarmed in dishes, flies buzzed around the carcasses of the dead animals. The smell was overwhelming, sweet and cloying, enough to make even the strongest stomach gag. Anyone with anything edible in their pockets found it dissolving with filth already, as if weeks had passed in mere seconds.
The heavy steel swung inwards with a groan that vibrated right down to the bones. It was always laughably stereotypical, the big wheel on the front that you had to turn with two hands.
The light inside glittered and shone like sunlight on water. Skin became golden as the light reflected onto it. There was but a single light in the middle of the ceiling, but the piles upon piles of gold were as effective as any mirror.
Gold coins. Gold bars. Gold necklaces and chains and rings. There was so much of it, it almost flowed like liquid, one coin disturbed sending a cascade down the tall piles with a tinkling sound that echoed like bells.
But the chamber did not contain just gold. The room became darker as you progressed down the small path clear of the precious metal. Soon the piles were replaced with piles of dark coal, known as black gold to some. These mountains could heat a home for the rest of a family's life. They could power a furnace or a steam train. Gold promised luxury while coal promised industry.
The sky above was red and the grass below was red. The orchard stretched horizontally as far as the eye could see, disappearing into a distant vanishing point. If you kept your eyes straight though, there was a gate.
But first you had to pass by the trees.
The trees were twisted and bare and bore no fruit. They were pale, as white as bone. The bark had deep, severe scores gouged into them as well as strange growths. If you looked at them too long, you began to see strange things within it. Faces, contorted in pain or rage or sorrow. Branches could resemble arms, twigs broken fingers. An orchard of queer bodies, as still as the grave, not a single breath of air stirring them.
It took longer than one would think to walk to the gate. Grass was crushed underfoot and emanated a rust-coloured liquid with a copper-laced scent. There were no flowers. The ground was strangely soft underfoot and muffled all sound. In fact, there was no sound to be found unless it was the rush of blood in your ears.
Just before the wrought iron gate (locked)(complete with metal roses, set in a much less beautiful, less ornate barbed wire fence), there was a bird bath made of rough stone, the inside streaked with stains. Centuries upon centuries it looked like, built up until there was an inner circle of dark red.
The invitation was simple. Bleed and be bled, and move forward.
The sound reached your ears before the sight. The unmistakable sound of rushing water, tumbling over stones and carving its way through the riverbank. A slight mist did its best to try and muffle it, but to no avail. Once you stepped through and the river came into full view, the differences could be truly seen.
It was not a very wide river, but it was a fierce one. However, its banks did not contain water. Instead, silver dream stuff ran and roiled, strands upon strands upon strands combining until it moved and sounded like water. The slight mist seemed to appear just above it, made from the droplets that splashed upwards and multiplied.
On the shore, there were three strong stakes hammered into the earth, each tethering what could generously be called a boat. They weren't very large and were equipped with oars rather than motors. They at least seemed sturdily built, with not a single plank out of place.
The river wasn't the only thing present. On a small, three legged stool backed up to lean against the frame of the garden gate, was an old man. At least, you could assume he was old from the wrinkles on his hands. His face was obscured with a large sunhat pulled low, only a long strand of straw hanging out from his mouth. The rest of his outfit was mainly comprised of a pair of dungarees covered in innumerable patches and thread from repairs. His sleep seemed complete, not a single part of him stirring.
It simply looked like a garden wall from the outside, but once the door was opened, the illusion faded. Once inside the sound of the river faded and the silence became complete. The air was still and where sunlight caught it just right, full of dust motes. Peace pervaded the place, appearing to hush voices and mute footsteps. On two floors, with a balcony looking down onto the first.
The floor was highly polished dark wood, covered here and there with thick Persian rugs. It matches the dark wood of the reading tables, each equipped with its own reading light, green stained glass shades on each. The chairs were straight back and poorly padded, clearly intended more for study than relaxation.
The flow of the room led to the front desk, an old fashioned affair. Nothing mechanical, just a silver bell and and in/out tray. A trolly stood officiously to the side. There was also a neat stack of borrowing cards and a fountain pen, waiting to be signed and inserted into each book.
And everywhere, there were the shelves. Too many of them to count. Evenly spaced, not a single one of them empty or disordered. They were clean of dust and any errant fingerprints. Each shelf held books of the exact same width and height. The only thing that varied was the colour, a different one on each individual shelf. They had no titles or authors, just two bands of gold on the spine.
Finally, a room that just looked like a mine. Walls of stone, floors of rock, electric lanterns, and a yellow work elevator at the back. While it looked old, it seemed to be sturdy and in full working order. There were spots of rust here and there, missing patches of paint and when the safety gate was opened, it squealed, but there was no wobble when it took on weight.
There was a sign fasted to the outside cage guarding the mechanism. 'MAXIMUM SIX PEOPLE.' Then, almost casually in front of it, laying on the ground was a plain iron dagger. Like an after thought. Like an empty promise.
The cavern was so vast that you couldn't even see the ceiling or the walls side to side. But the floor wasn't stone. The floor was tilled soil, dark and rich. The entire place smelt of earth, not unpleasantly. It also turned the air damp, as if after a recent rain. It was begging to be touched, to plunge your hands deep into it.
Which is exactly what rows and rows of people were doing. They were in rows as if they were crops themselves, neatly ordered. All of them were naked, all of them had no hair, and all of them were shovelling handfuls of delicious earth into their mouths, swallowing and swallowing with a mechanical movement that betrayed a lack of will or intention. They couldn't stop and they couldn't think, all they could do was eat. Dirt was under their fingernails and streaked their skin. Their eyes saw nothing but the field.
At the far end of the cavern were two thrones carved out of grey stone, the back of one soaring up to disappear into the ceiling of the cavern. They were plain, lacking any sort of elaborate carving, just simple lines. On one sat a beautiful blonde man with long hair. Behind the throne stood a translucent grey lady. They waited, patiently, as if time was all they had. Time and stone.
