The Pit

Sorry for the delay in posting. I can’t believe 3 months went by so fast!
Here’s something for your brain:

the pit-

The night in which Tom made the discovery which changed his life forever had been very slow. He had been pondering on the true meaning of what his work actually acomplished. He worked the graveyard shift (a comfortingly appropriate term) for a company called EBA. When his team were first hired, no one had told them during orientation what the acronym stood for. Tom liked to think it stood for Esoteric Business Appliances.

His job entailed checking email on a computer all night, from 11pm to 7:30am five days a week, and each email included a table of various numbers. They were arranged nice and neat, in little columns and rows, and he had to enter each figure into a cell onto a spreadsheet. On the left side of the email there was a cell number, followed by a number. So he would enter ’22’ into cell 32b, for example. This was all he did for the long dreary hours while the moon was out and the flourescent lights bored into his tired eyeballs.

All of this was fine and dandy for a time; he would get weary of the routine, but at least it was simple, and it paid well. No one except such vampires really wanted to work such unholy hours- so they were compensated a good amount more than such a simple job should usually entail.

About the same time that Tom’s attention started to waver, for the job varied not at all, he made a series of interesting discoveries. He was outside on his break having a cigarette, enjoying the darkness, and the starlight glinting off the snow, when he spied a series of huge manholes embedded in the large fields of gravel which surrounded the building. Also, he realised that the pervasive burning stink that was somewhat reminiscent of a burning tire, and somewhat like a bad barbecue, was actually not coming from over the highway. There was actually a series of smoke stacks on company premises belching the filth into the air; he had just never seem them operative in this area before.

Tom was surprised he had never noticed these strange objects previously, but he thought that they must have usually been covered with far more gravel, and some recent access had uncovered them.

He walked over to one and stood on it. Judging from the feel and lack of sound when he jumped on it, it must have been very thick metal, which appeared a rusted brown iron. Screwed onto the top of each one was a white plaque that stated CAUTION: CONFINED SPACE. ENTRY PERMIT REQUIRED FOR ACCESS. He tried to lift it by inserting both hands into the hole on one side, but it was far too heavy. He would need some leverage. Unfortunately after all this excitement his break was already over, so he jogged up the stairs and back into the cubicle farm like a good little hamster.

He vowed that as soon as he had a night off, and a crowbar, he would affect access into this most mysterious of spaces. The nights passed painfully slow until his night off. His dreams were filled with figures and columns of numbers, just like the sickening emails which filled his workdays:

1a 349

1b 390

2a 490

and on, and on.

Finally the night arrived, and he made sure to hop the fence instead of badging in. He did not want any record of his strange transgressions into this most usually bland of spaces. He could not decide if this was actually something mysterious or exciting, or if his life was simply that empty. No matter, he would finally solve the mystery of what these pits could be for.

Around 3am, when everything was it’s most still and empty, he found a manhole that was most set apart from the rest, and somewhat sheltered from outside eyes, due to it being located in a very small courtyard of the byzantine building. With shaking hands he inserted the end of the crowbar into the slot and put all his weight and muscle into it. Slowly, ever so slowly, and with a load CREAK that made him afraid he would be discovered, the cover lifted and with a rough sound, slid off to the side.

It was like an inky black pit that was positively leaking darkness. He flicked on his flashlight and shone it down. The beam showed a series of iron rungs set into the concrete at the side of the tube. There were so many of them he could not count, and the beam did not show any bottom to the pit. With a bit of nervousness he made the slow descent, carefully, for who knows how long he would fall if he slipped.

Thinking to himself how stereotypically horror-cliche the phrase was, he nevertheless thought that it seemed like the rungs never ended. He couldn’t think how long he had been putting one foot carefully down, followed by one hand, next foot, next hand, over and over again. After a while his legs started to shake, whether from exhaustion or fear he did not know. He thought he was just afraid of the idea of falling, but there was always the possibility that it was based on some premonition of what he would discover.

After what seemed like ages he finally reached the bottom of the pit. It was concrete, just like the walls, and as he shone his flashlight, he could see he had descended nothing but a normal well-like shaft , many many stories underground. To his direct right was a corridor, or tunnel, and this surprisingly enough had it’s own lighting, so he gratefully switched off his flashlight and trudged off down the way.

Tom made his way down the nondescript concrete corridor and after a left hand turn he found himself in a similar hallway but it was lined with what looked like thick soundproof metal doors with wire-embedded glass windows at eye level. He peeked into the closest one but couldn’t see anything, it was just pitch black. SMACK! A pasty white hand smacked against the glass and trailed off, giving him a small heart attack. He peered in but it still was so dark he couldn’t see anything. He tried the handle but it was locked.

It was then that he noticed a small plaque to the left of each of the doors. The one nearest was numbered 2b. He ran farther down past many doors with a strange nauseous confusion in the pit of his stomach. Numbers flashed through his head, drowning out his beating heart. He stopped at another door. The plaque read 32b. His guts felt positively twist-tied. He looked inside and somehow there was very dim flickering lighting. A grotesque parade of mushroom-white people without clothes shuffled around. Some lying on the floor. Some were tearing at the others, red blood looking black and thick against the white of their cave-bleached skin. One was gnawing on a leg. He saw an arm lying in a corner and suddenly it hit him. With a feeling of irrationailty, he counted. There were 20 people shuffling around, suffering, rending and ripping eachother. In a corner were 2 corpses. 22. Just like the cells in his spreadsheet. 32b 22.

He felt then that his mind was close to breaking and he turned to run as fast as he could down the hallway. At the other end he saw a figure in black with some kind of red coloration on their sleeve. “Halt! Or I’ll shoot!” He heard. Then it all went black.


Saturday, November 2nd 2013 NY TIMES



Every day in the United States of America over 100,000 people go missing without a trace.


About Chris S.

Burgeoning Burgeon-er.
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