BY JOHN WOODHOUSE
Copyright is held by the author.
A FEW weeks ago, I met an old friend, Kim, for lunch. My company had just moved into a brand-new office block. I took her up to the roof terrace with its panoramic views of the City of London and Bankside.
“Kim, let me show you a party trick,” I said, rolling up my sleeve so that she could see my watch. “Look at this,” I said as I pressed the compass button on the side of the dial. On cue, the needle spun like a top.
“This building is built on the site of some ancient ruins, much older than London Wall. Apparently, they affect the ley lines and make compasses spin,” I said.
“Hmm, maybe the fact we’re on top of a tall steel-framed building is the real reason,” she scoffed.
“Well, it doesn’t happen in other tall buildings nearby,” I said.
Feeling slightly crestfallen, I escorted her down to reception and then out for a bite to eat and a chat. Afterwards we walked back to take the lift to pick up her laptop bag from my office. As she was putting it over her shoulder, we could hear police sirens maybe half a mile away. We thought nothing of it but then the fire alarm sounded. I knew the drill, so we filed down the emergency stairs. A fire marshal blocked the way to the outside doors.
“Sorry sir, I’m afraid this is an invacuation, so you’ll have to remain in the building,” she announced and directed us down the stairs to the basement car park.
“John, what the hell is happening?” said Kim, “What is an invacuation?”
“Well, Kim, the concept was new to me until the company moved here. It’s done to protect building workers in an emergency. The idea is to move them out of their workspace away from danger. However, it’s a special case where conditions outside are so dangerous that the workers are moved to a place of safety inside the building. In our case, the underground car park.”
The sirens were getting a lot louder now and it sounded like some emergency vehicles had already arrived and were parked outside.
“Well, John, you’re not making me feel very safe”, said Kim. “Here we are, maybe 500 yards from the Bank of England and you’re saying it’s too bloody dangerous to go into the street. For heaven’s sake! I dread to think what’s outside!”
I tried to look brave.
The car park, as usual, was almost full and there was the smell of petrol and diesel fumes heavy in the air. Its floor sloped quite steeply upwards towards the street which made it slightly unsettling to stand on. I remembered that I’d read that modern diesel cars have plastic fuel tanks. This means that a fire in one vehicle could melt the plastic. Burning fuel could then pour out and run down the sloping floor, causing a chain reaction as the other vehicles went up in flames.
“Cheer up, Kim, it’ll all be over soon,” I said. I instantly regretted my choice of words.
Then there was a loud bang outside and part of the outer door blew in with a jet of flame. The lights in the basement went out and all the car alarms started to howl and wail. By their flashing lights, I could see that a van at the top of the ramp had overturned and was starting to burn. After a couple of seconds, the emergency lighting came on, bathing us all in a blood-red glow.
A colleague standing near us panicked and ran towards the door back into the main building. He howled when he pulled the door open — the handle had burnt his hand and there was a wall of burning flame and billowing smoke behind it. He was shrieking in pain.
“Kim, I think we should get away from this area”, I said. “There’s another fire exit at the bottom of the car park. Let’s walk slowly down the slope so we don’t cause a panic.” She nodded and we cautiously crept away. A few yards further back there was a heavy door in the rear wall. It opened into a fire lobby with stairs going down. We entered and the door closed slowly behind us on a heavy spring. We heard another loud bang behind us; the door snapped shut and shook in its frame. Then the lights went out again and we could hear shouts from the other side of the door.
“Nowhere else to go, let’s try downwards.” I said. We took our phones out and turned on their flashlights. The stairwell seemed different, somehow. Before it had been bare concrete but now, I could see traces of slime on the walls. A trick of the light, I thought and followed the steps down to the lobby below. Something sparkled on the floor; it appeared to be a piece of silver jewellery in an abstract shape. On a whim, I picked it up and pushed it into my lapel. Through the door and we were in a large empty chamber with rough stone walls. We shone our flashlights along the walls beside us: a few metres to our left there was another door. We started walking towards it as there was only smooth stone to the right. We turned our flashlights upwards: the ceiling was too far above to show up in their beams.
“I am getting really annoyed now,” said Kim. “This is all plain weird and dangerous and I’ll be late getting back now. Let’s try and find another way out of this awful place without getting even more lost. You’re supposed to know this bloody building and I thought you said there was another proper fire exit — well, where is it, you idiot?”
We turned back towards the lobby door. Something strange happened. In front of us, at head height, we saw a glowing horizontal green line appear from nowhere and grow wider: almost as if someone had opened a large invisible zip fastener hanging in the air. A gap slowly opened and we both gasped as we made out the dim shape of a huge creature behind it, trying to push through and crawl out. There was a putrid odour like an old rotten seashore. There was a loud clicking sound too — as if some other abomination was trapped behind the creature, calling to its brethren.
Scared now, we tried to run away. Kim turned awkwardly and fell, twisting her ankle. I helped her limp away. Behind us we heard a whiplash sound. Something had hit me at shoulder height. It felt like a strip of cold gristle covered in weeping boils. The tip writhed and then grasped at the jewellery in my lapel. I had a steel pen in my pocket; in a panic I stabbed the thing. It withdrew and grasped the strap of Kim’s laptop bag, trying to pull her backwards. We both wrestled with the strap, trying to get it off her shoulder. We fell over again and the strap came loose. It was pulled violently away and I saw it catch on the edge of the tear in space, with the bag still attached. Something bit the strap off the bag, which fell to the floor and burst open, spilling its contents. We heard them bouncing and breaking on the stony floor.
There was no way back to the lobby now, so we limped towards the other door we had seen. Behind us we could hear the scrabbling, clicking and crawling noises of whatever had climbed out of its own world to follow us in our own. The sickening smell became more overpowering.
We reached the door. It was made of plain old timber, set in a cracked wooden frame, not one of the heavy steel fire doors we had opened in the main building. It was locked with a rusty old key. I struggled to turn the key but it was completely seized. In desperation, I tried to use my pen as a lever but it simply snapped in half.
Kim was now hammering on the door, trying to force it open. My heart was beating so fast I thought I would pass out. I felt giddy and stars floated in front of my eyes, but I willed myself to stay conscious. The over-worldly, stinking aberration behind us crept closer. We could hear it writhing and flailing in the dark, trying to find us.
Kim had her handbag open and was rummaging through it. She found a tube of hand cream and squirted the contents into the keyhole. We both held and turned the key. At last, the lock grated open.
We pushed the door open but there was no floor in front of us, just a few broken slabs. I looked down and saw a phosphorescent underground river, maybe 40 feet below. Kim turned and looked over her shoulder, flashlight in hand. She was transfixed: “Its eyes, its eyes!” she screamed and stumbled. I lost my footing and tumbled over the edge and down into the water . . .
Epilogue
Several days after the fall, I woke up in a hospital bed. They told me that Kim’s body was never found. I had been raving in an unknown language for several days, tearing at a scar on my chest and must remain in a psychiatric hospital indefinitely.
I dream about her and many other things every night. Only in my dreams can I see the real but ancient world, usually hidden by the illusory one we humans think we live in. An ancient world without death, filled with creatures we cannot fully comprehend. But soon enough, they will open the invisible doors all around us and we will see things as they really are. Just look out of the corners of your eyes into the shadows.
I will meet you in your dreams tonight, under a dark, cold sun. I will help you discover what is waiting for us.
***
John Woodhouse is a writer of fantastika based in London, England. He enjoys long rail journeys to places such as Edinburgh, Marrakech and eastern Europe as well as exploring the Maginot Line in France. Currently, he is working on his first fantasy novel. He attended the City St George’s, University of London, Short Story Writing course. You can find him on Bluesky @jdwoodhouse.bsky.social.
