Exploring the infinite IKEA last week has reawakened my sense of curiosity and adventure, and driven me back into the Underlook.
When I was at the pinnacle of my career here in UGWC, I was making weekly excursions into the subterranean hotel, coming out at the other end of leylines in cities and small towns all over the globe. Always, the terminus brought some sort of illumination; these expeditions helped me build The Mothman.
After finding myself lost for several months in the Underlook, I’d all but abandoned the endeavor.
Now I find myself delving once again. In the past, I always explored until biological function forced me back to the surface of the farmhouse. This time, I am determined to reach deeper, go further than any of us have in the past. To that end, I have brought along a backpack filled with provisions, tools, and backup power.
I’m several hours beyond the farthest I’ve ever gone when I stumble upon an out-of-order elevator.
This type of technology may seem out of place in an area of the Underlook which tends further and further toward a natural setting, but I’ve encountered their abundance here before. More often than not, they’re the conveyance by which I arrive at the destination fate has predetermined for me. What actually feels out of place, at least to me, is the out of order sign. It doesn’t look aged–there’s no dust or fading–but as far as he knows, neither Moseley nor Jacky, Pisces, Kosnar, nor Daedalus, has explored the Underlook lately.
After I’ve given up making sense of the appearance of the sign, my eyes flick to the left, where a heavy steel door is sealed against passage with a digital keypad. Beside the door is a small, plastic placard with the pictograph indicating a set of stairs. Considering the curiosity of the unusual sign, and putting aside the amusing thought of a maintenance person making their way down here to fix it, it almost feels like something is calling me to ascend… or descend.
I begin tapping away at the keypad, puzzling over the icons on each button. More than anything, they resemble Egyptian hieroglyphics. Drawing on my knowledge of esoteric iconography, I extend my middle and pinky fingers to press the symbols of Ra and Seth. With a muted tone, all of the keys light up, and the door clicks open.
Excitement surges through me as I step into the dimly lit stairwell adjacent to the broken elevator. The first thing I realize is that I’m at the top of a staircase, so I’m meant to go down. The air is heavy with anticipation as I begin to descend the narrow staircase, drawing a flashlight from my pack. With each step, I embrace the uncertainty, knowing that every turn could lead to another fascinating revelation.
—
—
As I descend, I’m surprised by how thickly the darkness presses in around my flashlight beam. At most, I can see the next landing below, but peering over the railing into the maw of the spiral reveals nothing. Strangely, it almost seems like the ray simply ceases about twelve feet down.
I’ve been climbing downward longer than I can recall, counting the same thirteen steps to a semicircular landing that leads to the next set over and over. There are no doors, no lights, and no indication of how many stories I’ve covered, and I lost count of flights somewhere in the mid-thirties. I think…
Suddenly, a sound echoes through the darkness. A plaintive, distant moan that sends a shiver down my spine. I train my flashlight in the direction of the noise, revealing nothing but the stairs and landing immediately below. As I stand there, lost in studying the other end of the light, the desperate moan forms barely intelligible words:
“Please help me!”
It sounds like a child’s voice. I snap into action, taking the stairs three at a time as I shoot down one flight after another. The flashlight is practically pointless; the countless steps are all the same no matter how deep I go, and my practiced feet have developed a muscle memory of them.
Racing ever downward, I imagine I’m approaching the voice when it calls out again, still as quiet and low as it was before.
“Kid, stop going down! I’m on my way to you!”
I pause my sprinting gait to listen for an answer, but I’m shocked when I hear the voice again.
“Please! Help me!”
How could it be possible? The voice sounds farther away than before, but I can certainly make out painful sobs muffling the words. Now set for a rescue, and becoming frustrated, I resume the frantic pace from before.
Thirteen steps. Landing. Turn. Thirteen steps. Landing. Turn. Thirteen steps.
No matter how far down I go, the stairs never seem to end, and the sorrowful, pleading voice gets no closer. Soon, however, something does.
—
—
“If you ask Zane, Holden, or Konrad who will be the Conquest Champion at the end of next Synergy, I’m certain they’ll say The Showman. Not only do I not share their confidence in that outcome, I probably care a lot less about it than they do.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m looking forward to this more than I can express. Tony has been one of my most ardent opponents–one of my favorites to share the stage with. He’s one of the few that can go the distance required in matches of any type to create those unforgettable moments the audience will never forget.”
“Even the thought of embarking on the path of Conquest once again is more enticing than I care to admit. Simply being a champion is rather unremarkable; you won a match. Great.”
“But, contrary to the popular misunderstanding of my motivations, I am not repelled by success. I simply define it differently than most of the high society, self-important, banal performers in this business do. I’d call Tony successful, even if his current run in UGWC lacks some of the fire and fury of his previous contributions. Even at three quarters power, he’s far more entertaining than most of the ‘entertainment’ professionals in the industry.”
“My flavor of accomplishment tends toward the accolades shared by only a very small percentage of the roster. The Global Challenge, Massive Melee, The Wrestlestock Cup, Battleground. Tony won the last Outlast tournament UGWC held, putting down titans such as Lucy Wylde, Sebastian Everett-Bryce, and of course, the Doctor-Professor himself. Yes, Tony is a successful entertainment professional.”
“The path of Conquest fits this criteria perfectly. Unfortunately, as one of two, multiple-time Conquest Champions, Tony has exactly one successful defense. That’s one more than me, on both counts. Neither of us, ridiculously successful as we’ve both been, have come anywhere close to completing the path of conquest. With neither of us at the top of our respective game lately, it appears to be our best chance to shift the company paradigm once again.”
“Imagine the look on Fear’s face…”
—
—
I freeze at the top of a flight, eyes narrowing when they lock onto a tall figure standing just beyond the reach of my light. Instead of fear, a thrill courses through me. This encounter is an unexpected twist, an opportunity to interact with the mysteries of the Underlook firsthand. With cautious steps, I approach the figure, my heart pounding with anticipation. There seems to be an unspoken communication between us, a dance of curiosity and intrigue as it matches my steps, moving backward as I advance.
As I increase my speed in a vain effort to draw nearer, it seems to react to my attempts, changing course to move closer in its eerie, disjointed manner. Its presence is both mesmerizing and unsettling, a puzzle inviting someone to solve it. I can't help but wonder what secrets it holds, what insights it can offer about this mysterious place.
We stand there, face to face, if you can call it a face. It’s a gray blob, with indentations in the flesh to suggest eyes and a mouth, but suggestions are all they are. I’m in awe for a moment, but then I remember the wretched call I had been racing toward.
“Do you need help?”
Unsurprisingly, the figure doesn’t answer, just continues to stare back, eye indentations locked onto mine.
“That… you were calling out, yes?”
Again, silence. I raise an eyebrow, trying to decipher the experience, neither of us moving for the moment. Without warning, the mournful cry echoes up from below–just as far away from me as it was before.
“Please help me!”
With that entreaty, my curiosity of the being before me evaporates, being replaced with suspicion. Was this creature imprisoning some hapless child down here in the depths? I resolved at that moment that I would have to do battle with this unfathomable creature.
That’s when my flashlight went out.
—
—
Montague sits up suddenly, blinking and coughing, rubbing his head. Looking around, he realizes he’s sitting in the corridor outside the stairwell and broken elevator.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, the Showman leans against the stairwell door, repeatedly squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again as if shaking off a disturbing dream. In spite of this disorientation, Monty raises his left hand again to the keypad. The Ra/Seth combo no longer works.
The Doctor-Professor’s brow furrows and he futilely presses several combinations of keys, seemingly at random. This ultimately pointless jabbing is interrupted when an insistent knock clobbers the door from the other side.
Stunned, Montague backs away from the door. He watches, eyes wide, as the knocking continues, hard enough to rattle the door in its frame.
Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, and the Mothman decides he’s learned all he needs to about this part of the Underlook. Dusting his hands off symbolically, he retrieves his top hat from midair, dons it, and walks away from the stairwell while whistling.
