Fib Tul: A Chronicle of The Zenith, Nadir and Rise of The Lord

By Tel Ghoud

Everybody will surely agree:

Birthdays are fun.

Hiking with friends in the forest is fun.

Being young, reckless, and stupid is fun.

Being curious is simply being human.

And being human is considered to be fun, right?

And since the day of your creation seems to always be something you want to relive, how about living it so many times you wish you were never born? Hi, I seriously wish I wasn’t.

“I feel like I’m going crazy. Either that or I’m in hell.”

I’m not a devout believer because no religion entices me like the bold effort it takes to be responsible for my own actions. Alas, I felt like I was in hell. Except, as a normal human being, I liked to exaggerate. After all, I’m not exactly to blame for not knowing I would turn up in a poor excuse of the fiery hole twenty-three deaths later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035821730

Tel Ghoud

Tel Ghoud is the pseudonym of an aspiring Bulgarian writer. She’s a twenty-year-old university student, majoring in English Philology, who has been dabbling in writing for about six years. When not reading or writing, Tel spends time taking naps, petting her cat, riding her bike or consuming caffeine. She is bad at poetry and hates editing but loves to catch and take pictures with frogs.

Book preview

About the Author

Tel Ghoud is the pseudonym of an aspiring Bulgarian writer. She’s a twenty-year-old university student, majoring in English Philology, who has been dabbling in writing for about six years. When not reading or writing, Tel spends time taking naps, petting her cat, riding her bike or consuming caffeine. She is bad at poetry and hates editing but loves to catch and take pictures with frogs.

Dedication

To my best friend, who stuck with me through long reading sessions and helped out with the plot holes of what is now an actual book. Look at us. Who would’ve thought?

And to everybody else I pestered at some point. You’ve been patient and endlessly kind.

Copyright Information ©

Tel Ghoud 2024

The right of Tel Ghoud to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035821723 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035821730 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I’d like to thank my trusty laptop for holding out, my subconscious for randomly coming up with the plot in the form of a weird dream, all my friends for supporting me through my writer’s block and my parents that, albeit informed at the last moment, instantly jumped on board and helped with the practicalities however they could. Most of all, I’d like to thank Austin Macauley Publishers for giving me this opportunity.

Prologue

A Tale of Worlds

Welcome, kind stranger. I’m surprised to see you’ve come this far. We don’t get many visitors, accidental or otherwise. Please, take a seat. Oh, you’re afraid. Why, how inconsiderate of me. We speak your language but you don’t understand ours. That might come to change. Or not. Either way, we’re capable of adapting. We have not always been at peace with each other. You might want to learn about our world but first, you have to acknowledge there are two, or three of them. Maybe four. Maybe a number you cannot pronounce with your stiff mouth. Have they not taught you at school that the universe is ever-expanding? In any case, let us begin with the basics you will be able to grasp.

There’s Berno and, frankly, real estate there is so cheap you’d probably rummage in your wallet and be able to afford it—still, the weather is so unpleasant and the dark tones might depress you. I wouldn’t recommend it. Only the stupid Bech are willing to inhabit it, mostly because they’re entirely colour-blind. The sky is bright red in the day and pitch black in the night. The lack of sun and moon might confuse you as to the time, so you’ll definitely need a watch. However, hours there don’t tick by the same way they do here or up there, where you came from.

You’re a regular Beyan, if I’m not mistaken? Oh, you don’t know what a Beyan is. Why, it’s yourself. Bey is our word for your Earth. Since naming a block of dirt and water in such a brute direct way is not suited to our tastes, we called it Bey. It’s a very colourful world indeed—has many more hues if you use my eyes. I know your perception is rather warped right now. Either way, you know about your own world, so you need no useless talk from me. Still, I have known your world since it came to be. Time is a funny thing. How many millennia have passed since then?

Row has been around a bit longer than that. It’s the canvas world, you should know. Or, in a way that you can understand—upstairs where you think your God is. Quite few live there—only Kern and Mirith if the times have not changed since my last visit, though I doubt it. The humidity is not for everybody. Thankfully, both kinds aren’t breathers. Not to mention you have to take the stairs every time you come down for groceries, to visit family or go on vacation—simply unbearable. I walked up once, because, you see, wings are against the rules, and it was such an excruciating process—I speculate it took me around a week. You would’ve dried up like a prune on the second day.

I’m surprised the pressure down here isn’t affecting you. Manir has a different effect on everybody. It treats the special ones gently and wards against surprise guests quite efficiently. Is the gloom slowing your heartbeat or speeding it up? Either way, this is the place we originate from and are meant to inhabit.

The Kingdom in the Dark, as we like to call it in an intelligible language. Mind the preposition—it’s ‘in’, not ‘of’. And that hole you just walked through… I doubt you took the express, so you must have seen Agme. She’s pretty, isn’t she? The Cave Between. Don’t ask between what, it ruins the magic. She’s mostly stone but notice, no moss. She doesn’t age. Neither does Manir. It’s dark all years round.

Might not suit your taste but to us it’s like the Promised Land from that little book your race likes to depend on. Make no mistake, I’m being condescending. It’s astounding how plain Beyans adore this God they’ve created for themselves to be just like them, albeit optimally gifted in, what was it, virtue. Him to you is like our Lord Kathwho is to us, safe for one thing—our Lord is true. He’s not entirely immortal but there’s been only three of him since the creation of Beyans. You do the math; I never got proper education because it was supposed to take place in Row.

All that to say that you should not fear us. We walk among you, shop in your markets, live in your houses, drink your water, eat your food and laugh at your nonsensical jokes. I’m afraid some of us don’t have the ability to cry. However, we do feel. Mostly annoyance and dejection. The integrated ones might boast with periods of amusement or care. We are everywhere but you don’t see us. We might even smile at you if we’re feeling mannered that day.

If you want to see us salute, you should’ve come to the previous Lord Kathwho’s speech from 1340. Back then we still lived together in Manir. You could call us a bit of a dysfunctional family now since we’re strewn all around the cosmic planes. It is only me here, serving the Lord’s will. He can order us to exterminate all of Beyans or to split us into teams and make us serenade—everything we do, we do for him. He’s the ruler of all, you should understand that. You’d be mistaken to think him a lowly Lord—title with no power or influence. He has control over all the worlds, all the races inhabiting them. He is all-powerful, all-seeing and all-magnificent. And no, I am not a fanatic—I am a truth-teller.

What would you do if you were omnipotent? Would you, say, conquer all of Bey or would you continue living your stupid little life up there? Would you stay with us or would you throw us aside like useless children? Whichever, we shall follow you. Still, you’re not quite there yet. Not exactly Kathwho material if I were to be honest. In the end, I want to make one thing clear. Lord or no Lord, Manir or no Manir, everything or nothing—you are still afraid of us.

I repeat myself but you shouldn’t be—fear is useless, to the point it’s almost insulting. You might ask why. The answer is obvious, so very obvious I can see it on the tip of your nose. You see it every day but your brain chooses to discard it from your vision for your own sake. To make you more comfortable.

If you choose to focus on it, however, it becomes quite obvious and you can never be rid of the knowledge it has been present all this time. It has been with you, it has been a part of you your whole life. Your fear is unreasonable in the very same manner. You think us scary but we’ve never done you harm. We don’t kill you—you simply become us.

Chapter 1

Birthday Girl

Birthdays are fun. Waiting for them isn’t. It’s the end of June—hot and humid, with a sun that can blind and flies hovering low above the asphalt—and, honestly, I wish whole-heartedly to give my parents credit for not complaining about having been in a car with three half-rowdy, half-mannered teenagers for two whole hours now.

We are nineteen-year-old airheads without driver’s licences or part-time jobs on the side. Sounds like a heavenly combination. A bit too financially overwhelming for our families, sure, but not so much when they know their labour will be paid back in pride—what a funny concept, taking into account we are well on our way to get blackout drunk for my birthday tomorrow. Where along my actions rests the reason for my parents to be proud, I have no idea.

I think an introduction will be fitting right about now. Our benevolent driver—Daniel Goyle, also known as my father—is a middle-aged man with a receding hairline he tries desperately to hide but copes well with and very ragged laughter. He eats a lot and has few worries. If I have to say one thing about him, I’ll certainly point out his amicable nature—always the peacemaker, always the one left out of the conflict, always silent, even when provoked, and only burdens himself with my mother’s wrath when he burps at the table after a meal.

The aforementioned woman occupies the front seat, scolding him for speeding down the empty street, with her black leather bag in her lap and in it—the lot of her immaturity and insecurities. Diana Goyle’s a fine woman—a bit vain, often gentle and cheery, and thrice as hardworking and diligent. As a mother, however, I can probably give her pointers since I began raising myself around the time I was fifteen.

Now to the main course. The one chugging a Monster on my left with the blond hair—yes, natural, as she has to clear every time she meets somebody—is called Nadine. Beware; she’s morally grey despite her fairness. A friend as best as they come. Gets this weird look in her eye when there’s a knife on display in the room—she blames it on her Psychology degree and, in truth, I think everybody would agree with her. Besides being rather generous, she’s also the funny one. Can literally make a joke out of anything—for me personally, that is good. For thin-skinned people, it’s mostly offensive.

On the topic of those, here comes the only one we associate ourselves with—namely, Theresa the Drama Queen bobbing along to Miley Cyrus on the radio. She is far from the religious aspect of life, I assure you. Actually, she’s the hardcore hardcore alcoholic out of us three. The catch with her comes from her plain looks—you see the psychopath only when you gaze past the innocent brown eyes. That’s not something bad per se. And when I say psychopath, I mean a Capricorn, as in ‘pulls three all-nighters in a row and doesn’t stop complaining she would’ve handled a teenage pregnancy better than she handles med school’ type of Capricorn.

And I guess it’s my turn. Hi, my name is Sylvia but I’d rather be called Syl. I am, for a lack of better words, boring. That’s not a bad thing in my book. Ninety-eight percent of society is meant to be mediocre in order for the other two to be successful. I’m a typical English Culture and Language student with a problematic sleep schedule, proclivity to pessimism and regular displays of nicotine addiction. I have permanently clammy hands, hate introductions and adore green apples. I also often dream of a happily ever after I’m never going to get. Not because I don’t deserve it, but because it comes only to those two percent of people who succeed in life in the real sense of the word.

If asked, I don’t know what essential quality I bring to the group because we already have the comedian on the brink of insanity and the one that can’t handle a minor inconvenience without FaceTiming her boyfriend to complain about it, so I’ll just call myself the glue. As in the one always organising the events and making sure everybody’s having fun. Not that serious a job or big a responsibility but hey, our trio’s doing well and I’d like to think fate’s not the only one responsible for that. Not to mention, if all else fails, I can be an event coordinator since I have experience.

Jesus, Daniel, slow down! A sharp turn and my mother’s shrill voice sticking to the roof of the rusted blue Mercedes. The bags in the trunk slosh about and bump into each other; Nadine’s elbow digs into my side and Theresa yelps instinctively. This is what a normal road trip looks like. Not to mention we’re headed to the countryside, where the steady smooth streets mysteriously morph into uneven gravel roads. The round ball of gas in the sky glares down at us and we wipe at our foreheads as the car gently sways along the dusty path with no markings.

We’ve passed the few houses in the vicinity and the church, which means we’re only five minutes away from our destination, judging by the speed my dad’s going at.

However, my mother’s tactful mention of Jesus Christ makes me think of something. A social commentary if you will. It’s God’s instant pick-up like that we’re all special, loveable and loving. I beg to differ. If it were the truth, as all his words are supposed to be, there would be no war, hunger, racial conflicts or, to Nadine’s biggest disappointment, serial killer documentaries.

People are innately predisposed to jumping atop the bad side of the scales, not only because they can or want to, or find it too tempting to resist, but because it’s coded into their nature since the dawn of evolution. I’ve never in my life seen a caveman drawing of somebody willingly handing over his prey or shelter. As Charles Darwin once wrote, if the paraphrase shall be excused, it’s all about survival. Believers can shed as many tears as they want but that doesn’t change the fact we’re not special snowflakes.

And, technically, doing bad things isn’t sinning per se if there’s enough justification to make it reasonable. Humanity is yet to hear, after all, the calls of somebody who fucked his neighbour’s wife echo all the way from Purgatory, seeking to make the poor woman say she consented to it and was immensely sexually frustrated.

Case in point, my father’s driving is blasphemy but I doubt he’ll rot in the hot place for that. He wishes very strongly to prove otherwise by making the car run over a pothole and thus call forth in us motion sickness, but his quest fails when, having passed the local store that supports the households in the area, we pull up in front of my grandparents’ house and the purring engine is turned off.

There’s something you should know about my Nana. She’s a small hunched-over woman with a limp who can take care of a whole garden all on her own. Also, she cannot cook to save her life but I still love her—she’s loud and expressive and rather keen on hearing the city gals’ gossip. Pops, on the other hand, is the silent type of mysterious elder citizen you spy on from the corner of your eye when he goes out to feed the pigeons in the park while reading a newspaper in the 21st century.

There’s a pattern in our family tree, I should point out. My father, his father and his father before him have all ferociously fought for the hearts of women they’d spend the rest of their lives quietly mumbling, ‘yes, dear’ to. It’s funny, almost like watching mirror images, except one plays out some twenty years in the past. The parallels are amusing to my best friends, too, that much I’m aware of.

Nana welcomes us into the house and we let the poor Mercedes rest as we carry our heavy luggage up the stairs to the second floor where we’ll be staying. My hands hurt by the time I’m done, then I skip downstairs into the garden and, adhering to the tradition I created when I was five, I spend a solid minute gazing at the tall hills glued to the back of our two-storey house.

You’ll ask what kind of countryside I’m in and I’ll tell you I don’t have to tell you. Maybe we can call it Wonderland, if you need some sort of closure. Take it as it is and enjoy the view with me.

Because the hills are tall but not intimidating—on the contrary, they beckon the observer closer with the intention to show him something magical. Green and giant, picturesque in the least and ineffably magnificent at best. I’ve loved the hills and the forest since I could walk. But only these hills and this forest. Because they’re special.

Once my ritual is done, I head into the house and quietly listen to Terry—as she hates to be called—engage Nadine at the kitchen table with lots of gesticulation and comically eloquent expressions. They rope me into the conversation with ecstatic exclamations of cake and alcohol and alleged adventures in the countryside and, mostly, by making me shrink at the idea I’ll be turning twenty tomorrow.

It’s a scary prospect because that means I’ll be one year closer to adulthood and all the complications accompanying it—matters of politics, finances, independence and the like. It’s utterly thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I don’t feel ready for it—never have, since the first time my mother made a joke about it when I was still a prepubescent. I doubt I’ll ever be ready for it. Still, I’m thankful it’ll be a relatively simple and mediocre life—it’s the only thing holding me up.

The day rushes past. We cook and laugh and the world feels fine, almost like turning two decades old isn’t the end of it. We grab a bottle of the wine we brought along when the elders decide to go to bed and sneak up to our room, where Terry proceeds to whine about the lack of reception that prevents her from calling her boyfriend, Nadine laughs and I kick her calf while pouring three glasses of the sacred grape juice.

When the clock strikes midnight, they pounce on me with loud congratulations even though I was born in the early evening. The gesture warms my heart, then we resume gossiping and, around 2 a.m., decide it’s about time we go to bed in order to be energetic enough to celebrate all night tomorrow. My head rests on the pillow and I almost immediately doze off, mind full of fading colours and weird buzzing, until, finally, there’s nothing at all.

The dawn is bright and lively, and I’m all alone in the room. Terry and Nadine are morning people at heart so I immediately conclude they’re downstairs having coffee with my family. I stretch and yawn, pop the sore joints of my neck and lazily scratch at my chest before getting up. The scruffy black T-shirt I’m wearing gets caught by the door handle and pulls me back, then I glare, free myself from the inanimate object’s grip and am just about to head downstairs when Nadine’s pale hands wave in front of my face as the flash of Theresa’s phone goes off.

I flinch, yelp and, as a result, make both of them laugh hysterically. I slap their shoulders in passing and they wish me another happy birthday before leading me to the kitchen, where my mum slips me an ice cream and an espresso with a smile.

How about a hike? Five minutes later, I’m sitting outside, staring at the hills with my cigarette burning in my hold. Nadine is quick to nod in agreement and Terry scrunches her nose in mild displeasure. Don’t worry, my queen, the grass isn’t tall and there are no wild bears. She snorts and comments on the insects, then we pester her till she says she’ll be coming along.

It’s friendship in its best form. We set out on our hike in the afternoon, after helping out in the garden, showering, having lunch and watching Theresa smear sunscreen all over her face till she becomes as white as a ghost.

There is not much to be said about our trip, except I smugly enjoy the sight of my friends gaping in awe at their surroundings. The trees are tall and their shade is cool; the sun cannot touch us or the damp soil beneath our feet. We stop along the way every time we see a mushroom or spot a bird singing in the branches of a tree.

We’re walking down a path I know like the back of my hand when Nadine says she sees something to the right, toward the bottom of the hill. I squint my eyes and see a rock. Theresa squints her eyes and sees the same. Still, we decide to check it out. I’ve glimpsed it before but never actually bothered to inspect it. The closer we go and struggle not to slip, the more we see what we thought was a boulder is actually five separate stone slabs that connect and overlap in a weirdly structured way at the top.

Terry gets to taking pictures almost immediately. I watch the murk past the gaps between the stone slabs and creep towards it with latent curiosity. It’s almost like the top of a tower. My gaze tries to find something in the darkness but, unfortunately, I’m not a cat so I cannot properly estimate whether there’s a hole or just levelled soil under the stone. I begin circling it, slow and methodical, and see on its other side a big jagged rock. Between them is the narrowest of gaps.

Upon noticing that, I turn into my idol—Dora the Explorer—and step forward, holding the stone for support to prevent a fall down the steep hill. I’m staring at the ground when a shard of the rock chips off and hits my hand. I hiss and take it off the stone slab, immediately lose my footing due to the tricky pinecones and crash straight into the gap.

I sigh in relief and slowly shimmy through it, then my friends rush to my aid and are subjected to the same fate as me. We tumble, tangle, screech and I reach for the edge of the stone slab before we become a ball of shrieking humans rolling down the hill.

Except my hand goes through the clearly solid surface and I would be freefalling if Nadine didn’t grab my elbow. We’re huddled together, breathing heavily and not finding the strength to brush off the accident with laughter; Terry is almost crying from the adrenaline rush and Nadine is just a bit flushed.

Guys, my voice is shaky and they look at my face before noticing where my terrified gaze is aimed, please tell me you can see this.

My hand is burrowed into the stone to the wrist. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no blood. We haven’t ingested any toxic mushrooms and there’s no hole in the stone where my palm is supposed to be touching. I wiggle my fingers and shiver. It’s cold on the other side. Terry is pale and Nadine is frantically blinking at the sight, then my horror grows when both of them nod in confirmation.

I was seriously hoping for them to call me delusional. Then I’d blink and all five of my fingers would be pressed against the coarse surface of the stone. No such luck. Terry grabs my forearm and tugs, and we dreadfully observe my perfectly normal hand, functional and completely unharmed.

This is nuts, she’s muttering to herself and her brown eyes are bouncing between my hand and the stone. Are you sure that weird powder from the flower I stepped on isn’t toxic? Her question almost makes no sense, the goddamn flower was Queen Anne’s Lace and there are no harmful toxins in it whatsoever.

I remember eating one as a child—blossom, stalk and all—and getting the worst stomach ache of my life, but I sure as hell wasn’t tripping out to the point of magically passing through solid objects.

It’s a fucking weed, Terry, it’s not a drug and it can’t have affected all three of us even if it was. You were half a hill behind us when you stepped on it, Nadine argues, almost hysteric, then I rub my temples and get goosebumps when my fingers touch my skin.

This is impossible. I might be dreaming. I’ve never seen either of my friends this freaked out but, you know, the brain can conjure up a lot while it’s resting. This might as well be one of them. There’s this thing, idiots, Nadine’s voice is steady as she reaches for the exact spot my hand disappeared from sight, it’s called an optical illusion. Here, watch, I’m just going to touch it.

I try to stop her. Terry’s face is set in a permanent anticipatory expression. And then we watch Nadine’s fingers pass through the stone. Her brief self-assured façade crumbles and, I’m pretty sure, all three of us are about to shit our pants. The blonde yanks her hand back as if she got stung, then we begin freaking out vocally—Theresa is fittingly half-whispering, half-screaming prayers, Nadine is flailing her hand around while cursing and I’m just quietly whistling for a lack of oxygen in my dried up lungs. I try to gather my thoughts and slap their shoulders until they focus on reality enough to pay attention to me.

Calm down now. We have two options. My voice is hard but my eyes are frantic. They listen intently, wishing that, as part of the rational majority, I’ll have thought of something to justify whatever this was with. Either we accept the existence of the supernatural, their horrified gazes tell me they don’t really like that option, or we’re hardcore tripping on something we haven’t even taken. Maybe my mother slipped it in our coffees. Both options sound ludicrous and I know it. My friends obviously agree because Nadine chirps a question.

"Why the fuck would your mother roofie us?" Evidently, the plot hole of that line of thought is quite distinguishable. Still, I must say I prefer it to becoming the Martian from Justice League.

I don’t know! You don’t like the idea of our hands actually passing through the damn stone and that’s the only other explanation that makes sense! My exclamation prompts a heated discussion where we’re just screaming at the stone because nobody’s listening to the others. That goes on for about three minutes, then we quiet down and wet our dry throats by swallowing.

During the silence, I get the stupidest idea ever. Let’s go in. They knit their brows at me, uncomprehending. We’re either on non-existent drugs or we just found something that’ll change history. So somebody stick their head inside. Nadine glances at Terry, who cringes so hard at the predictable development it might hurt bystanders in close proximity. She begins arguing then.

I don’t want to touch the stupid stone at fucking all. Solid defence on all accounts, I have to admit.

Look, Terry, Syl and I already did it. You’re the only one who hasn’t. So go. It’s not dangerous or anything, Nadine fights back but her hands are shaking—so are mine. We’re all freaked out but, normally, in situations like these, the one with the God-given name is our scapegoat. This time, however, she’s absolutely against it. Which leaves us with no options, a problematic situation and the typical kind of human curiosity that needs to be satiated.

You’re saying that now—what if there’s something on the other side? Theresa sticks her phone in her pocket and glares, adamant and, if anything, quite logical. I find that people don’t know themselves until they are utterly horrified. And while it’s kind of a bonding activity since we are yet to begin seriously fighting, it doesn’t help the fact all three of us don’t want to do this. There’s this little detail, though—nobody says we should. But not one of us realises it. And that means exactly one thing—we all want to know what’s going on.

We can’t know before you stick your head through and tell us. Nadine’s argument pushes back, a bit ticked off and a bit high-pitched, then Theresa calls it bullshit and provokes her. I seriously doubt questioning anybody’s bravery will make them act in such a situation. No matter how much I doubt it, however, the provocation ricochets off the blonde and hits me instead. And while they keep tossing remarks at each other, I step closer to the stone slab and feel my knees turn to jelly in fear of the unknown on the other side.

I’ll save you the trouble, I cut into their argument and they turn to look at me with wide eyes. I’ll go. They open their mouths to object but curiosity holds their vocal cords hostage. I almost smile at our unanimous wish to figure this out. If I start screaming, don’t you dare leave me.

My eyes darken warningly and they barely nod, apprehensive gulps getting stuck in their throats. I look at the stone and begin leaning forward. My lids fall and I try to breathe. Maybe this will be the end of our magical experience. Maybe I’ll just bump my head into the stone, we’ll go back home and not talk about this ever again. I wait for the impact but first comes the fall—because I’m leaning so far in I tumble forward and yelp in surprise. My eyes snap open.

It’s dark. It’s dark and it’s cold and something’s glinting in front of me. Almost like sunlight reflected off glass. I’m holding my breath and trying to comprehend it—comprehend the fact I just walked through a solid stone slab like it was air. The gloom is almost suffocating but there’s something—it smells like river stones and fresh green leaves. Wind blows. My eyes take a second to adapt to the murk then I notice more glimmers—on the left and the right and up front, even below me—but stones don’t reflect light like this. I gulp and my shoulders are tense but my heartbeat is steady. That’s weird. The atmosphere inside is weird. Almost hypnotising.

Syl!

I flinch at the sound. For a second there, I forgot Theresa and Nadine are waiting for me. For a second there, I forgot my own name. Then I feel somebody’s hand on my shoulder—the steady grip tells me it’s Nadine. I blink twice and then they’re inside, too.

What the fuck? Theresa whispers on my left. Nadine is still clutching my right shoulder. We all get a minute to accustom to the dark and we stare in disbelief—the entirety of the interior is made of glass and stalactites, except they’re horizontally placed along the circumference of what we soon realise is a deep cave. They are sharp and, weirdly enough, form a spiral staircase toward the bottom of it. The glass is what connects them. I cannot form words in that moment. The cave is magical and what to me is an enthralling sight, to my friends paints a terrible nightmare.

Seconds fly by and with the passing of each one, Terry’s breathing becomes more shallow and hurried and Nadine’s steady grip grows tighter. They are soon panicking, rushing forward in the dark, screaming profanities and incoherencies. They wish to get out but they begin descending the staircase. I want to open my mouth and say that the exit is right behind us but no sound comes out. So maybe we can stay. If I just catch up to them and make them calm down.

It happens in a matter of seconds.

Theresa bumps into the wall and thumps her leg, and the glass under her shoes shatters completely. She’s falling and I’m watching it happen. Nadine is one level down and becomes collateral damage. It’s almost in slow motion but ever so simple. Terry is screaming and it’s a soul-freezing kind of sound, then the broken shards pierce the blonde below. She starts screaming too, frantically waving her hands around and trying to get them out. The blood is pitch black in the dim reflection of the glass.

Terry hits the bottom—the sound is painful. Her screaming halts and I can hear Nadine calling my name. I step forward and slip, falling face-first into the glass. My head hits the stalactite and I can hear a nasty pop—it’s coming from me. I have enough time to put a hand to my face to realise there’s a shard of glass where my eye was supposed to be. I’m flying toward the bottom. This is it. No birthday celebration for us. Are my parents going to cry at my funeral? Will they ever find us? Will they suffer the same fate if they do? Better not then. Thankfully, I’m not a believer. I go from this world with one thought in mind:

Shit.

Chapter 2

Plummet

My conscience is regained gradually as my eyes flutter open. Familiar ceiling. I’m at home. I wake unsettled and uneasy—I can swear I had a terrible nightmare but I can’t remember it for the life of me. Terry and Nadine aren’t in the room. Probably downstairs drinking coffee. I stretch and yawn, pop my sore neck and scratch at my chest before getting up. I almost remember doing it already.

I shake the thought off and glare when my shirt gets caught in the door handle on my way out. I free myself and jump when Nadine’s pale hands wave in front of me. Terry’s flash goes off from the staircase. I slap them, they wish me a cheery happy birthday and a weird shiver goes down my spine. Somebody probably left their window open during the night.

My mother serves me coffee and ice cream when we go downstairs. Nana is preparing the ingredients for lunch and Pops is quietly listening to my father rave about the car parts on his Wolzfagen he should be replacing. We go outside and I light up a cigarette, then, staring at the hills looming over the house, I blurt out if the girls are up for a hike. Nadine puffs a cloud of smoke and nods her head enthusiastically, and we spend the next few minutes convincing Terry that a wild bear won’t catch and eat her. She finally agrees to join us.

Friendship in its best form. I blink at the thought and the smile briefly slips off my face. I almost remember this conversation. It’s a hazy memory, barely existent, but the déjà vu backing it up is disturbing. I dismiss it. We spend some time in the garden, have lunch and poke fun at my Nana’s burnt toast and watch Terry smear a thick layer of sunscreen on her face when it’s time for us to go.

"Fucking—Guys, there’s powder on my shoe! The flower squirted it at me! For a med student, she sure has no common knowledge on plants. Nadine and I stop walking at Theresa’s shriek and wait for her to join us. Five minutes later, she’s catching up and still complaining about the stupid flower that, when described in greater detail, turns out to be plain old Queen Anne’s Lace. It literally made me sneeze five times, I think I might be allergic." Another déjà vu. I feel like we’ve led this conversation.

Come on, germo, you’re not allergic. Now walk, Nadine responds and gently pulls her along, making me hum as we follow the familiar path my father made me memorise when I was little. I once got lost. The forest here’s a funny thing but also a welcoming one. The trees provide shade, the birds are twittering and there are enough pretty mushrooms and flowers to fill half the storage in Terry’s gallery. Still, I’ve never strayed from this path. My curiosity always extended from the bottom to the top of the hill. Until now. Look over there. It’s a giant stone.

True that. Terry and I both agree. And we decide to check it out because, after all, why not?

Careful over here. At my advice, Theresa squeaks and almost slips and Nadine catches our hands. It’s a rather gentle way of saying that she’ll either hold us up or we’ll all fall together. The incline is steep and while the rock might prevent us from rolling all the way to the house, it won’t be the most pleasant experience to slam into it. A shiver goes down my spine as we advance.

I stare at the tower-like construction and the pitch-black space between the stone slabs makes my skin break out in goosebumps. The soil is peaceful and we let go of each other—Nadine is marvelling at the way the slabs mimic an architectural design, Terry is taking pictures from different angles and I’m circling it curiously when I come across another rock—jaded and looming—that’s almost touching it.

Weird for two such giant things to find themselves in such proximity in nature—moreover when they’re made of stone since it doesn’t simply sprout from the ground. I’m barely trudging towards the gap between them and my hand is pressed against the cool stone when a piece of the looming rock chips off and hits my knuckles.

I pull back with a hiss and lose my balance, crashing into the gap with a yelp, and barely wiggle through it when Terry and Nadine run to my rescue with warrior courage and cheering, only to slip as well. By the time they reach me, we’re a screaming tangle. I try to reach for one of the slabs and my heart almost stops when I miss, then Nadine catches my elbow and pulls me up while holding Terry by the shirt.

Guys, please tell me you can see this. They’re still balancing their breathing when my shaky voice is heard. It was just a stupid idea. I wanted to make sure I really missed the stone because I could swear my hand had to touch it. So I touch it and my hand passes through like it’s not there. There’s no pain or blood and my shell-shocked best friends nod their heads at me. I get another shiver down my spine. Another déjà vu. It’s so intense my head almost hurts.

Then Terry’s panicky fingers wrap around my forearm and tug. My stomach flips unpleasantly and Nadine tries to calm the brunet as she begins muttering that this is nuts, that the flower powder from earlier must’ve been toxic and I can’t stop staring at the stone because I’ve heard us lead this conversation before. Maybe in my dream.

Nadine’s voice is distant as she explains Queen Anne’s Lace is harmless and adds that Theresa was too far when she stepped on it for the alleged toxin to affect all three of us. The undertone of her voice is panicky. We’ve done this before. Their faces look familiar, not just because they’re my friends but because I feel the growing horror in their hues isn’t there for the first time—and it should’ve been.

I’m spacing out too much and snap back to reality only when the blonde’s hand reaches for the stone slab my hand went through. I can hear her saying something about optical illusions, then I’m suddenly reaching forward and smacking her hand away. Neither of us touches the slab. Terry blinks and snorts, then suggests that we simply go back to the house.

No. Nadine’s words are a weak protest I don’t recognise. This is curiosity. And curiosity killed the cat. I’m going to touch it and prove that it’s a normal stone. Or you touch it. Whoever. Somebody touch it, she insists and Terry objects and then they’re weakly arguing, halts and pauses and uncertain reasons.

The trees are tall and green and there are birds chirping in the distance. Terry is pulling at Nadine’s wrist and I purse my lips with a gulp. I’m naïve and I’m doing this only so they can stop arguing—also, secretly, to prove myself wrong. That this hasn’t happened before. That I’ll bump into the stupid stone and spend the rest of my birthday with a sore nose.

One step. Terry’s brows twitch when she notices. Two steps. She’s tapping Nadine’s upper arm. Three steps. Both watch me boldly walk into the coarse surface; I squeeze my eyes shut before the impact and open them when two pairs of desperate hands pull at my clothes and arms. I’m greeted by darkness and faraway glinting. My skin breaks out in goosebumps at the pleasant rush of fresh wind coming from below.

I hear Nadine’s voice as