“Keys to a Forgotten Land: John Carter’s Descent Into a Place That Shouldn’t Exist”

Summer 2022, Pacific Northwest.

John Carter had never been the type to gamble, yet here he was, staring at the brass keys in his palm, cold metal heavy with promise and history.

 

 

The property sprawled across rolling hills, bordered by thick stands of pine, and an abandoned mine at its far edge that local whispers labeled as cursed.

John didn’t believe in curses.

He believed in opportunity.

It was supposed to be a dream: a peaceful escape from the city’s constant hum, the chance to build a life in a landscape untouched, where mornings smelled of damp earth and evenings melted into lavender sunsets.

But the moment he set foot on the land, the atmosphere hinted at something else.

The silence wasn’t just quiet—it was expectant, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for him to make the first move.

The town nearby was sparse, populated mostly by retirees and the occasional weekend hiker.

John had spent the week familiarizing himself with the area, learning the creaks of the land, the winding paths of overgrown trails, and, of course, the stories surrounding the mine.

No one went near it.

A few old timers muttered about sudden disappearances decades ago, tools left in a hurry, meals still on tables, bodies never found.

Urban legend, John thought.

But curiosity gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch.

By midweek, he could resist no longer.

Armed with a flashlight, a camera, and a small backpack, he approached the mine just as the sun dipped behind the trees.

The entrance yawned before him, jagged rock framing a void of black.

Every instinct screamed to turn back, but the rational side—the part of him that loved mystery, that craved discovery—pushed him forward.

Inside, the air was thick, carrying a dampness that clung to his clothes and hair.

The beam of his flashlight swept across broken wooden beams and rusting equipment.

The deeper he went, the more the world outside disappeared until there was only the echo of his footsteps.

Then he saw it: a faint glimmer along the wall, metal catching his flashlight like it had been polished yesterday.

John crouched, brushing away the dust, revealing a small metal box, intricately carved with symbols he didn’t recognize.

The box seemed impossible, out of place—a relic too precise for an abandoned mine.

His pulse quickened.

He lifted it carefully.

The lid was stuck, and as he forced it open, a small, folded piece of paper fell out.

The paper was brittle, yellowed with age, yet the ink was dark, freshly applied.

It read simply: “Do not follow the light. It watches. It waits.”

A chill ran down his spine.

He laughed nervously, convincing himself it was a prank left by a previous trespasser or perhaps some eccentric local trying to scare newcomers.

He slipped the note into his pocket and continued.

Hours passed.

The mine twisted and narrowed, passages leading to dead ends and collapsed tunnels.

Every so often, he’d stumble upon remnants of life: a broken lunchbox, a cracked helmet, a skeleton of a dog long deceased.

It was as though people had simply vanished mid-action, leaving the world abruptly behind.

And then the voices started.

At first, faint, unintelligible whispers, like distant conversations carried by the wind.

John paused, convinced he imagined it.

But the whispers grew clearer, echoing off the rock walls.

They weren’t words as he knew them—more like syllables, repeated, a chant—or perhaps a warning.

Suddenly, the flashlight flickered and died.

Heart hammering, John fumbled with the batteries, but in that brief darkness, he caught a movement—a shadow darting across the wall, impossibly fast.

He froze, telling himself it was just his imagination, the trick of tired eyes in the dark.

The light returned, illuminating a narrow passage that hadn’t been there before.

The walls were slick, blackened as if something had burned, yet the air smelled faintly of iron, almost sweet.

Hesitation fought curiosity, but he moved forward.

Every step felt heavier, like the air itself resisted him.

Then he found it: a chamber, vast and silent, filled with objects that shouldn’t exist.

Ancient machinery, glowing faintly, humming with energy.

Strange symbols etched into the walls, moving subtly as he watched, like the rock itself was alive.

In the center lay a coffin-like structure, sealed but vibrating, as though something inside strained to escape.

John approached, camera ready, every rational thought screaming at him to leave.

But the pull was irresistible.

He touched the coffin.

The vibration intensified.

And then—the lid cracked open, slowly, silently.

What emerged was not human.

Not anything he recognized.

Pale, elongated limbs, eyes black as tar, and an intelligence that radiated from it, staring directly at him.

John stumbled back, tripping over debris.

The creature spoke—not with words, but directly into his mind: “You should not be here.

You cannot leave with what you carry.

”

Before he could respond, the ground beneath him shuddered.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

A hidden passage revealed itself behind the creature, stairs spiraling down into utter darkness.

Something about the movement suggested that whatever was below wanted out.

John didn’t know if it was fear or fascination, but he descended.

The stairs led to a cavern larger than he could comprehend.

Bioluminescent fungi lit pools of water that reflected shadows dancing on the ceiling.

Shapes moved beneath the surface—figures, humanoid but wrong, distorted.

And in the center of it all, another box—identical to the first, sealed tight, pulsing with a strange light.

The whispers returned, louder now, chanting in that impossible rhythm.

John realized the mine wasn’t abandoned.

It never had been.

The mine was alive, and it fed on curiosity, on trespassers, on secrets.

And now, he had found the key to its heart.

The box called to him.

As he reached out, his camera slipped from his grasp, falling into the pool with a splash.

The lens captured just one frame before shutting off: a mass of shadow lunging toward him, the light refracting into a thousand tiny eyes.

Then silence.

Hours—or maybe days—passed.

John woke outside the mine, sun high, no sign of the cavern or the passage.

The keys were gone from his pocket.

The box, the creature, the chamber—nothing remained.

Only the note, damp and fragile, in his hand.

It read now: “It watches through you. You cannot unsee.”

He returned to the town, tried to tell someone, anyone, but the locals’ faces blurred, their eyes hollow.

His camera footage was corrupted, unwatchable, each frame replaced with static, yet every so often, a flash of movement—something staring back—appeared.

John knew, deep down, that the mine was not a place one could own.

It was a doorway, and it had chosen him.

The lines between what was real and what lurked beneath the surface had shifted, and he could feel it in the edges of his vision, in the whisper of wind through the trees, in the reflection of the water he passed.

No one else could see it.

No one else could feel it.

And yet, it was waiting.