Week 119: The Crater of Light

I found the small town of Bryson Ridge in the forests of Appalachia to fit my need for some quiet. The city was too loud and exhaustive. The small town couldn’t have been larger than 1200 people and it lies in a deep valley by a river. It was midnight when I first arrived in the town. Few people were about in the night. I heard a strange humming coming from beyond the town towards a coal mine. The small cafe owner told me they’ve been trying to revamp the coal mines in the valley so they wouldn’t have to rely on tourism to keep the lights on- I don’t think it’s going to work. I needed some peace and quiet to write. I’m glad for the small population of Bryson Ridge: less people to worry about. Once I finish my work, I’ll head back to the city, but there’s something about this town that’s keeping me here. A pull like gravity that would prevent me from leaving even if I wanted.

In the cafe in the center of the town square, the rain gently patters on the glass window outside. Condensation builds on the window shrouding the writer from the outside as she sits alone at the corner table with an open notebook observing people in the cafe. She scribbles character quirks she notices in people. A flicker of the eyelash in company of a captivating person, the jittery foot tapping during a nervous first date, a quiet forensic gaze of the room of someone looking for an old friend.

Characters from all walks of life sit in the cafe. There are tourists in khaki shorts and short-sleeve shirts enjoying each detail like a toddler seeing the world for the first time. There are people whose faces are coated in black soot. There are older people and younger people eating slowly and conversing meaningfully as if this is the last time they’ll see each other. Most people had the black streaks of water on the side of their neck and on the floor beside them as their wet shoes sloshed on the tiled floor leaving behind odd puddles of black water. Each observation forms an entry in her notebook, and she draws lines connecting quirks to characters, threads connecting superficial actions to meaningful stories.

A man walks in and immediately sees the writer, and smiles as if he’s been waiting for her. He makes his way towards her. The writer notices the man’s gait has a slight limp as his wet shoes land in an uneven rhythm on the ground, and his hands seem stuck in a curved position --likely from arthritis. She jots her notes and fails to notice him standing beside her table waiting for her to notice.

“May I sit”, he asks.

The writer closes her notebook and moves it out of sight and nods to the seat across from her..

“I haven’t seen you here before. You just moved in?”

“Just visiting. Needed some peace from the city for a while.”

“Many people come here for that but not many leave. I’ve seen folk end up staying the rest of their lives here. Maybe it’s the peace that keeps them here. How’d you find this place?”

“A travel book, the internet, some place I can’t remember..”

The man laughs. “Fair enough. I take it you’re a writer then? With that notebook by your side, you’ve probably been scouting this cafe for a while. Writing down quirks and stories to go along with those quirks.”

The writer shrugs. “Kind of.”

“It’s alright. We get many writer types visiting this place. A few hikers passing through and adventure types too. With the Appalachian Trail nearby the endless miles of forests and pristine wildlife. It’s an escape for many and a haven for some.”

“Have you been here a while?”

“Born and raised. Down the street from here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in between work right now. Haven’t found a steady job yet. Mr. Tudor rejected me to work in the kitchen of this cafe. I’ve applied 15 times and I think now he’s finally warming up to me.”

“What about others? There’s not much to do around here. Seems like most of the money comes from tourism.”

“Probably. Many tourists do pass by here in a day or two and keep moving through the trail or go back home before they get a chance to really enjoy the town. Most people I know work in mine outside of town. They’re trying to rebuild that and get it going. The mayor wants to push us away from relying on tourism to keep the lights on.”

“Why don’t you work there?”

“Bad limp. Can’t handle walking for too long. It’s dangerous work in that mine. 100 feet below the surface–basically working in your grave. Many go in and a few make it out.”

“Why isn’t it closed if many people die from it?”

“I don’t know. I guess we need the money and people will do whatever it takes to get there. At some point in the lives of everyone here, we all go towards the mine.”

“Even the tourists?”

“A few. Most leave before they get a chance to see it. It’s not something advertised. Signs that say ‘dangerous coal mine’ is a surefire way to get attention and shut down our town.”

“I saw an orange glow in the distance when I first arrived in the night. Was that the mine?”

The man nodded. “They work on it day and night. Only the workers can visit anytime of day. Other people need the Mayor’s permission.”

She nods and looks past the man at the others in the cafe and continues taking notes.

“Do not go towards the mine”, said the man sternly.

“I won’t.” He couldn’t see it, but she made up her mind when she arrived the night prior.

—----------------------------------------------

The writer walks to her ranch home from the cafe. The road she walks on edges by a lake 1000 meters away from the homes. She passes by her neighbors playing outside in the light rain with their kids and dog. They splash in the mud and wet grass as the dog zigzags between them. Before the writer entered her home, small streaks of black water streamed down the mother’s face before they were quickly wiped off.

In the ranch house, suitcases stand in the corner with an empty hand-carved white oak desk in the middle of the room facing a wall. The gray light of day shone through the thin curtains on the window. With her laptop in the middle and her notebook at her side, she pulled up to the desk and began writing.

In the dead of night, the writer stares at a blank page. Her notebook is filled with crossed out traits and half-erased character names and outlines. She tried typing but quickly erased it–a pattern she has repeated for many hours. The soft amber light of the streetlamp colored the room. The sound of the gentle undulating of the waves in a nearby lake gently rocks her to sleep. Before she fully succumbed to the slumber, she awoke to shadows passing by her window.

She peers beyond the curtain at a small group of people walking away from the town and towards the orange light. Some carried torches but most were empty handed. At closer look, she notices her neighbor-the father playing with his family in the rain earlier today. She notices some of the elderly people from the cafe and some of the young too. The writer was busy looking at the people that she recognized, she didn’t notice one of them had stopped and stared at her and started to walk towards her.

The shadow grew darker and more defined as it approached. She crouched out of sight hoping the person wouldn’t knock on the door. No knock came, instead a strange rattling sound came as something metal was dragged through grass and onto concrete. She peeked to see her neighbor dragging a bicycle from the lawn back to his home. He slyly grabbed a metal shiv and slipped it into his back pocket. Another person quickly grabbed him and put him back on track. He soon joined the rest of the group walking uniformly towards the orange light.

The writer grabbed her camera and notepad and followed at least half a mile from them.

—---------------------------

Deep in the heart of Appalachia, where modern civilization and cities were miles in either direction through dense forest, lies the mine. Its entrance was a mammoth cavern carved into the base of a mountain from dynamite laid by railroad tycoons and robber barons of the past. It couldn’t be seen from a distance. Once stumbled upon, its presence and vastness surprised the onlooker like a heart attack. Its mouth was shaped like a ravenous alligator snapping turtle, and the light from their torches only reached one-hundred feet into the cave before vanishing in the void.

The trees were cleared for the entrance yet few saplings were growing back. No creature of the forest could be heard near the cave as the group approached it. Only the sounds of their footsteps echoed in this hollow forest. The icy moonlight peered through the thick canopy providing speckles of translucent blue on the plants and their faces. The group entered the mine without fear as the writer took photos from a distance. As the group ventured further into the cavern, the writer followed at a distance keeping the flames of the torches in view.

Soon the void encompassed her as she arrived deeper in the tavern, and the orange light of the torches were overwhelmed by a stronger orange fire radiating from within the cave. She kept her hand against the rough cave walls feeling for any distinctive markings. The radiating orange light grew warmer and the voices of the people grew louder. A combination of clamor and screaming of a hellish choir accompanied the warmth of the glow. The writer approached a clearing and she could see the group of people standing before a glowing Orb.

The Orb was glowing pure white like a white dwarf star yet the light reaching the cavern walls were red-shifted. The Orb floated in a crater of light. The shape of the crater resembled a meteorite crash. The longer she stared at the ball the closer she felt drawn to it. It had its own pull and the space between her and the floating Orb shrank greatly. She had to close her eyes and look away to avoid being sucked in. Her eyes fell upon the crowd of humans before it. They gathered around the Orb like an emperor. One person stepped forward and the rest stepped back. Emerging from the Orb was a snaking branch of light that traveled towards the head of the man. Other branches of light stemmed from the Orb sprouting upwards towards the cavern ceiling like a tree. As she watched and took photos and followed the branches of light towards the ceiling, she realized she was looking at distant stars instead of a rocky ceiling. There was no ceiling in this part of the cavern. Then everything became pitch black even the stars hid their fires to avoid seeing what transpired next.

She waited for a while in the dark until a small candle of light emerged by the man. She peered through her camera and saw the lighting was coming from inside him. He lurched backwards and his mouth agape towards the heavens as a steady stream of light and swirling colors emerged from him. In the colors she saw mixtures of people, objects, traces of animals, everything mixed in a beautiful display of pastel colors surmounting that of Van Gogh himself. A visceral display of memories. Her camera couldn’t capture the details in the hues and the graceful motion of the light as it swirled out of the man and towards the Orb . Soon the man’s form faded leaving his organs, and soon they too faded into darkness. The only light came from the Orb and its crater. The Orb began to pulsate rapidly as a figure emerged from beneath it. The man stepped from the crater of light. His motions were robotic and infantile, completely wiped of previous faculties. His skin was covered in black fluid-a mixture of soil, soot and water. The writer continued taking photos until she noticed something was off about the man. He wiped the streaks from his eyes and looked around, and his head followed the motion of the light swirling the Orb like a child watching a balloon. The man was under the control of the Orb. Then she remembered from earlier in the day. The people in the cafe with the black streaks of water. Were they also under the control of the Orb? Was the force benign or malicious, for the writer could not tell as she was paralyezed by terror as the man stared direclty at her.

A few moments pass before any visible motion is made by either of them. Slowly the writer packed her camera and felt for the rocky walls. She looks for an escape and sees nothing but darkness until she feels the gentle breeze coming from the entrance. Keeping her eyes on the Orb, she slowly moves towards the breeze. Even from a distance, she could recognize the people sacrificing their light to the Orb. The elderly people from the cafe along with those whose faces were covered in soot and the young people too. The whole process was silent and efficient. She saw her neighbor who was gleefully playing with his family earlier today waiting to be assimilated.

A yell came from the crowd as she saw her neighbor jump towards the Orb with a metal shiv. His arm cocked back in a striking position ready to do it harm. But no harm came to the Orb. The neighbor jumped and simply passed through it. His actions were so inconsequential they can be said to never have occurred at all. He landed in the crater of light and was immediately engulfed in flames and extinguished.

She froze, astonished by its power. His existence was removed from this world so effectively and swiftly that the man simply vanished. As she scooted further away from the Orb , she heard pebbles roll towards her as a hand emerged from the darkness and grabbed her arm.

—--------------

The writer woke in her bed at her ranch home with the camera and notebook at her desk dressed in the same clothes as before. She looked at her arm and saw a black mark. It wouldn’t fade no matter how hard she rubbed it and no pain came from it. Stumbling out of bed, she grabbed a phone from her desk drawer.

“Ben!”, she spoke frantically. “Ben, you need to send more people. There’s something larger going on here.” The phone wouldn’t connect. No signal for her to broadcast a plea for help.

A light sprinkle of rain as the midday sun shone through clouds, and the residents were about their day as normal. Reluctantly, she went outside with new eyes, viewing the residents unsure of who met their fate at the Orb . Her neighbor’s were playing outside again with the kids and wife but the husband was missing. They paid no attention to her. Out the corner of her eye, she sees a crack of grief in their facade.

The cafe held the same customers. The old, the young, those covered in soot, and the man with the limp sitting at the booth from yesterday. She noticed the water from the rain created black streaks by their feet and on their necks. The black streaks of water ran down the face of the old, young, and those covered in soot. The customers glanced at her as she moved to the booth with her notebook in hand. Though no words were exchanged, the paranoia was palpable.

She sat across the man with the limp without making eye contact and immediately opened her books and began scribbling away details and everything she could remember.

“How’d you sleep”, he asked.

Deep in thought, she didn’t respond as her pen swam across the page transcribing memories. She drew rapidly and wrote succinctly that she could not stop, something external compelled her to continue.

The man tried again. “What happened yesterday? We found you outside your home on the grass.”

She stopped. In her notebook were perfect renditions of the cave and the Orb and the people standing before it.

He looked at her drawing. “You went to the mine.”

She finally spoke up. “What exactly was happening to those people?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw people being assimilated by an Orb of light.”

“Which mine - where did you go? People go to a mine to extract coal for the factory out of town. There’s no Orb of light.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No. Never. Look, I think you should go back home and get some rest. You’re pretty shaken up from last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your neighbor found you outside your home last night on the grass unconscious. They put you back inside your home.”

“No-I was in the mine last night and I know what I saw.” She pushed her drawing towards him. “There’s something going on in this town.”

“It’s a pretty close-knit community. I think someone would speak up if they saw something strange.”

“Even the mayor?”

“Especially the mayor. Mayor Guster has been our mayor for 40 yrs. He’s born and raised. You don’t want to go around accusing people of things you don’t understand. It’ll get you in trouble.”

She spoke in a whisper. “How much trouble would I be if I talk about the people disappearing in the mines or the Orb making people or the fact that Mayor Guster hasn’t done anything about it?”

The man sits back. “You’re a journalist.”

“That’s right.”

“Our last journalist left the town. He was convinced there was nothing worth covering here.”

“There is and it’s being covered up. Missing 10-20 people a night isn’t something you can brush under the rug.”

“10-20 people? Look around you. If that many people were missing each night, then we’d be a ghost town. Who would believe that?” The man stood. “I don’t know how long you’re staying here but try to enjoy it. It is a good town with good sights. Don’t forget to see it before you go on your wild goose chase.”

“Wait before you go. Do you know what it wants?”

“Maybe it doesn’t want anything.” The rain picked up outside as the man exited the cafe. She noticed small black streaks of water on his face.

She looked more closely at the other customers around her. Those who were from the previous night kept a side eye on her and each had black streaks of water on their face.

She gathers her items, and her eyes meet an elderly woman’s. The woman smiles deviously as she shushes with her finger.

The writer finds a payphone in town.

“Ben”, she said. “You need to get me out of here.”

“Janine? Is that you? It’s been 2 months-- are you ok? We thought you–”

“2 months? I’ve been gone 2 days. Just get me out of here.”

“Yeah-yeah of course. You’re still at Bryson Ridge right? I’ll be there by sundown.”

“Good. There’s something off about this place. There’s this thing that’s—” The line cut out. She tries again but the line won’t connect.

At her ranch home, she looks at the photos in her camera. The Orb and people being assimilated by the Orb. A familiar face caught her eye. She zoomed in and found the man with the limp waiting in line by the Orb.

“If he’s become one of them”, she thought to herself. “Then he’s trying to keep me away from the Orb . He only became jumpy when he knew I was making accusations about the place. The Orb is controlling everyone here to keep them here and stay hidden. I’m not going to let this go unheard.”

She opens her laptop and tries connecting to the internet. 1 bar. She uploads the photos to her computer. Slowly it reaches 1% completion.

She gathers her notebook and camera and waits for dark.

—------------

Night fall comes and she’s ready with her camera, notepad, and phone. She steps out alone into the moonlight. Dark was the night, cold was the ground. The water from the rain earlier today traveled with the wind cutting her skin. There was no group in sight but it didn’t matter. She made her way to the mine. Though she couldn’t remember, her muscles knew the path as if they obeyed a different mind.

She stood at the mouth of the mine and looked around. She heard no animals or footsteps. In the distance, she could see red light and blue light gently coming from beneath the canopy miles away. How many mines are there? Bracing against the cold wind, she put her hand against the cave wall and walked into the void.

She arrives at a familiar sight. The Orb floats in its crater of light as the humans corral around it like animals eager to be slaughtered.

She continued to snap photos and her cell phone had no signal. At the same spot from the previous night, she could see another group of humans– more inhabitants of the town– form a line. She noticed a path below her, nearly the same level as the humans standing before the Orb.

Before she could think of refusing, her legs moved towards the lower path. The descent was steep as she nearly stumbled to the ground. When she looked up to gather her surroundings, all the humans were gone. She was alone with the Orb.

Light circled the Orb, entering from one point and exiting from another like Orbits on an atom. She continued to snap photos but suddenly stopped entranced by the light of the Orb. Though the Orb appeared to be uniform on its surface, she could tell it was facing her. A sharp pain came into her head that could only be described as the tactile sensation of a needle on a record player. The pain fluctuated like a composer waving his wand to conduct an orchestra. The pain fluctuated and her muscles responded. She stepped towards the Orb.

The writer stood a few feet from the crater of light. To step closer was to risk incineration. The Orb floated 10 feet above her as the stream of light exited it and moved towards her face. She stretched out her hand and felt the light curl around her arm like a vine and move towards her face. Gently, she floated towards the Orb of light.

The pain intensified in her mind like walking in shards of glass. At varying degrees and intervals, the pulsating sensation seemed more sporadic than a physical response. Then she realized it. The Orb was communicating with her. The Orb, in its own manner, was attempting to communicate with her and her brain interpreted the signals as pain, the closest translation to the Orb’s language. Each piercing sensation is a syllable. A phrase could be dictated by location and intensity. Its language was complex and miraculous. She floated before the Orb in a calm manner like it was cradling her with its light.

Her camera and notebook were left on the ground 10 feet behind her as she floated above the crater of light. She stopped trying to decipher its language and started to experience it, allowing it flow over her then she understood. The Orb was not trying to keep people here. It was bringing them here. To be assimilated. An image flashed before her eyes. She couldn’t tell if this was a memory or her future. The image was her computer completing the upload of her photos to her colleagues.

—-----

Months later an article grips the nation by storm. Detailing the Appalachian town of Bryson Ridge under the control of an entity - colloquially called the Orb - that lives in the mountains. The article sparked a massive government invasion of Bryson Ridge and the nearby Appalachian region for the Orb .

The article was published posthumously by journalist Janine Mushik who first discovered this tragedy. Her body has yet to be found.