Earlier in the month I had agreed to help my friend setup her New Year’s Eve party, and that I’d—by virtue of being there—attend and hangout for a while, even though I’m not exactly the most sociable person.

It was at this party that a very strange, and ultimately terrible thing happened to me.

While setting up her “bar” (a counter on which she’d placed a few bottles of booze and several festive shot glasses) I heard a sort of pinging sound coming from her laundry room. We were the only ones in the house, and she was in the garage looking for some candles she’d put away after Thanksgiving, to bring out during the countdown later in the night. Not recognizing the sound, I put aside the glasses I’d been stacking and went to the laundry room.

It was empty, in the sense that there wasn’t anything notably out of order. But just as I was about to turn away, I saw a small black object, nestled almost out of sight beneath a shirt in a laundry basket. I reached inside and pulled it out, and heard—clearer now—that same pinging sound. It was a Bluetooth speaker.

Just then, my friend’s voice sounded from behind, nearly giving me a heart attack.

“I’m sorry. I really am. But you know how I am about prophetic stuff...and it’s not like anyone but me would miss you, anyway. I know you were probably joking, but I do remember you saying you’d like to be in one of those ‘dying so others may live’ scenarios common in all those movies you watch.”

Before I could even turn around to face her, she shut the door. The clicking, bolting sounds of some mechanism being locked in place signified that she had, for some strange, ominous reason, locked me inside her laundry room.

Panic set in almost immediately, as I realized that she was being serious about whatever dark plot she’d decided to undertake. I then heard several voices begin to whisper in a language that sounded only loosely human; as if something from every civilized language had been taken and repurposed into some new, universal tongue. Steeped in darkness, rendered immobile by my fright, I merely stood beside the washing machine as the incantatory speech went on and on, and the voices grew deeper, graver.

Finally, that mundane darkness took on a more palpable form, becoming almost sinister in nature. It enveloped me, stamping out what little light there’d been in the room—and in my heart.

Though I couldn’t see what was going on, I felt myself being spirited away from that room; and even then, I knew that the nature of my transportation was super-scientific, if not sorcerous.

After a period of blind yet dizzying travel through some back alley of space-time, the world around me resolved into being once more. Though it was not any world with which I was familiar.

I suddenly found myself standing in a massive, dusty chamber, grey-walled and high-ceilinged. There were no signs of my friend; but, like a dream speedily fading away upon awaking, I heard the voices of those unseen whisperers quickly drawing away, at last becoming inaudible as the darkness finished clearing from my sight. Deeply disturbed, and reaching new heights of fear with every dust-choked breath, I stumbled forward into chamber.

And found myself staring into the depths of several corridors, their thresholds bearing no indication of what lied beyond.

A massive cauldron of some dark, green-tinged metal sat in the nexus of the corridors, bubbling with some unwholesome substance. Its rim was coated with a dark yellow residue, practically seared into the very metal; and oily streaks trailed endlessly from the surface. The stuff inside boiled hellishly, and gave off a stench as of burning tallow.

Even though I couldn’t see inside, I nonetheless felt sure that—given the evidence of what had leaked out—the undoubtedly yellowish contents were thick, slimy, and of a clumpy, waxy consistency. Something about it deeply disturbed me, even as the more animal parts of my brain sensed a certain palatability about the mysterious brew. 

There was an atmosphere of endless, ever-ripening putrefaction about the structure; and there was even a visible cloud of sallow vapor that had risen and settled above the cauldron’s surface. There was something profoundly offensive about it, revolting in a way that I can scarcely describe. It was obvious that it had not been created for the preparing of food suitable to human diets. Something else feasted upon the disgusting, molten contents. 

The walls nearest to the cauldron bore a slimy residue, which also dripped from the ceiling, as if the environing surfaces were alive with a porous sickness. I gave the cauldron a wide berth, not wanting to inhale the miasmal gases. Several corridors spanned from this central node, each continuing on into an impenetrable gloom. I chose one at random and started down it, fearful more of the cauldron I was leaving behind than the dark uncertainty towards which I was heading. 

There was a dim ambience about the corridor I’d chosen, one that gradually grew until it became startling for its audibility. It imparted a sense of great immensity, of spaces borderless and boundless, wherein echoed every drop of sub-surface water.

The air grew cleaner as I went, for which I was very thankful; I hadn’t noticed before, but I realized then that the atmosphere near the cauldron was stifling, almost nauseating. The dark, interminable hall was, in comparison, a much more respirable place to be. 

Eventually, after who knows how long, I came upon the end of the corridor. There was no threshold, no door—merely a steep drop into cavernous nothing. The corridor simply ended at a void, though not one completely devoid of structure and form. It was more so a geologically sprawling chasm, impossibly far-spanning and without ceiling, but having the rocky attributes common to caves of lesser degree. The ambience of vast hollowness resounded endlessly, like some world-eating horror letting out a perpetual yawn. There was light, though I couldn’t figure out from where it was coming. It was simply there, dimly illuminating this ultramundane space. 

Movement to my right drew my attention away from the bottomless emptiness, and I turned toward it with a little relief. But that relief was quickly transformed into despair when I saw a man in a dust and grime-smeared blue suit put one foot over the edge of the floor—having undoubtedly emerged from some other corridor that also let out onto this bizarre space. I began to shout, hoping to implore him to step back; but stopped when my voice echoed back to me distorted, warped by that titanic nothing. The man either did not hear my words or paid them no mind, because he continued his progress forward. 

Without a word, without turning toward me, he plunged headlong into that hypogeal abyss. Helplessly, I watched him fall, and my heart fell with him. ‘There were no sounds of impact. No noises which might’ve given any indication that the man had reached a bottom—alive or dead. Neither did he scream or cry out, as if he had long ago resigned himself to the fatal descent. 

Filled with a chilling dread, I stepped away from the threshold and turned back toward the place from which I had come: the massive cauldron of boiling fat. 

Back at the cauldron, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeply wrong about the chasm, beyond the near unreality of its size and emptiness. My voice had sounded extremely strange when it reverberated back to me. It had sounded, for lack of a better word, “unclean”, as if the very notes had been taken and poisoned by something in the depths before being flung back at me. It was deeply unnerving to think about, and so I refocused my mind on escaping, even as the noisome funk of the cauldron threatened to send me retching onto the floor. 

Ignoring the putrid dankness, I again circumnavigated the cauldron, this time choosing a path opposite from the one I’d taken before. The corridors were virtually indistinguishable: The same dank walls, the same march towards darkness; the same lessening of the air’s pollution by that sinister stew. And again I came to an abrupt end, beyond which lied that cavernous nothing. 

Terror trickled intravenously through me, and I found myself suddenly fighting to stay calm—if not sane. Putting a hand on a wall to steady myself, I brought my breathing under control. “This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. What’s going on?” My voice came out shaky. I couldn’t remember a time where I’d been nearly as frightened as I was just then. And yet I sensed that there were more horrors to come, more terror to endure before I could escape. 

Just when I had brought my breathing and heart under control, I heard something that sent them into fits again. From far down hall came a harsh sound, like shoes dragging on the stone floor. It silenced me, the loudness of it; and it soon became obvious that the sounds were coming closer, approaching me with a grim steadiness. With only the void to my back, I had nowhere to go. 

After a few moments of mounting terror, a figure appeared in the gloom ahead; a figure that was thankfully humanoid. Still, I felt myself tense up, sensing a subtle yet unmistakable quality of inhumanity about the person.

Their feet dragged as they neared, as if they had long ago given up their mind or spirit. Finally, they stepped into the scope of light emitted by the ominously luminous cavern, and I saw them in full detail. They were, as I had noticed, human; but the mortal kinship between us ended there. It was a man, who had at some point in the far-distant past been a businessman of some kind. He wore a tattered suit and tie, not dissimilar to what the other man had worn, though plainly much older. Hic clothes were practically falling off his wiry frame, and had faded to some nigh indescribable color between grey and white. 

His face was outright ghoulish, the cheeks sunken and almost leprous with spots and abrasions. His scalp was bald, and the oddly textured surface suggested that his hair had fallen out some time ago. I suspected that the cause of the deathly pallor and the pockmarked flesh was the emissions of the cauldron. The fumes, more than any passage of time, had probably caused this man’s decrepit appearance. 

With eyes that seemed to have stared for too long on that vacuous immensity behind me, he looked at me—abruptly stopping his shuffled march. 

“Ah, I see we’ve got another. What year are you, if you wouldn’t mind me asking?” 

I involuntarily leapt back, having been caught off guard by the man’s scratchy and guttural voice. That voice, I suspected, hadn’t been used in a long, long time. If a mummy could speak, that’d be the voice it would use.

When I regained a little of my composure—a period during which he simply stared—I asked him to clarify the meaning of his question, since I hadn’t any idea of what he’d meant. 

“Ah, you are very new, then. On my back, there is a number. Tell me what it is, will you? It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten it. Once you do that, I’ll do the same for you...and then we’ll both know from when we came.” 

The man then turned around, showing me his back. The clothing between his shoulder blades had been burned away, revealing a broad patch of skin. Four numbers were blackly displayed there, embossed from the pale flesh as if they’d been branded, rather than written. Just as the man had said, the numbers made a year: 1982. More so out of shock than compliance with the man’s wishes, I said the number aloud, and he nodded in remembrance. 

“Ah, that’s right. I’d just seen a move. What was it? The...Something. I was with friends, we were leaving the theater. We’d really enjoyed the film, were talking about it. And then...darkness. I was—selected. There’d been mention of a prophecy—a necessary sacrifice.”

He turned back to me, his face streaming with tears. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, considering the desiccated state of his body. 

“Go on, then. Turn around. Let’s see your year.” 

Still in shock at the absurdity of the situation, I wordlessly complied. My eyes stared ahead, not wanting to focus on any particular area of that illimitable vastness.

“Oh, you’re quite far ahead of me. 2023.” 

My body went rigid. Ahead of me, the cavernous darkness seemed to beckon me onwards. Somehow, I’d been taken from the wrong time. In my timeline, it was still 2022—of that I was certain. The NYE party hadn’t even started, yet.

And yet seared into my back was the year 2023, which was—which should’ve been—hours away. The day had only just started.

Through sheer force of will I managed to relieve my body of its rigidity, turning around to face the man; though I couldn’t help the tremors that arose a moment later. As if I hadn’t spoken in weeks, I stammered out that there’d been some sort of mistake—that I was from the year 2022, not 2023. But the man’s eyes, still glossy with tears, only stared. After a moment of inscrutable silence, he motioned back, presumably toward the noxious cauldron. 

“There are three choices left to those who’ve been transported here. The first: sacrifice themselves to the cauldron, thus ensuring that the year from which they hail—or to which they will soon go—will be free of major cataclysm. The second: wander these halls aimlessly, in the hopes that they’ll someday find escape, or that the system somehow changes...or crumbles altogether. The third, reject the system entirely, and jump into the abyss. What lies beyond is unknown. It could be death, a return to the past—or future.

There is no basis of time, here. All continuities past and present may coexist within these corridors, for as long as need be. The only thing that matters is The Choice. So, I suppose you could say in essence there are really only two options: Sink in the soup, or don’t.” 

Despite the small jest, there was no mirth in the man’s expression. Bleakness and a sorrow immeasurable were etched into his sunken features. 

“I’ve just recently made my choice, having been here for...well, I can’t really say, can I? I’ve come across people from a century in the future, so I can’t very well base my time spent here on anything concrete.” 

Hoping to find a flaw in the man’s explanation of the system—and perhaps a way to escape it—I countered, “Wouldn’t that mean that it doesn’t matter what we do, if people of the future exist? There obviously hasn’t been a cataclysm awful enough to wipe out humanity as we know it.” 

He smiled, though it was a sad, knowing smirk; as if he’d been grimly expecting the question.

“No, not at all. As I said, time does not operate here. All years, all temporal potentialities, arrive here at some point. There is no chronology, no order of being. I suspect that, if we had to be placed anywhere in a timeline, it’d be at the beginning. I figure this place predates time itself.” 

My mind reeled at the sheer cosmic unreality of the idea. I couldn’t mentally grasp the concept of being some pre-temporal entity, of my choices determining a future yet recorded. Seeing my incredulity, the man smiled his sad smile again, and placed a withered hand on my shoulder.

“Be well, traveler. May you find what peace you can in these corridors, or the space beyond them.” 

Walking past me, he stepped to the edge of the corridor. He seemed to settle himself, shrugging off the years that had accumulated atop his tired shoulders. I couldn’t see his face, but I was sure that, in the end, he smiled. Not the sorrow-filled smile of before, but one of genuine happiness. 

“Oh, one last thing. There is a particular corridor with a special wall. On it are written the epitaphs of those who’ve come and gone. You may write one yourself, if you wish. Some are merely a few lines; others are practically novels. Somehow, those words find their way to the world—to the regular flow of time. Not always the exact year from which the authored hailed, but close. Maybe it would bring you some peace to recount your tale—or simply say goodbye.”

He then stepped forward, plunging himself into the yawning depths with a certain morbid stoicism. 

I turned away with tears in my eyes, even though I hadn’t known the man for more than a few moments. 

Having seen the aged, decrepit state of that man, I determined then to promptly make my choice. I didn’t want to linger in that dismal realm, doomed to roam the purgatorial labyrinth forever. But first, I would find the wall, and write something on it.

It was not difficult to locate the wall; in fact, it felt as if being made aware of it somehow brought it to the forefront of the maddening maze. Upon returning to the cauldron, I took another corridor at random, and came across a wall down which spanned the inscriptions and scribblings of past wanderers—whomever they’d been.

It would take more time that I’d care to spend in this prison to share even a few of self-written epitaphs, so I will only say that a disconcerting amount were from years far in the past; nearer to the earliest civilizations of man, than my own time. Some of the languages I recognized, others were of styles and lexicons beyond my knowledge; I’d even dare to say that a few were of a linguistic order entirely inhuman—but the implications of such an idea are far too profound to be discussed with any substance, here.

It is on this wall, beneath the infinitely gloomy phrase, “I am a revenant—doomed to wander and haunt the halls; denied both death and life”, that I’ve written my tale. I have more or less detailed all that’s happened to me, and am now saying my goodbyes: to the world, to my life...to time itself.

I don’t know what fate awaits me upon submergence in that foul cauldron, but if what the man had said is true; that in doing so I’ll prevent some awful cataclysm from happening, then it is only logical—only ethical—that I do it.

Heaven, Hell, or a thoughtless infinitude, here I come.