The Mystery of the Onion Dome

At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me… to the Onion Dome.

The strange facility had opened a few months earlier, and I’d been tempted to visit it ever since. What the heck. I had nothing to do tonight—might as well see what the damn place is about.

As I began the half-mile walk, I noticed my breathing growing heavier and my heart pounding against my chest like an eagle trapped in a little bird’s cage.

Eventually, I realized I was jogging. Combined with the eighty-degree heat, that was a simple enough explanation for my physical discomfort. Maybe I should’ve stopped to examine my excitement—but I was too anxious to get to the Onion.

My body sagged with relief as the dome came into view—a hulking structure that looked like a giant bowl flipped upside down. The building was made of onion-colored glass, which gave it a strange, shimmery glow in the sunlight. As I approached, I saw someone shaking in the reflection—they looked terrified.

It was a man with short brown hair, styled in a way that was clearly meant to conceal a fading hairline—though it wasn’t fooling anyone. A pair of fearful amber eyes stared back at me, and I was filled with dread.

In case it wasn’t obvious—it was me. I was the reflection.

Maybe that was the moment I should’ve stopped to think about what I was doing. If I’d been able to summon even a shred of sense or self-control, maybe I could have turned back.

Of course, none of that happened.

Instead, I pressed my hand against the oddly onion-colored door and walked into the Dome.

The inside of the Onion Dome was divided into—you’re not going to believe this—layers.

A woman stood before an ordinary-looking door, holding a clipboard filled with paperwork that reminded me of the kind you fill out at a doctor’s office.

She was in her twenties, very pretty, with doe-like eyes that looked capable of moving the world with a single bat of a lash. She smiled warmly, and I felt my resolve crumble like an old cracker.

“Good evening, Mr. Anthums,” she said.

I stepped toward her. “Um, sorry,” I replied nervously, “but how do you know my name?”

She smiled again. “Mr. Emmett will gladly fill you in on everything in the second layer.”

“Mr. Who? I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what’s happening here—”

She raised a finger to her lips. “Relax, Mr. Anthums. There’s nothing to fear. I just need you to sign this waiver.” She handed me the clipboard and a blue ink pen.

I looked down at the form. It was a single sheet of paper, filled top to bottom with what had to be size-three font. It was all impossible to read—except for the signature line at the bottom.

For some reason, I signed it.

The woman took the form and then ushered me into the next layer.

I’m no expert measurer, but if the first room was a hundred feet wide, the second was about fifty. The woman left, closing the door behind her.

Like the first layer, the second was empty—except for a man standing before a plain-looking door.

I should’ve mentioned earlier: the walls in this place were all made of that same bizarre onion-colored glass. As I walked toward the man, I was followed by hundreds of distorted reflections—some smiling, some crying, one laughing hysterically.

“Mr. Anthums,” the man said, his voice smooth as honey. “Welcome back. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

He wore a white suit—something you'd expect a steakhouse waiter to be forced into—and a pair of spectacles with lenses made of the same onion-colored glass as the walls. Strangely, I couldn’t see my reflection in them at all.

“Are you Mr. Emmett?” I asked.

For a moment, his face crinkled in displeasure. “How did you know that?” he asked, as if I’d just cheated on a test.

“She told me,” I said, pointing toward the first room.

“Ah,” he replied curtly. “She should not have done that.”

“Okay…” I said. “She also told me you could explain what’s going on?”

I know—I sound like a broken record. But maybe that was the moment I should’ve turned around and sprinted home.

Still, there was something about the Onion that silenced the introspective part of my mind. Many years later, after the place was torn down, I’d learn it all had to do with the glass.

But standing there in the second layer, everything felt perfectly reasonable.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Emmett. His tone had the practiced rhythm of someone launching into a sales pitch they’d delivered a thousand times. “Welcome to the Onion Dome. I’d like to start by asking: what drew you here today?”

“I… I don’t know. I was about to go home, then I remembered this place. I’ve wanted to check it out for a while.”

Even as I said the words, something felt wrong. Deep in my mind, I knew I had been to the Onion Dome hundreds of times before.

I remembered living with a woman. I remembered her leaving me—convinced I was having an affair. I remembered coming home, unable to explain where I’d been or who I’d been with. Eventually, she left me.

And yet… here I was again.

I knew I should’ve been furious with Mr. Emmett. I should’ve punched him in his smug face. Instead, I just asked, “Wh-what is this place?”

“It’s the Onion Dome,” he said matter-of-factly. “You know that, don’t you, Mr. Anthums?”

“Yes… I suppose I do.”

“And do you remember what happens at the Onion Dome?”

“I… umm…”

Images flashed through my mind. I saw myself at a comedy club in the fourth layer, laughing until I cried. I saw myself being chased by a vicious-looking wolf in the sixth layer. I winced, remembering how its teeth had felt when they tore into my leg. I saw hundreds of versions of myself—each moment flashing past before it could settle, like water slipping through my fingers.

I looked around at the glass panels—the many faces of myself, the many selves that had gone through the Onion.

For one fleeting moment, I saw it all. I understood exactly what I was getting into. But when I turned back to Mr. Emmett, my mind went blank.

All I could see were the reflectionless lenses of his glasses.

“Are you ready to begin?” he asked, gesturing to the door to layer number three.

“I think…” I meant to say I needed a minute to think it over—but that no longer made any sense.

So instead, I said, “Yes. I’m ready.”

He smiled wickedly. “Excellent. I think you’re really going to like it here…”