Three Seconds

Don’t leave the light.

Don’t pay attention to the noises. Chances are, they’re harmless. Most of them, anyway.

Don’t turn around.

If you have to turn around, do so for no more than three seconds.

It’s been three hours.

It feels like days. 

When you spend all your time staring into a flame, a funny thing happens. You begin to go blind. Your sight is so consumed by the flickering dance of light and heat that all else seems to fade into blackness. It doesn't help that all else actually is blackness.

Don’t leave the light.

And if you look up or turn your head or God forbid turn around, the imprint of flames burned into your eyes transposes its fiery trail anywhere you look so that if a great ball of teeth and claws were to rush upon you you won’t have the decency to at least get a look of the thing before it dismembers you. 

Don’t pay attention to the noises.

At this point it’s not the noise I’m frightened of. The same way you stop noticing a bad smell long  after entering a room, I’ve stopped noticing the noise. 

It’s the lack of noise that frightens me.

With noise I can gauge distance. If I know not the face of my enemy, at least I can know its whereabouts.

Chances are, they’re harmless.

But when it falls silent…

Most of them, anyway.

A predator goes silent only when hunting.

So I wait. Feeding the flames, watching them flicker against an absent backdrop.

Don’t turn around. 

Listening.

For a pause.

And then waiting.

For the right time.

If you have to turn around, do so for no more than three seconds.

Until I can almost feel its breath warming my shoulders. Then spinning around to stare death in the eyes, only to stare at the angry imprint of light burning my retinas, rendering vision impossible. It seems to work, somehow.

Another wait. Just a second, no more than three, remember? Until the noise resumes once again. This time further away, and this time sounding faintly disappointed. Turn back to the fire and release a shaky breath, knowing you have evaded entering death’s door one more time.

Then the cycle begins anew.

I often wonder why they chose me to perform this task. When I was approached with a request to join a team on their exploration of the caverns, I wondered if it was a mistake. My name is very common in our colony, surely there was an actual explorer or scientist they meant to ask. 

Not a librarian. 

Not me. 

But the desire for inclusion, for distinction, for escape is never outgrown, and I accepted. Although the initial enthusiasm wore off during the initiation period, which included early mornings, the burning of muscles long neglected, and an extra portion of tasteless protein rations, the sight of the black cavern mouth excited a part of me I thought dormant. Suddenly my previous life, with its long hours of digging through archives, late nights spent cataloging space rocks, and happy hour that consisted of novels instead of alcohol, seemed swallowed up by the wall of black in front of me. I remember our crew leader, a surveyor, turning to face us, back against the cavern’s mouth. In hindsight I don’t know if she was ignorant, brave, or crazy. 

Maybe all three. 

Ignorant of what exactly lay in the dark.

Brave enough to face it.

Crazy enough to turn her back to it.

She took in the sight of us. Five crew members.

A mechanist. 

An archaeologist.

A biologist.

A geologist. 

And a librarian.

One of these things is not like the others…

The surveyor met our eyes, one by one, and it was not lost on me how her eyes lingered on mine before pulling away, with an expression I couldn’t read at the time but now fantasize to be shame. I searched her posture for the confident pose and assertive confidence that was the hallmark of every great leader in every book I have read. She did stand tall, but her shoulders curled, as if bowed by the weight of a distasteful burden. I expected her to launch into an impassioned speech detailing the necessity of bravery in the face of danger and the great contributions our expedition would make to the humankind that remained. She opened her mouth, and her speech was short. 

“You know why we are here and what we must do. The colony depends on it. Do not falter, and you will not fail.” 

The four other crew members nodded and murmured their agreement. 

I felt confused. 

Among a rousing speech of encouragement, I had also expected a brief of sorts, detailing what exactly we, I, was here for. During the months of training, I had been kept in the dark, all of my questions going unanswered. I had assumed the same was true for my fellow teammates. 

Apparently not. 

The surveyor turned to face the cavern, and with the barest of nods, began forward. I ran forward, hefting my pack full of books on my shoulders, and fell in step with my leader. I remember asking her what exactly we were here for, what it was that I must do, and what she meant by the colony depending on us? I remember her hand, heavy on my shoulder, and her voice, heavy on my ears. And I remember her response.

“You’ll know when the time comes.” 

At first the darkness wasn’t so bad. At the colony the generators are always sputtering in and out of function, so finding yourself suddenly plunged into blackness is nothing out of the norm. The cramped tunnels weren’t anything to be afraid of, either. In fact, it almost felt like being back home. When building a facility to house the remnants of humankind you take whatever you can find, and there are nothing if not tunnels in abundance. And so it went for the first hour of our expedition. Total blackness illuminated by battery-powered flashlights, back aching from walking hunched over, silence broken only by muttered apologies for bumping into the pack in front of you. Nothing remarkable. Nothing to find. Nothing to fear.

Until we suddenly stumbled out of the tunnel and encountered s p a c e. 

Visually, nothing changed. The same blackness, broken up by the same feeble beams of light. 

Physically, however, everything felt… altered. Although there was no hope of seeing the difference, there was a sense of falling into a space so unimaginably large that had I been able to see it I’m sure I would have gone insane. The darkness had gone from a stifling blanket to expanding into a space that felt too large to exist underground. I began to understand one of the more confusing questions I had been asked before I was recruited: 

“Do you know what kenophobia is?”

What are we doing?

That question was quickly answered.

For me, at least.

“Right, here is where you come in.”

I realized with a start that our crew leader was addressing me. I remember feeling a quick thrill of excitement that my area of expertise was finally being put to use.

I remember confusion as she instructed me to build a fire.

I remember disappointment when she let me know that she was continuing on with the others.

Most of all I remember panic as I was told I was staying with the fire. 

Alone.

In a space that seemed to belong in the pages of an Eldritch horror story.

It’s alright, the biologist assured me. You’ll be safe here. Just keep the fire going for us until we get back.

Until we get back.

I was left with the fire, my pack of books, and four, simple instructions.

Don’t leave the light

Don’t pay attention to the noises. Chances are they’re harmless. Something extra I didn’t catch. 

Don’t turn around.

If you have to turn around, do so for no more than three seconds.

Good luck. 

See you soon. 

The noises began soon after they left.

***** 

I’ve lost track of how long they’ve been gone now. 

I’ve lost hope of them coming back.

As I run low on fuel to feed the source of my safety, I realize with a growing horror why I was brought here. Why they had me bring so many books. And why all my books relate to creatures that hide in the dark.

I am forced to read about what fate I am putting off with every rip of the page.

The face of my enemy burns at me in the embers of my salvation. 

I have been left here.

As bait.

And I know exactly what is waiting for me in the dark.

Even so, I’ve settled into my routine, my dance with the darkness that surrounds me.

Feeding the fire.

Don’t leave the light.

Staring into the flames.

Don’t pay attention to the noises.

Ignoring the noise.

They’re harmless.

Listening for silence.

No, they’re not.

And waiting, for the right time.

If you have to turn around…

To stare blindly at death…

Do so for no more…

To preserve my life for longer

Than three seconds.