Story 1182: Eyes in the Abyss

The descent was never supposed to be physical.

The cult's old texts spoke of “sinking inward”, of “spiraling down through the mind’s eye”. But Evelyn Blackmoor had no time for metaphors. The only way to reach the Eye was to climb down the well in the city’s oldest district—long dry, walled off for centuries, hidden behind false walls and forgotten hymns.

The stone steps spiraled tight, slick with condensation and lined with moss that bled when touched.

The lower she went, the more reality bent.

The flame of her lantern twisted unnaturally—casting shadows that moved independently, danced, and whispered to her in broken Latin. The air was warm, as if breathless, and full of a low, rhythmic pulsing—like a heartbeat, but distant, ancient, and wrong.