Darkness didn't just fall—it suffocated. The last flicker of the lighter died, and with it, any sense of up or down. I was blind, drowning in a silence that hummed, like the low thrum of a seashell pressed to your ear.
But I could feel things.
The floorboards slick under my palms—sticky, like they'd been painted with syrup. A wet breath on the back of my neck, slow and hot. The clicking: faster now, a staccato rhythm, closing in from all sides.
I scrambled backward, my shoulder slamming into something solid—the closet door. It creaked, and a sliver of light seeped through, thin as a blade.
Not light. Glow. A faint, greenish pulse, like bioluminescent algae.
I fumbled for the doorknob, my fingers slipping on something slimy. The clicking spiked—urgent, angry—as if the sound itself was clawing at the door.
The knob turned.
The closet wasn't a closet.
It was a staircase.
Narrow, steep, carved from dark wood that smelled of rot, spiraling downward into a greenish haze. The walls were lined with shelves, but instead of coats, they held jars—rows and rows of them, filled with cloudy liquid. Something floated in each: fingers, teeth, tiny bones, all bobbing gently as if caught in a current.
The clicking followed me in, softening as if muffled by the wood.
I took a step down. The stair creaked, a high, mournful sound.
From the bottom of the stairs came a noise—a low, rumbling growl, like a furnace firing up. Warmth hit my face, faint but steady, carrying the sharp tang of ash.
Fire.
The professor's words flickered in my memory: "Bone conchs fear fire…"
I descended faster, the steps wobbling under my weight. The jars on the shelves rattled, their contents shifting. I glanced at one—a small, pickle-sized jar—and froze.
The thing inside wasn't a bone. It was an eye, milky white, floating in yellow fluid. And it was staring up at me.
I looked away, my throat tight. The professor had been collecting these. Why?
Halfway down, I found a landing. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, its cord frayed, flickering on and off. Under it, a metal box—like a safe—bolted to the wall. Carved into its door: a seedpod, identical to the paperweight.
The clicking stopped.
I held my breath, listening. Nothing. Just the hum of the bulb, the distant growl of the fire.
I tried the box. Locked. But next to it, tucked in a crack, was a key—small, brass, its head shaped like a fish.
It fit. The lock turned with a snick.
Inside was a notebook, its cover black and water-stained, and a tape recorder—old, bulky, with a tape spool that looked untouched.
I flipped open the notebook. The first page was dated six months ago, the handwriting tight, precise—nothing like the frantic scrawl I'd imagined from a "weird professor."
Subject 001: Bone china fragment, recovered from Flood's End Alley. Tests indicate trace amounts of human DNA in the glaze. Oddly, it retains saltwater even when dried.
Subject 002: "Bead" from the same fragment. X-ray shows hollow interior. When exposed to seawater, emits a frequency undetectable to human ears. Dogs howl.
Subject 003: The "Conch."完整 specimen. Exhibits autonomous movement when unsupervised. Prefers dark, damp spaces. Avoids direct light. Note: It "feeds" on small bones—rodent, bird. Larger bones cause agitation.
My stomach lurched. He hadn't just studied it. He'd experimented on it.
The tape recorder caught my eye. I pressed play.
Static hissed, then a voice—calm, academic, with a faint tremor—cut through:
"Day 47. The Conch has developed new… appendages. Tiny, hair-like tendrils around the base. They retract when observed. I think it's learning."
A pause. The sound of water dripping.
"Day 53. It's communicating. Three clicks when it wants 'food.' Four… well. Four clicks mean it's found something bigger. Last night, it clicked four times. This morning, my lab rat was gone. The cage door was locked."
Another pause. A sharp intake of breath.
"Day 60. The locals know. Old Mrs. Hale—landlord's mother—stopped by. Said I 'shouldn't play with drowned things.' Her eyes were milky, like she'd stared into the sun too long. When I showed her the Conch, she crossed herself and muttered, 'She's waking.'"
"Day 65. The dreams started. I'm underwater, but I can breathe. There's a… presence. Not a person, not a beast. Just hunger. It knows my name."
The tape went silent. Then—click-click-click-click—four distinct clicks, clear as a metronome.
The recorder shut off.
My hand shook. The professor had known what was coming.
From above, the closet door slammed shut.
The clicking erupted—deafening,疯狂, echoing down the stairs.
I grabbed the notebook and recorder, bolting down the remaining steps. The green glow brightened, and the smell of ash thickened.
At the bottom was a door, its wood blackened, as if scorched by fire. Carved into it, in deep, charred letters:
KILN
The clicking was right behind me now, a chorus of tiny feet skittering down the stairs.
I pulled the door open.
Heat hit me like a wall.
Inside was a kiln—a massive, brick structure, its interior glowing red, the air thick with the smell of burning clay. Around it, shelves lined the walls, holding rows of bone china fragments—all seedpods, all cracked, all oozing that same red fluid.
In the center of the room, tied to a metal chair with chains, was a girl.
She couldn't have been older than sixteen, her hair matted with ash, her clothes singed. But her eyes were sharp, clear, fixed on me as I stumbled in.
"Took you long enough," she said, her voice hoarse.
Behind me, the stairs filled with clicking.
I shut the door, bracing my back against it. "Who are you?"
"Xiao Xu," she said, nodding at the shelves. "These are my family's handiwork. The Conch? It's ours. Or… it was."
The clicking grew louder. Something scraped at the door, sharp and persistent.
"Your family made it?" I asked, gesturing to the notebook.
She winced. "Not made. Bound. It's a piece of… something older. From the deep. My great-grandfather trapped it in the porcelain, back when the sea ate half the town. Said it would 'calm the hunger.'" She laughed, bitter. "Foolish old man. You can't calm it. Only feed it."
The door shook. A crack spiderwebbed across the wood.
"Your professor figured that out," she said, nodding at the recorder. "Tried to destroy it. Burn it. But the Conch isn't just in the porcelain. It is the porcelain. You can't burn what's already part of it."
A tendril snaked through the crack—thin, gray, tipped with an eye.
Xiao Xu's eyes narrowed. "But it's afraid of this kiln. My great-grandfather built it with ash from a 'sacred fire'—whatever that means. The Conch won't cross the threshold if the fire's lit."
I glanced at the kiln, its glow steady. "Then why are you tied up?"
Her jaw tightened. "Not all of us want it dead. Some… think we should let it out. Let the sea take back what's hers." She nodded at the door. "They're the ones who brought you here. They need a 'new keeper.' Someone to feed it when it wakes fully."
The door splintered. A flood of tendrils poured through, clicking, reaching for me.
Xiao Xu pulled against her chains, grunting. "The key! To the chains! It's in the brick—left of the kiln!"
I dived for the kiln, the tendrils hissing inches from my heels. The brick wall was hot, searing my palm as I felt around. My fingers closed around something small—a rusted key.
The tendrils coiled around my ankle, yanking me backward.
I skidded, slamming into the kiln. The key flew from my hand, landing at Xiao Xu's feet.
She stretched, her fingers brushing it—
A shadow loomed in the doorway.
Not the hunched figure from before. This was taller, its body a mass of writhing tendrils, the wicker basket still clutched in one… appendage. The basket's lid had fallen off, spilling bones across the floor.
The figure tilted its "head," and a voice—like gravel in a bucket—rumbled:
"New keeper…"
The tendrils around my ankle tightened, dragging me toward it.
Xiao Xu jammed the key into her lock, twisting. The chain snapped.
She lunged, grabbing a metal poker from the kiln's side, and drove it into the nearest tendril.
It shrieked—a high, piercing sound—and recoiled, smoking.
The figure roared, a sound like a tidal wave, and surged forward.
Xiao Xu grabbed my arm, hauling me up. "The back door! Hurry!"
We ran, the figure's tendrils slamming into the kiln, showering us with sparks.
The back door was rusted, but Xiao Xu kicked it open, sunlight flooding in—bright, warm, dry.
The figure screeched, retreating into the shadows.
We stumbled outside, into an alley—narrow, lined with fishing nets and weathered shacks. A sign hung above, its paint peeling:
FLOOD'S END ALLEY
Xiao Xu collapsed against a wall, gasping. "You're in it now. The deep doesn't let go once it's got your scent."
I looked down at my hand. The one that'd touched the paperweight.
Under the nails, a faint silver sheen.
From the kiln, four clicks echoed.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like a countdown.