Beneath the Surface
Mr. Alden sat in his high-backed chair, his chin resting on his steepled hands as he listened to Fox's story with rapt attention. The boy's voice, trembling at times but laden with conviction, filled the quiet study. For hours, Fox had recounted his harrowing journey—his confrontation with monsters, the oppressive deserts, and the cryptic encounters with the Yellow Queen. The tale sounded like something out of a fantastical novel, yet Fox spoke with such earnestness that Mr. Alden couldn't dismiss it outright.
But as the boy continued, Mr. Alden felt a gnawing unease in his chest. Was Fox delusional? Could this all be the product of an overactive imagination gone awry? Or was there something darker at play?
"Phineas—" Mr. Alden paused, correcting himself. "Fox, this has been... quite a story. But perhaps we should take a break. You've been speaking for hours, and I imagine you must be hungry."
Fox looked up, his blue-green eyes weary yet alert. "Yeah, I guess I could eat," he admitted, though there was a trace of suspicion in his voice. It was as if he sensed Mr. Alden's growing doubts.
Mr. Alden forced a reassuring smile. "Stay here. I'll fetch us something to eat," he said, rising from his chair. "Make yourself comfortable."
Once in the kitchen, Mr. Alden let out a slow breath, his mind racing. The story Fox had spun was extraordinary, but extraordinary was often a thin veil for the unimaginable. Grabbing the phone from the wall, Mr. Alden dialed Pickford Sanitarium. His fingers tapped against the counter as he waited for the line to connect.
"Doctor Vinkmeir," came the clipped voice on the other end.
"Doctor, it's Harold Alden," Mr. Alden said in hushed tones, glancing back toward the study to ensure Fox couldn't overhear. "I need your advice on something... peculiar."
"Peculiar, you say?" Vinkmeir's voice was calm but curious. "Go on."
Mr. Alden hesitated for a moment. "I have a student here—Phineas Bogg, though he claims his name is Fox Smith. He's been telling me this wild story about coming from another world through some kind of gate. He says he's been traveling across deserts, through jungles, and meeting beings that—well, frankly, beings that defy explanation. He insists he's telling the truth, but—"
"But you think he may not be well," Vinkmeir finished for him. There was no judgment in his tone, just the clinical precision of a professional. "Where is the boy now?"
"In my study," Mr. Alden replied. "He seems calm, but I—"
"Keep him there," Vinkmeir interrupted firmly. "I'll be over as soon as I'm finished with my current patient. Until then, try not to alarm him. Let him keep talking if it comforts him."
Mr. Alden nodded, though the doctor couldn't see him. "Understood."
Returning to the study, Mr. Alden carried a tray of snacks—simple sandwiches and glasses of lemonade. Fox was sitting stiffly in his chair, his trench coat draped over the armrest. He looked up as Mr. Alden entered.
"Sorry for the wait," Mr. Alden said, setting the tray down on a small table between them. "Thought we could use a little fuel."
"Thanks," Fox mumbled, picking up a sandwich. He bit into it cautiously, as if unsure of Mr. Alden's intentions. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Once they had finished eating, Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, his expression calm but expectant. "Now then, Fox," he said, "why don't you continue your story?"
Fox nodded, his gaze distant as he dove back into the memories of his strange and harrowing journey.
Fox's voice dropped to a hush as he described walking through the dark, buried city. The ancient ruins beneath the white sand were cold and oppressive, the air thick with the weight of time and forgotten secrets. His only light was the torch he'd found discarded on the floor—its handle worn smooth by years of use.
"The whispers were the worst part," Fox said, his voice trembling. "I could hear them in the shadows, faint voices calling out... but there was no one there. They weren't human. They weren't even close."
Mr. Alden leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "What did they say?"
"I don't know," Fox admitted. "It wasn't words—it was... feelings. Anger, sadness, fear. It was like they were trying to get inside my head." He shivered at the memory. "But I didn't let them shake me. I couldn't."
He described descending deeper into the labyrinthine ruins, the torchlight flickering against walls etched with strange symbols. The air grew colder, the whispers more insistent, until finally, he reached a massive circular room. The walls were covered in an indecipherable language, the characters glowing faintly like embers in the dark.
"In the center of the room was a ladder," Fox continued. "It was metal, and it went straight up. I thought... maybe it was my way out."
As he approached the ladder, something moved in the shadows. Fox's breath hitched, his hands tightening on the torch. Slowly, a familiar figure stepped into the light—the young girl with yellow eyes.
"She smiled at me," Fox said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't comforting. It was... knowing."
"What did she say?" Mr. Alden asked, his tone betraying his captivation despite his earlier doubts.
Fox hesitated, his eyes meeting Mr. Alden's as if weighing the gravity of his next words. "She told me that she had planned this. All of it."
Mr. Alden blinked. "Planned... what, exactly?"
"Everything," Fox replied, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "She said she was the one who sent the cloaked figure to lead me to the gate. She's the reason my family moved from Hamden to Taylorville. She's the reason my friends and I found the inter-dimensional hub in that outhouse. She even said it was her who opened the door to the third floor of our high school—the floor that doesn't exist."
He paused, his breath coming fast. "She's been pulling the strings this whole time."
Mr. Alden's skepticism wavered as he watched the raw emotion in Fox's expression. "Did she explain why?"
Fox nodded slowly. "She said it was all leading to the City of Dreams. She said it was destiny."
"What did you say to her?" Mr. Alden asked, his voice softer now.
"I asked her... 'what if I don't want to go?'" Fox's gaze dropped to his lap. "But when I looked up, she was gone. It was like she'd never been there."
Fox described how his gaze had drifted to the room's walls, where he noticed a chiseled relief depicting two figures—a boy and a girl—standing side by side. Behind them loomed a structure unlike anything he'd ever imagined: a colossal box crowned with a glass spire, from which a beam of energy erupted skyward. This, he explained to Mr. Alden, was the City of Dreams—the place he was destined to reach. But the image held a darker truth: encircling the tower were grotesque creatures, and above them, vast eyes hovered in the sky, watching. As he stood there and looked at the image a horrible noise seemed to be coming closer.
The sight left him unsettled, though he couldn't say why.
Still grasping for answers, Fox began his ascent up the metal ladder. Glancing down, he saw them—cockroach-like monstrosities the size of cars swarming below. Some clawed at the base, testing its structure, while others gnawed at the rungs with mandibles that sparked against steel. Their chittering echoed upward, a chorus of hunger and calculation, but grew fainter as Fox climbed higher, the air thickening and warming with each step. At the top, he found a circular hatch—like a manhole cover—sealed and waiting. He steadied himself, pressed both hands against it, and pushed. With a groan of metal, it gave way, and Fox pulled himself into whatever came next.
But as the boy continued, Mr. Alden felt a gnawing unease in his chest. Was Fox delusional? Could this all be the product of an overactive imagination gone awry? Or was there something darker at play?
"Phineas—" Mr. Alden paused, correcting himself. "Fox, this has been... quite a story. But perhaps we should take a break. You've been speaking for hours, and I imagine you must be hungry."
Fox looked up, his blue-green eyes weary yet alert. "Yeah, I guess I could eat," he admitted, though there was a trace of suspicion in his voice. It was as if he sensed Mr. Alden's growing doubts.
Mr. Alden forced a reassuring smile. "Stay here. I'll fetch us something to eat," he said, rising from his chair. "Make yourself comfortable."
Once in the kitchen, Mr. Alden let out a slow breath, his mind racing. The story Fox had spun was extraordinary, but extraordinary was often a thin veil for the unimaginable. Grabbing the phone from the wall, Mr. Alden dialed Pickford Sanitarium. His fingers tapped against the counter as he waited for the line to connect.
"Doctor Vinkmeir," came the clipped voice on the other end.
"Doctor, it's Harold Alden," Mr. Alden said in hushed tones, glancing back toward the study to ensure Fox couldn't overhear. "I need your advice on something... peculiar."
"Peculiar, you say?" Vinkmeir's voice was calm but curious. "Go on."
Mr. Alden hesitated for a moment. "I have a student here—Phineas Bogg, though he claims his name is Fox Smith. He's been telling me this wild story about coming from another world through some kind of gate. He says he's been traveling across deserts, through jungles, and meeting beings that—well, frankly, beings that defy explanation. He insists he's telling the truth, but—"
"But you think he may not be well," Vinkmeir finished for him. There was no judgment in his tone, just the clinical precision of a professional. "Where is the boy now?"
"In my study," Mr. Alden replied. "He seems calm, but I—"
"Keep him there," Vinkmeir interrupted firmly. "I'll be over as soon as I'm finished with my current patient. Until then, try not to alarm him. Let him keep talking if it comforts him."
Mr. Alden nodded, though the doctor couldn't see him. "Understood."
Returning to the study, Mr. Alden carried a tray of snacks—simple sandwiches and glasses of lemonade. Fox was sitting stiffly in his chair, his trench coat draped over the armrest. He looked up as Mr. Alden entered.
"Sorry for the wait," Mr. Alden said, setting the tray down on a small table between them. "Thought we could use a little fuel."
"Thanks," Fox mumbled, picking up a sandwich. He bit into it cautiously, as if unsure of Mr. Alden's intentions. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Once they had finished eating, Mr. Alden leaned back in his chair, his expression calm but expectant. "Now then, Fox," he said, "why don't you continue your story?"
Fox nodded, his gaze distant as he dove back into the memories of his strange and harrowing journey.
Fox's voice dropped to a hush as he described walking through the dark, buried city. The ancient ruins beneath the white sand were cold and oppressive, the air thick with the weight of time and forgotten secrets. His only light was the torch he'd found discarded on the floor—its handle worn smooth by years of use.
"The whispers were the worst part," Fox said, his voice trembling. "I could hear them in the shadows, faint voices calling out... but there was no one there. They weren't human. They weren't even close."
Mr. Alden leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "What did they say?"
"I don't know," Fox admitted. "It wasn't words—it was... feelings. Anger, sadness, fear. It was like they were trying to get inside my head." He shivered at the memory. "But I didn't let them shake me. I couldn't."
He described descending deeper into the labyrinthine ruins, the torchlight flickering against walls etched with strange symbols. The air grew colder, the whispers more insistent, until finally, he reached a massive circular room. The walls were covered in an indecipherable language, the characters glowing faintly like embers in the dark.
"In the center of the room was a ladder," Fox continued. "It was metal, and it went straight up. I thought... maybe it was my way out."
As he approached the ladder, something moved in the shadows. Fox's breath hitched, his hands tightening on the torch. Slowly, a familiar figure stepped into the light—the young girl with yellow eyes.
"She smiled at me," Fox said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't comforting. It was... knowing."
"What did she say?" Mr. Alden asked, his tone betraying his captivation despite his earlier doubts.
Fox hesitated, his eyes meeting Mr. Alden's as if weighing the gravity of his next words. "She told me that she had planned this. All of it."
Mr. Alden blinked. "Planned... what, exactly?"
"Everything," Fox replied, his voice gaining a desperate edge. "She said she was the one who sent the cloaked figure to lead me to the gate. She's the reason my family moved from Hamden to Taylorville. She's the reason my friends and I found the inter-dimensional hub in that outhouse. She even said it was her who opened the door to the third floor of our high school—the floor that doesn't exist."
He paused, his breath coming fast. "She's been pulling the strings this whole time."
Mr. Alden's skepticism wavered as he watched the raw emotion in Fox's expression. "Did she explain why?"
Fox nodded slowly. "She said it was all leading to the City of Dreams. She said it was destiny."
"What did you say to her?" Mr. Alden asked, his voice softer now.
"I asked her... 'what if I don't want to go?'" Fox's gaze dropped to his lap. "But when I looked up, she was gone. It was like she'd never been there."
Fox described how his gaze had drifted to the room's walls, where he noticed a chiseled relief depicting two figures—a boy and a girl—standing side by side. Behind them loomed a structure unlike anything he'd ever imagined: a colossal box crowned with a glass spire, from which a beam of energy erupted skyward. This, he explained to Mr. Alden, was the City of Dreams—the place he was destined to reach. But the image held a darker truth: encircling the tower were grotesque creatures, and above them, vast eyes hovered in the sky, watching. As he stood there and looked at the image a horrible noise seemed to be coming closer.
The sight left him unsettled, though he couldn't say why.
Still grasping for answers, Fox began his ascent up the metal ladder. Glancing down, he saw them—cockroach-like monstrosities the size of cars swarming below. Some clawed at the base, testing its structure, while others gnawed at the rungs with mandibles that sparked against steel. Their chittering echoed upward, a chorus of hunger and calculation, but grew fainter as Fox climbed higher, the air thickening and warming with each step. At the top, he found a circular hatch—like a manhole cover—sealed and waiting. He steadied himself, pressed both hands against it, and pushed. With a groan of metal, it gave way, and Fox pulled himself into whatever came next.