Sanctorum

I am underwater. It is dark and quiet. Time proceeds at its own pace and movement seems deliberate and exaggerated. I have wandered the halls of a complex on the seabed for so long that I do not know if it has been days, weeks, months...or longer.

What originally brought me down here was a certain individual. I had heard of this person through the usual channels, and it was said that they might be able to help me with my unique situation. Apparently, this person built this secluded place in order to get away from the chaos of society. It is believed that here, deep beneath the ocean’s surface, this individual had hoped to be excused from humankind.

I found that my own problem could not be solved on the surface, either. Everywhere I went and everyone I turned to had answers of all kinds, but none satisfied. And so I am here, seeking out the one person I believe may hold the key. But I have been here for some time now, and I have seen no one.

Why this person would choose to live here, I cannot say. Their home’s location is unusual, to say the least, but in particular it is the architecture which stands out as singularly peculiar. It consists of little more than long hallways of bare metal connected to one another by a crossroads. The junctures are roughly hexagonal in shape, and thus sport six separate corridors leading off in six separate directions. They are all identical, and there is no way to tell one from the other.

The halls are filled with silence, and I have the foreboding sense of being completely alone. I have walked through these halls with only the echoing sound of my own boots on the grated floor to keep me company. Tatap, tatap, tatap, tatap – a muffled scuffle when I stop at a crossroads and peer down each new hall in an attempt to discern where to go next. There is nothing distinctive about any of the tunnels, and so there are occasions when I will turn in place several times to weigh each option, become disoriented, and lose track of where I had just been.

In all likelihood, I am going in circles.

I carry nothing to help me through this maze. I have no breadcrumbs, no golden thread, no chalk. The highly polished blue walls of the corridors resist any scratches or marks. The best I can do is attempt to maintain a mental map of where I have been and where I am going. The hexagonal nature of the junctures brings to mind a vast, honeycomb-like structure. It is difficult for me to imagine that this structure is without boundaries, but since I have yet to encounter a juncture with less than six exits, there is no evidence to support that it terminates anywhere.

Tatap, tatap, tatap, tatap – scuff. Another crossroads. Once again, I look at each tunnel in turn. Once again, they are identical. The open grates in the floors are mounted several centimeters above bright lights which are aimed slightly askew, towards the bulkhead side of each tunnel. Similar lights in the ceiling point straight down. The beams reflect repeatedly off of every metal surface. The result is an over-saturation of light, and so the ends of each tunnel are lost in a white-hot glare. I am lost, and I cannot even scout out my path farther than several meters ahead.

Faced with a similar situation in any ordinary maze, I could always fall back on the strategy of choosing the same path at each juncture. I could, for example, always choose to take a ninety-degree left, or to take a forty-five degree right. But after further consideration of the layout of this structure, I realized that this strategy would only ensure circular travel. I have thus resigned myself to randomly selecting my next path at each juncture.

Tatap, tatap, tatap, tatap - scuff.

The bulkhead is set with portholes offering a view of the outside, and I stop to look out of one now. Being so deep underwater, the natural state of this place is lightless. The owner, however, has arranged for floodlights to be mounted somewhere outside, and so the ocean floor is visible. It is too deep for plants and most animals. What animals do exist down here are tiny, and live beneath the colorless silt.

The most interesting feature discernible through these windows is the external view of other metallic hallways extending off from some nearby junction. I try to use this vantage to spot variations in the architecture of this place, or to try and make out movements or shadows from within those distant halls that might betray the existence of someone other than myself.

But as usual, this results in nothing. The halls are always straight, and they are always connected by the bulbous shapes of the crossroads. The interiors are brightly lit, and nothing inside ever moves.

Tatap, tatap, tatap, tatap.

My boots continue to ring off their hollow cadence. Other than this simple, irregular sound it is completely silent. I had imagined that I would hear the sounds of bubbles or percolating water before coming here. But, no; there is nothing. I have heard nothing and seen no one for too long. The solitude paradoxically makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle in anticipation of some stranger following behind me. It’s like I’m being watched or followed...or sought out.

Scuff.

I stop in place as I listen to the scuff of boot on floor echo through the hall. I glance over my shoulder, as if someone were here looking for me. I find myself getting angry and jealous at the thought that someone else might be down here. I cannot fathom how anyone might have stolen their way into this complex, for I designed it without entrance or exit.

It should be impossible for anyone to intrude on my solitude.