Chapter 85: The Mask

A group of elite scientists from the former Soviet Union once launched a deep drilling project on the border with Norway, serving geological research. In 1993, when the project reached a depth of 12,262 meters, it was abruptly shut down. No one was surprised; people believed that, with the collapse of the Soviet Union and the ensuing lack of funding, halting the operation was inevitable. The incident was soon forgotten. Later, however, rumors began to circulate—at 9,500 meters underground, workers allegedly heard wailing and howling, as if they had drilled into the “Gate of Hell.”

Information revealed by scientists involved in the project suggested the shutdown was far from straightforward. Not only did the drill uncover gold, but also something far more sinister. When the depth reached 9,500 meters, the researchers first discovered a stratum rich in gold. After extracting the core sample, they found the gold content was an astonishing 80 grams per ton. For commercial mining, a gold concentration of 4 grams per ton is already adequate; anything above 10 grams per ton guarantees a handsome profit. By comparison, finding 80 grams per ton was like counting money while lying down. The excuse of insufficient funding became untenable; they could easily mine gold and continue drilling.

A seasoned geologist who had personally witnessed the site, Dr. Dimir Asagov, stepped forward to expose the secret behind the shutdown. After uncovering the gold layer, the scientific team was inspired, convinced that no obstacle could hinder their descent into the earth’s depths. Yet, as the drill reached nine thousand miles, temperatures soared to two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Then, they heard pitiful cries rising from below, as if tens of thousands of souls were suffering immense agony. Asagov claimed this discovery made him—a lifelong atheist—begin to believe in the existence of hell. To document the phenomenon, they lowered recording equipment into the shaft and captured the so-called “sounds of hell.”

I have never heard these “sounds of hell” myself, but I remember reading the report at the time, feeling deeply puzzled and shocked. Could the legend of hell truly be real? Yet, all of this remains speculation, perhaps nothing more than myth—for I am, after all, a staunch atheist.

I pressed onward. By now, I was about fifteen meters from the starting point. The further I walked, the more wildly the suspension bridge swayed, swinging left and right and making me feel nauseous, as if I were riding an airborne swing. The chilly, eerie wind had grown fiercer, and I could no longer make out the voices from the starting point.

Instinctively, I glanced back at the man in the dark sunglasses. He still wore glasses that concealed half his face, betraying no expression, but I sensed he was just as tense as I was.

“Hurry up!” he urged, his tone urgent. I wasn’t sure why—did he also have a bad feeling?

With these emotions, I quickened my pace. Glancing down, I saw the bottomless abyss beneath me, and faintly, it seemed, I could hear shrill cries rising from the depths; but I preferred to believe it was merely the sound of the wind.

Halfway across the bridge, I suddenly felt as if someone was standing in the darkness ahead. I stopped abruptly and scrutinized the spot. The silhouette seemed human—yet how could anyone be ahead of me? Was it a hallucination? I rubbed my eyes and looked again, still uncertain. Taking out my flashlight, I shone it forward.

Behind me, the man in sunglasses asked, “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer immediately, but stared intently ahead. The beam cut through layer upon layer of darkness, and for a fleeting moment, I truly thought I saw someone standing there. Yet, it lasted only a second; when I looked again, there was nothing but endless blackness and the wind whistling past my ears.

I switched off the flashlight and steadied myself, thinking it must be a trick of the darkness, scaring myself. I raised my foot to continue, but before I could step forward, the man in sunglasses suddenly grabbed me from behind, his voice urgent: “Don’t move!”

Hearing his warning, I instinctively withdrew my foot. Only then did I notice that, at some point, the bridge below had become swarmed with insects. Shining the flashlight, I saw that the path ahead was also covered with them. Examining them closely, I was horrified—they were the very same venomous worms I knew all too well, the stuff of my nightmares.

The bridge was now crawling with these worms, coming from the far end, and their numbers were increasing. Though these were the smallest I’d ever encountered, their sheer density made my scalp tingle.

Now, I faced a choice with the man in sunglasses. If we retreated, the old ghost and his crew would likely turn on us, perhaps even open fire. The alternative was to grit our teeth and charge forward. My mind raced—I decided to go for it. Retreat meant certain death; charging ahead meant risking it, but perhaps surviving. I had to try.

I took a deep breath and said to the man in sunglasses, “Let’s run for it!”

He offered no reply, apparently agreeing. I braced myself, then darted forward, moving as fast as I could, barely touching the bridge in my sprint. Suddenly, something gripped my foot with great force, yanking me down. My heart leapt—if I were pulled off, I’d be smashed to pieces. Though I’d long since resigned myself to death, I didn’t want to die just yet; there was so much left undone.

The bridge was sturdy, but after a thousand years, even the strongest has its limits. I lost my balance and fell, tearing the handrail apart as I clung to it. In the next instant, a hand caught me—the man in sunglasses. There was no time to think; with my other hand, I grabbed the opposite rail. In a flash, I was hanging beneath the bridge.

Now, I could finally see what had grabbed me—it was the monkey with the human-like face, right beside me. Yet it was even more agile, and must have been lurking beneath the bridge all along. Looking at it, I realized that wasn’t a real face—no, not truly a human face, but a mask, carved from stone, eerily resembling a human visage.