Lighthouse Horror Podcast - We Found The Deepest Hole On Earth. There's Something Inside It | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 4, 2023

You won't believe what's down there.       Story from hgtv_neighbor Make sure to check out more of their work at u/hgtv_neighbor                            Original Post: Return To The Dark : r/nosleep   Original YouTube link: We Found The Deepest Hole On Earth. There's Something Inside It         For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I work at a remote drilling site for a company up north. It's not classified per se, but due to some interaction with environmental wing nuts and some very strict privacy guidelines, we don't exactly advertise its location or the reasons we drill. Let's just say it's somewhere pretty cold and semi-desolate, and it sucks so much that they pay guys like me a shitload of money to sit out there for months during the off-season, babysitting the drills and processing equipment. I basically take readings, keep things from breaking, and release pressure from our waste storage tanks on a set schedule to avoid any incidents. A couple months ago, there was a leak in the bunkhouse roof, and the subsequent water

seepage damaged a sizable portion of the walls, while removing a section of wet drywall. I found an old technical logbook containing quite the story, written third, 30 years ago in journal format. I won't bother giving you a synopsis because you very likely will find it as curious, fascinating, and at times horrific as I have. I'm calling it return to the dark and would love to read your thoughts and comments. Enjoy. Jack's Log, November 21, 1990. Three days ago, I was dropped off here at the drilling site via amphibious plain landing on the lake just like in the movies. My monitoring partner, Vladislav, walked into the control center this afternoon, direct

from Ukraine. Loud and crass, he's exactly the kind of guy you would expect to be out in the wilderness for long periods of time, not exactly the kind of guy who does social situations very well. He said he prefers I call him Vlad, you know, like the impaler. He's a retired deep earth isolation minor, which is an incredibly dangerous profession, requiring a certain amount of nuttyness to even begin to seriously consider getting into. Not many DEI miners make it to retirement. They either get out early after a scare, have a mental breakdown, or die young in a desolate

hole somewhere. The body is rarely accessible to be brought back to the surface. If you're asking yourself what a DEI miner does, you probably don't want to know. To put it simply, though, once a mine has reached an unsafe depth for equipment and traditional human crews, these guys continue, alone, operating small excavators and even hand tools, for days or even weeks at a time without seeing sunlight. According to Vlad, there are some incredibly, incredibly valuable things at depths where most people can't conceive a human being could survive. Random note here, although he's shredded with muscle,

Vlad is an extremely small man. I dare not ask him, but I doubt he's more than five feet tall. He has enormous hands and feet for a guy of his height. He's quite pale, too. 1990. Vlad and I have been getting the lay of the land here at the site. As I believe I said in my last entry, I arrived a few days before he showed up, and in that time I familiarized myself with the ins and outs of the job. The work isn't too tough, and we have a surprisingly user-friendly manual for all the tests and checks and things we're doing here. Vlad is chock-full of insane stories from his mining days. Today was the saga of the time he caved himself in and was trapped for five days. Subsisting on no food and only 20 ounces of water, he eventually managed to dig his

way back out and contact the surface. There are no rescue parties in his line of work, and they were 24 hours from riding him off and sealing up the mine. November 30th, In 1990, Vlad disappeared two days ago. I've searched everywhere within a couple mile radius, and I have no idea what to do. I called headquarters but were in the middle of a pretty bad storm, and the company can't get out here to help for at least a week. December 4, 1990. Vlad walked back onto the job site a few hours ago.

He barely said a word. He looked to be in good health, so I called off the pending rescue operation. December 5, 1990. Vlad has been up and moving around, tending to some of the lighter duty stuff. He still hasn't said where he was for four days, and I'm trying not to badger him about it. He's mostly back to his old self, though, laughing and joking. He's been acting a little weird at times. Last night I woke up to pee and his bunk was empty.

After 15 minutes of searching, I spotted him about a hundred yards out, standing near one of the pressure tanks. He was just staring at the ground, displaying no discernible acknowledgment of my shouts. He didn't snap out of it until I got all the way there and gave him a light touch on the shoulder. He looked a little confused, then cracked a joke and said he must have been a little bit. been sleepwalking. December 6, 1990.

Vlad was back out by the tank again last night, but this time I saw him leave the bunkhouse, so I followed. He didn't initially respond to my touch this time because he was zoned out muttering something in Ukrainian. It sounded like Yaro Zumio. I told him about it this morning, and he didn't recognize my pronunciation and said he didn't recall any of last night to even give me a guess. I'm from West Virginia. My pronunciation of everything is kind of a mess by default, so I'm probably just not saying it correctly.

Vlad is surprisingly flippant about this whole situation. He doesn't seem to comprehend how scary it is to be out in the middle of the wilderness at night, alone, watching a man you barely know staring at the ground like a zombie and speaking a language you don't. don't understand. Ugh, I'm expecting too much out of a guy who spent 25 years living in mostly complete isolation and hand-dug holes. I doubt there's anything this guy is scared of. I would just let him do his thing, but I'm afraid he'll walk off into the woods again and not return. December 8th, 1990. Vlad didn't leave his bunk last night. I'm very happy about that because he's really creeping me the hell out with this behavior. I have nothing else significant

to repost other than that he's been complaining of a headache all day and even took a couple breaks to lie down. December 10th, 1990. Vlad's headache has worsened. If he doesn't improve soon, I'm going to call headquarters again. I don't know if the surrounding storms will ever let up, but I should at least notify them of a pending medical emergency. December 13th, 1990. Okay, shit really hit the fan today. I was chilling in the bunkhouse watching a rerun of family ties when I heard a huge thud sound, not an explosion per se. It was more the sound it makes when you drop a sandbag or something

only amplified by a thousand times. The whole building vibrated enough to knock my bottle of clearly Canadian off the table. I ran to check it out and saw the bottom end of tank number nine had blown out. Apparently Vlad hasn't performed the pressure release sequence for several days. Thank God it didn't blow out the top or we would have a major problem. As it stands right now, It just blew out a ton of earth from below the surface. There's dirt all over the entire two acres of equipment we have here, and the ground has been exposed in an area about 50 feet in diameter, and 8 feet deep. This is crazy, and not surprisingly, Vlad doesn't seem concerned. That tank, the equipment it damaged and rebuilding efforts, will probably cost a quarter million dollars.

December 14th, 1990. I notified headquarters of the incident. They still can't get anyone out here, but since everything is safe now, they said to carry on. I covered for Vlad by telling them there was a malfunction. December 15th, 1990. Things just got way more interesting out here. Vlad zombed out of the bunkhouse again last night. It's the first time, since before the explosion. I followed, as usual, and watched from a distance as he got a

shovel and climbed down into the crater created by the explosion. Vlad kneeled down, put his hand slightly above the soil, and moved it around for a few minutes. It was almost like he was feeling for a hot spot. He finally stopped, grabbed his shovel, and spent a few minutes clearing earth until I heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. He had hit something. Vlad continued shoveling around the area, making an ice clearing several feet wide, then brushed some dirt off the ground. He knelt down, took a look, stood up, and brushed himself off. Notting, he said something that sounded like, Otro-Mady-Yo-Yo-do-Bumo. I had a notepad with me this time, so I could make sure to get it.

After that, he picked up the shovel and headed back to the bunkhouse. I stayed out of sight, and when Vlad shut the bunkhouse door, I jumped into the pit and ran to take a look at what he had hit with that shovel. It was a metal cover, similar to a manhole. but it was square and made of thick hand-hammered iron. It was dimpled. The surface was warped looking, almost like ocean waves in a sculpture. I had to dust it off a bit more, but I could finally see some crude markings.

Across the very bottom was some sort of written language I didn't recognize. It didn't look like anything European I'd ever seen. going across the entire cavern in an X pattern was etching that resembled chains. In each section created by the chains was an image, a four-pointed star, a pickaxe, a diamond, and a St. Andrew's cross that those X things people were crucified on with a human figure on it. Obviously, I had no idea what it meant. Since I had already received my nightly scare, I quietly made my way back to the bunkhouse and into bed without waking Vlad. I don't know what to think right now. I really don't like where things are going, but I keep reminding myself that Vlad was a

DEI minor. He's not a normal person, by any definition. He's the kind of guy you don't want to see walking toward you on the sidewalk at night, but definitely the guy you want walking with you on the sidewalk at night, if that makes sense. December 16th, 1990. There was certainly a little pep in my step this morning. Since it was light outside, I was feeling more brave and excitedly told Vlad about the previous night's events. He was perplexed, but excited. I showed him my notepad, with the words he'd said, and after pronouncing my version of it a few times, he decided it meant

get his help. We had to get our routines taken care of before goofing off, so we ran from spot to spot and got everything squared away until the midday re-checks. Vlad was getting more excited by the minute. I mean, a retired miner uncovered a mysterious lid to what was most assuredly some sort of underground bunker. Shit, yeah, he's been. pumped about it. After having a look at the lid, it was most certainly going to be a two-man job, which I presume is why he'd said get his help in his sleep out there. We made our way to the tool shed and brought back a sledgehammer, a couple crow bars, and one of those huge steel pry bars you can hammer on the end of. I don't know the name of it, but the

damn thing is about five feet long and weighs at least 20 pounds. We worked hard for hours, to make progress on that cover. It was seized up pretty tight, with crud in the seams and all. It had clearly been covered up for a long time. We were down to using small chisels just to break loose the gunk around the outside. We finally managed to wedge it open and lay it upright next to the side of the hole just before dark. That lid must have weighed the better part of 300 pounds. We were both exhausted and had neglected our normal duties, so we quickly hit our routines again and called it a day. December 21st, 1990. A huge storm hit the morning after we got the lid open. We're sitting in about three feet of snow at the moment, so we've left the hole alone.

Vlad is chomping at the bit, but the guy knows a thing or two about safety. and not rushing into things he knows nothing about. So… We wait. December 22, 1990. Nothing else has happened, but I just feel the need to note in this log that Vlad's whole demeanor has changed. He's his old self again.

Now that I see him in his normal state and compare him to the guy who was sleepwalking and acting creepy as hell, I can see it's like that pressure tank he destroyed was symbolic of how he was feeling inside, despite him disappearing for those few days. December 25, 1990. I'm pretty tired of trudging through the snow to do our routines and not getting to check out that hole, but Vlad insists that we wait. The snow should be gone in a few days, and it can't come fast enough. I'm sick of playing cards and smelling Vlad's farts. Beans never should have been a part

of our supply drops. It's Christmas, so we broke out some canned cranberry sauce to eat along with some frost-bitten turkey we found in the deep freezer. Vlad got drunk and sang some Christmas carols in his native tongue. It's funny how those Eastern Europeans can make anything sound like a drinking song. December 28th, 1990. Finally, we checked out the hole, and holy shit, life just got a lot more interesting. Wow. So Vlad and I took some lights and a bit of rope and headed over to the hole for a quick inspection. He went first, putting his arm inside and head just below the rim.

He whooped with excitement, popped up and told me, it wasn't any kind of chamber, but was in fact a hole and had a ladder. So now we were both pretty pumped about this. We really didn't even bother discussing it anymore. Instead, we just grabbed our shit and got ready to enter. Vlad went first, of course. Man, it was really dark in there. I was told once on a tour that a closed cave is the dark. darkest place you can be, and this might as well have been a cave. Yes, the lid wasn't on there, but it sure didn't feel like any light was getting in.

We slowly made our way down the ladder, which in and of itself was a masterpiece of handiwork. It was cut directly out of stone, but perfect in every way. Smooth, narrow rungs just like a ladder you'd see anywhere else made of steel. Vlad kept his light displayed on every step to ensure there were no damaged rungs to send us careening to our death. The hole was really narrow. I mean, hardly enough room to be able to stick out my elbows narrow, and at some points the hand-chiseled walls were so close I could feel my breath reflecting back into my face. At times, I found it difficult to fill my lungs completely because the air hung so heavy in that tight space. I'm not claustrophobic, but it was really pushing my limits.

I was counting rungs and doing the math in my head, and at about 50 feet down we saw more of those markings. This time it was, I suppose, what could be called a pictograph. It was a landscape-style drawing of the moon and those same four-pointed stars along with some kind of ship or craft or something that looked like a boat maybe, but it was definitely in the air. There were dozens of stick figures drawn all along the upper portion. The pictograph made its way around the entire hole. It showed the stick figures land, then the night gave way to the sun, which cast its light unseen of them digging into snow-capped mountains with pickaxes, hollowing them out for shelter. A small but intricate network of caves were depicted, a haven for their little society.

As the image progressed, people were outside hunting and gathering. Interesting, for sure. We continued on for a bit. and at my estimate of 150 feet, we were parallel with a sizable room that was cut out into the rock to our left. Our lights only shined a short distance in, so Vlad took it upon himself to step off the ladder and check it out. In just a few seconds, he called out to me, and I hopped off as well and headed inside. It looked like some kind of living quarters. There were crude wooden frames with surprisingly intact fabric that was likely holding something

like pine boughs or grass at some point, but had clearly dried up and disintegrated long ago. There wasn't much else in the room, only a few cups in a plate, all made of clay but still expertly crafted like the latter. The walls were almost completely covered in what appeared to be games. Think of something like Tic-Tac-Tow or Hangman, but these were games I didn't recognize at all. Within the games and on its own, there was quite a bit of text that neither Vlad nor I could interpret. In fact, I can't even recall it well enough to try to write it here. After finishing up in the room, Vlad, who I still found to be annoyingly cautious,

said we should go back up and prepare for something. something more long-term. We really had no idea what we were getting into at this point, but I did protest a bit regardless. He looked up at me, as if I was an idiot, pulled a few rocks he had stashed on his pocket when I wasn't looking, and dropped them. Vlad kept his fingers extended on that hand and began to count off the seconds. We never heard them hit bottom. My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. I don't know at what depth a person wouldn't be able to hear a few golf ball-sized rocks make contact, but even Vlad was surprised after 15 fingers time.

He looked up at me with a face that said, Shut up and do what I said. And without saying a word, I gave Vlad a nod and began to ascend the ladder with haste. I was stupid to ever question a man who practically lived underground. We made our ascent, finally resurfaced and made our way back to the bunkhouse. My legs were beat. December 30th, 1990. We didn't go back into the hole yesterday.

After much discussion, we came up with a plan. We would stock up on food and water, additional light, shock for marking depths and points of reference and needed to find a way to perform the pressure releases automatically. Otherwise, we would only be able to go as deep as our work schedule allowed. We're going to get to work on making these preparations, then head back down the hole in a few days. January 5, 1991. Even knowing of Vlad's experience underground, I hadn't quite realized the astonishing skill set he developed in order to make his descents more safe and efficient.

He first came up with a simple lever system activated by the tank's own pressure to hit the valve arm once it reached a certain level. It would actually be blowing off the tank several times a day instead of the normal two times. We had all the welding and fabrication supplies we needed, and he set to work getting it up and going. Finally, Vlad decided we needed harnesses with safety lines on carabiners. We found what we needed in the shed where the tree cutters kept their gear.

And on top of all this, he showed me how to build and weld together a rail system that uses rollers on the outside of the ladder so we can descend with less exertion. It uses a crank made from an altered come-along ratchet that controls the descent and has a manual friction brake to lock the frame in place when needed. It would descend slightly less quickly than we could by foot, but we could expend very little energy by comparison. We each had a functional crank on the line so we would be able to take turns, giving it a trial run on one of the 30-foot tank ladders. It was working smoothly after just a few adjustments. To say Vlad was a very impressive guy wouldn't do him justice. We planned to make the trip in tomorrow. January 8th, 1991. What an

amazing few days we've had in the tunnel. When we ventured back into the tunnel a few days ago, we were already collecting pieces of a story. The story, whether fact or fiction, appeared to be that a group of people came down to Earth from space. They were miners of some sort, and based on the room we located during our first trip down, they lived underground as they dug this tunnel. The pictograph, or hieroglyphics, or whatever you call it, seems to show them digging horizontally as opposed to straight down like the tunnel we're in. We're not quite sure what to make of it all yet, but we knew there was more to see and were excited to get started. Vlad and I climbed manually down to the chamber we had initially discovered and made that our base

camp. There we unpacked our gear and tools and with some adjustments were able to connect Vlad's contraption to the ladder. Vlad started rotating his crank and down we went. It was only another 25 feet or so before we reached another chamber. This one was much smaller and appeared to be a storage area for equipment. We poked around looking through rotted wooden racks and storage bins not finding much worth spending any time on.

Then Vlad called me over to the far corner. Buried under a collapsed rack was a relatively small pickaxe and a few hand chisels. However, they didn't look like any I'd ever seen. The handles were made. were made out of what looked and felt like wood, but it was lighter and much harder on the outside. The metal pick and chisels were a dark, almost black metal. The depth of the absence of color and sharpness of the edges gave the tools an almost sinister appearance.

In addition to this, the tools had no flaws or damage, not even the slightest scratch. Vlad casually took a gentle whack at the rock wall to his left, just trying to get a feel for the pickax's weight distribution and balance. To both of our amazement, the pick entered the rock like it was nothing. A couple more swings from Vlad and a chunk of rock the size of a bowling ball dropped to the floor. We both whistled in amazement. I grabbed one of the chisels, gently scraping it into the rock and it shaved off as easily as a knife going through cheese. The precision cuts a person could make with either of these tools was astounding.

With huge grins on our faces, we carefully packed up the tools and took them back up to the lodging chamber. We both knew this was something very special. We spent the rest of the first day descending the tunnel. At around 400 feet we found another living quarters but also made the grisly discovery of a dozen small skeletons laying on beautiful stone altars cut right out of the wall on each side. Ornate with the same four pointed stars and intricate etchings of all manner of things that must only be recognizable to someone from another planet. All I could do was marvel at their beauty. On the far wall was another pictograph.

This one showed the same stick figures digging out of the mountain, but in the next scene were larger figures holding weapons, and the smaller figures were chained together at the ankles, still working the picks and shovels, piling diamonds into buckets. Some were on the ground with X's for eyes or curled in the fetal position. Others were being assaulted in various ways with the larger figures in circles around some, or lined up as if taking turns. Another figure was depicted on a St. Andrew's cross, with a group of clearly distraught figures being forced to observe.

Off to the side were some more of the larger figures that appeared to be roasted, a baby-sized figure over a fire. That last one sent a shiver up my spine. I gave Vlad a somber glance and saw he was visibly shaken as well. January 9, 1991. Yesterday, after ascending from the burial chamber back to the first underground living quarters, we had a long discussion about what we'd found and put forth our best effort to interpret the pictographs on the walls. Because of the incredible hand tools we discovered,

we agreed that whatever story the walls were telling us was probably true. I mean, we were literally hundreds of feet down a narrow shaft that had been dug out of solid rock smack dab in some of the most desolate land on the planet, where no one existed without regular supply drops. Despite the elevator system Vlad deployed, my hands and feet ached terribly. There's no stopping now, though. The descent isn't finished. The story isn't finished. And the story has to be told.

I believe we're the first to ever read it too and agree that we don't want to leave these atrocities buried forever. and if they were only stored in our own minds. January 12, 1991. We've taken a few days off above ground. The plan now is to go as deep as possible. We've gathered up a few weeks worth of supplies and we'll descend again tomorrow. January 13, 1991.

Today we hit 1,000 feet down. I can't believe it. We investigated more living chambers with various odds and ends, found a few more incredible tools. One of them looks like a pencil, but it literally scrapes through a rock as easily as one of those knives would cut through dirt. This explains the incredible detail in some of the pictographs and creations we've encountered. We found more and more of the story as the day moved along. To sum it up from the beginning, my interpretation is that some sort of alien race made its way to Earth, looking for a new start or maybe just to expand through colonization.

Humanoid, for sure, but not entirely human as we know it here. They were minors of incomparable skill and ability, literally built to survive underground for long periods. At some point, humans found and enslaved. them to mine diamonds, working them relentlessly until exhaustion, or worse. Later in the story, it shows a small group of the miners, I've been referring to them as the miners, escaping captivity and digging this hole after the sun went down, relentlessly, every single night.

At this point, I believe every word of the story we're seeing depicted as we descend deeper and deeper into the earth around us. Today, I saw something incredible. I'm compelled to say, if it's true, but I already believe that it is. Something I've been asking myself is, how were they able to see properly when doing the nighttime digging? I don't believe this story is more than a few hundred years old, so dependable, portable light should have been possible. There were no lanterns depicted and not a torch in sight. Today, I got my explanation, and my only guess as to why it wasn't depicted until today is they simply didn't think it was a big deal.

A group was standing around the hole, appearing ready to enter for the night, but the first in line stood with his arms wide open, leaning back dramatically. In the next picture, he had begun to emit light. from his entire body. I followed the images drawn on the walls around me and saw him enter the hole with the others following behind. They literally generated their own light. Incredible. January 14th, 1991. After making camp last night in the closest living quarters, approximately 900 feet down, we set off this morning feeling surprising freshly and ready to explore. To say that this has been a magnificent adventure would be

putting it mildly. We've literally found proof of aliens, attempted genocide, and a lost civilization, all in one big hole in the ground. Today's portion of the story took quite the turn. As we continued to descend deeper and deeper, the pictographs began to change. As impossible as it sounds, considering they were stick figures, the body language of the miners clearly changed from misery and desperation to anger and boldness. The pictures went from the occasional ring around the hole to a non-stop scene that continued to circle the hole, twisting its way down deeper and deeper to what I knew would be an end sooner than later. The miners began to stir speaking in groups when their captors weren't looking,

shouting back in defiance when provoked and tugging at their chains with a renewed vigor. The miners digging this hole were dancing before going down, all of them radiating light so bright the pictures depicted a dark valley illuminated by optimism. It was clear their plan, was almost complete. I was growing excited, like reading a fascinating novel, dying to reach a satisfying ending, as Vlad relentlessly pushed us deeper and deeper and deeper into the unknown. At 2,000 feet, we stopped for the night. The climax to the story would have to wait. January 15, 1991.

We left a living quarters we found at about 1,800 feet and descended quickly past some of yesterday's findings, before quickly picking up where we left off at the 2000-feet mark. The story disappeared for about 100 feet or so before picking back up with a night-time scene. The diggers snuck back into the mine site, killing the guards and the guards. as they made their way to the caves where the rest of the miners were sleeping. Gently stirred awake by the diggers, everyone gradually became aware of their presence. Most of the miners were still chained together, and the diggers set forth breaking the chains with their special tools. It appeared they didn't damage iron as easily as rock, but the chains did eventually break. The miners

began to quietly exit the caves. of their captors slept nearby in bunkhouses, completely unaware of what was going on. The last of the miners was freed, and the picture showed everyone congregating just outside the cave entrance, only steps from their sleeping captors. The group had turned away to leave, but a small child lingered behind. There was defiance drawn on its simple face. Slowly, but surely The child began to glow. The group noticed, stopped, and an adult moved toward the child to retrieve it. It refused to move, though, and the glow became brighter and brighter. Another child left the group and joined in, then another and another. Soon the adults began

to fall in line until everyone shined as bright as the sun. The captain, the captain came flying out of the bunkhouses and were immediately blinded by the focused beam of light. Having only just exited the cave, pickaxes still in hand and preparing to flee with a rescued miners, the digger saw the captors blinded and vulnerable and seized their opportunity. Axes flew wildly as the diggers advanced and overwhelmed the blinded and paralyzed captors, slaughtering them mercilessly. Body parts were scattered about, heads rolled across the ground, and blood was strewn in perfect arcs from the tips of the dagger's tools as they savagely obliterated each and every man and woman

responsible for their enslavement. As the pictures continued, night turned to day, casting a different kind of light on the horrific scene at the mine encampment, every earth-born human was dead, piled into heaps of limbs and guts. Evildoers and enslavers turned to carrion for the wolves and buzzards that had descended upon the remnants of the melee. Vlad and I were overwhelmed by the story before us. Tears both filled both our eyes as we sat in your eyes.

yet another living quarters carved out just over 2,500 feet down. They didn't, Jack, he said with a slight grin in front of his thick accent. They survived. The last string of pictures showed everyone marching to the hole, exhausted, with some helping others walk. Large iron cuffs mated to broken links of chain. still adorned most of their ankles in the group as they walked for what appeared to be the better part of a week to get to the very hole I was standing in. Some didn't make it, and instead

were buried along the path. Most of those that did survive the march appeared to be on death's door as they slowly entered the hole. Two men, two women, and three children who were still All above ground, flipped over the giant iron lid, buried it under the enormous amount of dirt Vlad had uncovered over two weeks ago, and limped off into the forest. That's where the story ended. January 20th, 1991. It's been five days since my last update. I'm not sure what exactly to make of all this, but here's the rest of the story.

Vlad and I kept going after the pictographs ended. The pictures gave way to writing, and I have no clue what it said. Vlad was studying it carefully, sometimes scratching his head or stroking his beard in thought, but also nodding fairly often. It almost looked as if he understood at least some of what he was seeing. I know now that he was in fact understanding it. At what I estimate was 3,200 feet into solid rock in the middle of frozen tundra in a land far, far from any reasonably sized civilization, we hit bottom.

The tunnel ended in a chamber about 40 by 40 feet, filled with more tools, sculptures, wooden crafts, tables, chairs, and other such things. Clearly, they had spent some time living here. At one end of the room was a door, about five feet high, with one word written in the foreign script. I stared at it, confused just as much as before. Vlad was crying. I looked over at him, feeling compelled to cry as well, but having no idea why. By that time, I suspected he could read some of what we'd seen.

Vlad. What does it say? Barely choking out the words, he replied, it says home. Before I could speak again, Vlad turned to face me. His eyes were glassy and distant. His mind was a million miles away now. Jack, it is time for me to go. It is time for me to leave you.

It is time for me to go home. I believe these are my people. Look at them. And look at me. We are the same. And I can read many of their words. Why can I read their words, you know? I was floored. I don't know how I hadn't seen it already. The height, the hands and feet,

the absurd comfort underground. Was he a descendant of those few who had walked away? Was he called to the hole while it was buried and he was sleeping in our drilling site bunkhouse? Or was he called to this place? Long, long before that. A message was he called to this place. A message was he called to A message while living underground for so many years in places all over the world. My head was about to explode. I knew he was right, though. There was no question in my mind at that point. He was one of them, or at least a part of him was.

Vlad reached for my hand. A firm shake quickly transitioned into a hug from a true friend. My friend, I am leaving you now. Go back to the surface, push the lid back in place, and cover it with soil again. I will not be coming back. I nodded with tears in my eyes. Vlad removed his helmet and headlamp, slipped out of his backpack and let it drop to the floor with a thud. He opened the door, sending a cold. cold blast of air into the already chilly chamber and took two steps into the pitch black.

Putting his arms to his sides, he began to gently vibrate from head to toe. Looking back at me with a surprised grin on his face, he began to emit light from every pore in his skin. Vlad walked into the chamber, shielding my eyes as I closed the door. behind him, I watched his light transform the dark into nothing but a memory. I sat for a few minutes, still not quite believing what I just experienced. After finally returning my aching body to an upright position, I made my way to the base of the hole to engage the platform and begin the long ascent.

I put one foot in place, then stopped. Stepping off again, I opened my pack and produced the incredible rock writing pencil. I'm no artist, but I can certainly draw a stick figure. I set to work for the next few hours, making a pictograph of my own in one solid band a hundred and twenty feet long depicting the journey Vlad and I had been on. Our portion of this story needed to be told, because it truly was. It truly was the final chapter. The story did not end until Vlad returned.

I presume he was the last of his people living above ground. Hell, I don't even know if his people are still living below ground either. I mean, it sounds impossible, right? It took me close to two days to make the ascent back to the drill site, between the regular climbing and cranking the handle on Vlad's contraption, my hands ached terribly and drastically slowed my progress. After finally making it back out of the hole, I left it uncovered for a few days while I recuperated, just in case Vlad changed his mind. I knew he wouldn't, though. Finally, I flipped the lid over with a backhoe and returned the dirt that had encased it

for hundreds of years. When the time comes, I'll tell the company we work for that Vlad walked off into the woods again. I certainly won't be talking to them anytime soon, though. If you've found my journal, then you've apparently put a hole in the wall, or maybe they're tearing the drill site down. Who knows? This is your story now, though, and what you do from here on out is obviously entirely up to you. But please remember and consider those who have come before you and those who will follow both above ground and below it. I trust that you will make the right decision. Take care. Jack Hutchinson, Stan, Stan Ender Drill Company

1991