THE MAZE

Chapter Eleven: Mr. Fitz

For those of you who haven't seen it yet, be sure to go and read my brand new story, "In Between The Pages!" Chapters One and Two have been posted today:) Would really appreciate it a lot if you guys could go check it out. It's on my profile but here is the link:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/195958904-in-between-the-pages

I am a man of logic and simplicity. I like things to be black and white, and prefer to avoid the "gray areas" of life. And that is why The Maze and that bizarre tour guide are irritating me to an extreme.

My patience is not one of my proudest aspects, and it is now getting pushed to its maximum. I just want to find my way to the center of The Maze and back before my very important work call. And I really want that one million dollars.

That is why I decide that my wife and I should follow the old man; he seems to know what he's doing. My plan is to secretly follow him the whole way, then at the last possible moment outrace him to be the first ones to finish.

As Grace and I walk through the cold, dark corridor leading to Room 26, I realize just how much this place is rubbing me the wrong way.

"Grace, this place is giving me the heebie-jeebies," I grunt, my voice a disembodied sound in the thick darkness.

"Me too," she whispers back.

"That tour guide was a crackpot, speaking in riddles and all of that bullshit," I mutter under my breath.

"Language," Grace chides.

I sigh. The ground beneath us has begun to slope down, its incline seemingly becoming steeper and steeper with each step that we take.

Where the hell is this corridor taking us?

I swallow hard, my ears popping. Just when I think that I cannot take it any longer, my nose slams into a hard, wooden surface.

"Ouch!" I cry out in pain, jumping back and rubbing my nose.

We have finally reached the end of the tunnel. But there is no light at the end of this tunnel because when we open the door, we are disappointed to find ourselves in a gloomy cavern-like room. I walk in slowly, staring up and ogling in awe at the sheer height that the jagged rocky walls scale up to.

"Jim, we must be stories underground," Grace murmurs under her breath, spinning around in a slow circle as she stares up at the daunting elevation.

It takes me just a few moments to register the significant dilemma that we have run into.

"Grace?" I ask quietly, my voice echoing ever so subtly off of the cavernous walls.

"Yeah?" she replies, still staring upwards.

"We have a little problem," I say, trying my best to keep my voice level.

She looks down, staring at me in the eyes.

"Our old man has already left through one of those two doors, and we don't know which one," I murmur, pointing a finger toward Door 40 and Door 25.

I don't know if I can even call them "doors", for they are more like crude holes cut into the rock.

"Well, I guess we're on our own now," Grace says.

I feel my body quaking with anger and frustration. We must have just missed him.

"Do you know what the right door is? Huh? Do you?" I ask bitterly, my voice now loudly echoing off the walls.

"Jim, calm down! We can figure this out. And look, there is some sort of sign between the two doors," Grace says, pointing to the piece of paper tacked up in the center.

Still fuming with anger, I walk over to the sign, Grace right next to me.

I read it once, and am instantly lost.

IMPORTANT NOTICE:

All those who are visiting this house must be ____to the individual representing himself as your ____ because ____ is no other than the ____.

-ROY F.T.

What the hell is this supposed to mean? And how are we supposed to figure out what it has to say with all those blanks?

"There's a painting too," Grace whispers, pointing her finger to my right.

I turn to see a painting of an eye, with the words, "DO NOT LOOK UP, FOR THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD IS ABOVE."

Ten minutes in, and I am already sick and tired of these ridiculous riddles. I find myself glaring at the painting of the eye as it stares back at me judgingly, seeming to selfishly possess all of the answers. Filled with a sudden wave of rage, I bend down and pick up a rock, chucking it at the painting.

BAM.

It hits the painting squarely in the center, ripping right through the canvas.

"Jim!" Grace exclaims, obviously appalled by my sudden outburst.

Like an innocent, young child, Grace rushes over to the painting and picks it up, cradling it in her arms like one would do with a baby. I stand there in silence, watching her as she stares at the torn painting. Then suddenly, she gasps.

"What is it?" I ask.

She looks up at me slowly, an odd expression painted on her face.

"Jim?"

"Yes."

"What did the words on this painting originally say again?"

"Do not look up, for the weight of the world is above," I recite from memory.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I reply exasperatedly.

Slowly, she revolves the painting around so that I can see it.

"Read it again," she whispers quietly, her voice a mere rustle in the capacious space.

I do. With the first, quick read, I don't detect anything unordinary. But then, after the second read, it hits me like a brick to the head.

Although a very small and subtle change, it is enough to make the blood in my veins instantly turn to ice.

"DO NOT LOOK UP, FOR THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD IS..."

I pause, staring at the new words that follow.

"...FALLING ON TOP OF YOU."

My mouth feels strangely dry, as if my tongue is a sheet of sandpaper. I look back up to see Grace staring up above, her face the unsettling color of computer paper.

The rumbling begins low, then continues to crescendo louder and louder until it resonates throughout my entire body, causing all of my limbs to quake. With a pit of ultimate dread sinking into my stomach, I slowly tilt my head just in time to see the avalanche of rocks beginning to cascade down upon us.