This is (not) the Ring

I feel cool air on my face again as I descend the stairs, moving away from the suffocating heat of the first floor. It is an immense relief, like stumbling into an oasis in the middle of a desert.

I reach the halfway point of the staircase, a landing where I can see in all three directions. Through the thick glass window on my left, the front entrance room appears blurry, scattered with dark, looming bookshelves. But I can still see the peeling yellow metal of the main entrance door from here. I couldn't open it from the outside earlier, but maybe I can try from the inside.

On my right, the moonlight slices down from the sky window, creating a perfect, rectangular stage light on the floor, illuminating the dangling end of the rope. And if I tilt my head just enough, peering into the deep shadows directly beneath the staircase I am standing on, I can see the edge of the underground well.

I close my eyes. I listen to the sharp, clear sounds around me: the soft twisting of the strained rope, the rhythmic dripping of water deep inside the well, the faint rustling of papers from the front room shelves. I wait to find out which calling is the strongest.

Then, I hear it. Soft tapping sounds on the floor tiles.

Opening my eyes, I see the small shadow hidden just behind the edge of the moonlit stage. Its tiny hand is grasping the rope. I can't see a face in the darkness, but I know exactly what it wants me to do. I slowly pull on my side of the rope, watching the small hand as I do, waiting for a signal.

Then, the shadow hand tugs sharply on the other side of the rope, and I stop pulling. A silent, perfectly understood game.

I look up at the sky window. It is half-closed now, narrowing the beam of light. I look back down at the patch of moonlight leading into the thick darkness underneath the staircase, right to where the underground well waits.

There is a light switch on the wall, but it is not working, of course. So, I have to rely on what little light is left from the half-lifted sky window. The metal lid to the well is closed, the handle heavy for me to lift. I squat down, pressing one foot against the nearby brick border of the well as leverage, while my hands pull upward on the cover handle. The lid makes a screeching noise as it slowly gives way. I manage to pull it open all the way, but not without losing my balance at the very end and falling squarely on my butt.

I hear the sudden, light tapping of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sharp click of a flashlight. A beam of light is now shining down into the well, which, in reality, is more like an underground water storage pool. In stark contrast to the horrifying depths of my imagination, the well is completely normal. It is just a concrete tank filled with clean water.

Then, illuminated by the beam of the small flashlight, I see it: a small golden key resting at the very bottom of the pool.

But I can't reach it from the edge. Does that mean I have to get wet?

Reluctantly, I step over the rim into the pool, inhale a deep breath, and dive down toward the bottom of the tank. I absolutely hate when physics are real here; I keep getting pushed back up by the water's natural buoyancy. Through the water, I swear I hear a distinct giggling sound coming from the stairs above me.

Determined and more than a little annoyed, I dive down again, this time aggressively pushing the water away with my hands and kicking my feet up. Finally, I reach the bottom and grab the key. I thought I would be happy to be submerged in cool water after surviving the oven of the first floor, but no. I just want to get out of this tiny tank as soon as possible.

I toss the key onto the dry floor first—I can’t risk dropping it back into the water. As I haul myself out and stand back on solid ground, I realize I am completely soaked from head to toe. I honestly consider traveling back up to the suffocating first floor just to dry off, but I decide it is a terrible idea.