The Culvert of Ninety-Nine

The summer I turned seventeen, my cousin Tomas came to stay with us before his family moved to the Netherlands. We lived in a flat above a bakery in a narrow street where the buildings leaned together like old gossips, cutting off most of the sky. The bakery closed at six, and after that the street belonged to the cats and the occasional straggler. There was a small convenience store at the end of the block, its entrance flanked by six vending machines that glowed green and blue in the dusk, humming like sick insects. The machines sold only one thing: a murky, yellowish drink called ‘Nine Herbs.’ It tasted like grass and regret. We were running low on soda for our late-night gaming session, so Tomas and I decided to take a walk to the machines. It was a few minutes before the streetlamps flickered on, and the alley behind the bakery was already a pool of darkness. We joked about the old drainpipe that ran from the bakery down to the culvert under the street. The culvert was a gaping black mouth that swallowed the rain and spat out rusted things. We’d never dared go in, but the older kids said it was ‘the place of ninety-nine,’ where a hundred years ago, a baker had sealed his son inside the wall for stealing bread. Tomas and I laughed it off, but as we passed the grate, I felt a cold breath from inside, like the culvert had exhaled. We didn’t stop. At the vending machines, Tomas fed a coin into the slot, but the machine swallowed it without even a click of the mechanism. He kicked the side, and the machine let out a low moan, like a beast waking. The second machine vended a small bottle labeled ‘Nine Herbs.’ We bought two and opened them. The liquid was oily, with a smell of wet earth and something else, something sour. We swallowed it anyway. It was warm, and it left a gritty residue on our tongues. As we turned to leave, a sound came from the culvert—a wet, slithering noise, like something dragging itself over gravel. We froze. Then a voice, thin and cracked, like old paper, called out, ‘Two for ninety-nine.’ It was a child’s voice. We backed away slowly, not daring to run. The bottle in my hand felt heavier suddenly, and I saw that the label had changed. It now read ‘The Culvert of Ninety-Nine.’ We looked at each other. The streetlamps came on, casting a sickly orange glow. The culvert grate was open. It had been shut before. We walked home, not looking back, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a third pair of footsteps echoing behind us. The next day, we found that the walls of our flat were peeling, and the papery flakes formed patterns like small hands reaching outward. Tomas’s mother said it was just dampness, but we knew better. I took the empty bottle and tried to throw it in the trash, but it wouldn’t leave my hand. It stuck, as if glued. When I looked at the label again, it said, ‘One more.’ I haven’t been back to the culvert since. But sometimes, at night, I hear a dragging sound in the alley, and a thin voice counting coins: ‘Ninety-nine, one more, then you’re free.’ And I see my own hand in the darkness, reaching toward the grate.