The Marble of the Deep

Five years ago, I was part of a folklore society that met in an old, musty library. During one of our meetings, I noticed a small, unassuming box on a shelf labeled ‘Miscellaneous Artifacts.’ Inside was a cloudy, violet orb, slightly larger than a baseball, with a note that said ‘See with the mind’s eye.’ I was drawn to it and, despite the odd feeling it gave me, I purchased it for a pittance.

That evening, I decided to test it in my attic study. The instructions, handwritten on yellowed paper, told me to cleanse it in a mixture of rainwater and vinegar, place it on a bed of black velvet, and surround it with a circle of white candles. I did as instructed, lighting sandalwood incense to calm my nerves. The attic was silent except for the distant hum of the city, but as I focused on the orb, a thin mist began to swirl within its depths. I reached for my journal to record what I saw, but when I looked back, the pages were blank, as if my notes had been erased.

Soon, the mist parted, and I saw a shoreline at dusk. In the distance, two figures sat on a bench, their backs to me. One had a shock of red hair like my daughter, Ellie; the other was tall and lean like my son, Max. They seemed to be staring at something in the water, but the image was fuzzy. I leaned closer, squinting, and suddenly the orb wobbled. I grabbed it with both hands, but it slipped through my fingers and fell onto the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. A jagged line split across its surface.

I picked it up, afraid of what I’d done, and as I stared at the crack, I saw the beach again. This time, both figures turned to look at me. Their faces were pale, and their eyes were black, empty voids. They opened their mouths in unison, and a whisper escaped the crack: ‘We see you.’ I dropped the orb again, and it shattered into pieces, leaving a dark, viscous liquid that seeped into the floorboards.

From that night on, I couldn’t sleep. I’d see reflections of that beach in my tea, in the mirror, in the surface of my sink. The whisper grew louder, sometimes sounding like Ellie calling my name, sometimes like Max. I tried to ignore it, but one night, I woke to find my bedroom door ajar, and a trail of wet footprints leading to my bed. They were cold and salty, like seawater.

I called my children, but their calls went to voicemail. I drove to their apartment, but it was empty. The neighbors said they hadn’t seen them in days. In a panic, I returned home and found the shattered pieces of the orb on my desk, rearranged into a new shape—a spiral. The whisper now clearly said, ‘You opened the gate.’ I realized the orb was not a seer but a key, and the beach was not a vision but a doorway.

Now, I spend my nights in the attic, staring at the spiral of glass, waiting for the tide to come in. I see them sometimes, sitting on that bench, but they are not my children anymore. They are guardians of the deep, and they are waiting for me to join them. I’m writing this in my journal, but I know the pages will be blank by morning. The ocean is rising in my mind, and the lighthouse is the only light. I can’t resist much longer.