The Pinnacles, Kentucky. I’d been hiking there for years, both alone and with friends. The sun shone through the bare branches of the trees above. The sheet of clouds that left a blanket of snow on the ground in the morning hours were in the distance, dumping over the fields of dead grass. The wind bit through the layers I wore under my jacket as I hopped out of my truck, coat unzipped. Fifteen degrees, with more snow scheduled for that evening meant that I’d brought all my winter gear: Boots, courtesy of the National Guard, a large black coat with one of those furry hood-liners, a pair of gloves, a scarf, and a balaclava. The rest of my gear, packed safely in my ruck, was mostly just for weight: Several changes of clothes in a dry bag, my lunch, a whole sleep system, a hammock, a Gerber tool, solar charger, and plenty other gadgets and items that I thought I might take with me either for weight, or when I actually went backpacking. Lashed to the back of my backpack were my camelbak, and a foam sleeping pad. The most important item, though, sat in a black case behind the driver’s seat. An AR-15, two full magazines, and in my pack a can of around 250 rounds for it.
I set to lashing the AR to the side of my pack, and put the magazines inside a pocket in my jacket.
The pack itself must’ve weighed around seventy-five pounds when I put it on, and only seconds of standing with all of the straps fastened and tightened left my shoulders aching. The bluetooth speaker I used to listen to music in the car went inside the pocket next to the magazines, and I locked my truck up.
I was already seriously regretting my decision to go hiking this weekend.
By the time I reached the Indian Fort, I’d already had to take a break to relieve the burning in my… everything. My neck was sore, my shoulders and calves were on fire, and if I’d regretted my decision when I started, now was the time that I regretted my life choices the most. The view, though, was worth it.
From the top of the hill, I could see for miles through the trees. Snow-covered pasture in the valley, hills stretching to the horizon, and the sun hanging above it in a clear blue sky. I snapped a picture with my phone, sat down, and just took in the scene for a moment.
After ten minutes of sitting, drinking water, and reading messages on my phone, I decided to get moving back to the trail head. There was one more thing I wanted to do before I left: visit the Devil’s Kitchen. I’d never been down in it before; I always passed over it to get to the West Pinnacle, though it’d interested me for a while. I picked up my pack, and set off on the next leg of my journey.
When I got there, I immediately felt that something was off. The air was electric with the smell of ozone, and a blue light shone from deeper into the carved-out area of rock. The Devil’s Kitchen was aptly named; It looked as if someone came and carved out a brick oven or a forge in the side of the hill. The opening of the oven-shaped formation was big enough to fit three people, which is where the light came from.
I stepped closer, and the sound of my boots echoed off of the time-hewn rock.
“I’ll be fuckin’ damned.” I said.
A peek inside the oven revealed a shimmering silver surface, which also turned out to be the source of the light. I reached a gloved hand into the oven, and touched it.
I awoke in pitch black darkness, laying on my side. A quick self-inventory revealed that everything I had was still on me, so I took out my phone and turned on its flashlight. The room I was in was made of some sort of dark crystalline substance that seemed to suck the light from my phone into itself, like it was… feeding off of it or something.
There was an entryway to what, upon investigation, looked like a staircase carved from the same crystal that everything else was made of. Without a clue as to what was happening, or why, I climbed the steps up, and up, and into a world I’d known for years as fiction.