The pit appeared on the outskirts of Midville on a day that was just like any other day. Sadie McAdams, who was the first to see it when she was out hunting gophers, gave this report: “It was right where that big jackrabbit burrow used to be. Decent size, about five feet by five feet. And in the middle of those feet, sort of circle-shaped… nothing. Like, imagine something empty, and then imagine even less. That’s what it was.”
Her speech was delivered to a couple close friends over beers at the Wilson Pub-Diner. News spread through the town quickly, as there wasn’t much ground to cover. Derrick Wilson overheard the story while polishing cups behind the counter, and that night, he went home and told his wife Sophie Wilson about it. She then called Mitzi and Eric Williams to laugh about the ever-increasing obscurity of late-night bar gossip. Mitzi laughed along with her, but later on called the Millers for some reassurance that the story was, indeed, nothing more than a product of the fascinating imaginations of neighborhood drunks, and the Millers called the Davises, and the Davises called the Jenkinses, who at that point had no idea where the story had originated, and when the Jenkinses called the Johnsons they discovered that the Johnsons already proclaimed to know the story front-to-back.
“I heard it’s a waterhole,” said Mary Jenkins. “Those Bellrose teens are trying to dig a new place to go skinny dipping.”
“No, it’s an abandoned mine shaft,” said Alex Johnson. “It’s always been there. People just forgot about it.”
Then two boys provoked each other to go closer and closer to the pit. One of them dared the other to drop a penny into it; he was the only one who returned. The sheriff went out to investigate the area. When he got back, he issued a statement that the empty grass field on the west outskirts of town was closed indefinitely. Anyone caught trespassing would be shot or arrested on the spot depending on his mood at the time. Everyone agreed this was the best course of action and the matter was laid to rest.
After that, things went back to normal. Midville took “normal” very seriously, and returning to this state took only a matter of days. The sheriff quickly stopped monitoring the west field even though people were still using the grounds to hunt. They walked past the gaping hole in the ground, not even looking at it, and if grass had grown over the pit they would not have noticed it was gone.
Then, unexpectedly, the mayor of the town died. The townspeople took the news hard. The mayor had been sick, yes, but not exceedingly sick. There was sad music and a funeral with almost everyone in attendance. The children were unusually quiet. The adults drank coffee out of styrofoam cups. At the end of the ceremony they whispered nervously to each other about what was going to happen to Midville now.
Since the mayor had no progeny, there was talk of an election. Some people thought the sheriff should take over since he protected the town. Someone said that a lower-ranked member of the town hall should be promoted to the position. A few people even suggested that Derrick Wilson the pub owner be given a chance because he was such a hardworking, reliable man.
Then, before a decision was made, a strange man rode into town. His clothes were simple, but obviously expensive. He wore jeans and a plain blazer over a plain t-shirt and an outrageous top hat. He looked positively Californian. He was driving a horse-drawn carriage, but the horses were robots, and the carriage had a motor. He cracked a whip and pressed a brake. The carriage stopped in the middle of town. The horses froze mid-gallop. They remained standing in unnatural poses.
“Are you our new mayor?” asked the townspeople.
“Of sorts,” said the man. “I have bought Midville. I own it now. News of your wormhole has travelled far, despite your… primitive ways. Your neighboring town Somerton has a radio station, you see, which I also own. The Somerton Station picked up on some strange activity going on in the airwaves and traced it back to the edge of your town. Together, with your help, I think we can profit handsomely off this discovery.”
“Who are you?” the townspeople asked.
“I am whoever you want me to be,” he told them. “I have many names. People call me an engineer, a genius, a businessman, spaceman, dragon rider, celestial parasite, Commie, Nazi, capitalist scum, but my real name, my true name, the one inherited by my father and given by my mother, is Eli Muskrat.”
Should they have been impressed? The townsfolk waited in uncertain silence. This delighted Eli Muskrat, who removed his hat and said, “I should be so lucky! The only place on Earth where nobody knows my name.”
“What are you famous for?”
“Well, I think of outlandish ideas, and then I turn them into money!”
For the first time in a long time, the townspeople responded with a commotion of clashing reactions. They were unwilling to express disagreement in front of the stranger, but once he excused himself to set up his new living arrangements, arguments broke out.
“This could be the best thing that ever happened to this shithole town,” said someone.
“Are you kidding? We have always done things one way in Midville. How’s it that we’re gonna go about doing things a different way?”
“He seems like a nice person. He obviously knows more than we do. What could go wrong if we put Midville in his hands?”
“No one with a hat that tall has a lick of dignity. We can’t trust him.”
“I bet if you take the hat off his head, he deflates and a bunch of dollar bills fall out.”
“It’s a stupid looking hat anyway.”
“No, stop!” One voice rose clear above the rest. “You’re all getting this wrong. Mr. Muskrat is a man with international respect. He can put this town on the map. You will be known across the entire world. I know many of you are afraid of the future, but the future will come no matter what. You can join it, or you can resist it and be left behind. Let Mr. Muskrat lead us into the future. Let’s go out with a bang!” Among the few people who saw the speaker, none were able to identify them. Even when they relayed physical descriptions to other townsfolk, nobody thought the person sounded familiar. But the outburst was successful at breaking up the conversation.
In the morning, the people of Midville woke to find the streets lined with shiny cars. A paved walkway had been built from the town square all the way to the west field, and an electronic banner attached to the front of the town hall building read “MIDVILLE: THE FUTURE IS NOW” in green letters that wiggled every now and then.
The earliest risers followed the path out to the pit in the west field on the outskirts of town. Most of them had forgotten it was there. One of them, who had been one of the first to hear about it when it was discovered, noted that it was bigger than they had imagined. Eli Muskrat stood at the end of the path, collecting and handing out tickets to a line of people. He smiled when he saw them approaching.
“Good morning, friends!” he said. “City people are late sleepers. There will be many more customers later in the day, I promise.”
A low chain-link fence had been erected around the pit. Customers could look over the fence, but they could not get close enough to touch it. The people of Midville would never have thought to touch the pit. The same could not be said for the visitors.
Eli did not give the newcomers time to respond. He motioned for Mara Saunders, the city council secretary, who was reluctantly standing next to him, to field their questions while he wandered off to assist some guests.
“What’s going on?” they demanded.
“City council took a vote last night. The Midville Wormhole is now a certified tourist attraction,” she said, shrugging.
“But we weren’t even consulted,” they said. “No one asked us.”
“Well, Midville has never worked that way,” said Mara.
“We’ve never been in a situation like this!”
“This is all happening too fast,” said Sadie McAdams, who had been the first to discover the pit and felt a little entitled to having a say in how it was managed. “We need to take a vote. Like, a democracy. A democratic vote.”
The root word “democrat” did not sit well with the other townspeople. As Sadie struggled to rephrase herself, Mara muttered, “I’ll talk to Mr. Muskrat about it,” and moved off.
Eli’s premonition was right: more people showed up as the day progressed, and even more arrived as the days went on to check out the ethereal and legendary Midville Wormhole. The streets crowded over; evening traffic became hellish. Eli built parking lots and a new hotel. He employed the townspeople in various clerical and regulatory jobs that revolved around the pit. He surrounded himself with a team of advisors from all around the world. He fielded difficult questions with a clean smile. The townspeople wore fancier clothes and ate imported food. Some of them got online and saw that Midville was making electronic waves. Sometimes they came across its name without even searching it first. This made them feel important, and they liked it a lot when this happened until they stumbled upon Midville’s biggest PR disaster yet.
Beloved Friend and Family Member Falls into Midville Wormhole, read the headline, Dies.
The websurfers all reported the article to Sadie, who was now the head of the attraction’s public relations department. “I know, I know,” she responded to each concern. “Mr. Muskrat is handling the situation as we speak.”
She hung up her phone (the newest model of the iPhone) and returned to her conversation with Eli, Mara, and several nonlocals who made up the core staff. They were standing in a circle next to the pit. Eli was the only one who seemed unconcerned.
“No, yeah, it’s definitely bigger, now that I look at it,” said Jeffrey Bugal, who ran the marketing department and was Canadian. The chain-link fence had been swallowed up by the expansion, so the pit smoldered at their feet without any barrier in the way. They peered into it dispassionately.
“If only the fence was still there,” said Mara. “We could say the guy was suicidal and call it a day.”
Eli held up a hand. “There is no need for that. Norman Rodriguez”—they all took a moment to piece together that Norman Rodriguez was the person who had fallen in—“was not suicidal, and he is not dead. In fact, he is a very lucky man… the first to test out our exclusive offer for the journey of a lifetime.”
Eli Muskrat’s committee looked at him, then at each other in a silence that was almost uncomfortable. Then they nodded, said, “That’s right,” and “Of course,” and began calculating the logistics of the new proposal. For two days the attraction was shut down as the committee debated how much to charge, what advertising campaign to use, how to accommodate the pit’s ever-expanding circumference. When they reopened, a big, flashing sign was erected at the entrance to the attraction. Images of the sign spread over the Internet quickly.
Mr. Muskrat Presents
A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity:
See Great Unknown mysteries of the Universe First-Hand!
Go to muskratsmidvillewormhole.com for pricing and details. Disability accommodations available. Discounts offered for low-income guests.
It was irresistible, they all agreed.
Upon reopening, the Wormhole was a bigger deal than ever. New parking lots were built out in the west field so that people who paid a little extra could drive right up to the exhibit instead of walking all the way from town. For those who did go into town, Eli funded a small historical museum and paid Derrick Wilson the pub owner, whose pub was in a prime location for tourism, an impressive amount of money for the real estate. The museum covered what limited local folklore Eli managed to pry out of the townspeople, and a detailed biography of Eli and his projects (with a focus on the Wormhole, of course). The path that led out to the west field was repaved in chrome and decorated with holographic stars and planets.
The project was really starting to take off. There turned out to be a huge market for recreational interdimensional travel. The Grand Journey was more existentially fulfilling than a standard vacation, less expensive than a ticket to Mars, and carried less stigma than magic mushrooms. Its permanence made some hesitate, but most agreed that, all in all, it was worth it.
Phillip Jamesworth was one of the menial workers in charge of ticket collection. He stood in front of the pit, took the ticket from the customer, and opened the gate for them. A new gate had been put up around the pit, but it was an adjustable rope barrier instead of a chain-link fence so that they could easily move it back as the pit grew.
Phillip’s job was a thoughtless one. He grew bored repeating the same motions over and over and fielding the same six questions by people who clearly had not done their research despite having traveled hundreds of miles to get there, like:
“Where does the Wormhole lead to?”
“Nobody knows,” said Phillip. “That’s kind of, like, the whole point.”
“Where is Mr. Muskrat? He’s the whole reason I brought my family here.”
“I think he’s in Nigeria or something,” said Phillip, “doing humanitarian work. Or business negotiations. Or both.”
“How much is it for a round trip?”
“One-way only,” said Phillip. “Sorry.”
He tried to take the ticket out of the guest’s hand, but the guest wouldn’t let go.
“Hold on,” said the guest. “How do I know that it’s safe? I want to escape my life on Earth just as much as the next person, but I don’t want to get spaghettified in the process. Hey, you represent this company, don’t you? Why don’t you jump in?”
“Sir, I just work ticket collection. And I have school tomorrow.”
“All right, sure. But I want to see someone with authority prove that the Midville Wormhole is safe and ethical before I throw my future behind it. Hey, everyone!” The guest turned to the growing line behind him. “I’m not jumping into the Wormhole until Eli Muskrat himself does! And neither is anyone else!”
Phillip sighed heavily. He didn’t have Eli’s number, so he called Rachel, who called Mara, who called Eli. When he finally connected to his boss, he explained the situation.
“Oh, dear. I’ll be right there,” said Eli. Less than an hour later, Eli Muskrat parked his private jet on the outskirts of Midville, tucked his sunglasses into the front of his shirt, and made his way toward the commotion. A few of his top board members who had already gathered there ran up to him.
“They won’t budge,” said Jeffrey from marketing. “Do you want me to call the sheriff? Or maybe a more elite team of law enforcement?”
Eli laughed. “‘Sheriff,’” he echoed. “No, everything will be just fine.”
Sadie was leaning over the fence, staring contemplatively into the pit, but Eli pulled her back. “Oh, I wouldn’t,” he warned.
“What, so they can jump into the Wormhole, and I can’t even look?”
“Transferring between realities is no problem if you do it fully, with commitment,” he said with an uncharacteristic touch of impatience. “Looking into one reality while rooted in another? Your brain will boil. It’s like looking at the Sun. The Sun is so incomprehensibly immense, if you stare at it for a few seconds, it’ll burn your little eyes out.”
“I don’t think that’s why—”
But he had already walked past her and was addressing the angry guest at the front of the line, along with the rest of the line, which had grown significantly in both size and unrest.
“Sir! What’s your name?”
“Donovan,” said the line leader.
“Where are you from?”
“Metairie.”
“Louisiana,” said Eli knowingly. “I had a friend from there.”
“I want you to go through the Wormhole,” said Donovan.
“Unfortunately, that can’t be done. If I abandon the Wormhole now, there will be no one left to run it. Think beyond yourself, just for a moment, like I am, because the Wormhole is much bigger than you or I.” The pit had, in fact, grown significantly since it had first appeared and was now the width of a small building. “Imagine if, in this crucial moment, the most revolutionary discovery in the history of futurism was left to disarray. Not only would this town fall apart, but the trajectory of mankind would be completely scrambled. The people need this landmark as a reminder of the great mysteries that drive us forward. They need me.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“I can see you aren’t ready for this conversation. That’s okay. All we need is time,” Eli said, mostly to himself.
“I don’t trust you, Muskrat. I’m gonna go in, but I’m not gonna pay.”
“Withholding payment! Excellent! You’re right: money talks louder than people do. Please, allow me.” Eli reached for the rope barrier and swept it back, motioning for his guest to go through. Donovan from Louisiana eyed him uncertainly, but stepped forward. His toes teetered over the edge of the grass as he stared down. There were no stars inside, no swirling gases or deep spiritual hums emanating from the pit. It was nothing and it went on forever. He thought of his family. Maybe they could reconcile their differences after all.
Just then, the grass under his feet vanished. The pit was expanding again. He thought to take a step back, but there was nothing to push against in order to lift his foot, and then there was no Donovan, and there was no thought.
“Please continue your work,” Eli said to Phillip. “Give discounts and refunds to anyone who asks. They’ve been terribly inconvenienced.”
At the end of the day Eli met up with his subordinates at the Midville Wormhole H.Q., which had once been the town hall. They wore sleek clothes and drank expensive wine.
“I wonder if we did the right thing today,” Mara said cautiously.
“Oh, Mara,” Eli laughed. “You always say these things. Never change.”
“Actually, this is pretty out of character for me,” she said, hurt that he did not know this. Eli stood up to ensure that everyone gathered could hear him.
“This is the inevitable direction of humanity,” he said. “The future is big and bright. Why try to stop it?”
None of them knew what he meant by this. The Wormhole had certainly done wonders for Midville, but was it good for everyone? If it was all inevitable, should they even worry?
Eli made a toast to his loyal staff and crew, and a second one to scientific innovation. Then he folded up his napkin and bid them goodbye. “I trust you all to keep the Midville Wormhole’s legacy alive and growing. For now, however, there is a town in Bulgaria where time is reported to be running backwards. You must understand that this is not an opportunity I can allow to pass by.”
Eli tipped his hat to his committee, a few of whom were wiping away tears. He closed the door delicately behind him. Moments later, the roar of his private jet’s engine made their wine glasses tremble.
Willow Gelphman 