“Sand On The Beach“
James Harper hated flying.
The 747 bucked in turbulence, and his grip on the armrest tightened.
He’d faced roaring arenas… even an NBA championship — but the air still rattled him.
“James!” a voice shouted from up front.
It was his friend, Charles Keaton the Third — and yes, always the whole name.
“You good, man?”
“Fine,”— James lied.
Charles smirked.
Lowered his voice.
And in his best spooky tone, he began:
“We’re headed straight into the Bermuda Triangle, you know. Flight 19? Gone. USS Cyclops? Three hundred vanished. The ocean – eats what it wants.”
Teammates leaned in.
Atlantis.
Time rifts.
Lights in the sky.
Whispers piling onto James’ unease.
Then the captain cut through:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on approach. We should be landing in ten minutes.”
Relief filled the cabin.
The wheels screeched on the runway.
There was loud applause, laughter.
Nothing to fear.
Until they deboarded to the jet bridge.
It wasn’t an airport tunnel.
It was a chute — narrow as a cattle pen. Only one direction to move,—- forward.
Up ahead… the sound of metal clanging shut.
Gates slamming closed.
At the end, people funneled into upright slots on a massive carousel.
The line shoved James in.
Metal walls closed at his sides.
The floor trembled.
Then, the carousel began to turn.
And soon… came the screams.