Source: An Approach to Holistic Level Design
This article offers a comprehensive analysis of the source video. While it closely follows the video's content, it also includes my own interpretations and expansions on the concepts presented, providing a deeper exploration into the art of game design.
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The three key elements of the game and their connection

1. Introduction to Holistic Level Design

Over the past decade, Lee has contributed to four games, starting with an open-world action driving game, and subsequently transitioning towards first-person games with a holistic approach to level design.
1.1 Holistic Level Design
Holistic thinking, as defined in the dictionary, involves viewing every component of a design in relation to its impact on the whole, with the understanding that the whole can be significantly more impactful than its individual parts. This concept is beautifully encapsulated in a quote from the book '100 Things I Learned at Architecture School': 'beauty is due more to the harmonious relationship among the elements of a composition than to the elements themselves.' This principle is argued to hold true for level design.
1.2 Key Elements in Games
The lecture identifies three key elements in games: presentation, gameplay, and story. These elements are considered the three main pillars of game design. Each of these elements is crucial in its own right and deserves individual discussions. However, the focus of this talk is specifically on how these elements work together.
1.3 Interrelationships Between Key Elements
The talk the concepts of affordances and intentionality that emerge from the relationship between gameplay and presentation. The way things are presented and the story that emerges leads to the idea referred to as world building. The interaction between gameplay and story gives rise to the concept of interactive narrative. The aim is to highlight and summarize these concepts and provide insights on their application in level design.
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Affordances and Intentionality

2. Affordances and Intentionality

The discourse commences with an elucidation of affordances, a term primarily associated with industrial design. A quintessential example of affordances in action is the design of door handles, where the form of the handle communicates its function. This principle is extrapolated to level design, arguing that the design of elements within the game environment should intuitively communicate their function to the player.
2.1 Affordances
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The most conspicuous affordances in first-person level design are visual
2.1.1 Affordances in Level Design
In the milieu of immersive 3D games such as Dishonored, the most conspicuous affordances in first-person level design are visual, conveyed through elements like layout and lighting. These affordances present the player with navigation options in relation to their goals and obstacles. The design of the game environment, inclusive of specific interactive objects, affords particular gameplay opportunities. Consistency in these low-level game player forms is deemed crucial for clarity and player understanding.
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Arkane is strictly prohibited to use the same meshes for a non-interactive door as an interactive one
2.1.2 Visual Language in Level Design
The talk underscores the importance of establishing a clear visual language in level design. For instance, at Arkane, it is strictly prohibited to use the same meshes for a non-interactive door as an interactive one. This is to ensure clarity for the players and avert confusion. The talk also discusses the use of world fiction to justify level design requirements.
2.1.3 Broad Affordances in Level Design
Moving beyond low-level affordances, the talk discusses broader, higher-level affordances. These include communicating to the player the breadth of the possibility space and the extent of their agency. The talk uses the example of the Dust District mission in Dishonored 2 to illustrate how layout can reflect high-level affordances and present clear choices to the player.
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Intentionality is defined as making conscious choices with specific goals and expectations in mind
2.2 Intentionality
The concept of intentionality in games was coined around 1997 by Doug Church. This concept has since been explored and expanded upon by various game designers and theorists. Intentionality is a critical aspect of gameplay as it directly influences the player's engagement and immersion in the game world. Intentionality is defined as making conscious choices with specific goals and expectations in mind. This involves the player actively making decisions based on their understanding of the game environment and mechanics, their objectives, and their desired outcomes. Examples of weak intentionality include being lost, doing something without knowing why, and twitch reacting to surprises. These situations often result from unclear or inconsistent affordances, lack of clear objectives, or sudden and unexpected game events.
2.2.1 The Importance of Player Intentionality
Clear intentionality is at the heart of all the motor tuned gameplay. This type of gameplay emphasizes the player's active role in shaping their gaming experience through their decisions and actions.
Gameplay mechanics and abilities revolve around giving the player unique and combinable powers. These powers provide the player with a range of options for interacting with the game environment and overcoming challenges. This, in turn, enhances the player's sense of agency and intentionality.
Affordances present the player with information about the situation so they can understand their options and act with intentionality. This involves designing the game environment and mechanics in a way that clearly communicates the possible actions and outcomes to the player.
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4 tips to enhance player intentionality
2.2.2 Facilitating Player Intentionality
Players need choice, motivation, information from clear and consistent affordances, and time to process the information to act with intentionality. Providing players with a range of options, clear objectives, consistent and understandable affordances, and sufficient time to make decisions can significantly enhance their sense of intentionality.
Ways to facilitate intentionality include clear and consistent affordances, presenting the player with higher-level and longer-term goals, and player-driven pacing and player-initiated action. These strategies aim to empower the player, giving them more control over their gaming experience and promoting a greater sense of engagement and immersion.
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The Gameplay Cycle
2.2.3 The Gameplay Cycle
The gameplay cycle consists of observing, formulating a plan, executing the plan, and reacting. This cycle represents the continuous process of decision-making and action-taking that players go through during gameplay.
Stealth gameplay emphasizes this loop, giving the player time to think, explore, analyze the situation, and formulate an intention before they reveal themselves. This type of gameplay promotes a high level of player intentionality by requiring careful planning and strategic decision-making.
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Examples of weak intentionality
2.2.4 The Effect of Intentionality on Linearity Perception
Linearity feels bad when intentionality is lacking or weak. When players are forced to follow a predetermined path with little room for decision-making or exploration, they may feel less engaged and immersed in the game.
Games like Half-Life 2 and Portal, despite being linear, feel less so due to strong intentionality. These games succeed in creating an engaging and immersive experience by aligning the player's goals and actions with the game's objectives and mechanics, thereby enhancing the player's sense of agency and intentionality.
The more linear a game is, the more the level designer's job is to design situations that players will naturally want to do, making them feel that it was their idea all along. This involves creating a game environment and mechanics that align with the player's motivations and expectations, thereby promoting a greater sense of intentionality and engagement.
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World Building

3. World Building

World building is a crucial aspect of game development, contributing significantly to the overall player experience. It involves creating a unique, cohesive, and meaningful environment that immerses players and enhances gameplay. This process is not just about designing landscapes and structures; it's about creating a living, breathing world that tells a story.
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3 world building goals
3.1 Setting Goals for World Building
The first step in world building is setting clear, specific goals. It's not enough to have a vague idea of the world you want to create. Instead, you need to be specific about the details and the ideas you're presenting. For instance, merely presenting a future with war and corporations might establish a genre, but it doesn't build a specific world. The more specific the ideas are to your game's world, the more unique and memorable the world becomes.
However, specificity doesn't necessarily mean that everything has to be completely original. You can use well-known archetypes and add specific details to make them unique to your world. For instance, Harvey Smith, the creative director of Dishonored, used a well-known archetype, the crazy evil genius scientist, and added specific details to make the character unique and contribute to the world building.
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Black market and overseer outpost in Dishonored
3.2 The Use of Mission Weave Scenes
Mission weave scenes are an effective tool for world building. These scenes, which are woven into the gameplay, help build the world and tell stories that are specific to the game's universe. For instance, in Dishonored, scenes inside a black market or an overseer outpost were used to convey information specific to the game's factions and district, thereby contributing to the world building.
These scenes are not just for gameplay; they also serve to immerse the player in the world. They provide context and background, helping the player understand the world they're in and the characters they're interacting with.
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In Dishonored, even minor details were used to contribute to the world building
3.3 The Constant Need for World Building
World building is not a one-time task; it's a continuous process. Every aspect of the game, from NPCs to objectives to loot, offers an opportunity for world building. As a game developer, you should always be looking for ways to add depth and detail to your world.
For instance, in Dishonored, even minor details were used to contribute to the world building. A building that was initially just a facade was later opened up to provide more navigation options for the player. Instead of making it just another generic abandoned apartment, the developers added a note for the player to read, telling a story about someone who used to live there but got kicked out by the overseers.
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3 world building tips
3.4 Deep Dive into World Building
World building is not just about creating a physical environment; it's also about creating a society and a culture. It's about showing how the people in the world live, what they believe in, and how they interact with each other.
For instance, in Bioshock, every part of its world supports the idea of how a society might crumble under relentless pursuit of progress. In Metro 2033, a child playing with a toy car symbolizes the future that the people are fighting for. In Dishonored, the world is about power relationships and corruption, and this is reflected in the world building.
In conclusion, world building is a complex process that requires careful planning and continuous effort. It's about creating a world that is specific, continuous, and says things about the people in the world. With the right approach, you can create a game world that feels unique, cohesive, and meaningful.
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4. Interactive Narrative

Interactive narrative is a complex and expansive topic that arises from the intersection of interactivity and storytelling. While it's a vast subject that can't be fully covered in a brief period, it's essential to grasp its significance in the context of game design. The conventional wisdom of 'show, don't tell,' often borrowed from passive mediums like films and novels, isn't an adequate guiding principle for interactive narratives. These passive mediums don't need to consider the element of interactivity inherent in games. Thus, in the context of interactive narratives, we must go beyond merely showing and telling.
The unique strength of interactive media is its interactivity. This interactivity can be leveraged to empower the player with narrative intentionality. This involves giving the player the information, time, and opportunity to make intentional choices with narrative goals in mind, not just gameplay goals. This approach is a potent way to engage the player in the story and make them feel a part of the game world.
4.1 Case Study: Narrative Intentionality in Dishonored
In games like Dishonored, narrative intentionality is built into the game at a systems level. This means that the game's systems are designed to facilitate narrative intentionality. Every non-player character (NPC) in the game can be interacted with in various ways, and these interactions can alter the story and the world. This transforms what would otherwise be a simple gameplay choice into an opportunity to express narrative intentionality. Every time a player encounters an NPC, they are not just making a gameplay decision, but also a narrative one. This adds a layer of depth and complexity to the game, making it more engaging and immersive.
4.2 Case Study: Narrative Intentionality in Uncharted 2
Another method to create a sense of drama and emotional engagement in games is by aligning the player's emotions with those of the character in the game. This can be seen in Uncharted 2, where players are made to feel the same anxiety and tension as the protagonist during perilous situations. This is achieved by maintaining player control during these situations, rather than switching to a cutscene. This ensures that the player's emotional state aligns with that of the character, creating a more immersive and emotionally engaging experience.
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The 'pick up the can' tutorial in Half-Life 2
4.3 Case Study: Narrative Intentionality in Half-Life 2 and Heavy Rain
The 'pick up the can' tutorial in Half-Life 2 is an excellent example of how games can evoke drama and story in the player's mind. In this tutorial, the player is presented with a choice that reflects the human condition of the game's characters. This choice is not just a gameplay decision, but also a narrative one, making the player relate to the game's characters on a deeper level.
Heavy Rain is another game that effectively illustrates how even minor gameplay mechanics can be used to affirm or challenge a player's sense of morality and values. In one scene, the player is given the choice to play the role of a good father or a selfish one. This choice is not just about winning or losing a game sequence, but also about expressing the player's narrative intentionality. This scene resonates with the player because it reflects the fundamental nature of parenthood, where personal success is no longer the priority.
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'Understanding Comics'

5. Conclusion

The final segment of the talk delved into an intriguing comparison between the art of creating comics and the process of level design in video games. Lee drew upon insights from Scott McCloud's seminal work, 'Understanding Comics'. McCloud's central argument is that the allure of comics doesn't simply stem from the fusion of exceptional art and writing. Instead, it's the unique interplay between these elements that truly brings a comic to life.
This concept finds a parallel in the realm of level design. The player's experience isn't solely defined by the individual elements of gameplay, graphics, and story. Rather, it's the synergistic relationship between these elements that shapes the gaming experience. Lee further posited that in the context of immersive games, these elements aren't merely supplementary features designed to enhance gameplay. They are, in fact, integral to the overall player experience.
Lee urged level designers to embrace these insights as shared objectives. When collaborating with other disciplines, such as artists and writers, these shared objectives can serve as a guiding principle. The ultimate goal is to create games that are not only more engaging but also more interesting and captivating for the player.
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I will continue to delve into the fascinating world of game design in future articles. If you find this topic intriguing, please follow me for more insights. I also welcome your thoughts and suggestions on game design. Let's explore and learn together :)
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Battle of Massachusetts Bay
With the U.S. Navy strategically positioned in Narragansett Bay, Commanding General Winfield Scott collaborated with Rear Admiral Charles Stewart to implement an effective blockade strategy. The plan entailed Stewart undertaking a blockade of the Massachusetts Bay to sever the supply lines to Boston and Quincy. Scott and Stewart, both high-ranking military officials, believed that this tactic would not only diminish the morale of the opposing troops through deprivation but also establish a passage for the deployment of troops and vessels via the bay, facilitating a two-front invasion.
On February 9th, Rear Admiral Stewart initiated an attack, marking the beginning of a relentless naval bombardment. The assault commenced with the arrival of a formidable U.S. Navy fleet led by Commodore Matthew C. Perry. This fleet consisted of several warships, including steam-powered vessels armed with heavy cannons, and had the objective to displace the existing Yankee presence patrolling the bay and establish their own presence in their place.
The naval bombardment unleashed a relentless barrage of cannon fire and explosive shells upon the opposing ships and fortifications in the bay. The American warships strategically positioned themselves, utilizing their superior firepower and extended range to wreak havoc on the enemy's defenses. Under the command of Rear Admiral John C. Percival, the Yankee forces fiercely attempted to resist the onslaught, returning fire from their ship's cannons stationed along the coast. However, the overwhelming firepower and precision of the American navy proved to be a decisive advantage.
The intense naval bombardment took a toll on the ships engaged in battle. After four days of relentless fighting, on February 13th, Rear Admiral Percival ordered a retreat as U.S. ships swiftly filled the void, effectively establishing a blockade of the Massachusetts Bay. The withdrawal was necessitated by the overwhelming presence and continued firepower of the American Navy, ensuring their control over the strategic waterway.
Battle of Cambridge
strategy and focused on capturing Cambridge as a means to take control of Boston, Massachusetts. Cambridge's strategic importance stemmed from its proximity to Boston and its position on the opposite side of the Charles River, making it a crucial gateway to the city. Gaining control of Cambridge would provide an invading force with a foothold on the eastern side of the river, potentially facilitating easier access to Boston itself.
On Monday, February 20th, Winfield Scott began mobilizing troops along the borders of neighboring settlements, including Quincy, Watertown, and Allston. However, it wasn't until the 28th that Scott issued the order for troops to initiate an assault, once he had assembled a substantial force of 4,000 soldiers along the border. Meanwhile, armed with intelligence regarding the movements of the U.S. troops, Churchill anticipated an attack on either Cambridge or Boston and took defensive measures, including fortifications and deploying troops in both cities.
On the 27th, Scott held consultations with John E. Wool and Thomas J. Worth, informing them of his intended timing for launching the offensive. He designated Wool to lead an attack from Quincy and Worth to lead from Watertown. Wool would assume the role of commanding general for the battle, while Scott and Rear Admiral Charles Stewart focused on developing the strategy for the subsequent phase of the plan—the capture of Boston.
On the 28th, Major General Wool initiated his division's march towards Cambridge in an attempt to avoid detection by Sylvester Churchill's troops, whom he believed were deployed in the settlements between Quincy and Cambridge. To minimize the risk of exposure, Wool decided to commence the march early in the morning, navigating through rural and wooded areas to evade Yankee troops. Following the same tactics, Worth also set out towards Cambridge later as instructed.
In the late morning, Worth launched the assault by mobilizing artillery to weaken the defenses. However, the Yankee forces were already prepared and swiftly retaliated with a relentless barrage of fire upon the advancing troops. This intense exchange of fire between Worth's army and the defending Yankee soldiers persisted for nearly an hour.
Meanwhile, Wool's army continued its stealthy march through the woodlands and rural areas. Upon hearing the sound of gunfire in the distance, Wool deduced that the battle had begun prematurely and hastily directed the rest of his troops towards the source of the noise. Arriving nearly an hour into the battle, Wool's troops witnessed a fierce encounter between both sides, resulting in a stalemate. Nevertheless, Wool ordered his soldiers to target the Yankee soldiers with their rifles, creating space for Worth's men to fire artillery.
As the relentless barrage of artillery took its toll on the city's defenses, Childs, the commanding officer, ordered troops to reposition themselves further away from the crumbling defenses in anticipation of their eventual collapse. The troops followed the orders accordingly. Finally, around 3:00 P.M., the defenses started to give way, prompting Wool to command his troops to rush into Cambridge. However, they were met with a defensive line of Yankee soldiers who unleashed a volley of fire as soon as the U.S. soldiers entered the city. Simultaneously, Childs instructed soldiers to inform Churchill that both major generals had attacked Cambridge and to relocate troops from Boston to reinforce the defense of Cambridge.
Meanwhile, U.S. troops under the command of Major General Wool employed flanking maneuvers on both sides of the defensive line. Despite encountering difficulties in breaching the line, the U.S. troops persisted. After holding together for nearly two hours, the defensive line eventually collapsed under the pressure of the flanking maneuvers, leading to a breakthrough for the U.S. forces.
Illustration depicting the Battle of Cambridge, a fierce encounter between American and Yankee troops. The artwork portrays American and Yankee soldiers engaged in a fierce firefight.
With the significant breakthrough, U.S. forces swiftly advanced into Cambridge, pushing Yankee troops deeper into the settlement. Meanwhile, Childs made efforts to reorganize and create a diversion to buy enough time for Churchill's larger army to arrive. Eventually, as evening fell, Churchill appeared on the scene with the majority of his troops from Boston, adding 2,000 soldiers to their forces. This sudden increase in numbers enabled the Yankee forces to reclaim much of the territory in Cambridge that had been captured by the U.S. Army. Despite their success, the U.S. army's superior size and technological advancements prevented them from being entirely driven out of Cambridge.
As dusk approached, the battle persisted through the night, resulting in significant casualties on both sides. However, with a larger army, the U.S. forces fared better than the Yankees in enduring the losses, allowing them to gradually advance into Cambridge and reclaim lost territory. Throughout the night and into the morning, the conflict continued, with the darkness posing challenges for troops to coordinate tactical maneuvers. Consequently, engaging in intense hand-to-hand combat, the U.S. forces successfully pushed the opposition off the streets and deeper into Cambridge.
As the sun rose on the horizon, Sylvester Churchill made a bold move in an attempt to shift the course of the battle and thwart the advancing Americans from seizing what the commanding general deemed the final bastion of defense before they could effectively reach Boston. Determined to alter the tide of the conflict, Churchill issued orders for his troops to divide into smaller units, engaging in street fighting and employing guerrilla tactics. Churchill hoped that these strategic maneuvers would tip the scales of the battle in their favor.
Despite Churchill's optimism, Yankee tactics proved ineffective in impeding the U.S. invasion. Under the command of Wool, American troops strategically focused on maintaining a strong and unified front and countering the units employed by Churchill. The ambush and guerrilla tactics employed by the Yankees failed to overcome the superior size and strength of Wool's forces, leading to their defeat. Eventually, in the evening, as the city neared complete capture by American forces, Churchill consulted with his top military officials, including Major Generals Thomas Childs, Joseph Gilbert Totten, and Gideon Johnson Pillow, to negotiate a treaty with Wool. This treaty became the most notable agreement signed on the Atlantic Coast since the Second Siege of New Haven, which had occurred nearly a year prior.
During the negotiations, it was agreed that both armies would remain in a total armistice until a deal was reached. After intense discussions, the following terms were included in the final agreement:

• Both armies agreed to refrain from engaging in any hostilities against each other in the region for a minimum of six weeks.
• Prisoners of war from New England, captured during both the war and the previous Massachusetts campaign, were to be released and allowed to return to their homes. Wool advocated for similar conditions for American prisoners of war, but due to the presence of additional Yankee reinforcements in Boston and the Massachusetts militia, he ultimately withdrew his request, as he was concerned that these reinforcements could shift the balance of power in the Battle of Cambridge, should battle reignite.
• The American army were to occupy the City of Cambridge and its buildings, as the Yankee army would withdraw.
• That New England troops were allowed to withdraw from the city with their personal arms and equipment, including artillery and ammunition
• Residents of Cambridge were permitted to remain in their homes and continue their daily activities without interruption.

The Boston Address
With the United Kingdom's agreement to join the war on February 6th, 1843, Samuel Cabot Jr. eagerly anticipated returning to New England to deliver the news. However, due to harsh weather conditions and ships already departing with letters and newspapers to inform Americans of this revelation, Cabot and his diplomats decided to postpone their voyage by a week, hoping for an improvement in the weather. Eventually, on February 13th, the diplomats set sail once again across the treacherous Atlantic Ocean, with Captain Nathaniel Brown Palmer resuming command of their ship, the "Columbia."
On Tuesday, March 21st, 1843, after several weeks at sea, the diplomats arrived at Massachusetts Bay, their intended docking destination since their departure. However, they were surprised to find foreign American ships occupying the bay, completely unaware of the ongoing armistice. Acting swiftly, the diplomats instructed Captain Palmer to redirect the vessels towards New Bedford, a port controlled by the Yankee navy. Previous attempts by U.S. forces, led by Admiral Mathew C. Perry to capture Buzzard's Bay had been unsuccessful. As a result, Rear Admiral Charles Stewart made the decision to modify the plan and forgo a coastal blockade of the region, as it was no longer deemed crucial. Thus, the diplomats successfully made an unplanned landing and found a secure harbor for their ship.
Upon receiving news of their impending arrival, which quickly spread throughout New England, the diplomats would be swiftly escorted to Daniel Webster's presidential office at the Hartford Estate in Boston, Massachusetts. Traveling via a stagecoach, they would soon reach their destination. As they arrived, they would be promptly ushered into Webster's office. Despite being aware of Britain's entry into the war, Webster anxiously awaited the arrival of his diplomats, as they had not arrived at the expected time.
The diplomats arrived to find Daniel Webster in an unexpectedly cheerful state, a stark contrast to his demeanor throughout his presidency. Webster had been burdened by a series of defeats in the War of 1839, Dorr's revolt, and the overall frustrations associated with his role as president. These hardships led Webster to seek solace in alcohol, resulting in alcoholism that became his coping mechanism for the grief caused by his presidential responsibilities. Furthermore, the weight of his challenges contributed to his depression, transforming him into a recluse who rarely ventured out of his office and spent a significant portion of his presidency consumed by excessive drinking.
Nevertheless, upon hearing the news of Britain's involvement in the war, Webster's spirits were lifted, restoring a sense of optimism within him that had not been seen since his presidential campaign. He eagerly, yet somewhat intoxicated, welcomed the diplomats into his office to engage in discussions regarding the Downing Street Conference, the negotiations, and the developments involving George Hamilton-Gordon, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister Robert Peel. Samuel Cabot Jr. relayed to Daniel Webster the concessions made on behalf of New England, which included a promise not to reinstate the Fugitive Acts, along with providing the intricate details of the conference(s).
On March 23rd, 1843 at the Federal States Hotel, in the midst of a challenging period for his administration, Daniel Webster, in an effort to regain public trust and address the critical newspapers that had emerged throughout his term, delivered one of the rare public speeches of the War of 1839. Throughout his term, newspapers critical of the Webster administration had become prevalent across New England. However, due to the Sedition Acts, these newspapers were eventually shut down. Moreover, the Federalists suffered significant electoral defeats during Webster's tenure, aware of the need to restore faith among citizens regarding the war and his administration, Webster took the opportunity to speak directly to the public, using his speech as a means to provide reassurance and address the challenges his administration faced.
Snippet of Webster's two-and-a-half-hour, "The Boston Address" speech:
[1] "Ladies and gentlemen,
I stand before you today, filled with the spirit of liberty and the burning desire to protect our great New England from the encroachments of tyranny and oppression. We find ourselves embroiled in a conflict of great magnitude, a war that will determine the very course of our destiny. Let it be known that this is no ordinary war, for it is a war fought not only with steel and powder, but with the indomitable will and unwavering determination of Yankee troops.
[2] My fellow countrymen, we gather here in the shadow of history, surrounded by the echoes of our forefathers who fought valiantly for the principles of freedom and justice. Today, we find ourselves faced with a foe whose arrogance knows no bounds, a foe that seeks to trample upon our liberties and extinguish the flame of independence that burns within every New Englander's heart. The United States of America, once our brethren, has once again forsaken the ideals of our Founding Fathers and has chosen to walk the path of oppression.
[9] Yet, let it not be forgotten that our cause is just and our resolve unyielding. Weeks ago, on the fateful day of February 6th, the United Kingdom, recognizing the righteousness of our struggle, joined our noble cause. The world now watches as the might of the British Empire stands united with us, against the very nation from which we once sought solace and support. This alliance is a testament to the righteousness of our cause, for it is not merely a battle of arms, but a battle of principles and ideals.
[15] This war is not just a struggle for independence; it is a fight against the abhorrent institution of slavery. The Fugitive Acts that have been passed by the United States have violated the very fabric of our moral conscience. They seek to rob men and women of their natural rights, to tear families apart, and to perpetuate an evil that stains the pages of our history. We, as New Englanders, must rise up against this injustice and prove to the world that we will not stand idly by while our fellow human beings suffer under the yoke of bondage.
[17] It is a fight to prove that New England is truly independent from America. We have defeated the United States once, and we can do it again. The blood that flows through our veins is the blood of patriots, of those who dared to challenge the status quo and forge a new path. We stand upon the shoulders of giants, and it is our duty to honor their sacrifice by preserving the principles they held dear. As we march forward, let us remember the sacrifices of those who came before us, and let their legacy guide us through the darkest of times.
[18] This war is not just about reclaiming our independence; it is a battle for the soul of our nation. It is a struggle to define the values and principles upon which our society is built. We fight for liberty, equality, and justice. We fight to ensure that the principles of our Founding Fathers are not trampled upon and forgotten. We fight to create a society where every person, regardless of their race or background, is treated with dignity and respect.
[21] This is a fight against the remnants of oppression and injustice. The Fugitive Acts, once passed by both the United States and New England, were a stain on our collective conscience. They sought to deny individuals their natural rights, tear families apart, and perpetuate the abhorrent institution of slavery. Recognizing the moral imperative to rectify this injustice, New England took a bold step forward and repealed these acts, paving the way for a more equitable society.
[22] Let us not forget the lessons of our past, for they shape the path we tread today. The New England Revolutionary War, fought with valor and determination, paved the way for our quest for independence. Our ancestors stood united against oppression, and their courage echoes in our hearts. And let us also remember the Hartford Convention, a pivotal moment in our history. It was there that our regional identity was forged, as we asserted our rights and voiced our grievances against unjust policies. From the fires of adversity, we emerged stronger, more resolute in our determination to protect our liberties and safeguard the interests of New England.
[26] Like their forefathers, in the face of adversity, our Yankee troops have shown a courage and determination that is unparalleled. They have weathered the storm of American aggression and stood firm in their conviction. They fight not only for the land upon which they tread but for the principles that make New England unique and distinct. They fight for the freedom of every man, woman, and child who calls this great region home.
[29] This war is not just a struggle for soveriegnity; it is a fight against the abhorrent institution of slavery. The Fugitive Acts that have been passed by the United States have violated the very fabric of our moral conscience. They seek to rob men of their natural rights, to tear families apart, and to perpetuate an evil that stains the pages of our history. We, as New Englanders, must rise up against this injustice and prove to the world that we will not stand idly by while our fellow human beings suffer under the yoke of bondage.
[31] As we engage in this epic struggle, let us not forget the sacrifices that have been made. Our brave soldiers have left their homes and families behind to fight for a cause they hold dear. They have endured the harsh realities of war, facing danger and uncertainty at every turn. We must honor their sacrifices by supporting them in every way possible, by standing behind them and providing them with the resources and care they need.
[34] This war is also a test of our unity and resilience as a people. We must put aside our differences and come together as one. We must recognize that the fight for freedom and justice knows no boundaries. It transcends political affiliations and personal interests. We must stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and show the world the strength and determination of the New England spirit.
[37] In this war, we are not alone. The international community watches as our struggle unfolds. The United Kingdom has joined our cause, recognizing the importance of our fight. We stand together, united in our commitment to freedom and justice. Our alliance sends a powerful message to the world that New England will not be silenced, that we will fight for what is right and just.
[41] We must also remember that the fight against slavery is central to this war. Slavery is a stain on the conscience of our nation. It is a practice that dehumanizes and oppresses our fellow human beings. We cannot and will not tolerate such an abomination. By fighting against slavery, we not only strike at the heart of injustice but also reaffirm our commitment to the principles of equality and freedom.
[43] As we engage in this great struggle, let us draw inspiration from the heroes of our past. Let us remember the battles fought by our forefathers, the sacrifices they made, and the triumphs they achieved. Their legacy lives on in us, and it is our duty to carry their torch forward.
[46] This war is not just about defeating the United States; it is about shaping the future of our region and our nation. It is about establishing New England as a beacon of liberty and progress. We have already demonstrated our ability to stand against the might of a powerful nation, and we can do it again. We have the strength, the courage, and the conviction to overcome any obstacle that stands in our way.
[49] In conclusion, my fellow New Englanders, let us remember why we fight. Let us remember the principles that have guided us throughout our history. We fight for independence, for freedom, for justice, and for the eradication of slavery. We fight to prove that New England is truly independent from America, and we fight to demonstrate our unwavering commitment to the principles of liberty and equality.
[51] As we march forward, let us do so with the knowledge that we are not alone. We are supported by the might of the British Empire, by the solidarity of our fellow New Englanders, and by the principles of justice and righteousness that guide our cause. Together, we will prevail. Together, we will overcome every challenge and obstacle that comes our way.
[53] May the spirit of our forefathers guide us, and may the determination of our Yankee troops inspire us. Let us write the next chapter of our history with courage, resilience, and unwavering conviction. The future of New England is in our hands, and we will forge it with honor and integrity. God bless New England, and God bless the cause for which we fight!"
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President Daniel Webster addresses the citizens of Boston at the Federal States Hotel (United States Hotel) in an illustration capturing his lengthy two-and-a-half-hour \"The Boston Address\" speech. Standing atop a platform, Webster delivers his passionate speech, while the crowd erupts in cheers, energized by his fiery words. Meanwhile, within the hotel, the wives of soldiers protest the war's extension by throwing trash at Webster.

It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”
They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.
You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.
Once you see, it’s forever.
Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.
Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”
The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.
Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—
“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”
Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:
“Anything.”
Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.
I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.
“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”
I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”
Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:
“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”
I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward without losing his balance.
I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.
“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”
His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.
Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”
And I ran out.
Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.
At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.
I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.
I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.
It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.
That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.
And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.
I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.
Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.
I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.
In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:
His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.
For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.
I gripped the rifle tight.
But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.
He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—
Two words: Don Whitman.
He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.
Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.
I bit down on my teeth.
I hadn’t fired yet.
He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.
He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:
“Don Whitman!”
He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?
But he didn’t step forward.
He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.
Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.
As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…
I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.
I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—
That’s when I knew.
The geography of it hit me.
The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.
I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.
He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.
As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:
I walked away.

It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”
They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.
You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.
Once you see, it’s forever.
Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.
Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”
The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.
Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—
“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”
Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:
“Anything.”
Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.
I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.
“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”
I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”
Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:
“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”
I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward without losing his balance.
I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.
“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”
His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.
Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”
And I ran out.
Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.
At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.
I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.
I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.
It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.
That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.
And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.
I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.
Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.
I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.
In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:
His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.
For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.
I gripped the rifle tight.
But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.
He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—
Two words: Don Whitman.
He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.
Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.
I bit down on my teeth.
I hadn’t fired yet.
He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.
He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:
“Don Whitman!”
He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?
But he didn’t step forward.
He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.
Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.
As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…
I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.
I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—
That’s when I knew.
The geography of it hit me.
The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.
I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.
He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.
As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:
I walked away.