handle and find myself at the top of another winding staircase.
You’ve got to be kidding me. What is this — Dracula’s bachelor pad?
I’ve watched a lot of scary movies, and I’ve learned nothing good is ever at the bottom of a winding staircase. Pulling in a breath and preparing myself to be eaten alive, I head down. My shoes are loud against the steps. So loud, I imagine they are intentionally trying to get me killed.
When I reach the final few stairs, I ready myself to look around the bend. My heart is racing, and I secretly pray the worst I encounter is an angry janitor with a wax addiction. I turn the bend — and my eyes nearly pop from my skull.
The enormous room is perfectly circular, dotted with candles to light the space. Surrounding the walls are rows and rows of dark, rich mahogany bookshelves. A large round table stands in the center of the red-and-white-tiled floor. The room is spectacular, but what it holds is so jarring, my ears ring.
Across every shelf, every spot on the table, every tile on the floor — are small sculptures of hands. And in a few of those hands — the ones still performing their duty — are eggs. There are only nine eggs left, it seems. For a moment, I imagine howamazing it would have been to see each hand holding an egg, but it’s enough just to see these nine.
The eggs seem to dance in the candle flame, and as I move closer, I realize why. The surfaces of the eggs are almost iridescent, their colors changing depending on how you look at them. They are different sizes, too; some as big as a basketball, others as small as a peach.
I don’t need the device in my pocket to tell me what my gut already knows.
This is the Pandora Selection Process.
If this race isn’t real, I think, I give the prankster mad props for enthusiasm.
The eggs look fragile, like if I touch them, they’ll shatter into a million pieces. I remember when I was small and we would go to my grandmother’s house — the grandmother I knew — there were always things I was allowed to touch and things I was not. These eggs would have definitely made the Do Not Touch List. I walk around the room slowly, bending down or reaching up on tiptoes to look closer at each one. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and it feels almost like I’ve stepped onto the set of a sci-fi flick. I don’t understand how these things got here. Or how this is even happening.
Some eggs seem brighter than the rest, while others seem a bit sturdier. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pick, what characteristics I should look for, or how I’m supposed to announce my decision.
As I’m about to touch an egg, a thought occurs to me. What if the first one I touch defines my choice? Yes, this whole thing may still turn out to be a hoax, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way, and I want to be careful in case it’s not. I yank my hand back and bite down on my fist. Decision making has never been my strong suit.
I lean in close to a rather large egg, my breath causing the colors to swirl and change. It’s so beautiful, and isn’t it always more fun to have the bigger present at Christmas? A decision must be made, and if I let myself contemplate what’s inside each egg any longer, I’ll never make one.
“Eeny, meeny, miny …” I point to the large egg in front of me. “Moe.”
My hands are almost on it when I hear a thundering on thestairs behind me. I spin around and listen. It sounds like hail during a bad storm. And it’s getting louder, and closer. Moments later, people of all ages spill into the room in a frenzy. They race toward the eggs, their eyes wide and their hands outstretched. Unlike me, they don’t hesitate. They snatch the first eggs they come to and race back up the stairs.
My face burns when I realize what’s happening. They’re taking all the eggs. There won’t be enough for everyone. I can’t wait any longer.
Someone has already grabbed the egg I’d intended to take, so I dash