Allan Pie, a student at Ravenwood Friends Middle School in the city of Baltimore, Maryland, always knew she was different – a bright, curious, hardworking child – though she never believed herself worthier than any other child in the world, and also she never expected any praise for thinking like that. What she felt while reading the poem "The Sound of the Abyss" at the school's Creative Arts Summer Camp was the beginning of such extraordinary, fantastic and mysterious adventures that Allan would experience things she could never have imagined throughout her life.
She lived with her grandmother, Samantha Pie, and her grandfather, Sam Patrick Pie. Their house at number 5 on Elderwood Brave Road wasn't the grandest on the street, but it was certainly the coziest — a place filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, old books, and lavender from the garden. Samantha — with her shoulder-length hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and petite stature — was cheerful, energetic, and full of life. She had transformed the back garden into a miniature botanical paradise.
In Baltimore's Calvert Govein district, Samantha ran a charming herbal shop called Lucida Botanica. For Samantha, running Lucida Botanica felt like continuing a family tradition. It was like a secret healing center, hidden behind a stone archway covered in purple geraniums on a side street off Calvert Govein.
Once upon a time, Grandpa Sam was a soldier. He was tall, had silver hair, and even though he was old, you could still say he was rather handsome. Calm and quiet, he always seemed a bit mysterious. Everyone thought he was enjoying a peaceful retirement—but hidden behind the wooden panels of his garage, Grandpa Sam had built a tiny secret base. Inside, with his old but trusty car Woody, his cheerful dog Dibo, and a few of his army friends who were also retired, he still liked to have little adventures. Nothing too dangerous—just enough to keep things exciting…
Dibo was a mix of two clever and happy dog breeds. He had the sharp brain and endless energy of a Border Collie, and the friendly tail-wagging charm of a Golden Retriever. His brain was full of ideas—but mostly ideas like "Run! Jump! Bark at everything!" He was clever, yes—but using his brain wasn't really his thing. Still, he was a loyal friend…
(Baltimore, 16 August 1996 – 9:00 AM)
"One of those strange dreams again, Grandma…" The whisper barely escaped Allan's lips—so soft it couldn't even cross the edge of her sheets. Her voice held a kind of secret, the kind that only morning light was allowed to hear. There was no way Samantha, downstairs in the kitchen, could have heard it. Allan tied her long black hair into a ponytail with an old hair band. She rubbed her honey-hazel eyes with her palms, opened them wide, then squinted a little and reached for the thick-framed glasses on her bedside table. "That's better," she said, stretching as she got out of bed and padded off to the bathroom.
That Friday morning—the morning when all the strange and unpredictable things began—there was something different in Allan's voice. It carried the feeling of change, like the air just before magic begins. Her childhood, like a half-finished fairy tale, was shivering at the edge of something new. Samantha seemed to feel it too. As if she somehow knew something was about to change.
They were all going to have breakfast together. It was Allan's very first day of leaving childhood behind and stepping into her teenage years. Samantha was determined to make it unforgettable. She was humming a cheerful little tune as she checked the breakfast table one last time. The kitchen smelled of lemon soap and warm toast. Outside, the garden was wrapped in the gentle magic of a summer morning—only the birdsong and the soft tick-tick of the garden sprinkler could be heard.
The moment Allan stepped off the last stair and into the sunny hallway, Dibo was already there. His tail waved like a flag in the breeze, and he spun around with excitement, as if he'd been waiting just for this moment. Allan patted his head and smiled. "Calm down, champ!" she said, giving him all the love and attention he needed. Together, they walked into the kitchen and then out into the back garden. The air was still cool from the night before. It was damp, and the smell of lavender floated gently in the breeze. The morning sun painted the grass gold.
Under one of the garden chairs, stretched out like he owned the place, lay Archie—the Cornelius family's big, naughty, and forever-hungry cat. He lazily flicked his tail, clearly waiting for whatever tasty treats might appear on the breakfast table.
At one point, Allan managed to sneak one of the tasty sausages from the kitchen counter, without Grandma Samantha or Dibo noticing. She held it tightly in her right hand, hidden behind her back so no one could see. As soon as they stepped into the garden, Allan grinned and said, "Let's see what you do with this, Dibo!" Her eyes sparkled with cheeky mischief as she threw the sausage across the grass.
Before Dibo could so much as blink, Archie shot forward like an arrow. His paws barely seemed to touch the ground; he skimmed the grass like a streak of silver lightning. As the sausage turned end over end in the air, Archie leapt—supple and athletic—and caught it mid-flight. With the prize between his teeth, he bolted for the Cornelius' garden.
Dibo froze—tongue lolling in astonishment—then, after a heartbeat of shock, tore off after Archie with the speed of a furry thunderbolt. A cheeky, ash-coloured squirrel and a barking dinosaur might as well have turned Elderwood Brave Road into an Olympic running track. Samantha's watering cans—filled to the brim for the flowers—went over one by one, and at the racket from the garden she came pelting out, crying, 'You troublesome little gluttons!' Allan was doubled over, helpless with laughter. The Friday morning that had begun with strange dreams had become a lively little spectacle in which the winner would take home a sausage-shaped Olympic medal.
Out in the back garden, the bamboo dining table was being set for a proper breakfast feast. On the kitchen counter, all sorts of delicious things were lined up, waiting for their grand entrance outside: golden slices of toast stacked like tiny towers, plates of pancakes shining with honey, warm chocolate muffins with little cracks on top that made them look extra tasty, and small glass bowls filled with rainbow-coloured jams. And there, set carefully to one side like a treasure, was a bowl of shiny green olives—Allan's absolute favourite.
After the wild adventure in the garden, Samantha needed a moment to catch her breath. She walked over to the old gramophone in the corner of the kitchen and opened its little drawer to choose a record. With a soft scratch and a gentle hum, the player came to life. A warm, familiar voice floated up through the soft crackles— Teddy's Bear began to play, drifting through the kitchen like sunlight sliding across the cool tiled floor.
Dibo wandered in from the hallway, walking slowly. His golden fur was a bit messy, and his paws still carried the muddy marks of his race with Archie. He let out a big, happy sigh and flopped onto the tiles beside the fridge. His tail gave one lazy thump against the floor… and then he didn't move at all.
Allan took a step towards the fridge—but it wasn't her feet that moved first. It was her ears. The music had caught her, gently, like a breeze. Without thinking, she began to sway. "Would you be my Teddy Bear?" she whispered along with the song.
Then, quite suddenly, she crossed the room, took her grandmother's hands, and together they began to dance—right there in the middle of the kitchen. They twirled carefully, trying not to trip over Dibo, who lay stretched out on the floor, tongue out and still recovering from his race with Archie.
The clinking of plates as they were placed onto the big wicker tray added their own rhythm to the song on the gramophone. Samantha hummed along as she laid out the knives and forks. Allan joined in too. Together, they lifted the tray and stepped out through the open door into the golden morning light.
The bamboo table beneath the lemon tree was waiting for them like an old friend. Its surface was already covered in little patches of light and shadow. As Allan placed the bowls of jam onto the table one by one, Samantha poured fresh lemonade into tall glasses. The scent of lavender from the garden mixed with the smell of warm earth and minty lemonade. After a few peaceful minutes, Samantha made her way to the back of the garden—to the little greenhouse she had built herself—to fetch some fresh greens for breakfast.
At this time of the morning, Grandpa Sam had probably been up for hours. He would've already had one of his strong, black coffees and settled into his secret base—tucked behind the wooden panels on the right side of the garage. There, surrounded by memories from his army days—his old radio, his fax machine, books, notebooks, typewriter, and his beloved rotary telephone—he passed the early hours in quiet, soldierly style.
Every morning from 7 to 9 AM, Sam listened to Today's News on CBCS, hosted by Elvis Harold, while skimming through his newspaper. After that, he usually picked up his old rotary phone to ring up his retired army mates. They'd chat and joke around like they were still in the field, playing "pretend soldier" just for fun. Grandpa Sam and his old friends liked to pretend they were enjoying a quiet retirement—just for show. Truth was, a bit of action and a touch of morning drama was their favourite way to start the day.
Just then, Sam popped his head through the door that led from the garage into the house."Samantha, is breakfast ready, love?" he called. At that exact moment — DING-DONG! The doorbell rang.
Allan glanced down the hallway. "Who could that be?" she said, tilting her head curiously toward the kitchen door. Maybe Grandma Samantha had invited her grumpy sister Auntie Margaret… and her very odd husband, Uncle Arnold, who was just a tiny bit bonkers.
Dibo, still in deep shock from losing his sausage to Archie, let out a single woof. He lifted his ears for a second, but the rest of him stayed flat on the kitchen floor—completely unwilling to move.
When Sam opened the door, two men were standing on the step. They were both wearing dark blue suits and sunglasses. They looked to be about Grandpa Sam's age. One of them was holding a large, light brown envelope. Sam invited them into the dining room downstairs. The men didn't act like they were meeting him for the first time—not at all. In fact, they didn't even bother to introduce themselves.
Allan had seen most of Grandpa Sam's old army friends coming and going from the garage. She knew their faces. But she had never seen these two before. She stayed in the kitchen, pretending to be busy. In truth, she was trying to hear what was being said in the next room. At one point, she clearly heard Grandpa say, "Daniel," to one of the men. That name stuck in her head like a tiny alarm bell. Slowly, Allan tiptoed to the dining room door, holding her breath. She wanted to see who the envelope was for…
Out in the garden, Grandma Samantha was still in the greenhouse—probably picking off yellow leaves or trimming any bits that were looking sad.
Allan didn't want Grandpa Sam to notice her, so she slipped quietly back out into the garden. A little while later, Samantha came out of the greenhouse with a basket full of fresh greens. She headed to the kitchen to rinse them under cold water…
Allan stood up slowly from her chair. She walked on tiptoe, feeling as if the soft, sweet-smelling grass beneath her feet might give her away with the tiniest sound. She moved towards the window that looked into the dining room, her heart thumping. She looked left, then right, even glanced up at the sky—as if on a secret assignment. When she reached the window, she slowly leaned forward and peeked inside. Grandpa Sam was holding the envelope. She narrowed her eyes to see better. It looked like the envelope said "Allan Pie" but she couldn't be sure. Could it really be her name?
Almost ten minutes later, the two men stood up. They shook hands like old friends meeting again after a very long time—quiet smiles, small nods, no words needed. The door clicked shut behind them.
Grandpa Sam, still holding the envelope tightly—as if it held a secret that might burn through the paper—walked slowly back toward the garage. His heavy shoes creaked on the wooden floor, each step echoing through the house like a quiet knock on a hidden door. Allan froze in the hallway, just out of sight. The envelope in Grandpa Sam's hand seemed to pulse, like a heartbeat. When the garage door opened, the familiar scent of old paint and dust rushed out. Then, with a solid clunk, the door closed behind him.
Just then, the garden sprinkler burst into life with a sudden chik-chik-chik, making Allan jump a little. The smell of toast drifted from the kitchen into the hallway, but Allan couldn't focus on anything anymore. The birthday breakfast waiting for her in the garden— the blueberry cake, the cool slices of watermelon, the happy dance she'd shared with Grandma Samantha to the tune of Teddy's Bear— all of it felt as if a magic wand had tapped it and changed it into something… odd.
The toast smelled burnt now. She imagined taking a slice of blueberry cake and finding Archie curled up inside. The watermelon slices looked like they might grow legs and run off the table. Everything had turned upside down…
And those men in the dark blue jackets— who were they? They hadn't even taken a single sip of Grandma Samantha's iced tea. She knew—as surely as she knew her own name— those men didn't belong to this street, with its smell of freshly cut grass, warm plastic toys, wet soil and… dog poo.
Her thoughts began to spin like a cassette jammed in her Walkman. What could be inside the envelope? Her imagination caught fire. She had once heard that the floor in Grandfather Sam's secret headquarters—where he passed half his day—was covered by an old, threadbare rug. There must, surely, be a trapdoor beneath it, leading down to the cellar. That wasn't the end of it. In her mind, the conspiracy gathered speed like a lorry with failed brakes hurtling downhill. In the cellar there would be other doors, cunningly coded so that only Grandfather Sam knew their secrets. Beyond those doors, pitch-black tunnels would stretch on and on; along the tunnel walls, hidden compartments; and chambers where ancient, mythic, age-old mysteries lay sleeping since the Middle Ages… Somewhere in the midst of all this, a voice from the garden called to her—though she only properly heard it a moment later:
"Allan, could you pass the sugar?"
Grandpa, with that usual calmness of his—the kind that could drive you mad—had left the envelope in his office inside the garage, then returned to the cheerful breakfast table in the garden. Allan hadn't asked him a single question about it. That's because he'd told Grandma Samantha it wasjust an important document from an old army friend. But Allan knew the truth. She had seen the words "Allan Pie" on the envelope… or at least, she thought she had. She didn't say anything out loud—she didn't want to call Grandpa out on a lie. Sam looked completely relaxed as he stirred his coffee. He took a big sip, and the gulping sound was so loud it could probably be heard from down the road. Dibo stared up at Grandpa, not asking for anything—just watching. And then, in a low, clear voice, Grandpa looked straight at the dog and said:
"Everything in its time, son!"
Just like that, the thought of asking him anything disappeared from Allan's mind. Even if Grandpa Sam hadn't told a fib, everyone knew that once something went into the garage—into that strange, military-style base of his—it never came back out. And Grandpa Sam wasn't the kind of person to change his mind, either. If he'd made a decision, it was like carving it into stone with a hammer.
That day, at the Ravenwood Friends Creative Arts Summer Camp, there was a poetry reading in Mrs Eleanor Watson's class—Allan's favourite teacher. After breakfast, Allan left the house and walked straight to school. As soon as she arrived, she headed straight for Mrs Watson's classroom…
In the corner, an old fan buzzed like a tired wasp, not doing much to fight off the sticky August heat. Allan twisted a strand of her dark chestnut hair around one finger, while her other hand gripped her poetry notebook so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
Her mind was still on the envelope from that morning. She remembered the seal clearly: a heavy stone, with a large letter M carved right in the centre. If you stared at the markings around it for long enough… they almost looked like they were moving.
"Allan? Are you listening, Allan?"
Mrs Watson's voice snapped her back to the classroom. Everyone was staring at her—eyes wide, not even blinking. Allan stood up. A thin trickle of sweat ran down her back. Her old trainers squeaked softly on the vinyl floor as she shifted her weight. She cleared her throat and began to read her poem.
Allan moved and fell into the abyss.
The world itself was a boundless chasm
She had just read the first two lines of her poem when the rest of the words began to slip off the parchment—one by one. They floated into the air like little wisps of smoke, hanging above her head. Something strange was happening. The classroom walls began to melt, like wet watercolours. The colourful posters curled inwards. The last sound Allan heard from her old world was the high-pitched beep of Matthew's broken digital pet—then...
— WHOOSH! —
Suddenly, Allan found herself standing in a long corridor, its walls covered in beautiful tiles and portraits of people she didn't recognise. Paintings of all shapes and sizes lined the space, each more curious than the last. Stone pillars stood on either side of the hallway like silent guards. The floor beneath her feet smelled of time, dust, and old wisdom. The chalky, pencil-shavings air of her classroom was gone. Now, the scent was lemon polish, damp stone and moss—like an ancient place full of secrets. In front of her stood a thick glass case. Inside, something sparkled like a tiny galaxy—a dazzling diamond that caught her eye. A stone plaque beneath it read:
"The Legendary Lacrimora Diamond"
As Allan reached out, her fingers close to the glass, she suddenly realised—she was wearing a cloak. A deep navy cloak, flowing over her shoulders like night itself. She took a step and noticed dark blue laces on a pair of tall boots she didn't recognise. Then, her eyes were drawn to a deep red scarf that ran from her neck to her stomach. It glowed faintly in the low light, like quiet fire. She reached out and touched it. The moment her fingers felt its silky surface, a shiver ran down her spine— And just like that, she was back in the classroom. Back in the moment. The words had returned to the parchment. And her lips were still moving, reading the next lines of her poem.
Her deeds, her dreams,
Her restless flame, even her hair
Shivered as the wind flew past
Its breath a ghost, so cold, so fast
High and low, deep and hollow—
The silence sang its dreadful sorrow.
It was the finger of God scratching the nightmares
It carved the dark, into my restless fears
I dread frost caves the endless night of death
Through shadowed on my gaze
No sight sound, it is my fact
—BLINK—
Allan was out of breath, as if she had just emerged from under water. She touched her face. The tips of her fingers were damp. The classroom clock ticked louder than it ever had before. Somewhere, a world away, a cloak fluttered in a wind that didn't exist. Allan's voice trembled as she read the final line of her poem:
My mind awakens with a spinning dizziness—
Am I becoming numb to all the nothingness?
Ah! Those lovely numbers—beings of forms,
I fear not your lovely friendship anymore.
This time, the classroom had completely frozen. Emily's foot tapped her chair one last time. The buzzing fly by the window went silent. Even the ticking of the wall clock stopped. It was as if time itself had paused. Where the window and the schoolyard had been, there was now a wide, endless corridor. Along the hallway, clocks ticked both forwards and backwards. Some were stuck at exactly 09:05. Portraits lined the walls—serious-looking people with strange expressions. One man in a painting was shouting, "I'm late again—but I've found it!"
Allan looked down. The midnight-blue boots were still on her feet, laced all the way to her ankles. The soles seemed to shimmer with tiny silver constellations— as if they'd been polished with starlight. "These aren't mine…" she whispered. "I've never had boots like these."
Her heartbeat quickened. She thought she heard a sound—from the direction of her cloak. She slowly turned her head. The dark blue cloak was rippling gently across her shoulders… yet there was no wind. Its edges moved like liquid shadow, shifting softly as if it were alive. Allan turned her eyes back to the glass case and the diamond inside. But now, she saw it more clearly. The gem was no ordinary jewel. Instead of reflecting the light… it swallowed it. It pulled the brightness in, keeping it inside. Next to it, turning again and again, was a tiny hourglass—its sand never still.
Suddenly, a raven appeared on top of the glass dome. It looked straight at Allan—and spoke. Its voice was high and scratchy, like a squeaky hinge. "Reach out your hand! Don't be afraid!" Allan moved without thinking. Her fingers stretched out towards the dome. As soon as she touched the glass, it felt as though she were touching the diamond itself. It was real. It was warm. She took another step forward. Her boots made a sharp sound as the heels hit the stone floor. "You're almost there,"said the raven. Its feathers shimmered in soft shades of black and beige, giving it a gentle, friendly look. And then
—CLICK
Mrs Watson's hand landed gently on Allan's shoulder. "Allan! Allan, are you all right?"
Jonah's whisper wasn't loud enough for the whole class to hear, but his face showed pure shock. Still staring at the strange glow on Allan's fingertips, he muttered just loud enough for himself: "Blimey! Is this the sci-fi club, or did she really just shoot a laser from her hand?"
Allan looked down. There, in the corner of her poem page, was a drawing of a stone figure she didn't remember making. And in that moment, the envelope hidden in Grandpa Sam's secret room— the one with her name on it— suddenly felt much more real, much warmer, almost like it was alive…