66.6 Fathoms Down

There was only one rule: don't open the door.

It should have been easy to follow, given that the door in question was at the bottom of the North Sea, but nothing was more tempting than a sign saying "Do Not Touch".

Scientists were even worse than average, and Marine Scientists... well.

If they wound up unleashing the apocalypse, or an eldritch abomination, or whatever was behind the door, Elsa hoped she lived long enough to say "I TOLD YOU SO!!!"

She should have refused the job when the original submersible pilot got sick, leaving the expodition scrambling on short notice. Damn university debts, making the offer so tempting. At least they'd agreed to hazard pay.

"Now approaching 400 ft below sea level, extending landing supports."

The leader of the expedition, who had a dual degree in Oceanography and History, but otherwise seemed the epitome of people with more money than sense, grinned at her. "See, not so bad. It's not that much more than the average depth."

"We're at 66.6 fathoms down, in front of a mystical seal 6.66 feet in diametre."

"So?"

"HOW MANY MORE BAD OMENS DO YOU NEED TO CALL THIS A BAD IDEA?"

"Six hundred and sixty-four?"

He was lucky the Head Researcher held Elsa back from punching him in the face.

Everyone was already suited up to go exploring. Elsa had it written into her contract that she was staying on the sub. Besides, someone had to operate the controls.

"If you die, you have no-one but yourselves to blame."

The seven explorers, one missing a leg, and who might have lost more bits if he'd finished his joke about being 2/3 of a person, were prying open the door. Elsa prepared to evacuate.

The seal cracked. A plume of darkness erupted.

"WHO DARES?"