The Quarry Water Knows Your Name

On the last Tuesday of August, Peter and Beth pull a secret from the bottom of the old quarry. It's heavy, locked, and changes the texture of the air between them.

“Don’t just stare at it,” Beth said, shoving wet hair from her face. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the drone of cicadas clinging to the trees above. A drop of quarry water slid from her elbow and made a dark spot on the sun-bleached granite.

Peter didn’t answer. He was staring at it. The briefcase was old-school, a hard-shell Samsonite, the colour of a faded bruise. It was heavy, far heavier than just waterlogged documents would make it. Scrapes and gouges marred its surface, but the two brass locks on the top were only tarnished, not broken. Ropes of green algae clung to the handle.

“It’s been down there a while,” he said finally, his voice low. “We should just… put it back.”

“Put it back?” Beth laughed, a sound that was too loud in the stillness of the quarry. “Are you kidding me? We spent an hour getting that thing. My shoulder feels like I dislocated it. We are not putting it back.” She nudged it with the toe of her worn-out trainer. It didn’t budge. “What do you think is in it?”

“I don’t want to know,” Peter said, and he meant it. This was their last week. Seven more days and Beth was off to university in Halifax, and he was staying here, taking a gap year to work at the garage and figure things out. Their summers, once infinite, had shrunk to this single, sweltering week. He had wanted to spend it doing the things they always did: jumping from the high ledge, biking the rail trail, drinking cheap slushies behind the convenience store. He had not wanted to find a gangster’s briefcase at the bottom of Miller’s Quarry.

“It’s probably just rocks,” he tried. “Some kid’s prank.”

“It didn’t feel like rocks,” she countered. “It was a solid weight. And it’s locked. You don’t lock up a box of rocks, Peter.” She crouched, running a finger over one of the locks. “We have to open it.”

“How? It’s not like we have a key.”

“My dad has a grinder in the shed. And your dad has literally every tool known to man,” she said, standing up. The decision was made, at least for her. “Come on. Let’s get it to your garage before someone sees us.”

---

Getting the case out of the quarry was a clumsy, graceless affair. They half-carried, half-dragged it up the steep path, slipping on loose scree. The case banged against Peter’s shins. Twice, he suggested they just leave it hidden in the woods, but Beth’s glare was enough to silence him. By the time they got it into the boot of his dusty Civic, their arms were shaking and their t-shirts were plastered to their backs with sweat.

The drive to his house was silent. Peter kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, as if expecting to see the briefcase pulsating on the back seat. Beth just stared out the window, a small, determined smile on her face. This was pure Beth. She didn’t just walk towards trouble; she sprinted at it, arms wide open.

His parents were out. The garage was a cathedral of quiet order, tools hanging from pegboards in neat outlines. The air smelled of motor oil, sawdust, and old rubber. It was Peter’s sanctuary, and the presence of the briefcase felt like a violation.

They heaved it onto the workbench, the metal top scratching the worn plywood. It looked different under the fluorescent lights, more menacing. The algae was already starting to dry, flaking onto the bench.

“Okay,” Beth said, rubbing her hands together. “Operation Pandora’s Box. What’s first? Crowbar?”

“We’re not smashing it,” Peter said immediately. “If there’s… whatever in there, we don’t want to wreck it.” He felt stupid saying it. What if it was money? What if it was something else entirely? His mind, unhelpfully, supplied images from movies: drugs, a gun, a severed hand.

He ran his hand along the seam of the case. It was tight, no give at all. “These are proper locks. We’ll have to drill them.”

“Then drill, baby, drill,” Beth grinned, but her eyes were fixed on the case, the bravado a little thin.

Peter pulled his dad’s best drill from its case and selected a narrow bit, one designed for metal. The high-pitched whine of the tool felt like a siren in the quiet garage. He pressed the tip of the bit against the first brass lock. Metal shavings, bright and tiny, curled away from the hole.

He focused on the task, on the pressure, on keeping his hand steady. It was easier than thinking about what they were doing. This was just a mechanical problem. A lock. A bit. Rotations per minute. Beth stood beside him, her breathing shallow. The air grew thick with the smell of hot metal.

Minutes stretched out. The drill bit was struggling. Peter could feel the heat through the tool’s housing.

“It’s not working,” he said, pulling back. The lock was scarred with a small, pathetic divot, but it was otherwise intact.

“Harder,” Beth urged. “Push harder.”

“I’m pushing as hard as I can! This is case-hardened steel or something.”

They fell silent, staring at the defiant object. The weight of the unspoken hung between them. This was supposed to be a week of lasts—their last swim at the quarry, their last late-night drive. Now, this ugly, bruised box had hijacked everything. It was a physical manifestation of the future: a locked thing they couldn’t predict or control.

“Okay,” Peter said, taking a deep breath. “Plan B.” He put the drill down and walked to a large red tool chest. He pulled out a heavy-duty flathead screwdriver and a small sledgehammer. “If we can’t go through it, maybe we can pry it.”

He wedged the tip of the screwdriver into the seam right next to the lock. “Hold it steady,” he told Beth. She placed both hands on the case, her knuckles white. Peter took the hammer, his grip slick with sweat.

He tapped the end of the screwdriver. A dull thud. Nothing.

He tapped again, harder. The screwdriver bit a little deeper into the seam.

“Again,” Beth whispered.

He swung the hammer properly this time. The crack of metal on metal was explosive. The screwdriver shot out of the seam and clattered to the concrete floor. But a small dent, a tiny weakness, had appeared near the lock.

“It’s working,” she breathed.

He picked up the screwdriver and wedged it back in. He swung again. And again. The rhythm became a frantic, desperate beat in the quiet garage: position, swing, crack. Position, swing, crack. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the case, mingling with the drying algae.

And then, on the seventh swing, there was a different sound. Not a crack, but a sharp, metallic pop. A groan of tortured metal.