The Crater
At a volcano’s crater, a group of travelers’ trip turns horrifying when the unthinkable happens. One observer is left to confront the terrifying possibility that it wasn’t an accident.
Trigger warning: Violence involving children
We piled into the truck and headed toward the park. It was a dreary afternoon.
"That should make it easier to see the lava," Finn said.
The road was bumpy, like most in these parts. We joked about how drunk Dylan had gotten last night. Someone threw on a rap song, which blared from the speakers in the truck.
"Hope you're not still drunk, Dylan. Would be a shame if you fell into the crater," Finn teased.
"You better watch that I don’t push you in, asshole," Dylan shot back.
I laughed at their usual banter and nodded along to the song. At the ticket booth, we scraped together cash and paid. Finn drummed on the steering wheel, impatient to get moving.
A minute later, we pulled up to the visitor’s center to stretch our legs.
"Do you think they sell beer in here?" Dylan wondered aloud.
Finn and I exchanged a look. Skye sighed and shook her head. A few old photos, dated bathrooms, a clay model of the crater — that was it. So it wasn’t long before we all jumped back in the truck and drove up the steep road to the main attraction. The Toyota Hilux ate up the incline. I loved these trucks — shame we didn’t have them in the States.
We parked in the visitor lot and walked up to the crater. Gray-red rock ringed the crater, plain against the beauty of the lava within. Signs warned against going down — unless you were a ranger.
When we reached the rim and peered over the black safety railing, I was immediately enchanted. It was like a witch’s cauldron, bubbling and alive. The red-and-black lava swirled below, inviting and threatening at once.
Beside me, Skye shaded her eyes with one hand. "Do you think there have ever been any accidents here?" She mused, “Like someone falling in?”
I moved the pebbles around with my foot.
"Maybe that’s why all these signs are here," I shrugged.
Finn sauntered up to us.
"Pretty cool place, huh?" He said, pushing his long blonde hair out of his eyes.
We nodded.
"Where’s Dylan?" I asked.
"Who knows," he replied. "Probably off looking for a beer."
It was the running joke in our group, though it wasn’t really funny. Dylan did have a drinking problem. Almost every night, he was falling off a lawn chair or picking a fight with someone. None of us knew what to do about it, so we joked instead. It made the elephant in the room feel smaller.
"What’s that guy doing?" Skye asked, extending a long finger across the crater.
A man with short black hair and a scruffy beard had been pacing the rim earlier, eyes fixed on the lava longer than seemed normal. Now he stood dangerously close, a small child in his arms.
Finn scratched his head. "Maybe he just wanted to get a closer look?"
The sun dipped lower in the sky, disappearing behind a group of clouds. The lava glowed darker. An ominous quiet fell over the crater as people peered down. We all watched as the man, still holding the child, teetered at the edge. The child whimpered and wriggled out of his arms. Children moved too fast. In seconds, the boy was sliding down the steep crater wall. The man called after him, following him down. Vapor rose from below, as if in warning.
I remembered once reading that some Indigenous people used to sacrifice animals, women, men, and even children to fire gods over volcanic craters like this. The gods demanded offerings to bless or curse.
As this grim thought ran through my mind, I heard the man scream.
"¡Mijo!" He shouted, reaching out.
The boy looked up, terrified, free-falling into the crater. The man jumped after him. Time crawled as the boy’s arms stretched upwards. The man’s arms flailed desperately. Then a splash, another splash — they were sucked under.
Skye let out a blood-curdling scream. My hand flew to my mouth as I sank to the ground next to her. For a second, it felt as if someone had pressed the pause button on life itself. Then I heard Finn dry-heaving beside me. The crowd murmured in concerned whispers. Some froze, shell-shocked. Others grabbed their phones.
"God," Skye said through snot and tears. "What the fuck just happened?"
I rubbed her back, but deep down, I knew what happened wasn’t an accident. Just before his son fell, I saw him push his foot — a deliberate shove, or a stumble? I only caught it from the corner of my eye. Or did the boy genuinely trip and fall? I was afraid to voice the possibility, scared of seeming insensitive in the face of such horror. But something had been off about the man from the start. Why wander so dangerously close to the edge in the first place?
It never sat right with me. Was it an accident, or intentional?