[@Algorhythm] Benjamin, never a light-hearted man to begin with, had grown even more sombre over the course of his time as an investigator with the Consortium. Only a truly cold-hearted individual, however, could have remained completely unmoved in the face of Zuma's warmth and good nature, and cold-hearted, Ben was not. A smile flickered around his lips at the greeting, and it soon grew into a chuckle that accompanied Zuma's own contagious laugh as he recounted his story with great animation. Ben's countenance grew grave again when Zuma asked about his last rotation. Along with his partner, Inspector Morris, Ben had been instructed quite suddenly to retrieve and escort a woman by the name of Elly Margaret to Consortium headquarters. She was wanted for questioning by Chief Reitz--something about her having information on the disciples of the Yellow King. He mused silently for a moment before he responded. "We were... not entirely successful." [hr] [i] A crescent moon shone down wan and pallid through the scudding clouds. Deep shadows pooled in the crevices and alleys between buildings, while the flicker of the few remaining functional oil lamps anchored in odd corners lent an eerie illusion of motion to the dilapidated edifices. Except for his own footfalls and the steady trudging of Inspector Morris, the entire street was quiet as the grave. What few inhabitants who dared to remain in the inner shell knew better than to leave their homes after nightfall. Conversation was limited to the briefest exchange of essential information, and conducted in a whisper, every breath an offense to the stillness of the night. Ben, given his way, would never have come at this hour, and ordinarily Morris would have concurred, but according to the instructions from Reitz, time was of the essence. "They believe," Morris said quietly, referring to Reitz, and presumably Dr. Isaacs and Professor Hartwell along with him, "that this lady, one Madam Elly Margaret, knows something crucial about the Yellow King disciples. And if it's true," he continued, "you can be sure the disciples have been aware of her at least as long as we have, and will be on to her before you can say 'Bob's your uncle'." "What could she know about them?" Ben inquired. "It's beyond me, lad," responded Morris, "but it's said she has some sort of psychic connection. Access to another aspect of existence. And given what we've been seeing recently, I wouldn't bet against it." Ben made no response, but grimaced slightly. He had always been wary of the supernatural, and the thought that there were those who would willingly seek it out did not sit well with him. Mankind was not meant to meddle with some things. The pair continued in silence until they came down a side street to a run-down tenement building. It loomed large in the half-light, the darkened windows and broken glass reminiscent only of so many soulless eyes and jagged teeth. "This is the spot," announced Morris in an undertone. "731 South Fletcher Street. Number 233. Good God, it doesn't look half abandoned, does it?" Ben nodded in agreement, and stepped forward to try the door. It was locked, but the mechanism was familiar to him as one commonly fitted on cheaper housing in Aegis Luna, and he set to work dismantling it while Morris kept an eye on the shadowy street. In short order, the lock was disengaged. Ben put his tools away and Morris pushed the door open. Morris made a motion to step inside, but caught himself, hesitating. They stood there for a time on the threshold. Neither had expected--well, expected anything really, it was only a tenement building. But certainly not this yawning void in front of them. The sickly light from outside barely penetrated the blackness welling just beyond the door frame. That awful hole was waiting to swallow them both, like some malevolent ancient fiend that knew no warmth nor light, only consuming them as an ocean does the flame candle, relentless and implacable. Ben felt a rising sense of vertigo, and even Morris seemed to be reeling, clutching at the low railing adjacent to the steps they stood on, and the darkness seemed to stretch, filling Ben's vision until he could feel himself disappearing, slowly dragged into the depths until-- Morris suddenly spat a curse. "Something is deceiving our senses," he whispered hoarsely, still looking unsettled. He staggered to his feet and made a motion for the door again, but fell short. Realising the truth of what he said, Ben steeled himself and plunged into the darkness, not allowing himself any further thought. Morris followed him shortly. Inside, apart from all the tell-tale signs of disuse and neglect, there was nothing out of the ordinary. There was a small lobby, with a a lift on one side and what looked like letterboxes on the other. Ben felt the door swing shut behind him, and, turning, saw--was that a man? a glimpse of a dark figure, watching them from just behind the steps they had been standing on. The door clicked shut, latching with an ominous finality. "We're not wanted here tonight," remarked Ben. "Well, some party is going to be terribly put out, then," Morris rejoined, straightening his uniform and clenching his teeth, "because we're on official business. Second floor. Number 233. Let's introduce ourselves to Madam Margaret." He led the way up a flight of stairs located in a small recess just round behind the lift. Each step creaked and groaned beneath their feet, threatening collapse with every movement. Both men had clicked on their torches, the narrow beams of light doing only little to illuminate the path ahead of them. At least the heat from the devices felt real in the middle of this nightmare they had entered into. They arrived at the second floor landing and opened a door leading out into a narrow hallway, extending to the left and right. Shining his light upon the nearest door, Ben saw the glint of numbers. 215. "She'll be down this way," observed Morris. They walked down the hall, the threadbare carpeting only slightly muffling the slow squeaks of floorboards under unaccustomed strain. They counted off the room numbers as they went. 217, 219, 221. "Who could possibly still want to live in this godforsaken place?" muttered Morris. Ben didn't answer. 223, 225, 227. When he was young, Ben recalled his mother had something she would say, whenever she felt an inexplicable chill. Someone had walked over her grave, she would say, with a shudder. As they passed the last few doors, someone walked over Ben's. 229. 231. 233. Perhaps over Morris' as well, by the look of him. Nevertheless, with a quick step, he stood in front of Madam Margaret's door and rapped on it smartly. "Open up! Police!" he called. To their mutual astonishment, the door swung inward, silently. They stepped in. No lights were on inside the room, but as they shone their torches round, they saw evidence of a resident. A woman's shoes lined neatly by the door. A hat on the stand. An umbrella in a basket. And there, standing still and looking out the lone window in the flat, the silhouette of a woman. Morris spoke up. "Ah, Madam Elly Margaret. Inspectors Morris and Moore, of the Aegis Luna Consortium." The woman made no sign she had heard them, so Morris continued. "We've been sent by the Chief of the Consortium, Mr. Tom Reitz. You are requested to return with us to the Consortium headquarters. Chief Reitz wishes to speak with you about information you may have about the so-called Disciples of the Yellow King." At the mention of the Yellow King, the woman turned slowly to face them. "Madam Margaret--" Morris began, but stopped, aghast. Whatever was standing across the room from them now was not Elly Margaret. Not any more. Her skin was pale and drawn, her smile stretched too wide. What looked like blood ran slowly from her eyes. Oh God! Her eyes! Two awful, blank orbs stared back at them from sunken sockets, betraying no hint of human consciousness. Raising its clawed hands, the horrible thing in front of them suddenly sprang with an ear-splitting shriek at Morris, bowling him over, scrabbling at his neck. With what little time he had to react, Ben slung the shotgun from off his back into a mighty blow that sent the foul apparition sprawling into the hallway. As Morris scrambled to his feet, Ben swung the barrel up to let loose a thunderous blast that seemed to rock the building to its foundation. He wasn't quick enough. She scuttled on all fours at an unnatural speed down the hallway, like some twisting, abominable insect. Morris, now standing again, drew his pistol and gasped between deep breaths. "She's--She's gone. Wraith--a wraith, possessed. Too late--we're too late." Ben gave him a moment to collect himself. "We'll stop it," he growled, reaching for his lantern, "before it--" He was interrupted by a shrill scream from somewhere above them. For the first time that night, true horror crossed Morris' face. "Was that--a child?" he whispered in dread. Without a moment's hesitation, the two tore off like madmen down the hallway toward the stairwell, climbing the narrow steps to the third floor, hearing the screams intensify, discerning, as they drew nearer other terrible, terrible sounds-- The rest of the night was something Ben had tried, unsuccessfully, to forget. Room 317. A young family. Why hadn't they evacuated? Perhaps they thought to barricade themselves in against the evil outside and outlast it. Perhaps they were simply foolhardy. It didn't matter. The father, with his throat torn out. The mother, lying in her own entrails. The child. The child! Impaled on the wall in five places, partially flayed. The child! Still alive, but only just. Still screaming. And that ghoul, arms reddened up to the elbows, ghastly grin still stretched impossibly wide across its face. Two more blasts with the shotgun, one of mercy, one of vengeance. Two more lives claimed in violence. The terror that suddenly reentered Elly's eyes as the wraith left her, its purpose fulfilled. The last, horrible, sputtering breath she tried to draw through the gaping hole in her torso. The long walk home. The shadowy figure they thought they saw watching them from the window of 317 as they left. Morris' silent weeping the entire way. [/i] [hr] Ben exhaled deeply. "No. Not entirely successful. However," he said, looking directly at Zuma, "we were able to retrieve a notebook from among Madam Margaret's personal effects, the contents of which seemed to interest Dr. Isaacs and Professor Hartwell. It is currently in their possession for examination at their convenience." "With any luck," he added thoughtfully, "Madam Margaret will have recorded some of what she purportedly knew about the Yellow King disciples."