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𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔡𝔬.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬𝔭 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔬𝔢.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔤𝔬.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.
Where was he?
John looked around. He was completely lost. The House was utterly foreign to him; he didn't know where he was, why he was here, or how he'd come to be in this place. He tried to think back to the morning that had passed and the days leading up to it, but came back with nothing illuminating for his present predicament. He'd just been in the usual routine, making deliveries, catching beers with Chas and the crew. On Sunday he'd entertained Judith by attending Mass, standing in the back observing and taking nothing seriously, mentally ticking or crossing next to everything the paster extolled against how it lined up with what he knew. Then Monday he'd mostly lazed about, the weather too foul to bother being out; the couple days after that were extremely normal. But further than that, all a blank. He knew he'd woken up this morning, groggy in his sheets, and he knew he'd eaten breakfast - he could still taste the Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his mouth - but how he'd gotten from there to here...it was as if he'd lost time. He couldn't recall whatsoever. His awareness ceased on leaving the apartment, and only restarted here, now, in this House, holding an unmarked package and an envelope.
The room was some manner of antechamber, a welcoming hall that branched off into the rest of the House. To his left were a set of stairs, hidden behind a wall that closed off one side, said wall lined with bookshelves carrying tomes and knick-knacks from one edge to the other. A fireplace adorned the back wall with a sofa facing it and a couple sideboards on either side of the seat, a doorway offset from the hearth leading further into the House; behind the sofa, decorating the center of the floor, was a plush and intricate rug bearing circular designs in a deep, powerful red. To John's right were proud and handsome cabinet units flanking a set of double doors, and he supposed these lead to a lounge or reading room. The cabinets contained glasses, bottles, and more mismatched curios; while the furniture all married together toward a singular aesthetic, the accoutrement that populated the shelves and mantles and nooks were scattered and inharmonious. There were baubles and trinkets from nearly all genres of life; occult relics, urban bric-a-brac, religious paraphenalia, scientific curios and even cosmic novelties. It all occupied and decorated the singular space, sitting comfortably next to itself, but in constant aesthetical conflict, to the point where the incongruity of it all settled in as the overarching theme and retroactively made everything...fit in. It was a bizarrely decorated room. John was sure he would have seen the House from the outside, logically, before stepping inside, wanting to conceptualize how the House may be laid out, how the rooms might fit together - but he could conjure no image. Another item from his memory mysteriously missing.
Suddenly he realized his arm ached from holding up the parcel, hanging in the air in front of him in a stupour as he took in his surroundings. He shuffled over to the sofa, putting the package on the sidetable to the right of the leather-bound seat. The envelope lingered in his hand; neither it nor the parcel bore an address or a name. He sighed, frustrated by his own confusion, and turned the envelope over in his hands. The underside was similarly blank. He turned it back over, defeated and resigning to just sit and rack his head about where or why he might-
In small inked lettering, the front of the envelope had 'J. Constantine' scrawled in the bottom corner in spidery script. Had he missed that the first time? Had his thumb covered it? He walked around the table on which he'd rested the parcel and sat down on the sofa, carefully tearing open the flap of the envelope. Inside was a single-page letter, the writing upon it scratched in that same ink with that same spidered penmanship. He leant back against the couch cushions and ran his eyes across the words.
"ᴊᴏʜɴ. ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, ᴡʜʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ - ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ, ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ. ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴇᴀꜱɪᴇʀ."
John stood up, his eyes narrowing and brow furrowed. The letter creased in his hands as he tensed up, and he took quick, purposeful strides toward the front door. With his free hand, he grasped the doorknob, turned, and pulled. The door did not move. He rattled, yanking it back and forth, pounding on the wood as he tried uselessly to wrench the immutable gateway open. The door would not yield. With anxiety growing in the back of his head, he took a few deliberate, measured breaths to calm his racing pulse, and went back to the letter.
"ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴋᴀɢᴇ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ. ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ. ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴ ᴇʏᴇ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ. ᴏʀ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ, ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏꜱᴇ ɪᴛ, ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ, ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴋᴀɢᴇ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ."
John stopped there and went back to the sofa. The parcel rested innocuously on the sidetable where he'd left it, and now he tore it open with wild abandon, shredding through layers of brown packing paper and the whirls of twine it had been bound with. Inside was a book, old and hardy. The pages were thick and yellowed and smelt of the satisfying earthy musk only aged books smell of; and they were also blank. Empty. Not a single word had been printed upon them. He returned to the letter.
"ɴᴏᴡ, ᴀꜱɪᴅᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ, Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ. ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴɪᴍɪᴢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ."
As if on cue, John whipped his head up as the faint echoes of a short scream filtered through to the antechamber from somewhere deeper within the House. John couldn't be sure from which direction it came from, but he was suddenly filled with a sense of urgency. His pulse quickening again, he finished the final passage of the letter.
"ʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ: ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ. ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴛʀᴀ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ: ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ. ꜰɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ. ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ - ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇɴ."
"ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ."
The letter ended there, cryptic and infuriating but at least having provided some kind of direction. John cast it aside, eyeing the tome that now lay on the sofa amidst scraps of brown paper and string, wondering what the hell 'fill the book' meant; and then there was another faint scream, and John cast it out of mind, darting toward the closest door and throwing it open. A darkened hallway stretched out before him, more doors standing innocuously on either side of the corridor. He didn't give himself the time to think about direction or the logistics of it all; he just took a breath, and dove headlong into the bowels of the House.
John pushed through rooms and doors that had long since given up the pretense of arranging themselves according to accepted architectural convention. Initially, each chamber had felt ordinary; the antechamber's rear door had opened to the hallway, which gave access to a dining room, then an attached kitchen, then a utility room with accompanying pantry. It was extravagent, and painted the internal blueprint for a mansion of considerable scale, but it hadn't been unusual, not at first. Since then, though, every new threshold passed pushed the House and its rooms further and further beyond the pale, like it was struggling to keep up with how people built homes and what rooms were supposed to look like. Tables and chairs grew into each other and fused together, legs bleeding into the floorboards. Cabinets jutted out at strange angles, half-clipped into walls and doors fitted askew. Light fixtures sprouted smaller lightbulbs along their brass limbs like budding fruits on young trees, lampshades stretching across the gaps between metallic branches like skin across bones. The floors came at increasing angles and soon forgot the differences between carpet, boards, tile and linoleum, discarding the boundaries where traditionally one material ended and another began. Even a flat plane became a mere suggestion. The doorways too struggled under the pressure of maintaining an acceptable reality; the frames sat bent, the doors themselves shifting beyond the boundaries of their jambs. He couldn't afford to pay any of it any mind.
One problem at a time, Johnny, he thought. You've walked through worse.
Another yelp, close now. He'd been following the noise of someone fleeing; short sharp screams, pounding footsteps, the crashing of furniture and glass and the slamming of doors. Whoever he was after was running from something, but he was slowly catching up - just a few more rooms and he'd-
John threw open the next door, breathing hard from the effort of his pursuit, and saw another door rocking on its hinges, swinging from the force of whoever had just wrenched themselves through. With a burst of speed conjured from an invisible reserve, he gave chase and careened through the open doorway, nearly pitching over as the room beyond lurched at a near-diagonal incline. At the end of the room was a girl, and chasing the girl was a strange, onyx-skinned creature.
Its head was the shape of a large egg, scaled-up and sprouting bat wings out of either side, only a single unblinking eye centered in the front as its sole facial feature, though ascribing a face to this unnatural being was doing it more credit that it deserved. The body beneath was like an artist's first sketch, basic and near-formless, the proportions all wrong and nothing filled out; the only distinguishable characteristic was a nightmarish maw, its belly split open across the middle to bear a mouth far wider than the boundaries of its crepuscular flesh. The girl slipped on the inclined floor and crashed to the ground, screaming as the creature bore down upon her, salivating. It hadn't noticed John yet.
Stairs sprouted sideways from the wall in here and the bannister struts splayed out, unconnected to the base of the steps like ribs erupting from a spine. Without hesitating, John seized upon a strut and wrenched it from the wall; the mixed sound of creaking, cracking wood and wet tearing flesh behind it finally alerted the beast to John's presence, but with the element of surprise and the swiftness of his movement it was too late to stop him from smashing the improvised club down across the side of its neck. It spiralled off from the force of the blow, knocked off balance, and John followed up with another straight to the front of its head, aiming for the eyeball. It reeled back, pushed up against the wall and losing grip with its amorphous feet. It finally found purchase, sinking a steadying claw into the wall, and brought itself up to full height as John manoeuvred himself between the creature and the girl, intending to shield her bodily if he had to. The monster raised its other arm to ward itself against John's impromptu weapon; balance restored, it lashed out in a sudden flash of strength and speed and caught the strut between ill-defined fingers, stopping John's attack utterly in its tracks - and then crushed the wood in its grip. The club shattered completely, sap-like ichor oozing through the thing's palm from the splintered remnants. John froze, and the creature took a long, terrifying moment to size him up, its maw dripping with spittle in anticipation and appetite; and then, without a warning or a sound, it slunk away, drifting smoothly backwards and melding into the wall until it disappeared entirely with a final gurgle.
John let go of the breath he'd been holding, and allowed adrenaline shakes of fear to course through his body and wrack his bones. Quiet moments passed as he anticipated a return, but the House was still. He turned and offered a hand to the girl, still on the floor and staring up at him with dumbfounded shock.
"I'm John," John said, "and I think I was sent to help you."
The girl looked at him even more strangely at that, but took his hand and pulled herself up all the same. She looked to be about fourteen by John's reckoning, with a mousy face yet to fully mature and dirty blonde hair that fell past her shoulders with little shape or intention to its styling. Pale blue eyes shone through holding a quiet fear, and an uncertainty about her erstwhile saviour.
"I'm Astra," she said, introducing herself, "and I'm really glad you got here when you did."
Astra looked uncomfortably at the patch of wall where the creature had sunk away. The wallpaper seemed to have developed a new damp stain behind its twisting, labyrinthine pattern.
"What was that...thing?" She asked, fear making her voice shudder and goosebumps cascade down her arms.
"Don't know." Answered John.
"Do you think it'll come back?"
"Don't know."
"What about where we are? What is this place?"
"Nope."
Astra began to look irritated.
"What do you know?" She demanded, exasperation creeping in, fright forgotten in the face of frustration.
"Very little, I'm afraid." John said, curt and honest. "But I know the way back. I think we should get out of here."
He reached out his hand again, to lead Astra back to the antechamber and hopefully find another way out, or discover that with her return the front door would be mysteriously unlocked and allow them egress. Astra regarded his proffered palm and the man it belonged to with a healthy amount of suspicion and skepticism, and then huffed; it was this, or diving deeper into these snaking hallways until all semblance of reality fell apart around her. She put her hand in his, and followed John back the way he came.
𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢, ℑ'𝔪 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.
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