"What do we do in case of an emergency?" René asked, his gaze drifting to the window, watching the blur of streetlamps pass by.
"The oldest rule in the book," Saint said with a dry chuckle. "Run. Get to safety and try to contact the others."
He struck a match, lighting another cigarette, and offered one to René. "If you can't, then prioritize the obvious—your life."
René gave a faint smile, waving the offer away. "I like that rule."
"'Course you do," Saint teased, smoke curling around his grin.
René ignored the teasing. "Anything else I should know?"
Saint exhaled slowly, his voice calm. "We might find an evil spirit. Could be an Enlightened gone mad. Maybe a newly formed artifact. Or…" He tapped ash out the cracked window, watching it vanish into the night breeze. "…just a homeless guy or a stray dog."
René leaned back, "So… I should expect the unexpected?"
"Exactly." Saint shut the window with a click.
René hesitated before asking again, his tone almost hopeful. "Is it like this every time?"
"No." Saint smiled, flicking the last of his ash into the tray. "There are plenty of jobs. Tonight, you got tossed in without a choice. But soon, you'll have a say in your assignments." He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Not everyone's cut out for every task."
"That's… convenient," René muttered under his breath, rubbing his chin. Maybe I can stick to the safer gigs. Fewer dangers and horrors, more pay. First, I need their trust, though. Maria's words echoed in his head—an Enlightened, huh?
"Detective," René said suddenly, pulling Saint from his thoughts.
Saint turned his head, eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"
"How do I know if I'm an Enlightened?" René's voice carried a mix of skepticism and unease.
The question froze Saint for a bit. He stared at René, leaning towards him. "First of all, you'd know. Powers don't exactly hide. The way you're asking makes me think you don't even have a clue."
"That's… pretty much the case," René admitted with a faint, self-conscious smile.
Saint blew out a plume of smoke, eyes narrowing. "Normally, you'd feel it naturally. But you? You should see a Seer." He paused, studying René like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. "Do you even know what spirituality is?"
"I know the dictionary meaning…" René offered weakly.
"That explains it." Saint crushed the cigarette in the tray, voice flat. "You're blind because you're empty. No foundation, no sense of the other side, no awareness. That's why you don't know what you are or if you're anything at all."
Saint paused for a moment, eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. "Exposure might trigger your abilities instinctively," he said at last. "Even if you're not conscious of it."
René exhaled in relief, the tension in his shoulders loosening. "So there's still hope for me…" His lips curled into a faint smile. "Glad I don't have to go through what the captain mentioned though, rituals, potions, or whatever all that nonsense are." He turned his gaze to the window, watching snowflakes drift lazily against the crimson sky.
"Don't celebrate just yet." Saint gave a short, dry laugh. "You'll have to do that and more, again and again. Each time harder than the last. If you want to get stronger, that is." With that, he tilted his seat back and pulled his hat over his face. "I'm going to take a nap. Wake me when we're there."
"What?" René's head snapped towards him. "You can't just drop that and go to sleep. Explain!" He dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath, "Unbelievable…"
Seriously, what is wrong with these people? His bitter smile held a trace of exhaustion. I'll manage. I always do.
He glanced at Saint from between his fingers, suspicion tugging at his thoughts. Pushing himself up, he crossed the small space and crouched beside him.
"Hey," René murmured.
There was only silence. Renè hesitated, then lifted the brim of Saint's hat upward. The man's eyes were closed, chest rising in a slow rhythm. Is he… snoring?
René stared for a moment, baffled. How comfortable of him…
Lowering the hat back into place, he returned to his seat, the silence pressing in as his mind wandered.
Soon, they arrived at the address. The crimson sky was already fading, its fiery hues surrendering to a cold, deep azure.
René pushed himself up and plucked the hat from Saint 's face. "Wake up, we're here," he said sharply.
Saint cracked open one eye, his voice still heavy with sleep. "You got a gun?"
René froze for a beat, then frowned. "No. Should I?" He stepped out into the biting air, suspicion lacing his tone.
"Damn right you should." Saint swung out of the car, straightening his coat as his hand slipped behind his back. He drew a small .22 caliber revolver and held it out.
René accepted the weapon without protest, tucking it into his belt. "Appreciate it," he said quietly. "Don't you need one?"
"I've got another." Saint gave his shoulder a firm tap. "Let's move."
Snowflakes drifted as they crossed the front yard, the cold wind clawing at their coats. René shielded his eyes, boots crunching over a path of worn bricks leading to the house.
The closer they came, the heavier the silence became. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. René glanced back at the horse cab, his brow tightening as something finally caught his eye.
He hadn't noticed it before, but the cab was moving without a driver. The reins hung loosely, untouched, while the horses moved on steadily, as if guided by some unseen hand.
They appeared ordinary enough. Strong, dark-coated horses, their breaths misting faintly in the cold. Nothing about them felt or told unnatural. René reminded himself that such cabs were issued by the government for organizations affiliated with the Church. Surely, nothing out of record could slip through.
Even so, the sight lingered in his mind as they made their way towards the house.
At last, they climbed the short steps and stopped before a door of solid oak. The house loomed above them, its dark brick walls steeped in shadow, its tall windows staring back like unblinking eyes, revealing nothing of what lay within.
"Should we knock?" René's voice came out trembling, whether from the cold or the fear clawing at his spine, he couldn't tell.
Saint shot him a sideways glance, his tone dry. "And what? Expect the ghosts to answer?" His hand hovered near the handle. "If you want to stay alive, keep your mouth shut."
René swallowed the bitter taste of silence. "Alright…" The word barely left his lips.
Saint pressed down on the handle. It moved too easily. The door yielded without resistance, swinging inward with a long, loud creak that scraped against René's nerves.
A hallway stretched before them, narrow and black, as if the light outside had been swallowed whole.
"Almost warm..." Saint spoke, disturbed by the air that seeped out.
Saint raised a finger to his lips without looking back. His boots stepped into the floorboards with a silent thud. Then came the sound of long, aching groans of wood bending under his weight as though the house exhaled with every step.
René hesitated before following the detective inside. The snow clinging to his boots poured into the brown floor wood, leaving ghostly prints. He felt slightly relieved at escaping the wind outside until the silence pressed in. Everything became quiet as if the walls had ears, listening, the darkness had eyes, glaring, waiting for something to unfold.
"Too dark," René muttered silently, not trusting the sound of his own voice. "Got a light?"
Saint's hand extended backward without turning. A small flame sparked on his lighter. The glow barely touched the hallway ahead, only revealing that the shadows didn't retreat but clung to the edges, silently waiting and hiding.
"Stay close," Saint murmured, the weight in his tone leaving no room for argument.
René gave a stiff nod, taking the light and not daring to break the silence.
They moved forward in a darkness that gazed directly at them with silent breaths until a sudden, heavy thud broke the silence. Both men spun around, seeing the entrance door shut.
René's chest tightened as cold panic surged through him. He lunged for the door, hands clawing at the handle. "No, no, this isn't happening!" His voice cracked in a hushed frenzy as he twisted and panicked, handle clinking uselessly in his grip.
"Stop," Saint hissed, his voice sharp and low. "Right now." He pointed towards the wall. "Light the gas lamps. Now."
René froze, then spat a bunch of curses under his breath, stumbling back towards Saint. His hands shook as he flicked the lighter, the tiny flame shivering in the stale air. He lit one lamp, then another.
The glow crawled across the hallway, shadows peeling off the walls like old paint, yet somehow growing longer, stretching towards them like they didn't want to leave.
Both Saint and René moved forward, guided by the faint glow of the gas lamps. Their steps were quiet, yet every board beneath them groaned. The old walls brushed their shoulders, rough and cold to the touch, until they reached what they assumed was the living room.
Saint gestured for René to go first, nodding toward the lighter in his hand. René shot him a defiant look, exhaling sharply, but pressed on, his grip steady.
He inched forward, then bumped into something solid. Slowly, he raised the lighter. A table appeared in the small circle of light.
René cast a quick glance back to be sure Saint was still there. Seeing him brought a small measure of relief. Turning back, he swept the flame across the table, rusty cutlery catching the light.
Curious, he reached for the lid of an old pot. As he lifted it, a swarm of cockroaches scattered, skittering across the wood. René backed away with a muffled curse, the lid clattering to the floor, the sound echoing into silence.
Brushing his clothes, he heard Saint stifle a laugh behind him.
With a long breath, René returned the lighter to the table, and something glinted back at him. He leaned in and found a handheld gas lamp.
"Yes," he whispered, almost triumphant. He struck the fading lighter again and leaned towards the lamp, but before he could light the gaslamp, Saint's hand closed over the handle and pulled it away.
René's eyes flashed with irritation, but Saint only smiled and murmured, "I'll lead the way."
The gas lamp flared to life, casting a stronger light across the room. Two rusted couches came into view, flanking a long table. Two windows, dark and opaque, refused to reveal the world outside. A surprisingly pristine carpet stretched across the floor and faded portraits hung on the walls, their colors lost in shadow.
René gripped the lighter, its faint glow guiding his eyes as he scanned the room. On a stand by the shelves to the left, an open book caught his attention.
"Look," he whispered to Saint, nodding towards the book.
Saint swung the gas lamp's beam toward René. "Check it out. I'll poke around here." He crouched by the couches, his focus shifting to the shadows.
"Something's not right, be careful." Saint became quiet as he began his inspection.
René turned to the book, stepping closer with cautious steps. He leaned in, the lighter's flame flickering over the pages. What language is this? he wondered. Ancient Sylmaril… Do I know it? Maybe. He tilted the lighter, trying to decipher a line.
"Every soul is destined to taste death. Then to Him you shall be returned," he read silently, the words sinking into his mind.
What? His skin prickled. He tried to read it again, but the room's light seemed to dim, the air growing heavy. He stepped back, a chill crawling up his spine.
"Detective," he whispered, eyes fixed on the book. "Come look at this."
The words on the page blurred, and a heavy sensation hit René as if the house was about to fall upon him. Still, he tried to make sense of the book, but nothing held. Each passing second made it harder to maintain focus.
"Detective?" His voice tightened.
He glanced back. Saint was gone. René's breath hitched, his heart pounding as he tried to steady himself. He looked at the stand one last time. The book was gone too, just an empty stand against the shelves.
René blinked, shaking his head, and backed away into the darkness, his eyes locked on the spot where the book should have been.
Calm down, René told himself, pressing a hand to his chest to steady his racing heart. Stay calm.
He backed away slowly, eyes locked on the empty stand where the book had vanished. Something brushed against his back, and he spun left, raising the lighter to pierce the darkness. But nothing was there as if he'd bumped into thin air.
He glanced at the hallway they'd entered through, its shadows lit only by the weak glow of two flickering gas lamps. Creepy as a damn graveyard, he thought, unease settling in.
A faint flicker of light caught the corner of his left eye, gone the instant he turned his head.
René exhaled shakily, deciding to follow it. He moved through the living room, his shoes creaking on the floor, until he reached a pair of open doors leading to another room.
Striking the lighter again, he stepped into the deeper darkness, following the guide of the small flame from behind. Soon, he came to a small table littered with plates of rotting food. He didn't dare smell it, let alone touch it, and kept moving, each step cracking the old floorboards with an unsettling snap.
He reached a hardwood counter holding a tray with four cups. René picked one up, surprised by its clean shine. The coffee inside looked fresh, untouched. He sniffed it cautiously. Still smells good. Someone—no, more than one—was here recently. His gaze hovered over the cups. Four people, to be exact.
He set the cup down and swept the lighter over the counter, revealing a sink jammed next to a stove. Who designs a kitchen like this? So lame. A coffee pot sat on the stove. Curious, he leaned in to peek inside but jerked back when he saw spiders crawling within.
Disgusting... Shaking off the sight, he turned to leave the kitchen, chasing the flicker of light he thought he'd seen.
René moved through the darkness, his steps strangely silent, guided by the lighter's faint glow. He stopped at a pair of double doors. Glancing left, he recognized the way he'd come from, confirming he wasn't lost.
The silence was deafening, broken only by his own shallow breaths. The darkness gnawed at his nerves, but he pressed forward, gripping the lighter tightly.
A faint hissing—or was it a whisper?—drifted from the living room, like a voice beckoning him. He turned towards the pitch-black void, heart pounding, and backed away.
No way I'm going there... Even if something or someone was calling from the shadows, he didn't have the courage to face it. Ignoring the whispers, he moved swiftly but quietly, passing the doors.
Pushing through, he found a staircase leading up. He grabbed the wooden railing, his left hand brushing against the old texture. He began climbing the stairs, the lighter's weak flame barely lighting the steps ahead.
Halfway up, he noticed something on the ground. Kneeling down, he spotted dark stains on the next stair. He slowly touched one, its sticky texture cold under his fingers. Blood? His gut screamed death and fear. He swept the lighter around, searching.
Four long, swept marks scarred the wall near the wall on his right. To the left, the lower railings were scratched, almost torn apart.
René considered the house's age, thinking that maybe the marks were just decay. But deep down, he knew better, his instincts telling otherwise.
Struggle… he thought. A person was dragged upstairs. It might have been that person's last moments, their last struggle...
Even if he didn't want to believe it, both René's instincts and what he saw were enough for him to reach that conclusion.
It was that breathing again. Slow, corroded, chilling. Like the fading wheeze of a dying corpse trying to whisper into René's ear. A murmur carrying something René didn't want to hear.
Pushing himself up slowly, René turned his back and fixed his gaze on the doors at the bottom of the stairs.
Don't move, his instincts told him. Move, and your corpse won't be found. He began to shiver, staring into the pitch-black, not daring to shift, not even daring to raise the lighter in front of him.
The darkness stared back, silent and unmoving. René stood frozen, every second stretching into torment.
Breath… breath… He kept repeating the word inwardly. He shook, but he couldn't make himself move.
It stared at him. René knew there was nothing down there. And still, it stared straight into his eyes.
Finally, he pulled in a breath and tightened his grip on the railing, forcing himself to follow it until he reached a door.
In an instant, he broke into a run up the stairs, never looking back. Blood smeared the steps, the marks of someone dragged, leading straight ahead.
That was the moment he decided not to follow. He kept close to the railing until he reached the top. Turning right, he let the wall guide him towards escape.
He ran. His lighter blew out. Still, he didn't stop. René didn't care if the noise carried, didn't care if it attracted something. All he wanted was to get away.
His hands scraped over the wall until they found a door handle. He seized it, yanked the door open, and slipped inside. Slamming it shut, he slid down against it, breath heaving.
He quickly took out his gun, grabbing it as if his life was depended on it.
The room felt empty. A faint patch of moonlight bled through the window, barely touching the floor. He could see almost nothing. Sitting there, all he could do was watch.
Trying to steady his breath, René leaned against the door, his gaze drifting around the room. Then he noticed a strange darkness in the corner, unnaturally deep.
The longer he looked, the more its shape revealed. A figure seated in a chair, unmoving, unspeaking.
René hugged his legs to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus. He rubbed his head with the gun, thinking his next course of action.
Light, he needed light. He looked for the lighter Saint gave him. For a moment he thought he had dropped it on the way, but soon realized it was in his left palm, bended to a half.
Did I do this... René tried lighting anyways, but to no surprise it failed to give light.
He took a deep breath and grabbed the wall. Slowly standing up, his eyes never left the patch of darkness and his ears listening outside the the door.
He kept the gun close to him, and aimed. Leaning on the wall, René spoke, keeping the distance between.
"Who are you?"
...
Saint crouched beside the couch, brushing his fingers over the carpet. A thin layer of dried blood clung to them.
He brought his fingers close, sniffed the residue, then touched it to his tongue. "Strange," he murmured. It wasn't human—animal, maybe.
He rose halfway and inspected the next couch. The fabric was clean, the air still. No dust had settled yet; someone had been here recently.
"René?" His voice was low, cautious—more a warning than a question.
Nothing answered.
Saint turned. The spot where René had stood was empty.
He took a slow step back, then another, until his shoulder brushed something cold and solid. He turned left, gun drawn.
Only stillness. The silence felt heavy.
Exhaling, he slid the gun back into its holster and stepped to the bookstand. His hand brushed the dusty surface, leaving faint lines behind.
"What were you pointing at?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the silence.
He hovered the gaslamp over the bookshelf. Amid the dust and spiderwebs, a red book caught his attention.
He leaned over and grabbed it carefully, not wanting the bookshelf to fall apart the moment he touched it. The title read: "100 Ways to Survive the Unnatural by Heimlich Hourless."
"As if…" Saint chuckled inwardly, opened a random page, and decided to read the first paragraph, curious what it contained.
"42nd way of surviving: The probability of your dying in an encounter with any kind of unnatural is nearly a hundred percent. However, that small 'nearly' could be what saves your life. Of all the methods I've mentioned so far in this book, this is one of the easiest yet maybe the most effective: shooting in the head. Sometimes using a gun unexpectedly may be the most effective method."
"Hah!" Saint whispered a laugh. "What a bastard." He put the book on the bookstand and finally focused on the problem at hand: finding the missing René.
Turning back, he lightly crossed to the double doors.
"René!" He whispered loudly again. No answer came. He adjusted the gaslamp's light and entered what seemed to be a kitchen.
Saint smelled the fresh scent of coffee but kept his distance from the counter, disgusted by the faint smell of rot.
He followed the darkness, carefully moving towards the next room. He finally found himself at the foot of a staircase.
Suddenly, a loud, frantic running noise erupted from the staircase, retreating upward into the darkness where the gaslight couldn't shine.
Saint stood still, the sound driving the air from his lungs. It was fast, heavy, and frantic—the sound of something desperate to escape.
Then he moved. Saint didn't hesitate; he ran up the stairs, his gun already drawn from its leather. His eyes shifted, instantly catching the bloodstains and the clear signs of a struggle on the railings and the wall, evidence of violence he had no time to process.
The running sound abruptly stopped. Saint waited at the top of the stairs for any sign of movement. But all before him was a bloodbath of a floor, leading straight ahead.
He stopped for a brief moment, then took out a golden coin—a sun with twelve rays of light—and hang it upside down in the air. He enclosed it with both hands.
He whispered into his closed palms: "By the grace of God, for the might of God, and with the glory of God."
Saint pulled his hands away and slammed the necklace onto the ground.
Whispers, sorrowful and nonsensical, filled the air. The darkness coiled around Saint Christopher.
But then, a beam of divine light descended over the house, visible only to them. In a brief, swift moment, the darkness vanished, leaving nothing behind.
Saint lifted his head. The darkness was gone; everything was clear. The windows finally let the moonlight in, but Saint did not stop there.
He swiftly followed the blood, guided by the gaslamp in the faint but visible moonlight.
"Time's running out..."
He quickened his pace, arriving at the end of the corridor where the blood trail ended.
He placed his hand on the door and perceived the horror inside. He saw it not with his eyes, but with the light within him.
Three soulless bodies lay inside, each one mutilated and torn by an unending hunger.
The room was small, yet the pooled blood and lingering curse carried the weight of a lament.
A ritual had been performed, and there were no survivors. Saint could discern this without stepping a foot inside or opening the door.
He let out a small, eased breath, knowing René was not inside.
Saint took a few steps back, then knelt and smeared the fingers of his right hand with the pooling blood.
He rose and went to the door. He then knelt and completed the necessary ritual. Saint drew a circle connecting the corners of the door and placing the golden coin in the middle, temporarily sealing the room.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, gathering his spirit, and extended his senses outward—René's presence revealed itself almost at once.
Rising to his feet, Saint wiped his hands clean with a rag drawn from the inner pocket of his coat. Folding the piece of rag and hiding it in his coat, he made his way over towards the stairs. His movements were unhurried, deliberate.
At the top of the staircase, he turned left and stopped before the first door. The gaslamp in his grasp flickered uncertainly, its flame waning. Whether it was due to the lamp's age or the air itself, he could not tell.
From beyond the door came a voice he did not recognize. Saint's gaze lingered on the handle for a heartbeat before he pushed it open, composed and prepared for whatever might await him beyond.
...
René tightened his grip on the gun, his eyes locked on the deep darkness before him.
He did not expect an answer at first, but then he heard a rustling voice emerge from deep in the shadows.
René felt despair, yet he wasn't alone. He placed a hand on his heart and began praying. Darkness blinded him, yet the light of his faith was not away. He waited for a response from whatever he was up against.
He prayed to the Goddess of the Moon in silence: "In your light I can find peace, by your guide I may never stray, with your hope I am to endure."
René never expected an answer or a miracle, but deep within, a part of him held a profound, unconditional faith in Her.
As he took another step forward, the rustling voice grew louder, shifting to resemble a deep, heavy breathing.
René placed his finger on the trigger. Taking another step towards the dark silhouette, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his right eye, but he did not dare look away.
The heavy breathing grew louder until René could just make out its words.
"Seek... treasure... luck..."
René stood frozen, struggling to make sense of the disturbing rustling voice.
Then suddenly, a light descended out of nowhere, illuminating the room for a blink of an eye.
René threw an arm over his eyes and didn't hesitate to empty the magazine on the chair before him, shouting like a maniac.
He kept pulling the trigger even after the gun was empty, not stopping until the sudden quiet made him realize it was over. He felt as if a burden had been lifted.
Gradually opening his eyes, René saw the room brighter than ever. The moonlight now bathed the room, piercing the clean windows.
René rubbed his eyes, trying to keep them open, and immediately shifted his gaze to the chair before him.
"This ain't real..." A mere doll sat on the chair. Its long black hair was rusted, and its pale face had rotted away.
However, he still felt a disturbing presence lingering. He couldn't decide if it was due to his adrenaline or if something was genuinely there.
A whisper hissed from behind: "Create..."
Just as he was about to turn back, the door burst open.
René immediately whipped the gun up, aiming at the sudden figure in the doorway, and pulled the trigger again and again, but the magazine was empty.
Saint burst in, speaking urgently. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"
He snatched the gun from René's hand. "Let alone shooting me, you're lucky you're even breathing right now."
"Sorry…" René let out a long sigh and sank to the floor.
"I need a break, or I'm going to lose my mind."
"You better be." Saint scanned the room. Only the swinging chair in the corner and the old doll sitting in it caught his attention.
He raised the gaslamp toward the chair and saw the bullet marks in the wall behind it—none had hit the doll or even the chair.
"Either you don't know how to use a gun, or your aim's a disaster." He looked down at René. René met his gaze, and both burst into short, tired laughter.
Saint offered his hand. René took it and stood.
"I think I saw someone in here," René said, calmer now. "It… whispered. Words I couldn't make out."
Saint gave the room one last look before turning to leave. "Yeah. The last person's missing. I know what went down here."
He headed for the door. "Don't touch anything," he warned. "And stay close this time."
"Yes, sir." René followed, giving one last glance at the rusted doll before they left the room.
They descended the stairs, passed through the kitchen, and entered the living room.
A disturbing sight awaited them—black liquid drooling from the ceiling, coating the furniture and dripping onto the floor.
The sound of slow, heavy footsteps echoed from upstairs, each step followed by a fresh stream of dark fluid seeping through the cracks above.
Saint lifted a finger to his lips and gave the gaslamp to René.
René nodded, staying silent.
They moved carefully, avoiding the spreading puddles, every creak of the floor seeming louder than the last. The steps overhead grew fainter, but the presence lingered close.
Finally, they reached the front door, the gaslamp flickering weakly in René's hand.
Saint tried the handle, yet it wouldn't move.
René watched the hallway twist subtly, walls breathing with something unseen.
Saint pulled a hairpin from his pocket. "You know how to pick a lock?"
René spoke, confused.
"Yes?" He took the hairpin and crouched, setting the gaslamp beside him.
Saint retrieved it again, setting it further down the hall for light.
"I can't see!" René hissed.
Saint came back, knelt beside him, and crossed his thumb and finger into a heart shape. A small orb of light shimmered above them.
René stared. "What the hell is that and why didn't you do it sooner?"
"Waste of energy," Saint replied with a faint smile.
René turned back to the lock, his hands trembling.
"It's coming," Saint whispered. "Be quick."
"I know, goddammit." René's voice cracked with both fear and nervous laughter.
The gaslamp flickered and died, plunging the hallway into suffocating darkness. A sharp click echoed as the lock gave way, and a rush of cold air flooded in.
From the shadows, countless pale hands clawed outward, their fingers writhing like smoke, and their skins crumbling like glass.
René's gaze shifted to his own shadow on the wall—dozens of black eyes stared back, whispering in a chilling chorus, "Delorod… Arecyll…" His heart pounded, legs frozen for a heartbeat.
Saint's grip clamped onto René's arm, yanking him towards the open door. "Move!" he yelled.
They stumbled into the cold, biting night, Saint slamming the door shut with a thunderous bang, silencing the whispers as the house's presence recoiled.
René stumbled into the piled snow of the front yard and collapsed onto his back.
"Would you please tell me what the fuck that was?" he gasped.
Above him, three moons hung over an azure sky, their light shifting faintly with the colors of the heavens.
René remembered this familiar cycle, watching and lying cold on the ground.
Saint straightened his collar and answered with his usual calm. "A curse, probably."
He pulled out a cigarette case, placed one between his lips. "Pass me the lighter."
René searched his pockets, certain he'd lost it. To his surprise, the bent lighter was still there.
"I can't guarantee it works." He tossed it over.
Saint caught it without effort. "What have you done to my dear lighter…" He flicked it a few times before giving up on it.
Then he touched the cigarette's tip with his finger, lighting it by hand.
"You'll catch a cold. Get up." He turned towards the cab.
"That's the least of my worries." René sat up, inhaled the freezing air, then followed.
Standing before the cab, he asked, "What about the house? Should we call a priest or an exorcist or something?"
Saint took a slow drag, exhaling a pale cloud. "We'll report it to the department. They'll contact the Church and give orders."
He stared back at the house through the drifting smoke. "I can handle this level of threat—it hasn't fully manifested yet. But something's missing here. This wasn't just four people playing ritual games."
"What do you mean?" René asked, his curiosity breaking the quiet.
Saint drew on his cigarette before answering. "What matters isn't what that thing was or who performed the ritual."
A thin stream of smoke escaped his lips as he continued. "It's who the ritual was for and where they learned how to do it. That's what we should be asking."
"I don't think they even knew who they were reaching out to. No sane person would dare, let alone perform a ritual or pray to an unknown deity." René pulled his coat tighter as the wind bit into his neck.
"You'd be surprised how foolish an ordinary person can be." Saint took one last drag, then dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe.
"Let's go." He brushed the snow from his shoes, opened the cab door, and stepped inside. René followed close behind.
They sat in silence for a while, staring at each other blankly.
"We didn't exactly make sure it stayed a story, did we?" René asked, his tone faintly sarcastic.
Saint gave a weary smile and sighed. "Not with you around. I can't keep you safe and do my job at the same time. Consider it an experience—now rest."
René leaned back, still restless. "You're probably right. But one more thing's been bothering me since we got here."
He leaned toward the curtain behind Saint and pulled it aside. "We don't have a driver. So how exactly—" He stopped, sitting back.
Removing his hat, Saint replied, "Good horses know where to go."
He checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight. Your next dispatch isn't far—be ready."
René let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Ha-ha, very funny. Seriously—how? And what dispatch are we even talking about?" He covered his face with both hands, exasperated.
"Ask the captain, not me." Saint turned and tapped the window twice. The horses started moving on their own.
René groaned. "Alright…" His voice trailed off as he buried his face deeper in his hands.