London, October 1990. The sky above New Scotland Yard looked like a rotting bruise, greyish purple and damp. However, for Arnold McDaniel, the bad weather outside is still much better than the air inside his office.
Arnold lit a Marlboro cigarette, letting the smoke waft through the pile of yellowed documents. His office was in a corner of the ground floor, next to a noisy generator room. On the door, there was half-peeled gold writing that read : OCCULT DETECTIVE DEPARTMENT.
"Occultism," Arnold muttered sarcastically, his voice as rough as sandpaper. He hit the lever of his Underwood typewriter with a violent jerk. Clack!
To him, the department's name was simply a euphemism for "Crazy Dumpster." For the past ten years, his job has not been hunting demons or ghosts, but dealing with cults that brainwash teenagers, or catching fraudsters who claim to be able to talk to the dead. He is a detective surrounded by myths, but only believes in what he can handcuff and put in a prison cell.
"McDaniel!" a rough baritone voice interrupted her reverie.
A high-ranking police officer, Inspector Miller, stood in the doorway with no intention of entering. He covered his nose, looking disgusted at the pile of papers and overflowing ashtray.
"Still busy with your mystic crap, Arnold? There's a new report from the central bureau. A man in Greenwich claims to have seen a cloud shaped like a human face crying. Take care of that before he makes a fuss on the radio," Miller chuckled, laughing dismissively.
Her name is Pareidolia, Miller. "A psychological phenomenon, not an occult one," Arnold answered without turning around. "You don't need a detective for that, you need a psychiatrist."
"Well, unfortunately our psychiatrist is busy dealing with people who are completely crazy because of politics. You take care of the rest. Good job, 'Witch'." Miller left with the sound of boots echoing in the quiet corridor.
Arnold took a deep breath, took the paper out of his typewriter. He stared at the blank report. On the wall, there was a calendar showing the date October 12, 1990. Nothing special. The world is still stuck in a recession, tensions in the Middle East, and boring pop songs on the radio.
However, just as he was about to turn off his flickering desk lamp, something happened.
The typewriter in front of him that he had just removed the paper from started ticking by itself.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Arnold froze. His hand slowly reached for the gun holster at his waist. His eyes narrowed as he watched the typewriter lever move at a constant speed, as if there were invisible fingers dancing across it.
He looked at the empty scroll. There, without any ink touching the ribbon, words began to emerge, etched deeply into the fibers of the paper as if pressed by a force beyond physics.
"LOOK FOR ME, ARNOLD. THE BEAUTY WILL BEGIN SOON."
Just as the last word printed, the light bulb above his head exploded, showering the room in shards of glass. In the sudden darkness, there was only one light: the glowing embers of Arnold's cigarette, and the unfamiliar scent that suddenly wafted through the musty smell of paper.
Not the smell of smoke. Not the smell of dust.
It was the fresh scent of lotus flowers, as if his stuffy underground office had just turned into a garden amidst eternal spring.
Arnold McDaniel had no idea that in that very second, the laws of logic he had worshiped his entire life had just been ripped from beneath his feet.