The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 143: Evil Magician She Shack

Chapter 143: Evil Magician She Shack

It was a tunnel cut into solid bedrock, a granite corridor stretching into the unknown.

Once they stepped inside they were plagued by a strange unease, a new feeling to all but Crowley, for who it was familiar. Not abject terror, but a type of underlying dread mixed with high-grade irritation. As if large a group of cats yowled non-stop at a pitch higher than a person could hear. You knew it was happening. You knew it was annoying. But your ears denied its existence while your brain demanded you throw a shoe.

Crowley warned them all then, as they moved forward with their flashlights casting against the rough-hewn walls. His voice was a near guttural growl, low and long, emphasizing syllables that rolled the words like marbles past their uncanny jitters to places they'd be remembered:

"Now you listen. She will show you things. Things in your souls. To distract you, to fool. Your fears, your deepest desires, your most painful memories. Your self-declared sins. None of it is real. She will try to control you. You have defenses. USE THEM."

Newt started to turn around. Anathema grabbed him and he paled and shuffled back to Shadwell's side.

"One more thing."

Nobody turned, but their ears perked up.

"Pagers. That's all I was gonna add. Pagers. And.... your item of last resort."

"We got it, Vincent Price," the little witch stated frankly to the demon, "Now please. Can you let us enjoy the nightmare fuel in peace?"

"The more the merrier."

They started in the tunnel, but soon it opened up into a stronghold.

The cavern became a small underground tower.

Down they went, and a deep chasm burrowed straight through the center, and there along its walls arched mezzanines and parapets and terraces, all lining the ramparts winding down into dreadful darkness. Like a great well built by a mad doll house enthusiast, but on a much grandeur scale. Their hearts nearly fell on seeing it, right down the center of the thing.

They were overawed. But not Crowley. His nose picked up much. He smelled the lie.

"Air's stale, and stuffy. It's not as big as you think." Suddenly dropping to a squat, he rummaged around for a rock, and popped back up. And after feeling for a sweet spot, he nodded, and pitched on the mound, letting loose his whole body to fling the stone.

When the projectile connected, some of the world around them fell apart. The sound of shattering erupted and echoed, and they witnessed the far-off mezzanine fall to pieces, and then the one next to it, and so on, mirrors tumbling in a domino effect, a loud cascade of glittering shards. When the wreckage plummeted into the chasm, it met with solid ground.

"It's only three stories down!" Newt breathed, astounded. He looked up. They were at the top, and, he realized, the rooms could be counted by a few dozen. He stared back at Crowley, still posing with one leg up in the air at the end of the wind up, only now slinking back to a standing pose. All around him people started bending over and filling their pockets with stones.

They moved on.

The mirrors didn't pick up their flashlights. Sometimes they didn't show their own reflections. Just the tower and its fake rooms and walls. The group was an ameba, moving through the strange musty fortress with its mazing mirages, moving in step, with a dozen plus eyes looking out.