The Edifice

8. Here We Go Again

The air is warmer here than I remember. In fact, compared to the icy atmosphere of the hallway it almost blisters on the skin of my face. My breath strains under the weight of impossible humidity, tinged with some new bitter, sulfuric scent.

I abandon my coat on the stair railing, the turtleneck and pinafore underneath clashing terrifically with my mud-splattered sneakers. Even now I still feel beads of sweat growing along my spine. Must be some malfunction of the heating system, something I note not to tell my real estate agent when the time comes to sell.

It appears that Lee simply cherry-picked anything he wanted from the cluttered cabinets rather than having done any actual cleaning. If anything, the room is in an even worse state than before, the vials of insidious liquid now shattered into congealing piles upon the concrete. Remembering his petty display at the funeral, it's not hard for me to imagine a similar act of disrespect happening down here.

I do have to thank him for one thing, though.

Strewn in a pile beneath the shelves rest a pile of tattered books, including several familiar notebooks.

"You kept them..." I breathe, rushing my way around the pentagram to inspect them.

Not even the innocuous journals escaped his son's anger unscathed. I flick through the battered pages, almost as saddened by the sight of Bob's hand-writing as I am by the multitude of marks Lee has inflicted on them. I'm forced to shake out the paper before sitting down to read, a torrent of ash pooling on the floor beside me.

In addition for clearly having used the books as his own personal ashtray, most of the pages have been obscured by sooty smears from Lee's large fingerprints. I'm forced to scrap together any legible sentences that I can find like some ancient, frenzied archivist. Luckily the scribbled dates at the top of each page are intact.

From two years ago...

'-coming to the seventh anniversary of Lee's cowardice... ivia is here with me, but I know she's not working. They're so similar ex-... She knows what it is like to grieve a parent. I hope I can be the same to her-... maybe I can talk to them but she wouldn't believ- ... I can't lose her too. Lee was not strong enough for the truth... Would she be afraid if I cured her parents?'

My skin prickles with malaise as I realize I'm the "she" he's talking about. It's one thing to know you're someone's only friend in the world, quite another to find a diary entry dedicated to the fact that you're an orphan.

Cure my parents?

"Bob, you're more than this..." I murmur, more prayer than statement.

The journals beyond the last few years are burned and shredded beyond recognition, but I gain little more insight from the recent ones. A few mentions of Bob's childhood. Several entries on our time together, thankfully focusing on mundanities. One barely distinguishable paragraph describing Patricia Noble, once again mentioning her "cure".

I'm almost nodding off by the time I reach the most recent page, only jolted from my exhaustion by the final date.

One week ago, the day Robert Noble passed away.

'I've found it- ... the last ingredient for the cure is her blood. Her bones won't work, but luckily I have Him instead. He won't delight so see me after so much time spent running. I'll see that he helps- ... I must bring him here. I have the spell- ... his clothes-..."

I think I need a priest. Possibly a Bishop, someone high enough up the chain to wash the awful energy right from this room. Bob's words cling to me like cobwebs, tiny spiders injecting sickening venom beneath my skin. This isn't the side of him I knew. Or maybe I did know this man, simply refusing to see it.

Is it still me he's referring to?

I step back involuntarily, hit by the sudden urge to fling the awful book as far across the room as I can. Tucked between those last few pages is a single slip of plain card, coated in intricate lettering. Squinting, I try to discern the characters themselves, but they seem to be the same obscure symbols Lee had sketched on his jacket.

The awful heat and humming energy of the room has reached a crescendo now, I barely feel far from my earlier faint. Straining to read the hastily scribbled language isn't helping. To my tired eyes, it almost seems as though the ink is moving...

This is ridiculous.

I tuck the single slip of paper into my phone case for the next time I want to play detective at midnight and make my move to leave this place far behind.

Or I try to, at least.

I can't move my legs anymore. A leaden, sinking sensation tugs down from my knees as though I'm wading through mud. No, not wading. Sinking.

"Shit!" My screech echoes with ungodly volume through the cramped basement as the bulb in the ceiling flashes out with a bang, before flickering on and off with dizzying frequency. Trying to wrench my leg free of whatever substance is tugging me down, I lurch forward gracelessly, only succeeding in burying my right hand deep within the ground beneath me.

I can't see. The light flashes out faster and faster, my surrounding blinking in and out of vision. To my horror, the rapid glimpses of my submerged hand show what looks like wet concrete sucking it slowly beneath the level of the floor. I tear against it so hard the screams of effort rip my throat raw, all to no avail.

Neighbors. Bob's property is so damn big that the Beckinsdales' house is a hundred yards of trees and hedging away at least, but I've no choice but to scream for them. Maybe they heard my car drive through. Maybe they're already on their way.

"Help! HELP ME!"

The room has lost all colour but one. All around me, the looping, symmetrical rings of the pentagram have begun to glow.

A burning, ember-orange light sears its way into my retinas as the floor beneath me flickers between light and dark. My hand slides through one of the long lines of the inner star and pain bursts across my skin like it's slid through razor wire. The glow flashes like static electricity up my arm.

"HELP ME!!!"

I'm still sinking. The more and more I thrash the faster the thick, mud-like fluid beneath me tugs at my weight. I lose my left hand into the floor just in the effort to keep my chin above it. The weight is compressing my lungs, ribs cracking with strain as one last cry for help bellows its way from my lungs.

I tilt my head back frantically, anything to delay submerging my face. The seconds turn hollow, time rippling out agonizingly as that awful, cold wetness snakes its way up my cheek. So far under I can't even hear my final scream.

Writhing in terror, I barely remember to take one large, last breath before I'm lost beneath the basement floor. Alone in that icy, sodden dark.

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