Once the jewel of Bamberg, Seehof Palace now lies in melancholic decay, its grand halls silent and overrun by time's creeping touch. The walls, once witnesses to the opulence of the Bamberg Prince-Bishops, now barely hold together, cracks snaking through the stone like the lines of a fading memory. Yet amid the crumbling grandeur, potential flickers. Rolland Hart, as resolute as the palace is frail, envisions a revival. His heart burns with determination to breathe life back into the hollowed corridors and restore the palace to a glory that even time cannot erode. He has taken measures to halt the pillaging, securing the remnants of its past splendor. Among his treasures is a collection of rare and invaluable Rococo sculptures by Ferdinand Tietz. Rolland intends to protect these sculptures and make them the centerpiece of his grand renovations. His ultimate goal is to reopen Seehof Palace to the public so others can once more admire its beauty.
Darque eagerly anticipated talking to his father about the upcoming trip to Japan in September, only a few weeks away. This morning, he planned to ask his father whether he could join the forthcoming expedition. As he approached his father's office, he heard muffled voices beyond the door. His father's voice, though unmistakable, was too faint to make out.
Despite his hesitation, Darque’s need for an answer overcame him. He knocked, hoping his father would hear. There was no response. He knocked again, more firmly. Nothing followed—only footsteps, then the soft scratch of a needle settling onto spinning vinyl. Music began to play, filling the air.
Frustration gnawed at Darque as he bent low, trying to peer through the narrow slit beneath the door. The flickering light played tricks on his eyes, and the shifting shadows beyond seemed to mock his effort. He strained to catch a single word, a hint of what lay behind the door. But the smooth, sultry, overpowering music drowned out any hope of understanding. It was as if the melody were a barrier, keeping him locked out of his father’s world, where Darque’s presence was unwelcome.
“This is pointless,” Darque muttered, recalling his father's strict rule: never disturb him when the music plays, especially if the door is closed. He knew he should wait until the record stopped, but impatience gnawed at him. He knocked once more, rapping his knuckles firmly against the door. Still nothing. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, made a fist, and tapped his knuckles against the door one last time. Defeated, he sank, resting his head on his arm atop his bent knee, trying to calm himself. He would have to wait.
Rolland’s office was less a room than a world unto itself, a domain where shadows wove into the very fabric of the air, thick with the scent of aged parchment, polished mahogany, and the lingering smokiness of a low-burning fire. Time seemed to slow within these walls, held captive by the weight of secrets too dark to see the light of day. Each flicker of the firelight played across the surfaces like ghosts whispering forgotten tales, and the very atmosphere hummed with the energy of a man who bent the world to his will, a man who dealt in power and the unseen.
As one stepped into the room, the eye went straight to a grand mahogany desk, its legs adorned with intricate carvings. The surface bore the scars of countless years, each scratch a witness to its storied past. A brass lamp with a green glass shade cast a warm, mellow light, its glow caressing the delicate edges of brittle pages and the intricate patterns scattered across the desk. Numerous compartments and drawers, brimming with folders, pens, and various oddities, contributed to an organized chaos, hinting at a meticulous yet wildly creative mind.
Behind the desk stood a grand, high-backed black leather chair, akin to a throne befitting a king. Its dark, weathered upholstery spoke of countless hours of deep contemplation and intricate planning. In the flickering firelight, the brass studs gleamed softly, and the chair’s form was molded perfectly to Rolland’s body, bearing the weight of the patriarch of the Hart bloodline.
Bookshelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of their treasures—classic novels, literary anthologies, and scientific journals. Volumes of every shape and size crowded the shelves in chaotic disarray, their spines forming a riot of colors and textures. Some books lay open, half-revealing their secrets, while others teetered in precarious stacks, threatening to spill their knowledge onto the worn red Persian rug below.
The fireplace, a grand black-brick structure, anchored the room with its steady glow. Flames crackled within, casting erratic shadows across the walls and ceiling. Above the mantel, a gilt-framed portrait of a stern-faced Rolland in a midnight-blue suit gazed out, his eyes seemingly following the fire's glint.
The room breathed with quiet, timeless energy in the dim light, a kaleidoscope of twilight shadows as the fading sun dripped gold and crimson through the thin curtains. It was a place for dark secrets, occult whispers, and deep, solitary thoughts the outside world could never fathom. Here, amidst the books, fire, and shadows, one could lose oneself entirely in the endless pursuit of forbidden knowledge and mystery.
An old-fashioned phonograph, its brass horn glinting like an ancient relic, captures and releases sound with captivating elegance. A simple handle on the side, the crank, beckoned with the promise of enchanting motion and music. As gentle hands turned the mechanism, the turntable spun, and the needle descended onto a revolving vinyl record, from whose grooves emerged the mellifluous strains of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" by The Platters. The phonograph's sturdy base, crafted from rich mahogany, bore an age-worn patina that hinted at the wood's timeless beauty.
The melody floated through the dimly lit sanctuary, heavy with unspoken yearning and the bittersweet pang of nostalgia. As the song enveloped them, two figures moved as one, their embrace a tender echo of a love that defied time itself. Yet beneath the delicate dance, a tension simmered—every whispered word, every lingering touch, carried the specter of their shared past and the dark forces that now entwined their fates as tightly as their arms encircled each other. The tall, lithe man held his partner with delicate firmness, his hand resting just below her shoulder blade as his fingers traced idle patterns across the fabric of her dress. With each turn, a cascade of midnight blue shimmered, catching the light until it seemed she wore the night sky itself. His suit, though modest, was impeccably tailored, the dark fabric a perfect contrast to the ethereal glow emanating from their union. She leaned into him, her head nestled against his chest, their hearts beating a shared rhythm. Their feet moved in a slow, deliberate waltz, a dance less about steps than about the quiet conversation of their bodies.
Rolland danced with his wife, their eyes locked in each other’s gaze after a long separation. As they swayed, he whispered into her ear, "Do you remember this song?" She nodded, smiling at his attention as the singer's voice glided over the haunting melody of love, filling her lavender-colored eyes with tears as she listened to the lyrics—
They asked me how I knew my true love was true
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, I, of course replied
"Something here inside cannot be denied"
(Do-do-do, do-do-do, do-do-do, whoa)
They said, "Someday, you'll find all who love are blind
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, when your heart's on fire
You must realize smoke gets in your eyes"
Each note resonated, evoking a deep emotion she could not ignore. It was as if the entire universe had conspired to bring her here, to remind her of life's beauty and of her undying love for her husband.
Rolland whispered, "Veladonna, I've missed you." She closed her eyes as he wrapped his arms around her in a protective embrace, her long black hair spilling over his right side. She felt his steady heartbeat match the music's tempo, pulsing against hers as their bodies moved as one with each graceful step.
Veladonna’s tears fell in silence, her face pressed against his shoulder, where she found both comfort and sorrow. Her voice, though soft, trembled under the weight of her words. “I know you miss me, Rolland. But this… this dark magick is tearing us apart.” Her fingers clutched his shirt as if trying to hold onto the man she once knew, the man who now stood before her, a stranger tangled in forces beyond his control. “Every time you bring me back, a piece of you dies.” Rolland’s grip tightened, his heart a battlefield where love and ambition waged a silent war.
“It’s worth it, Veladonna,” he whispered fiercely, though the words tasted like ash. “I can’t let you go. Not again.”
“I wish you would stop toying with black magick as you do." She loosened her grip on his shirt as he tensed at the comment. Rolland responded dismissively, assuring her he could control the dark arts. But Veladonna wasn't convinced. "And now you've involved my brother’s son, our nephew, in your scheming," she added, her tone laced with disappointment and worry. Rolland didn't appreciate her remark, but he knew better than to argue the point with her.
“He’s proven himself,” Rolland sighed with false assurance, then kissed her neck instead. “I can protect him.”
“Like you protected me?” Veladonna bit her lip, fighting back tears, knowing her last statement would strike a nerve, but it had to be said. The song neared its end, the final notes hanging in the air like the last breath of a dying ember. They slowed, their movements growing languid as if reluctant to let go of the moment. Rolland tilted his head down, his lips brushing her temple in a kiss so gentle it was almost a sigh.
As the phonograph's needle lifted with a soft click, the ensuing silence held the unspoken promise that their dance, like their love, would endure, even when the music had long since faded. She quickly pleaded, “You know that necromancy takes a lot from you.” She let go of his hand. “I worry about these plans of yours.”
Rolland turned around, not answering her, and stared softly into her eyes. He slowly approached, cupped her ears, drew her close, and gently kissed her lips. “Until next time, Dearest.” His eyes glistened with tears as he whispered an incantation, ending the necromancy spell. Veladonna’s body dissolved into dust. Her skull, weighted in his trembling hands, was pure gold. He wiped the top of her skull and placed it carefully on his desk.
The persistent tapping at the door finally drew Rolland's attention. Carefully, he wrapped his wife’s skull in a swath of red velvet, the fabric gently hugging the bone’s contours. His fingers lingered, tracing the soft fabric over what remained of his beloved. With a tender motion, he placed it back in the drawer, ensuring it was nestled securely among other personal mementos that whispered of memories too precious to forget.
Rolland then closed the drawer softly, a silent farewell to his private reverie. Straightening, he turned toward the door, steeling himself for the world beyond his sanctuary of sorrow.
Settling into his chair, he called out, "Come in." The door creaked open, revealing Darque, his steps hesitant, the weight of his father's presence evident. “Is now a good time?” he asked tentatively.
“Of course, please, have a seat.” Rolland gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. “What’s on your mind, Darque?” he asked, noticing his son’s nostrils flare and his eyes brim with unshed tears.
Darque's gaze drifted around the room, his voice barely a whisper. "Was Mother here? I can smell her perfume," he said, his words thick with emotion. The scent conjured memories of warmth and care, starkly contrasting his father's cold, calculated parenting. Rolland stayed silent, his fingers meticulously sorting the papers on his desk. The softest whimper escaped Darque's lips.
"Son?" Rolland's voice cut through the silence, pulling Darque back. He straightened, masking his inner turmoil, and assured his father that everything was fine. He mustered the courage to mention joining Azure and Xavier on their upcoming trip to Japan and tentatively broached Vela's involvement.
"Interestingly, you mention that," Rolland said, a hint of regret in his voice. He rose and crossed the room, placing a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm sorry to say Xavier won't be able to join. His wife is pregnant, and he needs to be with her." With a reassuring smile, he led Darque toward the door. "Your suggestion to take his place is brilliant... and no, your sister won't be part of the first hunt."
Just before closing the door behind them, Rolland added, "An attaché, a mortal witch from the Kotodama bloodline, has been appointed to assist us. I have concerns about their sudden willingness to help my cause. I ask that you keep an eye on the young lady. Can you do that for me?"
Darque nodded, a broad smile spreading across his face.
Hope entered the seventh-floor bedroom, her sanctuary perched high above the relentless pulse of TriBeCa. With its soothing serenity, the room enveloped her like a gentle embrace, starkly contrasting the whirlwind of thoughts that had chased through her mind all day. In this haven, the world outside seemed distant, almost unreal—a place she could forget, if only for a moment, as she took in the space's calming simplicity. At its center, a queen-sized bed lay dressed in crisp white linens, topped with a plush burgundy comforter that carried the faint scent of lavender. Two nightstands flanked the bed, each holding a lamp that bathed the room in a gentle, golden glow. One nightstand held a small vase of fresh flowers, their vibrant hues a delightful contrast to the room's muted palette. The other housed a digital alarm clock, its face a silent keeper of time.
Against the far wall, beneath a large window draped in heavy curtains, stood a sturdy desk. It faced the street, though the curtains cocooned the desk in privacy and intimacy. The functional, uncluttered desk offered a generous workspace. Only a rarely used Macintosh II personal computer and a neatly stacked pile of papers occupied its surface. Nearby, a black-and-white Motorola Dynatac 8000X mobile phone rested in stoic silence.
White crown molding accentuated the room’s dove-gray walls, lending the space a quiet elegance—a deep purple area rug sprawled across the wooden floor, muffling footsteps and warming the expansive room. A piece of art hung on the wall opposite the bed: a 34x23 Patrick Nagel lithograph depicting a pale woman with short black hair. She lay on a blue towel, sipping an orange beverage through a bent straw. The towel draped over her, modestly covering her lower body, while the background shifted in shades of lilac and purple. The lithograph’s vibrant neon colors infused the tranquil space with a focal point of energy.
Hope's gaze fell on her husband, Xavier. He sat shirtless on the floor, clad only in his boxers, surrounded by the pieces of a baby’s crib. The instruction manual lay before him, a cryptic map of uncharted territory. Xavier had never assembled furniture before, not even a simple bookshelf. Hope’s smile widened as she watched him, his brows furrowed in intense concentration, a man on a mission against an army of disassembled crib pieces. He wrestled with the instruction manual, the moment turning almost comical as the words mocked him like a foreign language. Yet something was endearing about his determination—a quality that had drawn her to him from the start. He might have been out of his depth, but he tackled the challenge with the same resolve he brought to everything in his life, making her heart swell with love.
"Wasn’t it thoughtful of Jessica and Azure to buy us the baby’s crib?” she remarked, a glimmer of gratitude in her voice as she watched her husband wrestle with the assembly instructions, the humor of his struggle not lost on her. She drifted closer, her fingers trailing along the beads of perspiration on his neck. “You’re really working up a sweat.”
“It’s over a hundred degrees in here,” he replied, glancing up at her as she sank onto the edge of the bed. "When did the superintendent say he'd come to repair the air conditioning?" He leaned back against her legs, his lips brushing her knees in a fleeting kiss. She murmured that the repair was scheduled for later today, her voice carrying a playful lilt as she suggested he might consider getting dressed. Xavier, however, had other plans. His lips brushed her knee again, lingering as he raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation that sent a quiver of anticipation through her. The heat of his skin against hers, the unspoken promise in his gaze—it all combined to quicken her pulse, tempting her to forget the world outside this room. She looked down at her pajamas and smiled. “I guess I should get dressed, too.”
As the mattress shifted, Xavier, bracing himself on the bed, stood up, nearly unbalancing Hope. He then took her hands and gently guided her toward the bathroom. “How much time do you think we have?” A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. She laughed, cautioning him not to make promises he couldn’t keep. Since becoming pregnant, her desires had surged, and resisting the urge to pull him down onto the bed earlier had tested her willpower. At six months pregnant, even the simplest movements were a challenge, let alone something as impetuous as that.
An hour later, Xavier emerged from the bathroom with a spring in his step, his contented smile suggesting he had made good on his promise. The smile lingered when the phone rang.
With a sigh, he stepped around the scattered crib pieces and answered, his voice shifting effortlessly from the soft intimacy of moments ago to a more businesslike cadence.
“Go for Xavier.”
Yet a trace of warmth remained in his tone, betraying the happiness he had just shared with Hope.
Azure’s voice crackled through the receiver, disappointment coloring every word as he explained that Xavier would miss their trip to Japan. The steady hum of an airplane filled the background.
“So, who’s taking my place?” Xavier asked.
Azure’s answer made him wince.
“Oh, that is a real bummer. Sorry to hear you’re stuck with the obnoxious one.” Xavier chuckled. “Hey, but at least you’ll get to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.”
Movement near the bathroom caught his attention.
Hope stepped into the room with a towel wrapped around her hair and nothing else.
Xavier smiled, unabashedly admiring her pregnant form.
“You know how gorgeous you are?” he called.
Hope snatched the towel from her hair and tossed it at him.
Xavier caught it with one hand.
"Sorry... what was that?" he asked, realizing he had missed Azure’s last comment.
“I said I spoke to Jessica right before I called you. She’s on her way over,” Azure repeated as he settled into his seat. “I know you’re bummed about the trip, but your wife could go into labor any day now. You know I couldn’t be happier for you both.”
As they prepared to depart, the stewardess prompted Azure to end the call.
“I have to go,” he said. “You’d better let me know the second my godson arrives. Take care—I’ll call once I’ve settled in.”
"Hey there, cousin!" Darque exclaimed in his annoying Austrian-accented tone, emerging from the bathroom and dropping into the seat across from him. "I'm so relieved you didn't keep us waiting too long." He wiped a residue of white powder from his nose, sniffing discreetly. "Apologies. The eight-hour flight from Germany was rough... had to Schärfe nehmen, you know, loosen up a bit? Despite appearances, I really can't stand flying." He then revealed that his father had decided to stay behind.
Azure reached into his satchel and pulled out an old, worn book, its cover and spine blank. The book had been given to him by Tanjirō—the one the Kotodama Elder used when he attempted to capture the elusive nekomata. Azure held the book carefully, remembering Tanjirō’s quiet warning and the weight of the first trial ahead.
Opening the book, he found it filled with intricate drawings of various Yōkai, along with methods for luring, capturing, or eliminating them. As he flipped through the pages, he noticed taped notes and additional instructions tucked between them—undoubtedly added by Tanjirō.
Nodding to himself, Azure carefully tucked the book back into his satchel alongside his journal, Vidyudabhi—the parashu, the black axe he had acquired in Thailand—and a collection of magick items they’d need for the mission. He glanced at Darque, watching him intently, then settled back into his seat as the jet taxied down the runway. Azure’s dislike of flying was evident as he nodded to Darque, signaling his intent to nap during the long flight ahead.
As Azure settled into his seat, Darque produced a portable CD Walkman from his bag with the casual grace of someone accustomed to retreating into his world. He slipped the headphones over his ears, shutting out the cabin noise—and perhaps the weight of the journey ahead. Darque pressed play, and the familiar strains of Alphaville's 'Big in Japan' filled his senses, a melodic escape from the turbulence in his mind. As the lyrics flowed through him, he mouthed the words, each line a quiet reminder of their roles and the masks they wore. Lost in the melody, he mouthed the lyrics: “You did what you did to me… Now, it's history, I see… Here's my comeback on the road again… Things will happen while they can… I will wait here for my man tonight… It's easy when you're big in Japan.”
Jessica inhaled deeply, steadying herself as the Rolls-Royce Phantom VI glided to a stop outside 105 Hudson. The limousine's luxurious cocoon stood in stark contrast to the unease tightening like a vice around her chest. She adjusted her blouse with nervous fingers, watching the door swing open. Mārtiņš met her gaze with a courteous nod, his silent promise to wait for her return offering little comfort.
TriBeCa’s elegance seemed to shrink the moment she stepped onto the pavement, leaving her exposed to a gnawing dread that clawed at the edges of her awareness. The sophisticated facade of 105 Hudson loomed before her, its brass-framed glass doors reflecting a tension she couldn’t yet name. A slow, prickling sensation crept up her spine. Something felt wrong.
As she approached, a flicker of confusion crossed her face. The doorman—always there, always smiling—was gone. The front desk sat eerily unoccupied, a half-finished cup of coffee abandoned beside the guest log. The absence was more than unusual; it was a rupture in the building’s rhythm, a small but undeniable sign.
Jessica swallowed hard and pushed forward. The lobby’s silence pressed on her like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the elevator call button. The soft chime rang hollow in the unnatural stillness.
A sudden, jarring crash shattered the silence. Jessica flinched, spinning toward the entrance as the doors burst open. Paramedics surged inside, their movements swift and precise, their faces set with grim determination. The scent of antiseptic and something sharp—metallic, almost coppery—followed them like an omen.
The gurney’s wheels squeaked against the polished floor, each rotation a jarring punctuation of urgency. Jessica barely had time to step aside before they rushed past, their hushed voices blending into the static hum of panic in her mind. The air felt thin, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. Her stomach churned.
“Emergency,” one of them muttered in passing, their explanation clipped and insufficient.
The elevator doors closed. Jessica considered taking the stairs but quickly dismissed the idea. Hope and Xavier lived on the top floor —a daunting climb, especially in her wedge—style shoes.
Fifteen agonizing minutes passed as Jessica waited for the elevator to return. She exhaled sharply and finally sank into a lobby chair, rummaging through her bag until her fingers found the familiar shape of her cassette Walkman.
She slipped the headphones over her ears and pressed play, hoping the music would quiet her racing thoughts. "Beds Are Burning" by Midnight Oil filled her ears—a gift from a classmate, an odd choice that now felt almost prophetic.
A soft chime cut through the steady thrum of the music. The elevator had finally arrived.
Jessica stood quickly and stepped inside, the song still pulsing in her ears. She pressed the top button, then leaned against the wall, mouthing the lyrics:
“The time has come to say fair is fair.”
The elevator doors parted.
Jessica stepped out, the song's refrain still ringing in her ears:
“The time has come, a fact's a fact… It belongs to them; let's give it back…”
She rounded the corner—and froze.
Her breath caught in her throat. The headphones slipped from her ears, the music fading into an empty hum as her mind struggled to process what lay before her.
Xavier stood outside the door, his shirt soaked with crimson, his hands trembling and slick with blood. His broad, unblinking eyes locked onto hers—shock, despair, something deeper, something breaking within him.
The world tilted.
A single, silent question screamed through her mind.
What had happened to Hope?
Xavier swayed. The familiar doorman stood beside him, murmuring, trying to steady him. But Xavier wasn’t hearing him. His gaze, filled with an abyss of despair, locked onto Jessica again—then his legs gave out.
Jessica lunged forward as he collapsed into the doorman’s arms.
Her body moved on autopilot as she rushed toward him, but her mind was a storm of dread, confusion, and denial.
There's no way this is actually happening.
None of it made sense. Yet here was Jessica, staring into Xavier’s tear-streaked face as his bloodstained hands gripped her like a lifeline.
She had to be strong and help.
But creeping terror whispered inside her, coiling around her ribs:
This horror was beyond her.
Beyond understanding. Beyond fixing.
All she could do was hold onto Xavier—
And pray.
That everything would be okay.
“What happened?”
Jessica’s voice trembled as she and the doorman eased Xavier to the floor, propping him against the wall. He was limp, his breathing ragged.
Tears blurred her vision as the doorman spoke—his words uneven and urgent. The paramedics were inside with Hope.
A loud crash shattered the moment.
Jessica winced. The apartment door shuddered violently, the doorknob rattling as if something inside were trying to escape.
Then came the sound—
Muffled pleas. A forceful thud.
The walls reverberated.
Jessica staggered back, an instinctive retreat.
Then—a screech.
Not human. Not natural.
The noise sliced through the air, raw and unearthly, forcing her and the doorman to cover their ears.
Then a chime.
Ding.
The elevator.
The metallic tone rang through the charged silence, an eerie announcement, as if something had arrived.
Jessica's heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat that rang in her ears.
Footsteps.
Sharp. Purposeful.
She turned toward the corridor—empty.
Yet something was present.
A cold breeze curled around her, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The air thickened, humming with a presence she couldn’t see but could feel, brushing past her like a ghost.
The apartment door lurched forward.
Once.
Twice.
Then—slam.
Locked.
Jessica stiffened. Had she imagined it, or had she just heard a voice? A low, muffled command. A demand to secure the door.
Her eyes darted to the doorman. His stunned expression mirrored hers.
The chaos inside had stopped.
Silence seeped through the walls, thick and expectant.
Then—breathing.
Heavy. Close.
Just beyond the door.
Was someone—or something—standing guard?
Xavier stirred.
Jessica’s breath hitched as his eyes flew open in shock. His bloodstained hands trembled before him, his fingers twitching as though the gore might somehow disappear.
Tears streaked down his face.
“Her water broke,” he muttered, his voice raw and fractured. “It happened so fast… I walked her to the bed…”
A sound—inhuman, piercing.
A screech tore through the apartment.
Xavier recoiled, pressing himself against the wall. His chest heaved as terror swallowed him whole.
“It was horrible…” His fingers dug into Jessica’s arm. “There was so much blood.”
His voice cracked. A sob wracked his body.
Jessica froze, her mind reeling.
What had happened to Hope?
The question remained unanswered, lingering in the air.
But the past held the truth.
Just moments earlier…
Hope escorted the apartment maintenance worker to the door and let out a breath of relief once the air conditioner was working again.
“You're a lifesaver, Jaime,” she exclaimed as she opened the door.
Jaime shrugged modestly. “Just a simple fix—flush the valve.”
She smiled, grateful. The door clicked shut behind her as the maintenance worker exited.
Hope stepped into the kitchen.
Golden morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm glow across the countertops. The scent of fresh citrus lingered in the air.
She called over her shoulder, “I’m in the kitchen. Do you need anything?”
Her voice drifted down the hallway.
From somewhere in the bedroom, Xavier responded.
“Water.”
His voice echoed back.
She smiled, reaching for two glasses. “Water... check.”
For now, everything seemed normal.
“We can do water,” Hope muttered with a slight smile, pulling the two glasses from the cupboard.
She hesitated. “I'm going to have juice,” she declared to no one in particular, as if saying it aloud made the decision real.
Her hand moved toward the orange juice—then it stopped.
Her gaze drifted toward the vodka bottle perched on the bar.
A wistful sigh escaped her.
A screwdriver cocktail. How good it would taste.
She gently rubbed her stomach—a silent promise.
"Soon," she murmured.
Not yet. “Right, little one?” Hope rubbed her stomach.
She carefully poured the orange juice, its vibrant hue stark against the clear water set aside for Xavier. The carton thudded softly as she placed it back in the refrigerator.
Then—
A whisper threaded the air, never quite reaching her, yet unmistakable: We shall not harm your child.
Too faint to make out, but unmistakably real.
Hope froze.
Her hand stayed on the refrigerator door, her breath catching in her throat as a static charge raced over her skin, crackling like unseen electricity.
"Xavier?"
Her voice wavered, uncertain.
Silence.
She shook her head, exhaling as she rubbed her arms to ease the goosebumps prickling her skin. A trick of the imagination. Just her thoughts playing tricks on her.
Still, the whisper lingered at the back of her mind—a shadow just out of reach.
She entered the bedroom, balancing the drinks.
Xavier sat on the floor, instructions in front of him, ready to tackle the crib assembly again.
Hope handed him his water and set her juice on the nightstand.
Then—urgency.
She barely acknowledged him as she rushed toward the bathroom, the sudden urge to urinate overtaking her.
“Watch your step!”
Xavier’s warning came too late.
Hope nearly tripped, stumbling over scattered tools and bolts by the bed.
Xavier moved quickly, sweeping them out as she disappeared behind the bathroom door. He sighed, rubbing his forehead, then turned back to the instruction booklet.
The diagrams made little sense.
A mix of excitement and fear came from the bathroom as Hope emerged, her pants soaked. Breathlessly, she told him that her water had broken.
"Six months… It's too early, isn't it?" Xavier asked, springing to his wife's side. As he reached for her, his arms strained against an unexpected force—Hope felt impossibly heavy. He barely caught her before she collapsed, her weight nearly knocking him over.
His breath hitched. Once round and taut, Hope’s stomach felt unnaturally rigid beneath his hands, and—was larger. Much larger. A sickly heat radiated from her skin. His fingers tingled as if an unseen force were repelling them.
Gritting his teeth, Xavier guided her toward the bed, but she barely moved, as if her body were resisting him. "You need to lie down," he insisted, his voice shaking. "I’ll call 911."
Hope groaned in agony, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Hurry!"
Xavier fumbled for his phone, fingers slipping as sweat beaded at his temples. The moment he stepped away, the air in the room thickened—dense, oppressive, charged with something ancient.
A guttural, primal cry ripped from Hope’s throat.
Xavier whipped around.
Her stomach convulsed violently beneath the fabric of her shirt.
“Hope?” His voice was barely audible.
Her body twitched. It expanded and twitched again.
Her eyes rolled back as a horrific sound—muscles tearing, wet and raw—filled the room.
Her fingers dug into the comforter, her body locked in place, each movement taut with agony.
“Babe… I don’t know what’s happening!”
Xavier’s voice cracked—a raw scream of terror.
Hope lurched toward him.
Drool sputtered from her clenched teeth, her mouth trembling as she fought to speak.
Nothing came.
She blinked twice.
Her stomach stretched again—too fast, too unnatural.
Her legs jerked violently.
Then—her hands moved.
Tugging.
Her fingers clutched at her maternity pants—a desperate, silent plea.
Xavier hesitated. No, no, no—this isn't real.
Her body spasmed again.
He moved.
His hands fumbled with the string at her waist, pulling, loosening, and tossing.
Gone.
She slapped her hands against her underwear. Tearing. Pulling. Urging.
Xavier obeyed.
And then—
The room fell into breathless silence.
For just a moment.
A long, agonizing gasp escaped her as she lurched upright, then collapsed back onto the bed, her breath escaping violently, her limbs jerking, a grotesque crackle of muscle and bone filling the air.
A thin, dark line appeared just below Hope’s navel.
It stretched.
A grotesque tear inching upward, slow yet unstoppable.
Blood welled and spilled, sliding over her skin in dark, glistening rivulets.
Xavier’s breath caught.
His mind recoiled, refusing—rejecting—what was unfolding before his eyes.
Then—a pop.
Wet. Sickening. Final.
A slosh.
The gash widened.
Then—a violent jerk.
Her flesh collapsed inward.
Blood erupted, spraying in all directions. Hot. Sticky. Everywhere.
Xavier staggered back, his hands slick with gore, his pulse hammering.
And then—movement.
Something pushed through the ruin of her body.
Talons.
Slick, sharp, glistening.
They curled and flexed.
Then—a beak.
Snapping. Twisting. Hungry.
Xavier gasped.
The world fractured.
Something inside him splintered.
What he was seeing wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
And yet—it was.
A pair of glowing red eyes fixed on him.
Xavier’s scream barely formed before instinct took over.
Run.
His legs moved before his mind could catch up.
He bolted.
The horror chased him, unseen yet everywhere.
Down the hall.
The walls blurred past him, but he caught one last, soul-shattering glimpse—
Taloned nails.
Emerging. Tearing. Reaching.
From inside his wife.
A nightmare.
No—his reality.
Was this because of the job?
Had the occult unleashed this?
He didn’t wait to answer.
He lunged for the front door, stumbling and nearly crashing to the floor.
His fingers fumbled for the knob—twisted it. Yanked it.
The door slammed shut.
A breath.
A second.
Then—
“Oh my god!”
Xavier’s head snapped up.
The doorman stood before him, wide-eyed and frozen.
He had come to investigate the noise complaints.
But Xavier was the noise now.
And inside, behind the locked door, something new had been born.
“What the hell happened?” the doorman recoiled as he took in Xavier’s blood-soaked clothes.
The elevator dinged. Paramedics surged forward, wheeling the gurney at full speed.
“What’s the emergency?” one of them demanded.
Xavier’s lips trembled. He pointed to the door, barely whispering, “Hope… my wife… she’s in labor.”
The gurney rammed into the apartment door as they burst inside, the impact echoing down the hall. The door swung shut behind them with a resounding thud.
Silence.
The living room sprawled before them, unnervingly untouched. White leather couches gleamed in the dim light, and the glass coffee table was immaculate. There was no overturned furniture or shattered glass—only a chilling stillness, as if the room had not yet caught up to the horror that had unfolded.
Raul’s boot squeaked on the polished floor.
“Hope?” Gilbert called out, his voice tight with apprehension.
No response.
A crimson smear trailed down the hallway.
Raul’s breath hitched. He motioned sharply to Gilbert, his fingers curling into a silent warning.
Something was wrong.
Gilbert’s breath quickened as he approached the closed door, the name lingering on his lips. “Hope… we’re here to help…” His voice wavered, his hand trembling as he knocked. “Paramedics… don’t be alarmed…”
The door creaked open under his touch, revealing a scene that sent a shockwave through him. Gilbert stumbled back, colliding with Raul, his face ashen. What they saw in the room was more than they had braced for, and the stark contrast to the pristine living room heightened the horror of what lay beyond.
“What the fuck?” Gilbert gasped.
Hope lay sprawled on the bed, a grotesque nightmare perched atop her—a half-human torso fused with taloned, carrion-birdlike feet and gray-feathered wings. It savagely pecked at her face, feasting. The medics’ abrupt entrance jolted it, and it whipped around, its red eyes narrowing with malevolent intent as it crawled forward.
“Oh shit!” Gilbert yelled as the tactical kit clattered from his hands. He vaulted over Raul, who stood rooted in shock. Raul struggled to regain his senses, catching a glimpse of Gilbert bolting for the door, terror etched deep on his face.
A heavy thud echoed from the bedroom doorway. Raul twisted around to see the birdlike monstrosity advancing, its gaze locked on him. He screamed, scrambling backward across the floor. With a piercing screech, the beast launched itself, wings spread wide, and glided past Raul to crash into Gilbert just as Gilbert’s fingers wrapped around the doorknob. The creature’s weight slammed him against the door, and with a final, blood-curdling shriek, it slashed at his face and neck, ripping him apart instantly.
Raul fled, tearing through the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom, locking the door behind him. He huddled in the shower, trembling, trying to silence his ragged breaths. From the bedroom, the grotesque sounds of tearing flesh resumed, the creature’s frenzied feeding undisturbed. Raul bit his lip hard, desperate to stifle his terror-filled gasps for air as he heard them through the walls.
Rapid footsteps thundered across the hardwood floor, their urgency matched by frantic voices. Someone barked an order to secure the creature—a harpy. What the hell is a harpy? Raul wondered, trembling with fear. A female voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, “Scarlet Protocol engagement authorized.” The creature let out a bone-chilling screech, and Raul clamped his hands over his ears. A man laughed as three muffled shots rang out. “Scarlet Protocol secured.” A low-pitched hum rattled the room, followed by an intense, blinding light. Then, silence.
Raul's heart pounded, a wild drumbeat in his chest, as he stood frozen, teetering on the edge of action. He finally gathered the courage to step out of the bathroom. The bedroom greeted him with an eerie cleanliness, an unsettling contrast to the chaos that had filled it moments before. No patient, no creature, no blood-soaked bedding—everything had vanished as if the shadows had swallowed the horror.
He stumbled into the living room, each step heavy with terror. His mind was a maelstrom of fear and disbelief. The bloody trail was gone, wiped clean as if by an unseen hand. The mobile gurney had vanished, leaving no trace. Raul's breath quickened as he approached the door where his partner’s mutilated body had been. There was nothing. No sign, no remnant of the grisly scene. A wave of grief and horror crashed over him, leaving him gasping in the pristine silence of the living room.
He reached for the door handle, desperation driving him to escape. As his fingers curled around the cold metal, he heard voices on the other side—police, he thought, a spark of hope flickering in the darkness. Relief washed over him, and he turned the doorknob, ready to be saved from this nightmare. But then a gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder. A disembodied voice whispered, chilling and absolute, "You and your partner were never here."
“God…” he muttered, gloom threading through his voice as a humming whirlwind of cool air enveloped him, drawing him into a bright white light. The world shimmered and distorted around him as he groaned, “…I hate New York.”