Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

The air was tinged with the stink of ancient magicks, and he knew that the dangerous environment that he had come to embrace had now been changed forever.

“Fuck me,” the hobgoblin grumbled before spitting a wad of something hard and green onto the ground. “There goes the neighborhood.”

The Deacon Estate

The Shadow Lands

Sixty-seven Years Ago

Deacon had wished them all dead, using every ounce of power his body had stored.

He had never expected to awaken, but his eyes did open and the nightmare that his world had become was reintroduced to him. His wife and son were still dead, his research ransacked. The bodies of his enemies were nowhere to be found, and he had to believe that the spell he had cast had failed.

Weak beyond words, he dragged himself from the basement study, leaving behind the remains of his family.

He hauled himself up the stairs to the first floor, remembering how the estate had moaned and groaned as he’d unleashed his spell, as if being torn asunder in the grip of a powerful storm. He was surprised to see that the old manse had managed to stay in one piece. Although as he lurched through the door and rebounded off the wall, he realized that the house was strangely askew. He was reminded of a family trip to a Coney Island fun house, and almost heard the shrieks of laughter from his son as they made their way through the distorted amusement.

But there was nothing amusing about this.

The ancient spell had come from someplace deep within his memory, something discerned from an arcane tome, deciphered and memorized in the effort to acquire as much ancient arcana as he could store in his human brain.

He passed a mirror that had fallen from the wall and caught a glimpse of himself in the shattered fragments. It appeared that his home was not the only thing changed by the spell. The magick had taken much from his human form, leaving behind not the visage of a man rejuvenated by the life forces of thousands, but an old man in the twilight of his existence.

The spell has taken much, but did it succeed?

Deacon thought he’d had an understanding of what the spell would do, but realized that his translation of the scroll may have been…

Lacking.

The house creaked as he struggled through it. He hoped to see the bodies of the members of the cabal along the way, but found only those of his golem staff, left by his former partners in their assault upon his home.

Did they manage to escape? he wondered. Were my efforts wasted?

Deacon struggled to maintain his footing on floors that bulged upward and then slanted precariously to one side, as he fought to reach the foyer of the grand old home. On aching hands and knees, he crawled up a section of marble floor, then slid down the other side to reach the front doors, now skewed drunkenly to the right.

He reached up, grasped one of the doorknobs, and pulled himself to his feet, the bones in his spine popping loudly as he righted himself. The brass knob was incredibly cold in his gnarled fingers, but, surprisingly, it turned. He tugged on the door and it swung heavily open.

At first his mind rationalized what he saw outside his door as only nighttime in the Catskills, but then he noticed the lack of stars in the sky. And where were the verdant forests just beyond the front gate?

There was only darkness, the blackest he had ever seen.

Slowly it dawned on him. This wasn’t the night at all; he- his entire home — had been transported to somewhere else.

And it didn’t appear to be anyplace on Earth.

The call of inky shadows drew him outside the safety of his home. Deacon squinted into the pitch black, trying to see beyond the ocean of darkness, but there was nothing.

Suddenly, there came the slightest of sounds, and at first he believed he had imagined it, that his mind was attempting to fill the vacuous void that now surrounded him. But then he heard it again: the soft expulsion of breath, like a sigh.

Deacon moved farther from the front door and was about to descend the steps to the stone path that led from the front doors to the gate when he thought he saw movement.

Something darker than the blackness around him.

And then it rushed at him, swimming through the ocean of dark, mouth agape, ready to claim its prey. Even in his prime, Deacon wasn’t sure he would have been fast enough to escape it. The only thought in the magick user’s brain was the hope that the other members of the cabal had met with a similar fate. If that was the case, Deacon would go to his death happily.

A hand fell hard upon his scrawny neck, and Deacon felt himself yanked roughly backward toward the still-open door. A powerful figure now stood where he had been, the sounds of gunfire echoing strangely in the world of shadows.

The attacking beast emitted a high-pitched shriek that caused the hair on Deacon’s body to rise, but the rifle fire was enough to drive it away.

He blinked wildly as he stared at the broad back of the one who had saved him. Slowly the figure turned, and he looked into the pale, tattooed face of the golem Scrimshaw.

“It is dangerous here,” the golem said, moving to his master and pulling him to his feet. “We will need to be careful if we are to venture outside.”

“You should have let the damnable thing take me,” Deacon spat. “There is nothing left to live for.”

“What of your son?” Scrimshaw asked, shouldering the rifle.

“My son?” Deacon asked angrily, looking at the tattooed face of his creation. “My son is dead.”

Scrimshaw slowly shook his head.

“No, master. Your son still lives.”

Remy didn’t immediately recognize the woman as she entered his office. Even though he had known her for years, Carol Berg had never been to his office, and it threw him off a bit to see her there.

“Carol,” he began, a smile making its way across his face as he realized who she was.

“She’s missing, Remy,” Carol said quickly, and it was then that Remy noticed her troubled expression, the lines of worry that had already etched their way into the skin of her face.

She looked ten years older.

“What are you talking about?” he questioned as he stood and moved around his desk toward her. “Who’s missing?”

Carol’s shoulders sagged, and he was afraid that she might fall down. He helped her to the chair in front of his desk and knelt beside her, a comforting hand on her arm.

“What’s happened?” Remy asked gently, trying to remain calm even though his heart was now hammering in his chest in anticipation of what was to come.

“It’s Ashley…We’ve been calling her for days and she hasn’t answered,” Carol said, reaching into her purse to get her phone on some off chance that a call had come in and she hadn’t noticed. “We’ve left message after message…begging her to call us…”

The woman’s voice cracked and she started to cry as she slid her phone back into her purse.

Remy sat back on his haunches, allowing the information to sink in. Ashley Berg was Carol’s daughter. She was also a good friend of Remy’s-more than a friend, really-and had proven herself the most reliable babysitter Marlowe had ever had. He stood and grabbed a box of tissues from his desk, holding it out to Carol.

“Have you called the school?”

Ashley had gone off to Ashmore College in Brattleboro, Vermont, not three weeks ago. They had talked last week, and she was very excited about her classes, living in her own apartment, and finding a part-time job.

Carol nodded as she took the Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. “They said she hasn’t shown up for classes in three days. We called the police and they’re working with the college, but we don’t know what to do.”