Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“I’m off to see the Wizard…,” she began to sing aloud, holding back a near-hysterical giggle, afraid that if she allowed it out, she might never be able to stop.

She started to run again, imagining the awful, pale-faced man with the black, spiraling tattoos all over his face and the wild boy looming up behind her.

“The wonderful Wizard of Oz…” Ashley muttered and sang beneath her breath, squinting into the oncoming darkness in the hallway ahead.

“Ashley!” bellowed a voice from behind her, and she partially turned, dreading to see how close her pursuers actually were. “You don’t want to get lost in this house, Ashley!”

He was right: She didn’t want to get lost in this house. But she didn’t want to end up with him or the boy, Teddy, either, so she kept running, focusing on her song.

“I hear he is a whiz of a wiz if ever there was a wiz…”

Something lurched up from the darkness before her and she wasn’t quick enough to avoid it, colliding full force and sending both of them to the ground. She got back on her feet as the figure she’d hit also rose with a grunt.

The shadow’s head was partially covered by a hood, but his eyes-yellow eyes-the way they looked at her, it was almost as if he knew her.

“I thought I brought you back to the motel.” the figure growled, reaching up to pull the hood from his oddly shaped head.

And that was when Ashley realized that this wasn’t a guy at all, but all she could think of was a twisted mash-up of a munchkin and a flying monkey.

That laugh was upon her again, creeping up from the back of her throat, and this time there was no way she could keep it in. Her sanity began to crumble.

And it was the craziest sound she’d ever heard in her life.

Squire had been drawn to the old house as if his goblin body had been caught in some powerful current.

Whatever was going on there wasn’t good.

Cloaked in shadow, he had watched the sprawling estate vibrate and blur, like he was looking through a pair of unfocused binoculars.

Nope, this wasn’t good at all.

Squire moved closer, and the closer he got, the worse he felt. Whatever was going on there was affecting the whole environment of the shadow realm.

He’d repositioned the golf bag of weapons on his shoulder and searched out a particularly deep path of shadow that would lead him inside the mansion. It had taken him three tries-some of the paths actually collapsed and dispersed-but he’d eventually found one that worked and entered the house.

To find the girl.

What the fuck’s up with this? the goblin thought as he got back on his feet. He could see a look that he’d grown familiar with over the years beginning to appear in her eyes. It was the look of someone about to go over the deep end, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

She started to laugh hysterically, and Squire, feeling bad for her, decided to throw her a line.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked in his friendliest tone.

Her body did a little twitch then, eyes temporarily blinking back the madness.

“Ashley,” she said.

A voice cried out from somewhere down the hall, and Squire could hear the sounds of footsteps approaching. Ashley looked over her shoulder, fear creeping back into her gaze.

“Hey, Ashley,” Squire said, emerging fully from the darkness. “Do you need some help?”

“Who are you?” she asked. The fear was still there, but now it seemed to be tempered with curiosity.

“Someone who can get you out of here, if you want,” he told her. The footsteps were closer now, and the structure began to shake and fade again.

She looked at the darkness of the hallway behind her and then back to him. “How-how do I kn-know that…?” she stammered.

“That you can trust me? Just look at this face.” Squire pointed to his goblin mug. “It’s got trustworthy written all over it.” He held out his hand, sensing that their time was running out. “C’mon, take my hand. I’ll get us both out of here.”

Ashley hesitated as the pale-skinned man and a kid running on all fours came upon them. Squire was familiar with the tattooed dude; he’d tried to kill him a few times out on the paths.

“What do we have here?” the man asked, sizing up the situation. The little kid simply growled.

A gun appeared in the man’s hand, and Squire decided that it was time to go.

He reached out and grabbed Ashley’s hand. “This is gonna feel a little weird,” he said to her; then he yanked her toward a shadow passage that had been opened by whatever was going on in the house. Ashley’s surprised squeal was cut off as Squire pushed her through the opening and into the passage.

The tattooed man immediately began to fire, bullets punching deep holes into the plaster walls as Squire dove to join Ashley in the open path.

He found her frozen in the total darkness.

“Crawl!” he yelled, pushing her forward. “There should be an opening up ahead.”

Squire turned to close the passage behind him, but the shadows in this place had gone wild and would not obey him. The rules were breaking down, and he suddenly realized how dangerous the situation truly was.

“I see you,” said the tattooed man, his white skin practically glowing as he held up a lighter, illuminating the confined space just inside the passage. He extended his arm and fired the gun.

Deacon was bending the world to his whim.

He stood in the open foyer of his home, calling on ancient spells that until now were too powerful for him to manipulate.

Sparks of fire leapt from his outstretched hands, sizzling on the marble floor, providing the only sustained light as the chandelier and the supernaturally powered bulbs in the wall sconces flickered in and out, the greenish glow growing fainter by the seconds.

“Do you see?” Deacon asked the golem staff that watched him from a safe distance. “Do you see what I can do?”

He was also addressing his wife. Even though her body had burned with the dining room, he knew that she was still with him.

Expecting him to fail.

But he was beyond failure now, or would be as soon as he had his revenge.

The shadow realm was fighting him, not wanting to give up the stately home that had been part of its inky environment for so many years.

How dared it think that it could keep him there?

Deacon again flexed magickal muscles that grew stronger and stronger every time he exerted them. The home around him began to violently vibrate, straining against the reality of the shadow place, as he attempted to take it from here to there.

In his mind he pictured it as it was, the Catskill Mountains, where his family had used their substantial wealth to build what was to be their castle, a place were American royalty went to escape the day-to-day stresses of the world. Deacon saw the home as it had been: a vast section of barren woods followed by the wooden skeletal structure that would soon grow its epidermis of wood, plaster, stone, and glass.

He felt a sense of calm pass through his energized form, recalling the joy he’d experienced in the home and what he yearned for again.

Going home to hide.

He heard the voice and whirled around, distracted.

“Veronica?” he called out, half expecting to see her burning form behind him, but there was nothing except the entrance to the parlor. He was about to resume his casting when he heard her again.

At least Stearns will know where to find you.

“What are you going on about?” Deacon demanded, spinning again, his body throwing off sparks of divine fire. He looked to his staff to see if they were hearing it, as well.

“Where is she?” he asked them.

They did not respond, probably fearing that they might anger him.

“I will bring the estate back,” he called out to Veronica. “And then I will deal with Stearns.”