Simon gave the phone a look, then raised his eyes to the world. Signal was gone, dead as the scene around him.
Up ahead, the old clinic squatted, close enough to smell the stink of the Abyss.
Paint peeled back years ago, rain cutting tracks down the walls. Low, one-story joint, looked like it had been shoved right into the dirt. Crooked nameplate hanging on by a thread, swinging in the breeze like a gallows sign.
He started walking, each step tighter focus. Windows were a blur of grime, some blacked out, some just eaten by time. Walls crawled with spray paint—words gone wild, shapes disappearing into the grit.
A busted barricade leaned against the entrance, NO ENTRY half-rotted across it.
Simon stopped there. Tried to see through the glass, but it was just reflection and shadows. Door didn't give when he pulled, just a hollow rattle, metal on metal. Pushed harder, sound got louder, like something inside was pushing back.
He tried again—rattle, scrape, a muted clang.
Then, sudden—click.
Latch gave way. Door swung open on worn-out hinges, stale air spilling out.
Somewhere deep inside, the faint sound of barking dogs—then nothing but silence, like even the echo thought better of being there.
He walked in. Ain't silence that hits you first—it's the dust. Hanging in a light beam like ghosts circling a lost cause. Caught in his throat, a grit that rasped. He coughed, squinting. Light knifed through the gloom, carving up what was left.
A counter, wood gone sour. Paper trash, edges curled like dying leaves, ink bled by years. He peered close: bills, scribbled nothings, somebody's handwriting that didn't mean a damn thing now. Curtains drawn, stiff as corpses. Whatever show this place put on, it closed a long time back.
He stood behind the stage, a trespasser in someone else's forgotten life. Behind him, benches. Metal, cold. A wall clock stopped at 3:27. Canvases hanging crooked - animals, fields - smiling from their slow rot.
He kicked the door shut. Sound echoed like a bad memory. Then he faced the desk. One drawer at a time. Empty. Pens, crumpled notes, blank forms. Behind the desk, a shelf tilting like a drunk. Bottles huddled together. Labels bleached white. Pills scattered on the floor, turning to dust before he could even get a look.
He glanced at the window beside him. Glass was more like dust now—a film between him and the world's craziness. Nothing clear. Nothing real. He turned, boots crunching the dirt, and kept on walking, deeper into the clinic's guts— deeper into the dark.
His steps, measured and heavy, whispered in the gloom ahead. Spiderwebs hung like grim decorations, still as death, the flashlight from his phone cuttin' a weak swathe. He ducked and weaved, tryin' not to snag himself on the damn things. Then he saw 'em. Boot prints. Not his.
Male, yeah, maybe thirty or so. Headed that way, not from where he came. Another way into the pit, maybe? He stood by the door, nudged it open slow, but it groaned like a dying man. Nothin' but a bare room caught in the dim glow. No windows, just a vent high up. He moved in closer. Cigarette butts, ashes, snack wrappers, crumpled papers, some little bags...a den for some strung-out smoker.
He turned, walked back out. Room number two was on his left, door shut tight. Curiosity gnawed at him. Another half-open door was just a few steps ahead. He twisted the knob, it clicked.
Moment's pause, then he went in. Clothes were scattered, a mess of old shirts and pants. Bed on the left. Long shelf to the right, beer bottles and torn cardboard boxes. He walked to the bed. Not as dusty as the rest of the place. He glanced down. Condoms. Used, by the look of 'em, tossed on the floor like trash. Windows were coated with grime, the whole place screamed of pain. Filled with sadness or... pleasure?
He stood there a long moment, rooted. Maybe if he squinted hard enough, he could see past the rot. But nothing doing.
He swung around, a thought nagging him, something phony, like the phone in his hand.
Room—3.
Beer bottles all over, some busted, some still holding their poison. He edged in. At the heart of the mess, a scorch mark. Not fresh, but something that'd been flamed day after day. His eyes shifted - burned wood stacked in the corner. All he could figure was, this place still had a pulse, however weak.
He turned and walked out. Halfway down the hall, a faint sound snagged his ear. He quieted his steps, hunching to steer clear of whatever webs held this place together, and saw a glint of light from the left.
He crept forward, peering through a slightly ajar door, sunlight leaking in. He hesitated, then faced right, continuing his hunt.
Drip, drip, drip. Leaking pipes, the sound he'd heard before. He flicked the light down. Fresh boot prints. And the drag marks of something heavy. Real heavy.
He followed the trail into the hallway. A drop of water splattered his coat. He didn't flinch, just boots grinding in the dust, until he stopped before room no. 4.
The drag marks ended here. He raised a hand, both gloved in black, the other clutching the phone. He reached for the door. It swung open on its own—no lock, no resistance.
He glanced at the plate before stepping inside. 'Emergency Operation.'
He moved through without breaking stride, his light sweeping the room—empty shelves, a busted stool, a cracked mirror propped against the wall.
Then the beam caught something in the center, smooth and black, laid out on the metal surgery table. He froze. It wasn't a table anymore. The operating bed had become a stage.
He'd found it. The reason for this whole damn expedition. His prize. His gift.
A coffin.
Black. And made of wood.
It shouldn't 'a looked untouched, see? Not in this stinkhole of busted walls, rust, and rot. But there it was, gleaming kinda soft, like time forgot it. Sat there still as a corpse, like someone laid it out special.
He shuffled closer, each step heavier than the last goddamn one. Air changed on him halfway—dust smell gone, something sharp and cold took over. Quiet now, even the drips shut their trap. Just his breathing, slow, soft, too loud almost in all that nothing. Light touched the coffin. And there, smack in the middle, a little black lighter.
Stood straight up like it was just put there, like it was expecting him.
Simon didn't stop till he was right on top of it. Fingers hung in the air a second, tracing the space above it, before he touched it. Cold metal, smoother than he thought it'd be. Picked it up gentle, weight settling in his palm. Flipped it once. Light caught the edges, showing scratches, little scars all over, signs of use. Old, but not thrown away. Initials were there still, faded, hard to make out. Didn't need to read 'em. He knew already.
Didn't look at the coffin right off. Stared at the lighter, thumb on the wheel. Silence pressed hard now. Filled him up inside, all the way to his skull. Then, slow, he moved his thumb. Lid snapped open, clean sound that echoed in the room.
He flicked it once. Spark. Nothing.
Second time, flame coughed to life.
Burned small, steady, golden light shivering above the black metal.
Reflection danced on the coffin, sliding over the edges, across the top, down to the floor. He saw himself in it, stretched out and pale.
Didn't need to open it.
Didn't need to see what was inside.
He knew.
Flame trembled in the breeze seeping through the cracks in the roof. Iron smell got stronger. Mixed with the smoke, faint, almost sweet smell. He felt the room weighing down on him, silence closing in all around.
Lighter jumped once in his hand before he gripped it tight again. Eyes pinned on the coffin, face calm, unreadable, but something behind it—held back, something wanting to move but couldn't find the strength.
Flame flickered once more. Then settled.
He stood there like that a long time, light reflecting in his eyes, silence holding everything still.
And when the wind shifted again, whistling through the cracks, the flame swayed one last time, shrinking to nothing before it died.
The dark was back.
Complete.
Sara, she was up first, smoothing down her coat like she could brush off the grime of the whole damn place. "Alright, then. Let's get out of here." Julian, he followed, adjusting his jacket, a working man's habit. "We find anything, we'll be in touch." They turned for the door, a couple of shadows against the dim light.
At the doorway, Sara stopped, glanced back, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "And," she said, her voice low and tight, "don't breathe a word of this to nobody. Got it?" Daniel nodded quick, eager to please, or maybe just eager to be done with it.
Sara and Julian stepped out. The air felt thick, heavier than before, even though it was the same dull afternoon clinging to the city. As they started down the path, Sara already had her phone out, a nervous habit.
"Who you calling?" Julian asked, leaning in close.
"Nobody," she snapped, sharper than she meant to. Something was eating at her, a cold dread that wouldn't let go. "You need to get Simon. Tell him to get to that place, ASAP."
Julian nodded, already fishing out his own phone, punching in the numbers. The ringing dragged on, a cruel reminder of their helplessness.
Then that smooth, empty voice of the machine: "The person you are trying to reach is currently unreachable. Please try again later."
"Unreachable?" Sara muttered, stopping dead in her tracks. "Where the hell's he at?"
Julian tried another number, scrolling through his contacts, his face grim. "Leader ain't picking up either."
He looked up at her. Her face was pale, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal. "Hey," he said softly, trying to break through the ice. "You gotta chill."
"I am," Sara shot back, but she kept walking, a woman haunted.
"Your face tells a different story," Julian said, trying to lighten things, but the weight of it all was too heavy. He knew why; he could see it in her eyes. He slowed his pace, watching her back for a second before calling out, "And for reasons I sure as hell don't need to spell out, I know exactly what's going through your head."
She stopped, turned around, half-shadowed under the fading light. "..What..?"
Julian smiled faintly, a mix of tired and knowing. "You think he's behind it all, don't you?"
Sara's breath caught in her chest.
He didn't wait for her to answer. "You think he's either with them… or worse, that he *is* the Ghost we've been chasing."
"No." Her voice cracked like a whip.
"He isn't Ghost. He wouldn't do this."
She turned back around, facing the quiet road ahead, alone with her thoughts. For a long second, only the distant hum of traffic filled the space.
Then she spoke again, softer now, almost pleading. "We're just overthinking it, right? You know how he gets. Sometimes life deals the wring hand, but that's all right?"
She glanced back, her tone lowering further. "Even with all of this, I don't see any reason for him to do something like that. And for what?"
Her eyes met Julian's, seeking reassurance she wouldn't find.
"To play with us?"
A ghost of a smile pulled at her lips—one that didn't reach her eyes. A sad, hollow thing.
"Because the Paul I know," she said quietly, like a dark confession, "would never."