Eldritch Guidance

(Author Note: Obligatory Halloween chapter incoming 🎃 Also, fair warning, this is a long chapter.)

Margaret, a young twenty-year-old bar owner on St. Eld Street, bolted through the rain-slicked alleys of Graheel in the dead of night. Her short brown hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and the relentless drizzle that had begun to fall. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself forward, her boots splashing through murky puddles.

That sound again.

The sharp, wet skriiiitch of something slithering behind her sent a fresh wave of terror through her veins. She didn't dare look back—not yet. Instead, she veered sharply into a narrow alleyway, hoping to lose the thing in the labyrinth of Graheel's backstreets.

But fate was cruel.

The alley ended abruptly in a grimy brick wall, towering and impassable. Margaret skidded to a halt, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Margaret: "N-No!" she yelled, her voice cracking with desperation.

The dripping sound grew louder—slow, deliberate, like something savoring her fear. Swallowing hard, she turned.

There, at the mouth of the alley, stood the thing that had been hunting her.

It was a squirming, writhing mass of slick black tentacles, contorted into a grotesque parody of human shape. Where a head should have been, two glowing red eyes burned like embers in the dark, searing into her soul with an intelligence that made her stomach twist.

A pool of inky water spread at its feet, bubbling as more tendrils slithered forth. Before she could react, one lashed out, coiling around her ankle with a vice-like grip.

Margaret screamed as she was yanked off her feet, her palms scraping against the rough pavement. Blood welled beneath her torn nails as she clawed at the ground, fighting for purchase.

Margaret: "Nooo! Someone! Please help me!" Her voice echoed through the empty alley, swallowed by the night.

The tentacles tightened, dragging her relentlessly toward the creature—toward the abyss that waited beneath it. The stench of salt and decay filled her nostrils as the thing loomed closer, its eyes boring into hers.

Then—

A voice. Distant. Faint.

???: "Margaret?"

Her breath hitched.

???: "Margaret?" The voice called again, clearer now. "Hey, Margaret, are you awake?"

And with that, Margaret woke up from her nightmare.

♦♦♦♦♦

Margaret gasped as she was ripped from the depths of her nightmare, her body lurching forward as if she had been falling. The world snapped back into focus, sharp and disorienting. The scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic filled her nose.

She wasn't in the alley. She wasn't running.

She was sitting at a polished oak table in the Mystic Emporium, its shelves lined with strange artifacts—crystal orbs, jars of preserved plant matter, and leather-bound books.

Across from her, John leaned forward in his immaculate dress suit, a stark contrast to the shop's chaotic arrangement. His crimson eyes studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

John: "Are you okay?" His voice was smooth with a tinge of concern. "You just zoned out on me."

Margaret swallowed, her throat dry. She could still feel the phantom grip of those things around her ankles, the echo of her own screams ringing in her ears.

Margaret: "Yeah… sorry," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I've just been having a hard time sleeping lately."

John's voice was soft, almost lost beneath the low hum of the Emporium's strange artifacts.

John: "Is it because of Corin?"

Margaret's breath caught. She hadn't expected him to say the name aloud—not here, not now. The air between them grew heavy, thick with the unspoken grief that had followed her for twelve long years.

Her fingers tightened around the pendant John had given her, its cold weight a small comfort. She couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, she stared at the floorboards, worn smooth by time and footsteps, and wondered if they still bore the invisible scars of that night—the night Corin had walked down into the basement of The Rusty Tankard and never come back up, only for her to find him hanging from a rope the next day.

Margaret: "Yeah," she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. "It's obvious, isn't it?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "Sorry. I know I'm not exactly… good company right now. But you were one of the few people he trusted. And I just…"

She trailed off, swallowing hard. I just don't want to be alone with this.

John exhaled slowly, his crimson eyes shadowed.

John: "You're not troubling me, Margaret." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "But I don't know if I was as good a friend as you think. If I had been—"

Margaret: "Stop." she cut him off, sharper than she intended. "Corin didn't let anyone in, not really. Not even me, at the end. But you tried. You listened when he talked to you." Her throat tightened. "That meant something. To him. To me."

John sighed, running a hand through his hair.

John: "We both did what we could. But guilt is a poison, Margaret. And you've been drinking it for twelve years." His voice was gentle. "He wouldn't want this for you."

Margaret: "How am I supposed to just move on?" The words tore out of her, raw and broken. A tear slipped free, tracing a hot path down her cheek. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every time I go down into that damn basement—"

John: "Then stop going down there." John's voice was firm, but not unkind. "You don't owe him your suffering. Keep him in your heart, but live. Find something—anything—that brings you joy. That's what he'd want."

A silence settled between them, thick with memory.

John: "It's what I've had to learn, too. For those I've lost."

Something in his tone made Margaret lookup. There was a depth to his sorrow, an age, that went beyond Corin. Beyond anything she understood.

Before she could ask, John started speaking again.

John: "Do you want something to help you sleep again?" he asked, his voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. "You always come by when you're having trouble sleeping."

Margaret shifted in her seat, suddenly self-conscious.

Margaret: "Do I?" She let out a weak laugh, rubbing her temple where a dull ache had begun to form. "Sorry. I really should visit more often just to chat, instead of always asking for something."

John waved a hand dismissively.

John: "It's no trouble. We're neighbors, after all. And if I can help, I will."

His words were kind, but there was something beneath them—an unspoken weight, a quiet understanding of debts and favors in a world where nothing came without cost.

He reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a small, unassuming tin box. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, Margaret's vision warped.

A searing pain lanced through her skull.

For a single, horrifying second, the tin wasn't a tin at all—it was a writhing, pulsating nest of maggots, their slimy bodies squirming over one another in a grotesque dance. Their tiny mouths gaped open, emitting wet, screeching cries that vibrated in her bones.

Then—

Another pulse of pain. The illusion shattered.

The tin was just a tin again, filled with nothing but plain, dried leaves.

Margaret blinked rapidly, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Had she imagined it?

John didn't react. He simply pushed the tin toward her, his expression unreadable.

John: "Just like last time," he said. "Grind them up and mix them into your food. They'll help you sleep."

Her fingers trembled as she took it.

Margaret: "Thank you," she murmured. "I don't know where you even get these things."

John: "Um, it's a trade secret." he said, unwilling to tell her about how things appear in his store.

She knew better than to press. The Emporium and it's owner had always been strange and had a veil of mystery to them.

Standing, she forced a smile.

Margaret: "Well, I should get going. Next time I visit, I'll bring you some special bottles of wine as repayment."

John's smile faded.

John: "Thank you for your generosity," he said dryly. "But I'm not a big drinker. Remember?"

Margaret: "Oh. Right." She flushed, embarrassed. Of course he didn't. She'd never seen him consume any kind of alcohol at all. "Guess I'll think of something else, then."

With a final nod, she tucked the tin into her coat pocket and turned toward the door. The bell above it chimed as she stepped out into the fog-drenched street.

Behind her, John's voice carried, low and deliberate.

John: "Sweet dreams, Margaret."

The words slithered down her spine like a promise—or a warning.

Margaret stepped out onto the rain-slicked cobblestones of St. Eld Street, the doorbell's chime still echoing behind her like a fading whisper. She took a few paces forward before stopping, an inexplicable pull making her turn back.

The Mystic Emporium stood before her, its weathered sign creaking slightly in the damp night air. In the dim glow of the streetlamps, the shop seemed almost to breathe—its darkened windows reflecting the fog in strange, shifting patterns that almost looked like faces pressing against the glass. A shiver ran down her spine.

Why does this place feel so... alive?

She could feel it—a low, pulsing energy radiating from the building, humming against her skin like static before a storm. It wasn't threatening, exactly, but it wasn't natural either. It was the same unsettling sensation she got when she walked past the old churchyard at midnight, or when she caught movement in the corner of her eye only to find nothing there.

Across the street, her bar—The Rusty Tankard—stood in warm contrast, its windows glowing with the familiar amber light of gas lamps.

She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing against the small tin John had given her. It felt warm against her skin.

"Such a strange place. It almost feels like a dream somehow."

The thought lingered as she turned away, crossing the street toward her bar. Behind her, she could have sworn the Emporium's windows darkened further, as if the building itself was watching her go.

♦♦♦♦♦

The bell above the Emporium's door chimed softly as Margaret stepped out into the night. John remained still behind the counter, watching through the frosted glass as her silhouette merged with the fog-shrouded street. Only when the door clicked shut did he allow himself to exhale—a long, weary sigh that carried the weight of centuries.

His crimson eyes dimmed slightly as he leaned against the counter, the polished wood cool beneath his palms. Margaret...

Twelve years. Twelve years since Corin had walked into this very shop, hand-in-hand with her, grinning like a man who had finally found light after an eternity of darkness. John could still picture it—the way Corin's eyes, once hollow with grief, had sparkled when he spoke of her. "She makes me feel alive again," he'd said.

And John had believed him.

He had wanted to believe him.

Because Corin had been one of his first customers.

John's fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms. He remembered the day Corin had first stumbled into the Emporium, filled with sorrow after losing his first love. John, still new to this world, had done what he could—listened, offered what comfort he knew how to give, and watched as Corin slowly pieced himself back together.

It had felt like a victory. Proof that his presence here mattered.

And then—

The basement. The rope. Margaret's screams.

John's jaw tightened. He had replayed that night a thousand times, searching for the moment he should have known, the sign he must have missed. Had Corin said something? Had his smile faltered in those last weeks? Had there been shadows in his voice that John, in his optimism, had dismissed?

If I had been a better friend—

A warm weight pressed against his leg, pulling him from the spiral.

Lunar: "Woof!"

John looked down to see Lunar, his massive white canine friend, gazing up at him with those too-knowing blue eyes. The dog's tail thumped against the floorboards, scattering a few stray motes of dust that glimmered like stars in the candlelight.

John's expression softened.

John: "Aww, is it dinner time?"

Lunar: "Woof!" Lunar confirmed, tongue lolling.

John: "Let's get you fed, then."

As he turned toward the backroom kitchen, the Emporium seemed to exhale around him—shelves creaking, jars clinking softly, as if the very building sought to comfort him.

But beneath it all, beneath Lunar's happy panting and the familiar ritual of scooping kibble into a bowl, John made a silent vow.

This time, I won't fail. I won't fail her like Corin.

♦♦♦♦♦

Margaret's body jerked violently as she tore herself from the clutches of sleep, a strangled scream ripping from her throat.

Margaret: "Ahhh!"

Her hands flew to her chest, fingers clutching at her sweat-drenched nightshirt as if to anchor herself in reality. The remnants of the nightmare still clung to her—the phantom sensation of slick, coiling tendrils around her ankles, the burning stare of those crimson eyes boring into her soul, the terrifying pull of the abyss waiting to swallow her whole.

Moonlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver streaks across her trembling form. She was safe. She was in her room. She was...

Alone.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Her hands fell limply to the mattress, fingers brushing the cold, empty space beside her.

Corin would have known what to do.

The thought was a fresh wound. He would have pulled her close, his voice a steady murmur against her hair—"It's just a dream, Maggie. I've got you." His hands, always so warm, would have chased away the chill of her terror until her heartbeat slowed to match his.

But Corin wasn't here.

The bed was too big. The silence was too loud.

Margaret: "Maybe… John was right. Maybe it is time to finally move on."

The words lingered in the stale air of her bedroom, heavy with twelve years of hesitation. Margaret sat on the edge of her bed, the ghost of her nightmare still clinging to her skin like damp cobwebs. But for the first time in over a decade, the fear of the dream felt distant compared to the weight of what she needed to do.

Margaret: "If I want to move forward… I have to face this."

With a shaky breath, she dressed quickly—jeans, a sweater, anything to armor herself against the chill of memory. Each movement felt deliberate, as if she were preparing for battle. The floorboards groaned under her feet as she crossed the room, their protests echoing her own unease.

The bar below was silent, its usual warmth absent in the predawn gloom. The stools stood like sentinels at the counter, their shadows stretching long across the floor. Margaret moved through the familiar space, her fingers brushing against tables and chairs as if to remind herself that this was still her place, still solid, still real.

Then she reached the kitchen.

And there it was.

The basement door.

It looked so ordinary—just weathered wood and a tarnished brass handle. But it might as well have been the entrance to another world. Her throat tightened. Twelve years of avoidance, twelve years of pretending this door didn't exist, twelve years of hiring others to deal with anything that needed fetching from below.

Because down there, in the dark, was where Corin had left her.

Her fingers hovered over the handle. A part of her expected it to be cold, to burn her, to resist. But when she finally gripped it, it was just a door. Just a thing.

She turned the knob.

The hinges screamed as the door swung open, revealing a yawning mouth of darkness. A stale, damp odor wafted up—mildew, dust, and something else, something faintly metallic that made her stomach twist.

The stairs descended into black.

The flashlight beam cut through the darkness as Margaret descended, each step creaking under her weight like a warning. The air grew thicker the deeper she went, heavy with the scent of damp wood and something faintly sour—like old sweat and forgotten sorrow.

At the bottom, her fingers fumbled along the rough concrete wall until they found the light switch. She hesitated, her breath catching, then flicked it on.

The bulbs buzzed to life with a stutter, their flickering glow revealing a basement frozen in time. Dust motes swirled in the sudden illumination, settling on sagging cardboard boxes, an old workbench crusted with dried paint, and shelves bowed under the weight of neglected inventory. It was all so ordinary. That almost made it worse.

Then she saw it.

The chair.

Knocked onto its side, its legs splayed like a felled animal. Her gaze traveled upward, following the invisible path of memory, to the exposed rafters overhead.

That's where he'd been hanging.

A cold fist clenched around her lungs. For a heartbeat, the room tilted—she could see it again, the way his body had swayed slightly in the draft, the way his face—

Drip.

Her head snapped toward the sound. A bead of water glistened on the edge of the tap, trembling before it fell.

Just your imagination. She wiped her palms on her jeans, willing her pulse to slow. Just like the dreams.

Then, with a sharp exhale, she grabbed the overturned chair and righted it with a thud.

Enough.

She marched to the utility sink, the rubber soles of her shoes sticking slightly to the concrete, and filled a bucket with scalding water. The steam rose in ghostly tendrils as she poured in soap, swirling it until the suds foamed white.

Methodically, she set to work.

Dust swirled as she dragged boxes aside, revealing long-buried relics—a half-empty bottle of Corin's favorite whiskey, a moldering ledger from the bar's early days, a pair of work gloves stiff with disuse. Each object was a landmine, but she didn't flinch. She scrubbed the floors until the water ran gray, wiped down the shelves until the wood grain emerged from beneath the grime, and bundled the rotting cardboard into trash bags.

The overturned chair she kept.

When she finally straightened, sweat sticking her shirt to her back, the basement was transformed. Sunlight now streamed through the high, grimy windows—she hadn't even noticed dawn breaking. The air smelled of pine soap and damp concrete instead of decay.

Margaret dragged the back of her hand across her forehead. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't closure.

But it was a start.

Margaret wiped her brow with the back of her hand, surveying the now-clean basement with exhausted satisfaction. The morning light filtering through the high windows made the space almost unrecognizable—no longer a tomb of memories, but just a room. A place that could be useful again.

Then, as she turned to leave, a glint of cardboard caught her eye.

Tucked in the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of old beer crates, was a box she'd missed. The dust on its lid was undisturbed, the tape yellowed with age. Something about it made her pulse quicken.

She hauled it onto the workbench, the wood groaning under the weight. Inside was a jumble of miscellany—tarnished bottle openers, a cluster of empty mason jars clouded with residue, a scatter of vintage bottle caps that might have been collectibles once. But beneath the debris, something else waited.

Her fingers brushed against worn leather.

Margaret froze.

She knew that texture. Knew the way the edges were slightly curled from being handled too much. Knew the faint scent of bourbon and pencil lead that still clung to it after all these years.

Corin's journal.

Her hands trembled as she lifted it. How had she never seen this before? He'd always scribbled in notebooks, but she'd assumed they'd all been lost or thrown out after… after.

The first page creaked as she opened it.

Margaret's fingers trembled as she traced the desperate lines of Corin's handwriting, each word like a knife twisting in her chest.

"July 12th. The dreams are getting worse."

The ink was smudged in places—from sweat, or tears, she couldn't tell. His writing grew more erratic as she read on, the letters slanting wildly as if he had been scribbling in a frenzy.

"I thought it would stop after a while. But it only got worse and showed no signs of getting better. That...monster is stalking me, and there is nothing I can do about it. I just have to act normal and hope it doesn't notice me, that horrible mass of tentacles."

"Tentacles?" Margaret whispered aloud, her voice barely more than a breath.

A cold shiver raced down her spine.

"No. It couldn't be."

But the description was unmistakable. The writhing limbs. The glowing eyes. The way it watched her in her nightmares.

"Corin had seen it too."

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she flipped deeper into the journal, her eyes scanning frantically for answers. Then, halfway through, she froze.

"The source of this horror is that damn shop across the street. That man is evil made flesh. He pretends to help others but sends monsters after people, haunting both their dreams and waking realities. I thought John was my friend, but he's a liar. He must be kept away from anyone else, lest they fall victim to the same horrors I now face. But I will beat this. I will win. I'll find that man's weakness and banish his evil from this world!"

The words were jagged, furious—so unlike the Corin she had known. The next line had been violently scratched out, the paper torn as if he had gouged the page in a fit of rage or terror.

Margaret's breath came in shallow gasps.

Margaret: "Why was Corin talking about John like that?" she murmured, her mind reeling. "I thought they were friends. Did John… do something to him?"

A memory surfaced—John's crimson eyes, always watching, always knowing. His too-perfect smile. The way things in his shop sometimes moved when no one was looking.

And then there were the leaves.

The ones he had given her to help her sleep.

The ones that sometimes twitched in their tin when she wasn't paying attention.

Her stomach lurched.

Was it possible?

Was the man she had trusted—the one who had comforted her, who had listened when no one else would—really the architect of Corin's torment?

Of hers?

A drop of water splashed onto the journal, smudging the ink.

Then another.

Margaret looked up.

The ceiling above her was dry.

But the puddle on the floor—the one that had been creeping toward her—was now rippling, as if something beneath its surface was stirring.

And in the dim light, she could have sworn she saw a flicker of red, deep in the water's depths.

Watching her.

Waiting.

♦♦♦♦♦

The golden hues of sunset bled through the windows of The Rusty Tankard, casting long shadows across the worn oak bar. It had been a slow day—painfully slow. Only a handful of regulars had trickled in, nursing their drinks in quiet corners before disappearing into the evening. Now, as the last light of day faded, the bar stood nearly empty, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glass and the occasional creak of floorboards.

The sole patron left was Old Man Ken, perched on his usual stool at the far end of the bar like a grizzled monument. His calloused fingers traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the overhead lights. He'd been a fixture in this neighborhood longer than Margaret had been alive, his face as weathered as the bricks of St. Eld Street itself.

Margaret leaned against the counter, idly polishing a pint glass with a rag. The repetitive motion was soothing, something to keep her hands busy while her mind wandered—back to the basement, back to the journal, back to the things she still couldn't explain.

Ken's voice, rough as sandpaper, pulled her from her thoughts.

Ken: "So," he began, a mischievous glint in his milky blue eyes, "when are ya gonna settle down?"

Margaret snorted, setting the glass down with a thud.

Margaret: "Pretty sure I put up a sign on the front door that says 'No flirting with the bartender.'"

Ken raised his hands in mock surrender.

Ken: "Ain't flirtin'! Just makin' an observation." He took a slow sip, smacking his lips before continuing. "S'just surprising, is all. Pretty thing like you, runnin' this place all by yourself. Oughta have someone to share the load."

Margaret's grip tightened around the rag. The words stung more than she cared to admit.

Margaret: "I just… haven't found the right person," she said, forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn't feel. It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth, either. The real reason sat heavy in her chest—a ghost with Corin's face, a love she couldn't bury no matter how hard she tried.

Ken eyed her over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable.

Ken: "Well, don't wait too long," he grunted. "Next thing ya know, you'll be old and wrinkly like me, wonderin' where the years went."

Margaret rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

Margaret: "I'm not too worried. I've got time. I'm only twenty."

Ken: "Hmph." he set his drink down with a decisive clack. "That's what we all say. Then one mornin' ya wake up, and bam—yer bones creak, yer hair's gray, and yer best years are behind ya." He pointed a gnarled finger at her. "Time's a sneaky bastard. Don't let it trick ya."

The glass Margaret was polishing slipped slightly in her grip as her thoughts wandered back to Corin's journal—those frantic, ink-stained pages that had turned her world upside down. The words burned in her memory:

"That man is evil made flesh."

Her fingers tightened around the damp rag. She needed to know more.

Setting the glass down, she leaned against the bar and fixed Ken with what she hoped was a casual glance.

Margaret: "Hey Ken," she began, keeping her tone light, "have you ever talked to that store owner across the street? John?"

The reaction was immediate.

Ken's shoulders tensed, his gnarled fingers freezing around his whiskey glass for just a fraction of a second before he took a deliberate sip. When he lowered the drink, his expression was carefully blank—but his knuckles were white.

Ken: "Aye," he muttered, eyes darting toward the door as if expecting someone to be listening. "Had one or two interactions with the man. Why d'you ask?"

Margaret pretended not to notice the way his voice had gone flat.

Margaret: "Just wondering if he ever seemed... a little strange to you?"

Ken exhaled sharply through his nose, almost a laugh but devoid of humor.

"Nope. Nothing strange about him." He tossed back the rest of his drink in one swift motion, then slapped a few crumpled bills onto the counter. "Think I'm done for the night. Better get going."

Before she could press further, he was already on his feet, his movements uncharacteristically quick for a man his age. The door swung shut behind him with a finality that left the bar eerily silent.

Margaret stared after him, her pulse quickening.

He was scared.

Not just wary—terrified. And worse, he was hiding it. Badly.

Her hands trembled as she pulled Corin's journal from beneath the counter, flipping to the passage she had read earlier. The words seemed to leap off the page:

"I'm too late. There are already others that have been exposed to that evil monster, John. Some of them clearly have no idea what they're dealing with, while others have seen the same glimpses of horror that I have. When I try to talk to them—to those who know —they clam up. They pretend. They lie. As if speaking the truth will summon him.

"But can they not see? If we stood together, we might have a chance. Yet they choose to hide, to play ignorant, to let his poison spread. Cowards. All of them.

"Or maybe... maybe they're just smarter than I am."

The last line was scribbled hastily, as if added in a moment of bleak realization.

Margaret's throat went dry.

Ken hadn't just heard things about John.

He had seen something.

And whatever it was, it had scared him enough to never speak of it again.

Outside, the streetlamp nearest to the Emporium flickered—once, twice—before going dark.

And in the sudden gloom, the shop's crimson-lit windows looked almost like eyes.

Watching.

Waiting.

♦♦♦♦♦

John stared down at the elegant pastry box before him, its contents artfully arranged—delicate golden-brown egg tarts with perfectly fluted crusts, their centers a smooth, sunny yellow. They were beautiful, really. A work of culinary craftsmanship.

And he despised them.

Not that he would ever say so, of course.

He forced a smile, the expression feeling stiff on his face. Across the table, Margaret watched him expectantly, her fingers drumming lightly against the wood. She had gone out of her way to bring these, after all. The least he could do was pretend to appreciate them.

John: "I appreciate the gesture," he said, carefully selecting his words. "But you really didn't have to."

Margaret grinned, nudging the box closer. "I said I'd bring you something as a thank you. And since you don't drink, I figured this might be more up your alley." She pointed proudly at the tarts. "These are from Luna's Bakery—you have to wait in line for an hour just to get a box. They're famous."

Ah, yes. Famous.

John resisted the urge to sigh.

Graheel—and much of the Union—had culinary traditions that bore an uncanny resemblance to those of East Asia back on Earth. Delicate flavors, subtle sweetness, an emphasis on balance rather than indulgence.

And he didn't like the pastries from that region much.

What he wouldn't give for a proper, sugar-laden Danish from earth right now. A buttery, flaky croissant oozing with chocolate. A slice of cake so sweet it made his teeth ache. Or anything from Gix, which had pastries that were more similar to europe.

But no. Instead, he was faced with these egg tarts—barely sweet at all, their filling more custard than dessert.

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John: "They look wonderful," he lied, picking one up with deliberate care. The crust was perfectly crisp, at least.

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes bright.

Margaret: "Try one! They're best fresh."

There was no escaping it now.

John took a bite.

The texture was flawless—silky filling, crisp shell—but the taste was, as expected, mild. A whisper of sweetness, a hint of something that kinda tasted like vanilla, and the distinct, eggy richness that always reminded him of breakfast rather than dessert.

John: "Delicious," he said, swallowing with what he hoped was convincing enthusiasm.

Margaret beamed, oblivious to his internal suffering.

Margaret: "I knew you'd like them!"

John took another bite, silently mourning the sugar-heavy pastries from his former home.

Then again, he supposed this was a small price to pay for her gratitude.

Even if it meant suffering through egg tarts.

Margaret: "Hey John. Do you remember the last thing you and Corin talked about?"

The pastry turned to ash in John's mouth the moment Margaret asked her question.

He set the half-eaten tart down carefully, his fingers lingering on the flaky crust before withdrawing. The cheerful façade he'd maintained since her arrival crumbled like sugar dissolving in bitter tea.

John: "I thought we'd been over this already." His voice was quiet, measured.

Margaret held her breath. She'd asked this question before, but never like this. Never after reading Corin's journal. Never after realizing how much he'd feared the man sitting across from her.

John exhaled, long and slow, before continuing.

John: "The last time we spoke… he kept apologizing to me. Over and over. Said he should have trusted me." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I didn't understand what he meant. I still don't. I thought maybe he regretted not confiding in me more," John continued, his voice hollow. "But I told him… I told him he had you. That if he needed to unburden himself, it should have been with you."

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and humorless.

John: "I thought I was doing the right thing. Pushing him toward the person he loved most. But now…"

Margaret's chest tightened. The journal's accusations screamed in her mind—evil made flesh, monsters in the dark—but the man in front of her looked anything but monstrous. He looked… tired. He had the look of a man who experienced a lifetime's worth of grief and guilt.

Margaret: "John," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Did he ever… did he ever mention seeing things? Things that weren't there?"

John's crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, the pastry forgotten. His fingers steepled together, the dim light casting long shadows across his knuckles.

John: "Hmm, no, he never mentioned anything like that to me," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Why do you ask?"

Margaret: "I found a journal," she blurted out. "His journal. He wrote about having nightmares, about seeing something terrifying—"

She stopped mid sentence, eyes widening. She hadn't meant to say that. She definitely hadn't meant to tell John about it. Yet the words had tumbled out effortlessly, as though something had loosened her tongue.

Across the table, John's expression shifted—just slightly—into something resembling sympathy. But his eyes… his eyes were too attentive, his gaze piercing as a needle.

John: "Oh," he murmured, tilting his head. "So he was dealing with more than just grief." He sighed, rubbing his temple as if recalling something painful. "People with mental illness can hide it well sometimes. I've seen it before."

A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment, Margaret could almost believe his sorrow was genuine. That he truly regretted not seeing the signs.

Margaret's fingers tightened around the edge of the table as she glanced at the clock, its ticking suddenly deafening in the silence. The hands seemed to move too quickly, each second stretching unnaturally.

Margaret: "Yeah, none of us saw it coming," she said abruptly, standing up so fast her chair scraped against the floor. "Oh, would you look at the time—I need to be off."

John blinked, his crimson eyes widening slightly.

John: "Huh? But you just got here." His voice carried genuine confusion, his brow furrowing as he watched her gather her things with frantic energy.

Margaret: "I know, but that line for the pastries took forever," she lied, the words tumbling out too quickly. "And I just remembered I've got some… inventory to sort. We'll have to finish this conversation another time."

John opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

John: "Oh, um, okay," he said slowly. "Next time you visit, I'll have some tea and treats prepared, then."

Margaret barely registered his words. Her pulse roared in her ears, a primal drumbeat urging her to leave, now, go—

She was out the door before he could say another word.

The cold evening air hit her like a slap, sharp and bracing. She didn't look back.

Her feet carried her across the street in quick, uneven strides, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The familiar sign of The Rusty Tankard loomed ahead, its warm glow a beacon of safety.

She fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries to unlock the door.

Finally, she stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind her and twisting the deadbolt with a decisive click.

Only then did she allow herself to collapse against the wood, her chest heaving as if she'd run for miles.

"What the burning abyss was that?"

The moment Margaret had stepped into the Mystic Emporium, she had felt it—a subtle pressure at the back of her skull, like an invisible hand gently cradling her thoughts. At first, she'd dismissed it as nerves, the lingering unease from Corin's journal still fresh in her mind. But then, as she sat across from John, something inexplicable had happened.

She had meant to keep the journal a secret. She had intended to lie.

Yet the words had spilled from her lips effortlessly, as natural as breathing. Only after they were out did she realize—she hadn't wanted to say that.

Now, safely locked inside her bar, Margaret clutched the journal to her chest, her fingers trembling as she flipped back to Corin's frantic scribbles. The passage leapt out at her, the ink dark and desperate:

"The source of that monster's power seems to come from his store somehow. I don't know how, but he is fundamentally linked to it—like they're one and the same. And that store has power over anyone who enters. One of its abilities is to prevent lies. Or, more accurately, to prevent deliberate falsehoods. I'm not entirely sure of the mechanics… but one thing is certain: inside those walls, you cannot speak a false name. I tried introducing myself as 'Tommy' once, and despite my best efforts, I still said 'Corin.'"

Margaret's breath hitched.

That was exactly what had happened to her. She hadn't meant to reveal the journal's existence, yet the moment John asked, the truth had tumbled out unbidden.

But then why had she been able to lie about needing to leave?

She scanned the page again, her eyes darting over Corin's uneven script.

"It's not absolute. The compulsion only seems to trigger on certain truths—things that matter somehow. Names. Direct questions. Secrets that weigh on the soul. But casual lies? Those slip through for some reason. I told John I 'wasn't hungry' once when he offered me tea, and no reaction. But when he asked me about Margaret, I couldn't stop myself from talking about her."

Margaret's stomach twisted.

That explained it. Her claim about "having things to do" was trivial—a white lie, nothing more. But the journal? The journal mattered for some reason. The Emporium had wrung the truth from her like water from a cloth.

She snapped the journal shut, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Corin had been right.

The store was alive.

And John was its heart.

♦♦♦♦♦

From the dim sanctuary of her bedroom, Margaret kept vigil at the window, her fingers pressed against the cool glass as she stared unblinking at the Mystic Emporium across the street.

She had spent hours like this, studying the shop's unassuming façade—its weathered sign, its dust-filmed windows, the way the lamplight from within cast long, shifting shadows that almost looked like they moved on their own. But no matter how long she watched, she saw nothing overtly unnatural. Just an old store in an older building.

Yet she could feel it.

A low, persistent hum in the back of her skull, like the distant echo of a tuning fork struck years ago but never allowed to fade. The Emporium was alive. And it was watching her back.

Then—movement.

A figure emerged from the store, his silhouette unmistakable even from a distance.

John.

Margaret's breath caught.

She had never seen him leave his shop before. Not once in all the years she'd known him. He was as much a fixture of the Emporium as its shelves and strange artifacts—always there, always waiting behind the counter with that knowing smile.

But here he was, strolling down St. Eld Street like any other pedestrian, his polished shoes clicking against the cobblestones. At his side, Lunar trotted obediently, the massive white wolfhound's fur gleaming like fresh snow under the streetlamps.

Margaret's grip on the windowsill tightened.

Corin's journal had been adamant: "That dog is not what it seems. It watches. It listens. And it is far more dangerous than John lets on."

"What was he doing out here? Was he looking for someone? Hunting? Or—"

Her thoughts stuttered as a young man rounded the corner, nearly colliding with John. Margaret recognized him—the baker's son, a cheerful young man who always smelled of cinnamon and yeast.

To her surprise, the two stopped to talk.

John's posture was relaxed, his expression amiable as he nodded along to whatever the boy was saying. The baker's son laughed at something, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture so normal it made Margaret's stomach twist.

Did he know?

Was he aware of the predator standing before him, all sharp smiles and sharper eyes? Or was he like the others—like Ken—pretending ignorance out of fear?

Lunar's ears pricked.

Then, slowly, the dog turned its massive head—and looked straight at Margaret's window.

She jerked back from the glass, her heart hammering.

Margaret pressed herself against the far wall, her back flat against the peeling wallpaper as if she could melt into it. Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Lunar had seen her.

That monstrous dog, with its too-knowing eyes, had looked right at her window. And if it knew she was watching, then John knew.

The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through her.

Then—

The walls breathed.

She jerked her head up just in time to see the plaster ripple like water, the edges of her dresser warping and stretching as if viewed through warped glass. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against her skin like a clammy hand.

Margaret: "Oh no," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Not again—"

She was slipping into a nightmare again.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her temples, and she clutched her head with a whimper. The dripping sound started then—a slow, rhythmic plink… plink… plink—coming from the darkened corner behind her bed.

She didn't need to turn around to know what was there.

The creature.

The thing of writhing shadows and dripping tendrils, its crimson eyes burning into her back, its presence making the very air curdle with the stench of salt and decay.

It was in her room.

Her fingers dug into her scalp, her vision swimming as reality itself unraveled around her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.

But then—

A memory surfaced.

Corin's journal.

"I found if I pretend nothing is amiss, I'm safe. It doesn't harm me. I just don't acknowledge anything is wrong."

Margaret forced herself to exhale, her lungs shuddering.

"Don't look. Don't react. Don't see it."

Gritting her teeth, she straightened, ignoring the way the floorboards beneath her feet had gone soft as mud. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, even as the thing in the corner shifted, its wet, slithering movements sending bile rising in her throat.

One step.

Then another.

She walked—calmly, deliberately—to her bedroom door. The knob twisted like living flesh under her grip, but she refused to flinch.

Behind her, the dripping grew louder.

She didn't turn.

She didn't look.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the pain vanished. The world snapped back into focus, solid and unbroken.

Margaret sagged against the hallway wall, her entire body trembling.

"It worked."

She could understand now why Corin took his own life. If he was experiencing this everyday, of course it would break him, it was breaking her too. She knew this couldn't go on. She needed to end this. She then fliped to the last page of Corin's journal. Corin's final entry was a mess of ink and desperation, the letters jagged and uneven:

"I can't take it anymore. The pretending. The lies. The way they all act like nothing's wrong when the thing is right there, watching us, creating mockeries of us."

Her breath caught as she read on, each word a hammer blow to her already frayed nerves.

"But I found the answer. I've consulted countless experts, every book I could find on the occult, and the only conclusion is this: John is no man. He is an Outsider—a Demon, an evil entity that feeds on our torment. No blade or bullet can destroy such a creature, but I've learned it can be banished."

A shiver raced down her spine.

"I managed to contact a secretive group—obsessed with rotten things, practitioners of the old ways. They crafted for me a Dream Needle—an artifact capable of casting John out of our world forever. The needle was too delicate on its own, so I modified it into a dagger, ensuring the tip remains intact. I've hidden it in the basement. Tomorrow night, I will use it on John. I will free us all from him. And then… then I'll finally be able to mourn."

The entry ended abruptly, pages torn away as if ripped out in haste—or perhaps taken.

Margaret's hands shook.

Corin hadn't just given in to despair.

He had planned to fight.

And now, it was her turn.

The air in the basement was thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood as Margaret descended the stairs, the journal clutched tightly in one hand. The single bulb overhead flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor.

She moved quickly, her breath shallow as she tore through the space with desperate urgency. She overturned shelves, yanked open closets, her fingers scraping against dust and cobwebs. Nothing.

Then—

A loose tile in the far wall, nearly hidden behind a stack of moldering crates.

Her pulse spiked as she pried it free, revealing a shallow recess behind it.

And there, wrapped in oil-stained cloth, was the dagger.

Margaret's breath hitched as she pulled it free, the blade glinting dully in the dim light. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, the metal thin and wicked-sharp. At its core, she could just make out the faintest glimmer of something else—a sliver of silver, no thicker than a hair, embedded within the steel.

The Dream Needle.

Corin's weapon.

Her weapon now.

Margaret's fingers curled around the dagger's hilt, the worn leather grip pressing into her palm like a promise. Moonlight streamed through the bar's windows, painting silver streaks across the blade—a blade that seemed to hum with latent power, as if aware of its purpose.

She stood in the center of her empty tavern, the silence pressing in around her. The Rusty Tankard had never felt so hollow, so frail, compared to what waited across the street.

The nightmares. The creature. The way everyone on St. Eld Street flinched when John's name was spoken.

It all made sense now.

John wasn't just a strange shopkeeper. He was the architect of their suffering, the puppeteer pulling invisible strings, weaving terror into the fabric of their lives. And Corin—poor, broken Corin—had seen the truth. Had tried to fight.

A cold resolve settled in Margaret's chest.

No more hiding. No more pretending the shadows were just shadows, the whispers only the wind.

She slipped the dagger into the inner pocket of her coat, the weight of it against her ribs both comforting and terrifying.

Outside, the streetlamps flickered.

The Mystic Emporium's windows glowed a faint crimson, like embers in the encroaching dark.

♦♦♦♦♦

Margaret sat alone at a corner table in her empty bar, the dagger resting heavily in her lap. Her fingers traced the intricate carvings along its hilt—Corin's last hope, now hers. The dim glow of the overhead lights reflected off the blade, casting fractured shadows across the worn wood grain of the table.

What if I'm wrong?

The thought slithered into her mind, unwelcome but persistent.

What if John was just… John? An eccentric shopkeeper with an unsettling aura, nothing more? What if she was about to murder a man based on the ravings of a grieving lover and her own paranoid delusions?

Her grip on the dagger tightened.

No.

The signs were all there.

Ken's stiffened posture when she mentioned John's name. The way the townspeople averted their eyes when the Emporium was brought up. The journal—Corin's frantic, terrified warnings, scrawled in ink that still felt raw even years later.

And the nightmares.

The thing that stalked her in the dark, its dripping tendrils and burning eyes, seeping into her waking hours.

That was no mere hallucination.

A slow, rhythmic tick-tick-tick filled the silence. Margaret's gaze flicked to the antique clock hanging behind the bar, its brass pendulum swinging like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

The minute hand jerked forward with a final, decisive click.

Midnight.

Margaret exhaled, long and slow.

Margaret: "It's time," she muttered.

The dagger felt suddenly lighter in her hand, as if it had been waiting for this moment too.

She stood, her chair scraping against the floorboards.

Outside, the street was eerily still. No wind. No distant chatter. Even the usual hum of the city seemed muted, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

The Mystic Emporium stood across the way, its windows dark save for a single, flickering light deep within—a candle's glow, weak but unwavering.

Margaret's pulse thundered in her ears as she stepped out into the night, the dagger concealed beneath her coat.

Margaret's boots scraped against the cobblestones as she crossed the deserted street, her breath forming pale ghosts in the cold night air. Every shadow seemed to twist as she passed, every darkened window reflecting movement that wasn't there. The dagger pressed against her ribs, its weight both comforting and damning.

The Mystic Emporium loomed before her, its sign creaking faintly in the still air. The usual hum of energy she felt from the shop was different tonight—thicker, heavier, like the charged silence before a storm.

She tested the handle.

Unlocked.

A humorless smile tugged at her lips. Must be confident no one would dare sneak in.

With one last glance over her shoulder—empty street, darkened windows, no witnesses—she pulled the door open.

And froze.

Instead of the familiar clutter of oddities and the scent of aged parchment, she was met with yawning darkness. The doorway no longer led to the shop, but to a cavernous tunnel, its walls slick with moisture, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic.

Margaret whirled around—only to find the street gone. Behind her stretched more tunnel, jagged rock formations jutting from the walls like broken teeth. The door she'd just stepped through had vanished.

Margaret: "W-What!?!" Her voice echoed unnaturally, swallowed by the oppressive dark.

Then—

A pinprick of red light appeared in the blackness. Then another. And another.

Eyes.

Dozens of them, glowing like embers in the dark, all fixed on her.

From the abyss came a sound—a skittering, clicking noise, like chitinous legs scuttling over stone. It grew louder, closer, until it seemed to come from all around her, from the very walls themselves.

Margaret didn't wait to see what nightmare emerged.

She ran.

Her lungs burned as she sprinted down the tunnel, her boots slipping on the uneven ground. The eyes kept pace, floating just beyond the edges of her vision, the skittering now a deafening cacophony. She dared a glance back—

—and immediately regretted it.

Shadows moved in the dark, wrong shadows, their forms shifting like smoke given sentience. The eyes blinked in unison, a grotesque mimicry of curiosity.

Ahead, a sliver of hope—a wooden door, old and weathered, standing impossibly in the middle of the tunnel. It looked out of place, felt out of place, but Margaret didn't care.

She slammed into it shoulder-first, the wood splintering with a satisfying crack.

The moment Margaret crashed through the door, the world twisted violently around her. Gravity lurched sideways, and suddenly she was falling—not down, but through, tumbling head over heels through a nightmare made flesh.

The tunnel around her pulsed like a living throat, its walls slick with crimson mucus and lined with needle-like teeth that glistened in some unseen light. The air reeked of copper and rotting meat, thick enough to choke on.

Then came the laughter.

High-pitched, unhinged, echoing off the fleshy walls. Margaret twisted mid-fall to see her—a woman in a tattered yet once-elegant nightgown, falling alongside her with manic grace. The woman's form flickered like a broken lantern: one moment a porcelain-skinned beauty with flowing golden hair, the next a grotesque, elongated thing with too many joints and a mouth split ear to ear.

Aria: "I'm the most beautiful! I'm the most beautiful!" the creature shrieked between gales of laughter, her voice warping between dulcet tones and guttural screeches.

Margaret barely had time to process the horror before another door materialized below her—a simple wooden door, floating impossibly in the void of the fleshy tunnel. It swung open as she plummeted toward it, revealing only blackness beyond.

She fell through—

—and icy water swallowed her whole.

The shock of the cold stole her breath. She flailed, disoriented, bubbles streaming from her lips as she spun in the endless dark. Which way was up? The water pressed in from all sides, silent and suffocating.

Then—movement.

Below her, the abyss blinked.

A massive yellow eye, slit with a pupil like a jagged canyon, opened lazily—as if disturbed from sleep. It rolled, unfocused at first, before locking onto her with terrifying clarity.

Margaret's scream erupted in a torrent of panicked bubbles.

The eye alone was larger than an entire building. If this was just the eye, then the thing it belonged to—

She didn't let herself finish the thought.

Kicking wildly, she spotted the door above her, still open, a shaft of blinding white light cutting through the murky depths. She swam with every ounce of strength, her lungs burning, her muscles screaming. The eye twitched, and the water around her stirred—something vast beginning to rise.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the door—

—and she threw herself through.

Margaret gasped as she hit the cobblestones hard, her palms scraping against the rough surface. Water pooled around her, dripping from her clothes as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, coughing and sputtering. The cold night air bit at her skin, but it was the sight of the familiar street that made her heart lurch—Eld Street.

She was back.

A sharp click echoed behind her.

Whirling around, she saw the door of the Mystic Emporium swinging shut on its own, the crimson glow from within fading as it closed. The shop loomed over her, its windows dark and foreboding, the sign creaking faintly in the wind.

"What the hell was that?"

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling as she sprinted across the street toward The Rusty Tankard. Her fingers fumbled with her keys, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she frantically searched for the right one.

"Just get inside. Just get safe."

The key slid into the lock with a satisfying clunk. She threw the door open, stumbling inside before slamming it shut behind her. Leaning against the wood, she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.

???: "Having fun, Margaret?"

The voice was smooth, amused—and utterly unfamiliar.

Margaret's blood turned to ice.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

This wasn't her bar. This was the Mystic Emporium, but something was terribly wrong.

The shadows here moved, slithering along the walls like living things. The shelves were lined with jars that pulsed faintly, their contents shifting unnaturally. The air smelled of burnt sugar and something metallic, thick enough to coat her tongue. It was unlike any other times she had been in this store.

And sitting behind the counter—where John should have been—was an old man she had never seen before.

His white hair was swept back from a face lined with age, his crimson eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. A cane rested against his knee, its pommel a polished silver skull that seemed to grin at her. Beside him, Lunar sat motionless, his blue eyes locked onto Margaret with an intelligence that felt far too human.

Recognition slammed into her like a blow.

Margaret: "You—!" Her voice cracked. "You're the monster from my dreams!"

The old man chuckled, tilting his head.

Onyx: "I suppose that's correct... in a way." He tapped his cane against the floor, the sound echoing unnaturally.

Her hand flew to the dagger hidden beneath her coat. Without hesitation, she yanked it free and hurled it at him with all her strength.

The blade flew true—

—then stopped dead in midair, hovering just inches from Onyx's face.

He didn't even flinch.

Instead, he reached up and plucked the dagger from the air as casually as one might pluck a leaf from a tree. Turning it over in his hands, he examined the blade with mild curiosity before flipping it idly between his fingers.

Onyx examined the dagger with the detached curiosity of a scholar studying an insect pinned to a board. The blade caught the dim light of the Emporium, its edge glinting like a silver thread of fate—one that had just been severed before Margaret's eyes.

Onyx: "Ah," he mused, his voice a velvet-wrapped razor. "Corin's little toy. How... quaint." His crimson eyes flicked up to meet hers, gleaming with something between pity and mockery. "Did you really think a dream needle would work on us here?"

Before Margaret could respond, Onyx flipped the dagger in his grip—and slowly, deliberately, pressed the tip into the center of his right palm.

Margaret's breath hitched.

The blade parted flesh with ease, sliding deeper until the hilt met his skin. Blood welled around the wound, dark and viscous, dripping onto the polished wood of the counter with soft plinks.

Onyx didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He simply watched her, his expression one of mild amusement, as if this were nothing more than a parlor trick.

Margaret's stomach twisted. She took an involuntary step back, her boots scuffing against the floor.

With the same unhurried motion, Onyx withdrew the dagger and turned his hand toward her, displaying the gaping hole left behind. The edges of the wound pulsed faintly, as if alive, before the flesh began to knit itself back together—tendrils of muscle and sinew weaving like spiders' silk until his palm was smooth and unmarked once more.

Margaret: "What kind of monster are you?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Onyx chuckled, wiping the bloodied dagger clean on his sleeve before setting it aside.

Onyx: "Not a monster," he corrected, almost gently. "I'm as human as you are."

Margaret's nails dug into her palms.

Margaret: "Liar."

Onyx's laughter was a dry, rustling sound, like pages turning in an ancient book.

Onyx: "Come now," he chided, tapping his skull-topped cane against the floor. The sound echoed unnaturally through the Emporium. "You know lies don't work here… well, not all lies, anyway."

He leaned forward, his crimson eyes glinting with something between amusement and pity.

Onyx: "It's all part of our promise. No malicious falsehoods beneath this roof—though, admittedly, it's sometimes hard to tell what's malicious and what's merely… convenient." His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So, occasionally, they slip through."

Margaret's fingers fumbled behind her back, grasping for the door handle. She twisted—once, twice—but the knob refused to turn. Panic clawed at her throat as she whirled to face the windows, desperate for any glimpse of escape.

What she saw made her blood run cold.

Eld Street was gone.

Instead, the Emporium floated in an endless abyss of dark water, the pressure of the deep groaning against the glass. Unnatural shapes drifted past—twisted, bioluminescent fish with too many eyes, their forms shifting in and out of focus as if they existed only partially in this world. One pressed against the window, its gaping mouth lined with spiraling teeth, before lazily swimming away.

Margaret's breath came in shallow gasps. She turned back to Onyx, her voice trembling.

Margaret: "Please… let me go."

Onyx sighed, as if disappointed by a child's repeated mistake.

Onyx: "I'm afraid we can't do that, Margaret." He gestured to the dagger on the table between them, its blade still smeared with his blood. "You were going to try and stab our John with this."

Margaret: "I—I promise I won't! Not ever!" she pleaded, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. "Just let me leave!"

Onyx's smile widened, but it wasn't warm. It was the practiced curve of something else pretending at civility.

Onyx: "You already made that promise," he said softly. "And you broke it."

Margaret shook her head, her mind racing.

Margaret: "I don't—I don't know what you're talking about!"

For a long moment, Onyx studied her, his gaze piercing. Then, abruptly, he leaned back, his expression shifting to something like realization.

Onyx: "Oh," he murmured. "You got too into your role. That's why you're doing this."

Margaret stared at him, uncomprehending.

Onyx: "You still don't understand, do you?" he sighed, rubbing his temple as if weary. "Then let me ask you this—"

Lunar: "Woof!" the sudden bark cut through the air, sharp and insistent. His icy blue eyes locked onto Onyx, his tail unmoving.

Onyx waved a dismissive hand.

Onyx: "There's a point to this," he said to the hound before turning back to Margaret. "Now, Margaret—would you please answer my questions? How old are you now?"

Margaret glanced between them—the ancient man with his smile, the monstrous dog that seemed to understand every word. A shiver ran down her spine.

Margaret: "I'm twenty," she said, the answer automatic.

The air in the Emporium grew thick, heavy with the scent of old parchment and something darker—like ozone before a storm. Onyx's crimson eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Onyx: "Good," he murmured, his voice silken. "And when did Corin die?"

Margaret swallowed, the answer automatic.

Margaret: "Twelve years ago."

Onyx: "How old would you have been when Corin died?"

Margaret: "Twenty," she snapped, frustration edging into her voice. "Why are you asking me this?"

Silence.

Onyx didn't move. Didn't blink. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable, as if waiting for a punchline to land. The seconds stretched. Margaret's pulse pounded in her ears. "What was he getting at?"

Finally, Onyx sighed, rubbing his temple as if dealing with a particularly slow student.

Onyx: "Margaret," he said, each syllable dripping with condescension, "that's not how time works."

She opened her mouth to retort, but he continued, his tone almost pitying.

Onyx: "But I understand. When I first took on the role of Onyx, I, too, had a hard time grasping time. Still do." He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "But even I know that would've made you eight years old when you started dating Corin."

Margaret's breath caught.

Margaret: "N-No," she stammered, her voice small. "I was twenty."

Onyx's smile was razor-thin.

Onyx: "You still haven't realized? You read Corin's journal, and yet you still don't understand."

Before she could respond, he reached into the empty air beside him—and pulled.

Corin's journal materialized in his grasp, its leather cover worn and familiar.

Margaret's stomach lurched. How—?

Onyx flipped through the pages with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the text before pausing near the end.

Onyx: "Ah," he mused. "The last few pages were ripped out."

He tutted, as if disappointed by a child's sloppy forgery. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he reached back into the air—this time seizing a wisp of shadow, a tendril of smoke—and cast it onto the journal.

The pages shuddered.

Like roots breaking through soil, paper unfurled from the spine, ink bleeding into existence as if rewriting itself. The torn edges knitted together seamlessly, the missing entries restored.

Margaret's throat went dry.

Onyx flicked a finger—

—and in the space between blinks, she was seated across from him, the journal now inches from her trembling hands.

Onyx: "Why don't you give that a read?" he suggested, his voice deceptively light.

The journal lay before her like an accusation. Like a trap. And Margaret, despite every instinct screaming at her to run, reached for it.

Margaret's hands trembled as she clutched the journal, her eyes scanning the newly restored pages with growing horror. The words seemed to writhe on the page, each sentence unraveling the fragile reality she had clung to for so long.

"I have made a terrible mistake," Corin had written, the ink smudged in places—from tears, perhaps, or shaking hands. "I talked to John and realized he was not the monster I thought he was. No, it's much more tragic than that. He's like me—a normal human trapped in the snare of indescribable horrors and circumstance."

Margaret's breath hitched.

John... human? But that couldn't be right. The nightmares, the shifting shop, the way time itself bent around him—

She read on, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"I'm not sure if he knows the full extent of his influence on the world, but he's under the thumb of those things too. Maybe he made the same mistake I did and wished for something he shouldn't have. John is truly a kind person. I apologized profusely to him, though I'm not sure he completely understood—I was limited in what I could say because of those things around him. But unlike John, I can escape from this horror..."

Margaret turned the page, her fingers shaking. The final entry was shorter, the handwriting jagged, as if scrawled in haste—or despair.

"Margaret, I'm so sorry. I... I just didn't know how to go on without you. You were my everything. When you died, I didn't know what to do. I was stricken with grief for so long. I confided in John about you when I first met him, and he was truly a kind and supportive person. He understood loss—he had lost someone precious too. He knew what to say to make the hurt a little less. But still... I wished so badly to see you again."

A cold dread seeped into Margaret's bones.

When you died.

The words echoed in her skull, sharp and unrelenting.

She forced herself to keep reading.

"And within that cursed place, it answered my wish—in a twisted way. When I returned to my bar, that thing from the store came with me... wearing your form. It looked exactly like you. It had your hair, your smile... but it wasn't you. It was a monster wearing your skin. As long as I pretended it was you, I was safe. But the moment I acknowledged anything was wrong, it unraveled into a monster and... did things to me."

Margaret's vision blurred.

"No. No, no, no—" she internally yelled.

"I can't live like this anymore. Margaret... I'm going to the place you went soon. To get away from that monster that pretends to be you."

The journal slipped from her fingers, hitting the table with a dull thud.

Onyx watched her, his expression unreadable.

Onyx: "Now do you understand?" he asked softly.

Margaret's voice was a whisper, broken and hollow.

Margaret: "...I died."

Onyx nodded.

Onyx: "Correct," he said, his voice like dry parchment. "And then you became the new Margaret. And, frankly, you did a very poor job of it. You were supposed to guide Corin to salvation and you let him die but still kept playing your role…which was fine until you decided to stab John with that dream needle."

Margaret's hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms.

Margaret: "NO! You're wrong! I'm not a monster!"

The words rang hollow even to her own ears.

Lunar: "Woof!" his bark was sharp, almost mocking.

Onyx sighed, rubbing his temple.

Onyx: "Fine," he conceded. "You were right."

Then he stood.

The movement was slow, deliberate—and yet, in an instant, he seemed to loom over her, his shadow stretching impossibly long across the walls of the Emporium. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing down on Margaret like a physical weight.

Onyx: "I think our discussion is over," he murmured, his crimson eyes glinting with cold finality. "Hopefully, the next Margaret will be better."

Next Margaret?

Before she could process the words, the floor beneath her melted.

A pool of inky water surged up from the wooden planks, swallowing her ankles, her knees, her waist—

—and then she was falling, plunging into the abyss.

The shock of the cold stole her breath. Water filled her lungs, her nose, her throat, bitter and suffocating. She thrashed, clawing at the darkness, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to push against. The harder she struggled, the faster she sank.

Above her, the hole she'd fallen through shimmered like a distant moon, its edges framed by the faint outline of the Emporium's floor. And there, peering down at her with detached curiosity, was Onyx.

His expression was unreadable.

Not angry.

Not pleased.

Just waiting.

Margaret's limbs flailed wildly in the freezing black water, her movements growing more desperate as the light above her shrank to a pinprick. Her chest burned with the need to scream, but the abyss swallowed all sound—swallowed her, inch by inch, as she sank deeper into its endless embrace.

Then—

A twitch in her left hand.

She looked down, her vision blurring from the pressure, and watched in horror as her fingers melted.

Skin peeled back like wet parchment, revealing slick, writhing tendrils beneath. The transformation spread up her arm, her flesh dissolving into a mass of coiling darkness, the same inky black as the void around her.

Her other hand followed suit, fingers splitting apart into a dozen grasping appendages. Her legs twisted, bones cracking audibly as they elongated and fused into something sinuous and wrong. The creature from her nightmares—the thing with the glowing red eyes, the thing that had stalked her in dreams and waking moments alike—had always been her.

She had been the monster all along.

A soundless wail tore from her throat as she thrashed, her new limbs lashing out instinctively, reaching for the distant light. She only sank faster, the water pressing in from all sides with crushing weight.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her completely was the faint glow of Onyx's eyes, watching from above—

—and then, darkness.

♦♦♦♦♦

The bell above the door of the Mystic Emporium chimed softly as Margaret entered, her laughter bright and unburdened—a sound John hadn't heard in years. She wasn't alone. Clinging to the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man, she practically glowed with happiness, her cheeks flushed with a joy that reached her eyes in a way John hadn't seen since before Corin's passing.

They both walked up to John and sat in front of him and started explaining the situation to him.

The man—Sam, as she had introduced him—was the picture of rugged charm. His square jaw was clean-shaven, his short buzzcut giving him a no-nonsense air, though the warmth in his eyes softened his otherwise stern features. The way Margaret clung to him, her fingers laced through his, spoke of a love still fresh and exhilarating.

Margaret?: "John!" she beamed, pulling Sam further into the shop. "I finally took your advice and found someone. Sam's been wonderful."

John's surprise was genuine. He hadn't expected this, not with such radiance. But the sight of her happiness eased something in his chest.

John: "I'm so happy for you," he said, his smile warm and sincere. Then, with a playful glint in his eye, he turned to Sam. "I hope she hasn't been giving you too much trouble?"

Sam chuckled, the sound deep and rich.

Sam: "Oh, she's trouble alright," he teased, earning himself a mock-indignant punch from Margaret.

Margaret?: "Rude!" she huffed, though her grin never faltered.

Sam rubbed his arm dramatically before turning back to John, his expression turning earnest.

Sam: "I also wanted to thank you," he said. "Margaret tells me you were really there for her when she needed help. Says you're one of her best friends."

John waved a hand dismissively, though the words touched him more than he let on.

John: "That's sweet of her. I was just doing what I could as a neighbor and a friend."

Sam: "Well, it means a lot to both of us," he said, his voice firm with sincerity.

Margaret squeezed Sam's arm, her excitement bubbling over.

Margaret?: "And guess what? Sam's moving in with me! So you'll be seeing him around a lot."

John: "That's wonderful news,"

Margaret glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed.

Margaret?: "We should get going—I want to introduce Sam to the others in the neighborhood. But we'll stop by again soon!"

John: "Of course," he said, raising a hand in farewell. "Goodbye, you two."

As the door closed behind them, the Emporium settled back into its usual silence.

John exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the spot where Margaret had stood.

He leaned back in his chair, the quiet hum of the Emporium settling around him like a second skin. The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing, but the warmth of Margaret's laughter still lingered in the air—bright, unburdened, alive. It was a sound he hadn't realized he'd missed until now.

"It's been a long time coming," he mused, tracing the rim of an untouched teacup with his thumb. "But finally, Margaret has found a way to move on."

A bittersweet ache settled in his chest. He hadn't been able to save Corin—hadn't been able to pull him back from the edge when grief had coiled too tightly around his heart. But this? This small victory, this fragile happiness? It was something.

His thoughts drifted back to the first time Corin had brought Margaret into the shop. She had been bright-eyed, her laughter easy, her hand tucked securely in Corin's. John had been surprised then—not just by Corin's newfound happiness, but by the name she bore.

Margaret.

The same as the one who had died.

A coincidence? Perhaps. The world had a cruel sense of humor sometimes. But Corin had been so alive in that moment, so unburdened, that John had pushed the thought aside.

Now, watching this new Margaret—her smile unshadowed, her heart open once more—he felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest.

This time was different.

He didn't know how he knew. Perhaps it was the way Sam had looked at her—steady, unwavering, as if he had already decided to stand between her and any storm the world might bring. Perhaps it was the way Margaret had laughed, loud and unselfconscious, as if grief had never touched her.

Or perhaps it was simply that John refused to let history repeat itself.

He had failed Corin. But he didn't fail her.

The shadows in the corner of the shop stirred, a whisper of movement that might have been nothing at all.

♦♦♦♦♦

Margaret and Sam strolled hand-in-hand down Eld Street, their fingers intertwined, their smiles effortless. The afternoon sun bathed the cobblestones in golden light, and the hum of the city around them was ordinary, comforting—just people going about their lives, blissfully unaware of the hidden currents beneath the surface.

To any passerby, they were simply a happy couple, perhaps newly in love, perhaps years into a comfortable rhythm. But as they approached the figure standing motionless in the center of the street, their steps didn't falter.

Onyx.

Dressed in his fine attire, his cane planted firmly before him, he watched them with those crimson eyes—eyes that had seen eternities flicker and fade.

Margaret and Sam didn't stop. They didn't flinch.

As they drew near, they gave him a single, knowing nod.

And for the briefest instant—

—their eyes flashed green.

A flicker, there and gone.

Then they continued on their way, their laughter picking up right where it had left off, as if nothing had happened.

Onyx watched them go, his expression unreadable.

Onyx: "Perhaps this Margaret will do better," he mused aloud, his voice low, "if she has someone to assist her. Help her avoid… complications."

His gaze drifted toward the Mystic Emporium, its windows dark, its secrets locked away behind layers of infinity and paradoxes.

Onyx: "I wonder," he murmured, "if John will remain ignorant… or if he'll finally ask the right questions."

A pause. A sigh.

Then, with a final glance at the retreating couple, Onyx adjusted his grip on his cane and resumed his stroll down Eld Street—just another old man, just another face in the crowd.