Punishment Halls

Beyond the throbbing of his brain, the words continued to ring through Claude’s thoughts like a blaring alarm, each distorted syllable a hammer strike against the insides of his skull. Their message, alien and insistent, threatened to rupture the soft tissue of his consciousness, its intensity building to a deafening crescendo that nearly overwhelmed his senses entirely —far more fierce than any before it.

Once the last vestiges of the intrusive thoughts faded, leaving behind a residual static in his mind, the midnight pull of the void took center stage. The darkness was so absolute that up and down lost all meaning; only the violent lurches of his stomach during free-fall serving as an indicator that, indeed, was still yet to splat against the unseen bottom.

Before panic could fully set in, an unnerving sensation enveloped him. Unseen hands seemed to reach out from the black, grasping at his limbs and clothes with ethereal fingers —slowing his descent in the act. The air around him thickened again, becoming viscous and resistant like swimming through molasses.

But even this surreal experience was fated to end abruptly as gravity demanded its inescapable tribute.

In a sudden jolt that knocked the wind from his lungs, Claude crashed against a rigid surface. His lean frame recoiled from the impact, bouncing before surrendering to immobility. Though the landing was far from gentle, with pain blossoming through every fiber of his being, it didn’t result in the gruesome splatter he had half-expected. Instead, he found his face pressed against what felt like a plush, velvety carpet.

How did he exactly survive, or even how long did he lie there, chest heaving unevenly? Claude wasn’t sure. Every inch of him ached, but ultimately he managed to groan his way up, raising a trembling hand to his palpitating forehead.

His fingers came away sticky and warm, and he could make out a dark smear of blood resting on them —though only due to the reflection of the infrared light that dominated the space against the fresh liquid.

“Cavendish?” A stern voice cut through the murk of his disorientation. The detective blinked, trying to focus on the blurry figure now approaching. Cole, his features coming into view, etched with poorly concealed concern behind his customary frown. “What the hell happened to you? Did you fall here all the way from the fucking top?”

There was incredulity in the officer’s voice, as if he were expecting Claude to reveal it all as part of an elaborate magic trick. Before he could’ve made fun of such a question, strong hands gripped his frame, hauling him roughly back to his feet. The world tilted alarmingly, and soon enough he found himself leaning heavily against Cole’s solid frame, fighting to regain his equilibrium.

“Easy now.” Cole muttered, supporting his light weight without much difficulty. There was a small tone of kindness in his voice, with Claude finding himself unexpectedly unsurprised by it. “It’s a miracle you’re still in one piece.”

From nearby came the sound of heavy footsteps, and though he quickly regretted the sudden movement, Claude couldn’t help but turn his head towards them —Detective Aerugino, commandingly descending the last few steps of the crimson stairwell. The veteran’s face was set in a thoughtful frown, as he tried to gauge the height of the unattainable ceiling above them.

“That ain’t right.” Jagdhund mused, tracing the path of his impossible fall, piercing black eyes transmitting a mix of suspicion and begrudging curiosity. “We should’ve seen him crash down.”

As his vision began to finally clear, Claude became aware of their surroundings for the first time. The red carpet beneath their feet stretched out into an impossibly long hallway —or more like a tunnel, really.

The deep crimson hue of its walls almost pulsed with an inner light, and though they appeared stable at first glance, beneath their elegant gilding patterns they held a subtle falseness to them —shifting on their foundations almost as if breathing.

Inside this nether underground, an invisible cloud permeated its cold atmosphere in the shape of a dense air, reeking of fresh paint and turpentine.

“Are we really still inside the mansion?” Claude managed to ask, though neither of his colleagues could answer as he made an effort to steady himself without aid. “Is it possible to go back?”

Jagdhund and Cole exchanged a brief glance. It was likely that they hadn’t even considered that the return trip could pose any difficulty.

“Someone does need to go up.” The officer announced, parting from a Claude who signaled with a hand that he required no further support. “I’ll bring a medical team to check on the detective, and to give this weird pit a proper cordon to keep anyone else from falling.”

>> “I suggest neither of you move from here. Let’s be cautious, okay?”

The familiar prickle at the back of his neck returned as he watched Cole turn to ascend the staircase. Something about this place felt heavy, reminiscent of the times he’d unwittingly step into a séance. Yet this wasn’t quite the same… This time, a more malevolent presence seeped from all around them, tainting every breath with a faint whisper of danger.

Claude suppressed a shudder, his amber eyes narrowing as he studied the unstable surroundings. He already suspected their exit wouldn’t be quite as straightforward as their entrance, and sure enough, confirmation would swiftly arrive.

Cole didn’t manage to get much progress in the stairwell before one of his boots sank straight into them, as if they were nothing more than a pool of fresh paint. The officer stumbled, eyes widening in shock as he stretched a hand to the rail in order to maintain his footing. With any subsequent attempt to stabilize himself, let alone climb further, the steps twisted and stretched upwards, elongating impossibly into the darkness above.

Inky splotches began to ooze down the walls as the facade of normalcy was discarded. Viscous, dark smears that resembled congealed blood more than paint merged effortlessly with the red hues of their surroundings, creating a surreal, nightmarish visage that writhed in unholy life.

“What in the—” Cole’s voice was coarse with barely contained fright as he stumbled backwards, falling on his back in the haste to retreat from the distorting structure. Paint clung to his boots and uniform pants… But it didn’t appear immediately dangerous.

Jagdhund’s hand instinctively moved towards his holstered weapon, though he refrained from further action. His expression indicated that he had never seen anything like this before, and Claude considered it an achievement of its own to witness the old dog at a complete loss for words.

The rookie, however, remained calm. A part of him had already expected this development, so rather than panicking, he tried to piece together any fragment of his old life that could be of assistance now. What was clear, at least, was that whatever force held reign here it wouldn’t let them as easily leave.

“I doubt we’re going to achieve anything by staying put.” Claude broke the dumbfounded tension that had taken hold of the two men, his gaze drawn to the impossibly long hallway extending before them. “And I don’t see anywhere else we could go.”

A quiet understanding passed between them, as Cole returned to his feet and Jagdhund’s shoulders eased. It was fairly strange for Claude to be the one taking the lead, but it was the natural conclusion given that this wasn’t any ordinary investigation.

To discard the rules of the surface world would serve him better, though he doubted these two more serious men were exactly eager to do so.

First there was Cole tinkering with his service radio and phone, cursing to himself once neither appeared to work. Then there was Jagdhund, whose scowl could bore a hole in his head if he wasn’t so accustomed to his grouchiness.

“You seem oddly enthusiastic about this, Cavendish.” The old man said almost as a reprimand, with Claude giving an apologetic shrug of his shoulders before replying.

“Let’s say that I’m a tiny bit more accepting of strange phenomena.” He was certainly overstating his experience, but they needed some reassurance. Here was to hoping that his boasts wouldn’t come back to bite him in the future. “There must be something we can do, even when trapped down here.”

>> “I know that we can solve this case together.”

His comments were accompanied by hopeful eyes and a genuine smile, though perhaps they didn’t appear quite as convincing under his still wobbly feet in addition to the blood drying on his temple. There was an effect, considering Cole and Jagdhund’s spirits appeared to recover somewhat —probably more in stubborn refusal to be calmed by Claude, rather than genuine embracing of this ghost story situation.

“Just get a damn move on.” After an exasperated sigh, Cole moved past them to take point in the face of the drifting landscape. “I don’t care how much money or lawyers he has, or even if this is nothing but a stunt after all.”

>> “I’m going to get that fucking painter behind bars.”

And though he offered no words, Jagdhund followed him no far behind, his hulking frame a comforting bastion against the undulating gilt patterns of the walls that refused to stay fixed in one place.

With a happy grin he didn’t make an attempt to conceal, Claude took care of the back. The two men ahead of him were resilient; he had no real reason to worry about their strength.

The more childish part of him was even excitedly cataloging every off detail around them, though he knew better than to voice such enthusiasm to his colleagues. His eyes darted from one peculiarity to the next, fixating on the subtly breathing walls with an almost misplaced fascination.

Though as they traversed the seemingly endless hallway, the disturbing dark red of the structure eventually began to morph, shedding its skin like a serpent to reveal a deceptively regal facade. Ornate wainscoting emerged from the crimson murk, its intricate patterns stretching meticulously ahead. Lonely chandeliers hung from the ceiling at irregular intervals, their crystal teardrops tinkling softly despite the absence of any discernible breeze under their faint orange glow.

Gilded frames slowly came into view, the first of them housing portraits of stern-faced individuals whose eyes were sunken pools of devouring blackness. Claude counted eight completed paintings, recognizing among them depictions of Seagrave and his family, as well as Marlowe’s. After these, he also noted three more in early stages of being made, their half-formed meaning a little bit too unsettling to dwell upon.

More intriguing were the numerous completely dark canvases that extended beyond them, reminiscent to Claude of vacant rooms in an abandoned hotel. What exactly would happen should the empty frames be filled… Was a speculation that he quickly suppressed, deciding some thoughts were better left unexplored.

He instead allowed himself to shift his attention to something immediate, in the way how an end to the hallway could finally be grasped, around the point where the frames stopped. It was a sturdy wall with two branching corridors at each side, and a large mural rigidly framed occupying its center —one of a crooked tree flowering beneath a cloudy vineyard sky, interrupting the lighting of a full moon beneath.

An old acoustic guitar rested in the shade projected by the tree’s trunk, and beside it a large basket overflowed with meticulously rendered fruits. Apples dominated the arrangement, surrounded by clusters of blackberries, raspberries… And were those elderberries? They had a vivid sheen and texture to them, as if carved from precious stones rather than etched in mere pigment.

Once they were close enough to it for Claude to take in all of its details, he finally concluded that he had never encountered anything similar in Seagrave’s oeuvre. This thing here bore no resemblance to the artist’s style, so he deduced that it was very likely not made by him, curiously enough.

But he doubted that his companions would hold any interest in this fact, so instead he opted to simply try and break the silence that had settled over them.

“Hey…” Claude smirked, turning to the two men as they paused before the diverging paths. “Wouldn’t it be totally crazy if the painting suddenly came to life and all that fruit started pouring down on us?”

“For fuck’s sake, Cavendish.” Cole’s eyebrow arched in disbelief before burying his face in his palm with an exasperated sigh. “Do you seriously think this a time for jokes?”

“Is that the most scary thing you could come up with?” Jagdhund’s rigid features softened in a faint smile, though it was still a very sardonic one. He shook his head to try and hide it. “Fruit-catching duty?”

>> “Do better.”

Amused rather than troubled by their retorts, Claude was unable to suppress a light chuckle —a reaction that faded once Cole brushed past him, approaching the mural with an intense gaze that piqued the rookie detective’s curiosity.

“This painting bugs me.” The officer mused, his brow furrowing in concentration. “It’s a fig tree, you can easily tell by its leaves and fruits.” His fingertips traced the painted flowers as Claude peeked by his side.

Of course, he’d be lying if he said he had any clue about trees.

“So what about it? Seems like a regular tree to me.” He interjected as Cole leaned closer to study the painting even more meticulously, quiet for far too long as he fixated on the deep purple tones of the blossoms.

“H… Huh?” Cole snapped back at Claude’s voice, blinking as if emerging from a reverie. Strange coming from him. “Sorry, I was thinking.” He explained, guiding a couple of fingers to press against his temple. “As I was saying… Fig trees don’t really have flowers. Or rather, the blossoms grow inside the fruit itself.”

>> “These purple… Things, they don’t belong here.”

Claude brought a hand to his chin as he also pondered about it. Satisfying as it was to have his guess about Cole’s botanical knowledge confirmed… Did this conversation matter too much beyond that?

“Perhaps it’s just a mistake by the painter?” He offered with an uncertain smile. It was better to give it a rest, especially considering a certain grouchy old man was probably close to losing his patience.

“Art, you see, I don’t really get. I’m more of a crimes page kinda guy.” Jagdhund grumbled, his gruff voice resonating through the hallway. “And I reckon it’s high time you two brats start focusing on just that rather than playing the art critics.”

“Understood, understood.” Claude conceded with a light smile, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But which path should we take?”

And almost in direct response to his question, a faint shimmer erupted on the ceiling. With the sound of a scraping tool across concrete, a thin trail of luminescent blue paint etched itself above their heads. Its ghostly line snaked along the surface, branching into one of the corridors —the eerie noise it made beckoning them beyond their line of sight after turning a corner.

“Well, Isn’t that convenient…” The rookie detective murmured with slight unease. Had he been alone, he might have defiantly taken the contrarian choice of going in the opposite direction. “Are we be shown the way?”

>> “But where, exactly?”

“I don’t like it.” Jagdhund was quick to point out, his scowl deepening. “It might be an attempt to misdirect us.”

“But separating wouldn’t be smart either.” Cole countered, his earlier fixation with the mural replaced by a rekindled sense of purpose. “Let’s just move.” He said as he took the lead, following the spectral trail. “No real point in second-guessing.”

He was right. Choosing either path amounted to little more than blind guessing, so they fell in behind Cole without further argument. Still, the thing they chased after carried the unsettling implication that there was someone, or something, watching their progress —a notion far from comforting.

Whether this guide was friend or foe, the only way to know for certain was to see for themselves where it wanted to lead them.

So they carried on, their footsteps silenced by the pristine red carpet of the winding corridors. A myriad of finely crafted paintings crossed their path every now and again, each one a silent sentinel in the labyrinthine gallery. Claude found himself yearning to pause, to study or decipher the potential meaning behind them, but the determined strides of his companions left little room for such indulgence.

Be it driven by stubbornness, or simply a refusal to waste more time, Claude didn’t have it in him to ask them to engage with the place’s many oddities, instead resigned to stealing fleeting glances as they marched onward —wondering what emotions or experiences lay trapped beneath the layers of paint and varnish.

At times, he was certain they passed by the same painting multiple times, only to find subtle differences upon each encounter.

At others, whenever the corridors twisted and turned, he could swear the very structure folded around itself more than once, defying physics and architecture.

Any thought of retracing their steps grew increasingly daunting. Would they even be able to find their way back if they tried? Claude pondered to himself, a cold unease settling in his guts as he realized the futility of such an attempt. They were committed now, for better or worse.

The longer they walked, the more that Claude doubted the wisdom of blindly following this spectral trail. He kept his concern to himself, sure that Cole and Jagdhund held a similar sentiment.

Mercifully enough, one final corner vindicated the pressure built on their collective unease. The narrow hallway gave way to a circular chamber, its proportions modest yet somehow grand. Walls curved gracefully, adorned with intricate moldings under a domed ceiling looming above.

Fading in writhing splutters of paint, the rough beacon of scrapes left them alone once they entered this uncertain nexus point, dissipating into the nothingness.

Claude’s eyes swept across the strange room, taking in its surreal symmetry. Rows of cushioned doublet seats circled its edges to sprawl inwards, giving the place an almost ecclesiastical air. The arrangement made him think of some sort of amphitheater, or perhaps an overly dramatic parody of a church.

“Is that the girl?” Cole’s voice called to his attention, his finger pointing towards a figure curled up on one of the many burgundy sofas, seemingly comfortable enough to sleep in the embrace of its velvet frame.

There was little chance to mistake the identity of the slumbering form. Samantha Marlowe lay there, her small frame gently supported by the cushions. She wasn’t exactly hard to identify, what with her characteristic dyed pastel pink hair, usually meticulously styled, but now splayed messily across her face —deep breaths displacing the strands to offer fleeting glimpses of her snoring face.

Her outfit was a bit of a fashion disaster, or that might be his own sense of style growing out of date. A vintage band t-shirt hung off one shoulder, its fabric frayed and faded, paired with high-wasted shorts that led to fishnet stockings. Those, too, eventually disappeared into chunky platform boots that seemed almost comically oversized on her petite frame.

Claude wondered if someday, Ione would too dress in this loud manner and attempt silly and dangerous ideas, like exploring a missing celebrity’s mansion of all things.

The thought was quickly banished as he caught the expectant glances exchanged between Jagdhund and Cole, their silent implication clear —he was to be the one to wake up the slumbering influencer.

With a dejected sigh, the rookie detective surrendered to the peer pressure, noticing more details as he took cautious steps closer. Multiple earrings glinted along the curves of an ear, catching what little red light danced through the chamber. Her heavy makeup remained impeccably intact, a fact that struck Claude as odd given her days-long disappearance.

It spoke of resilience, or perhaps just a deeply ingrained persona, though no reason changed it that had withstood the isolation that this place held. She would probably bring about a storm once she opened her eyes…

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering uncertainly above her. The idea of poking her nose was quickly discarded upon noticing yet another piercing, so instead he decided on tapping her forehead tenderly.

Once, then twice. Though she grumbled groggily at first, once she realized the situation, everything cascaded into sudden, explosive awareness.

Samantha’s eyes flew open, revealing irises of deep brown now wide in shock. In a chaotic scramble that belied her previous stillness, she bolted upright as her hand frantically grasped for something clutched close to her chest. Claude barely had time to react before he found himself staring down the handle end of a selfie stick, wielded like the most dangerous of weapons.

“You won’t get me, paint monster!” Her cry was hoarse, tinged with fragile defiance. Wild eyes darted between them, from the stern expressions of Jagdhund and Cole to his apologetic attempt at a reassuring smile. Recognition slowly dawned in her gaze. “Wait a second, you guys are…”

“No need for alarm. You’re safe.” Claude tried to match her speaking pace, knowing that every second mattered to prevent her from panicking. “We’re with the—”

But Samantha’s frantic energy outpaced even his quickest efforts. Her words tumbled out in a frenzied rush, her grip on the selfie stick wavering unsteadily.

“Yeah, no need, I know who you are!” Oh… Did she recognize them by their uniforms? Even if her grin was far from assuaging, it was relieving that some semblance of logic still guided her thoughts. “You’re fans, right?”

… Or so he thought.

"Sheesh, you guys took your sweet ass time getting here." Samantha scrambled to her feet, her movements erratic, uncontrolled. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?” She gesticulated wildly with her free hand, the stick holding her phone cutting erratic arcs through the air. “This girl’s been counting the days, y’know? One whole ass month!”

Claude opened his mouth to interject, but that final comment left him reeling. One month? Even accounting for the disorienting effects that isolation could pose, that timeframe was wildly off. He exchanged a worried glance with the men behind him, but Samantha yapped on, oblivious to their growing concern.

“It's a wonder I'm still sane and sound!”

>> “But that’s okay. I’m not about to let that bring me down.”

“Miss, please listen.” Claude tried again, his voice gentle but firm. “We’re here to help. You’ve been—”

“First, lemme get a good shot of y’all.” The girl chirped, positioning herself behind her selfie stick, aiming at the group with an unnatural smile. “I’ve managed to keep the live going, and this is sure to rack a good amount of more views!”

“Live? But that thing is—” Cole tried to assist, but Claude directed him a sharp look that immediately silenced him.

Of course her phone was dead, its screen a blank, lifeless mirror. Yet Samantha’s eyes darted back and forth, her cheeks flushed with fevered excitement.

"Now make sure to smile, big guys!"

The euphoric energy radiating from her was an uncomfortable, almost palpable mania. They had found her, yes, but what cost had this place had on her mind? Her unfocused gaze swirled with barely contained madness, enough to make Claude’s skin crawl…

But if he made a misstep now, she might spiral even further away from reach.