The Dead House

Naida rolls her eyes as she puts away the parchment. “It’s not a sewer, it’s just belowground. It’s… grungy-chic.”


Kaitlyn snorts. “Blah, blah.”

They descend the stairs, the camera panning left and right, as though Kaitlyn is seeking a way out. Once at the bottom, they are facing a concrete corridor, much like the pedestrian underpasses of London, which ends abruptly in a black wooden door, the paint chipped and peeling. It looks like the entrance to the backside of an abandoned factory.

The camera pans 180 degrees as Kaitlyn looks back. “I don’t know, Naida… you sure?”

Naida nods.

As the girls approach the door, the camera picks up the faint traces of matte paint on top of the chipped gloss paint on the door, revealing a mostly obscured symbol. Naida raises a hand and pulls the door open, slipping inside. Along with Kaitlyn, we follow.

The corridor behind the door is much like the narrow alleyway upstairs. Naked brick walls, damp tarmac, old streetlamps. But when Kaitlyn glances up, we see a roof clothed with thick burgundy drapes, hanging horizontally as though gravity has shifted her axis.

The camera pans down, and Naida is far ahead, obscured by darkness. Kaitlyn hurries her pace. We reach another set of burgundy curtains, heavy velvet, and Naida takes a deep breath, then faces Kaitlyn.

“Best say nothing.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Okay. Good.” Another breath. “Good.”

“What? You look panicked.”

Naida shakes her head.

“Naida, what aren’t you telling me?”

“This guy, Haji. He’s… unpredictable.”

“He runs an underground Mala nightclub. I got that.”

“What I mean is—well, you remember I told you that a respectable Mala priest is called Holi?”

“Yeah?”

“And that a practitioner who works both sides—the respectable but also the less… savory, the kind of stuff that people who are desperate go for—is called a Shyan?”

“Yes. What is going on, Naida?”

“Well… Haji’s not exactly a Holi… he’s… a Shyan.”

There is a pause during which Naida flinches.

“You said… you said the person doing this to me was a Shyan.”

“Aye, but—”

“You said they’re evil!”

“Nothing’s truly black and white like that. The world’s all… shades of gray and mucky browns. Shyans can choose evil… yes. But they can be a useful tool.”

“We should leave.”

“We need him. He knows about dirty practices. He knows about blood arts. He’s expert in Grúndi.”

“I can’t believe you only told me now! Was that the plan the whole time?”

“I… dunno.”

Kaitlyn lets loose a guttural sound. “Let’s just kick Mike in the bits and make him confess!”

“I doubt very much it’s him.”

“And how do you know this Mala guy will help you? How do you know he won’t curse you or trick you? Could he hurt you?”

Naida steps back. “Are you worried about me?”

Kaitlyn mirrors Naida’s retreating step. “I’m worried that you’re being reckless. And Carly will suffer.”

“He’d never hurt me.”

“How do you know?”

Naida opens her mouth to reply, then turns back to the curtain.

“Jesus, Naida. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“Me too. Gorro guide me,” she says, as she lifts the fabric aside and disappears into the folds.

“Shit. This is bad. This is so bad.”

Kaitlyn follows.

[END OF TOP HAT CAMERA CLIP #1]





Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson


Sunday, 9 January 2005



The music was loud and boisterous—a pounding rhythm that jumped around the dim walls free of any physical constraints. It was like a wasp trapped inside a plastic tub, uselessly stinging, thumping, moving. The lights flashed like a nightclub, mimicking the rhythm of the beat,

flash!

Flash!

Flash!

Until I was so zoned out I could feel it pumping through my chest. It was so… alluring.

Here and there, people crouched around small fires or candles. Some played with what looked like little bones, some played with other things—things that used to be living. And then, some seemed to be playing with things that were still living. Snakes here, a small bird there.

With the twitch of a wrist, the bird was no longer living. So small a movement. Almost nothing. I just kept thinking, Oh, God, what am I doing here? We’re going to die.

At one point, a commotion broke out in the center of the room, where I had noticed people swaying and humming. A girl, maybe fourteen, roared and raged, convulsing as she ripped at her white clothing. She started to spit and point her fingers, always shrieking, even cursing.

She yelled something unintelligible, spitting into the face of a young woman.

“What’s going on?” I whispered to Naida.

“She’s possessed. They’ve conjured an Olen into her as a vessel. It’s considered a very great honor. But the Olen isn’t happy with their offerings.”

I swallowed my nausea and began to turn away. We’re going to die, we’re going to die.