There were two things in the briefcase; one of them was loaded.
He had long grown accustomed to the blindfold. The first visit to the cemetery had promised absolute darkness. After the third, all he found was apathy. Somehow, it had stopped making sense.
He walked down the street guided by murmurs. It was impressive how the brain could adapt—just put one foot after the other and follow the sounds, without fully trusting them. Besides, as long as he focused on the memory of the kiss on the forehead he’d left behind when closing the door, everything would be fine. He just needed to hold on to the memory, not the music.
He knew immediately he had arrived. People had warned him the smell would be unmistakable. What truly convinced him was the putrid taste sliding down his throat.
“Nnnf hhjh jhj”. The vesanic grunt tore him from the trance.
Somehow, his brain translated it automatically. He lacked the tools—and so did everyone else, to be honest—to understand how they managed to do that.
“What is your price?”
“It’s in the briefcase”.
Alan extended the object into the darkness-beyond-the-blindfold. The hairs that brushed his hand—more like bristles—made him shiver at the cold touch of those elongated fingers.
He heard the click of the briefcase and a whisper of forty voices. His heart stopped for a few seconds, just as people had said it would. Each second seemed to drag on.
The second click carried relief. His bargaining chip was worth something.
A scraping, viscous sound followed. One step after another, always forward. Alan walked for five minutes, through what felt like a sequence of hollow cracks and cartilaginous crepitations.
He didn’t know how many doors he’d crossed before reaching the atrium. From there, a discordant song—as if two compositions in different rhythms—overlapping. A hellish lullaby carried by the strings of an angelic dissonance.
Then an invisible force stopped him from moving.
“Nnngghrakjz.”
The muddy language was the same, but the tone of that voice was sharp and sublime, like the edge of a blade grazing his ears and neck.
“What is your life?”
He focused on Lia. Held a pale smile. The memory of the little one sleeping before he left was all he had to offer. Would he remember, until the end, why he had started this?
The blindfold never allowed him to know whether the aeolian embrace that dissolved around him was part of the creature or just his imagination. But he knew it was the signal to move on.
Or rather, to move down.
Strangely enough, a good sign. If his journey were upward, he feared the game was already rigged.
Beneath his feet, he found the first step. He could taste the rot. Each descent was a gamble. The choir grew more evident, more visceral, as if every voice ventriloquized each muscle in his body. It became increasingly difficult to concentrate. The only consolation was that the strings faded as he ascended into the abyss.
When his feet touched the bottom, there was a dry snap, as if he were stepping on fragile pieces of humanity.
The voice that greeted him this time was unmistakably human.
“Welcome to the casino.” A thin hiss, almost a sibilance, but still human. “Place your bets on the ground before you.”
The music was infernal. Clinging to her memory had become unbearable. He needed to succeed. It was all for her.
Alan carefully knelt and opened the briefcase. He removed a small square piece of laminated paper and set it on the ground in front of him.
“You have a beautiful daughter.” Alan could feel the malicious smile behind the words.
How had these things managed to achieve so much, so quickly?
“What is your compensation?”
“One million hours. In her account.” He pointed to the floor, still blindfolded.
The creature laughed openly. A chorus of infinite voices.
“Very well, you may remove your blindfold if you’re ready.”
Slowly, Alan undid the blindfold.
What he saw next he could neither remember nor forget. He walked home with the briefcase in hand, without the photo.
In his mind, only blood and thirst.
Before opening the door, he fired the gun.