13 Mink Street

“Dear listeners, good evening. Welcome to the Roja Storytelling Program...”

In truth, Karon had never crossed the threshold of this house before, and yet the chilling presence of Jeff’s corpse when it had been silent and cold before him, had already made the dangers of the place clear enough. It was not possible to ask certain questions aloud, but that did nothing to stop Karon’s mind from wandering and piecing together hints while conjuring dark possibilities on his own.

Uncle Mason, out of regard for his first love, had once helped to take care of Jeff’s body. That afternoon, when Tiz came home and found Jeff dead, he immediately told Aunt Mary to call Mason back. After that, Tiz had left again.

Later, when Karon accompanied Mr. Hoffen to the hospital, he found himself tending to Tiz’s wounds with his own hands. It had then become obvious that Tiz had gone out to fight. To be more precise, he had gone to settle something. It had almost certainly been some account that connected back to Jeff’s death and, by extension, to this house. The fact that Uncle Mason spent the next days bedridden after an apparent fall was its own sort of proof.

Sometime after, when passing by the house, Karon had seen a pair of legs in an upstairs window. From them, red high heels had dangled, swinging from sharp, pointed toes. Tiz had previously gone to confront the problem, yet the legs and those red high heels had remained.

That could only mean one thing: the trouble in the house was too deep, too tangled for even Tiz to resolve, and it was also barely five or six hundred meters away from their own home. For things to remain unresolved when so close by only underscored how stubbornly this house clung to its secrets.

Once, while standing over Jeff, Karon had been pulled into a nightmare. In addition to the woman, he had heard something strange in that dream: a hissing crackle, low and magnetic. It was a voice from a radio.

Back then, there had only been speculation, but when Karon stepped into the master bedroom and saw the bed stripped to bare wooden slats—no mattress, nothing left behind—while the radio remained atop a cabinet by the door, something clicked into place: the radio was the real switch.

He called upon “the name of art” to coax Mrs. Hughes into turning on the radio. With that, Karon put the last of his hopes into one desperate gambit.

He did not truly believe Mrs. Hughes would resist. She was, in truth, very stupid. Even with a gun pressed to his back and a knife poised to carve him apart, Karon stubbornly clung to one thought: the killer was an idiot.

The radio came to life. Karon exhaled long and slow, the pressure in his chest easing at last. If the worst end awaiting him was being butchered, then taking his enemy down with him began to seem almost appealing.

But there was something Karon had yet to realize. The radio had never been a true switch. No matter whether the button was pressed, the batteries replaced, if it was plugged in or not, or even if it was gutted and completely empty, it could still broadcast whenever it wished.

***

[Ten minutes earlier.]

As Karon parked Mrs. Hughes’s red Caymon in front of 128 Mink Street, something in the house already began to stir. Hidden behind the curtain, a pair of beautiful legs in high heels were poised, a stiletto heel tapping lightly against old floorboards.

A voice drifted from the radio. “What is it?” Alfred asked. “He’s come? Who’s come? Who is he?

“Wha- him!” There was a ripple of fear in Alfred’s voice, barely concealed and bristling at the edge.

Some fears are only startling at first, but as time passes, they pale, fading into the dull ache of memory. Nightmares dissipate with the dawn, leaving only a trace of unease that soon dissolves entirely, until even the memory can be made light of. Yet there are other fears which deepen as they linger. They mature, taking on weight and flavor, fermenting in the mind until each recollection presses more heavily on the soul.

Alfred was caught in that second kind of dread.

Something had come across the bridge between his spirit and Ms. Molly’s. That presence had settled there directly, and its strength was enough to leave him shaken and cold. The lingering wound widened with time, despite not coming from that thing’s presence. It had taken root with the strange hymn it had sung.

That hymn had torn through Ms. Molly’s defenses with no effort whatsoever. Even for Alfred, who had merely witnessed it, the tune left a scar deep in his mind.

Afterward, he had turned to every book and ancient tome he could find, searching for any indication of that hymn. He found nothing, not so much as a trace. It was as if the song had slipped into the world from nowhere, absent from the endless expanse of history.

Such a thing should have been impossible. A religion begins with a god, solitary or part of a host, but always a presence brooding over the faithful. From that god comes doctrine, a means for mortals to attempt to understand and to follow as best they can.

With god and doctrine in place, something else becomes necessary: preaching, again and again, repeating through each new generation. The faith then grows, as new followers bring their own thoughts which deepen the canon. The god’s image sharpens, and the line between mortal and divine shifts closer, drawing new souls in. The cycle rolls on, as it always has, cold and inevitable.

But here—could it be believed?—a complete hymn, shot through with terror, had been made manifest. Yet behind it, there was no hint of any faith that could have given birth to it. It was like stooping to find a fresh-caught fish at one’s feet, only to look up and discover nothing but endless desert in all directions.

More frightening still for Alfred was the hymn’s language. He had scoured every tongue he knew, sifted even the words of silent, vanished beings. He failed to fit that hymn’s language anywhere at all, no matter how he tried. Yet when he had heard it sung, he had understood: the language was whole, fluent, mature, and as natural as breathing. Its rhythms and shifting cadences surpassed those of any language Alfred had ever known.

He almost wished his memory was not so exact. These past days, the melody would suddenly arise, echoing in his mind, causing his heart to quicken all over again. Within those sounds, he had the sickening sense that body, spirit, and all that he relied on, was being stamped down beneath unseen feet, ground to useless fragments.

A religion with no trace to follow, and a tongue with no origin to name... Alfred had to accept a single truth: he was witnessing the first hours of a new faith.

The world was thick with churches: some were ancient, to the point that their origins were found only in fading stories. Their founders were gods disguised in flesh, or servants chosen by the divine. Always, they were beings who inspired a bone-deep fear: apostles of gods. They were figures who tore wounds into the world, carving out a place for their own faith to take root and thrive.

That being stood among them: immense, deserving of the reverence the world gives to terror.

That meant that this was a great being, one worthy of reverence.

Given time—one hundred years, five hundred, a thousand—his words would become myth, and his deeds would pass into legend. The mere thought that such a terrifying existence had once crossed the fragile bridge of Alfred’s mind filled him with lingering dread.

He had appeared in Swillen, in Roja City, on Mink Street itself, which meant this place had been chosen. This was where the first seeds would be sown.

Yet beneath that overwhelming fear, another emotion quietly took shape within Alfred: hope. While it remained no more than a small seed, perhaps it was possible to draw a little closer.

In the unfolding story of a god and the growth of his faith, even a stray dog that wandered into the frame might one day be remembered and spoken of by later generations. Still, Alfred barely dared entertain the thought. In the stories of gods, there were not only moments of kindness, not only gentle guidance offered to stray dogs by the roadside. Far more often, there were tales of demonkin hunted down and destroyed without mercy.

And yet, tonight, the god had come to his door.

***

“He’s stepped out of the car. There’s a woman with him. Is she his consort, or only a servant?

“Wait. She seems older. Is she his mother? Could it be that god has come in flesh, and that woman is his earthly vessel?”

There are faiths that say a god is born of a mortal woman, and the mother herself, honored for eternity, is raised up by the faithful.

“They’re inside? Already climbing the stairs? Headed for the bedroom?

“Ms. Molly, hide yourself! Your first intrusion could be dismissed as amusement, something he needn’t take seriously, but should an ant dare a second provocation, retribution will be inevitable!”

The red high heels tipped, then slid into shadow under the bed. For some, the space beneath was too small, but for her, it was just enough.

***

“The woman brought a gun? Ridiculous! As if she could threaten the apostle of god with a weapon.

“See, Ms. Molly, the apostle does as he wishes no matter what she says. To him, this is only entertainment; tonight’s game.

“It’s no different than what happened to you last time. You were also only a passing amusement.

“The Church of Order? Ankara? The Light of Order? She is hopelessly naive. She imagines the apostle to be teaching her, but no. Tonight, he delivers only punishment.

“Ms. Molly, don’t interfere. This place is the apostle’s haven, chosen for his own pleasure. We are to observe and remain silent, unless he calls for us. Tonight, we are possibly only an audience, meant to sit quietly for the show, ready to applaud if the time comes.

“Wait... She’s possessed. She must have come into contact with a tainted artifact; Her soul is now stained. Poor creature. She has no inkling of who stands before her. Even the demonkin corrupting and controlling her is ignorant of the truth. There are always those who rush toward death, blind to what’s before them or to the chasm separating them from horror.

“Ms. Molly, you say you wish to intervene or redeem yourself? Don’t trouble yourself. The apostle pays no heed to your insignificant sins. God’s attention will never fall on you. Please, Ms. Molly, don’t be reckless.

“You say you wish to beg the apostle to restore your body? No! Think of what that means. It is a grave sin within the Church of Order and its kin to help any demonkin assume a human shape.

“Ms. Molly, I know the depths of your obsession, but you must restrain yourself. Your recklessness could pull us both into an abyss.

“All right. My physical form has reached Mink Street. I’m nearly there.

“I’m already outside the door, on the street, but... I don’t dare enter. Knowing he is inside, my breathing slows without thought, as though even the weight of a single breath might disturb his towering presence. No matter what precautions I take, he must already know I’m here. All things are laid bare beneath those wise, all-seeing eyes. There’s nowhere to hide.”

***

“The apostle is ordering the demonkin within the host to turn on the radio. See, Ms. Molly? As I said, he noticed me at once. My supposed brilliance at concealment is worthless before him.

“I am nothing but a humble, self-effacing insect. This insect answers your call.”

***

At 128 Mink Street’s stoop, a man in a red suit quietly removed his hat, revealing eyes the color of a blood-red moon. His lips began to move, yet his voice emerged not from his mouth, but from the radio sitting in the master bedroom upstairs, “Dear listeners, good evening. Welcome to the Roja Storytelling Program...”

After speaking, the man in red fell silent, his lips still. The radio, too, lapsed into a hush.

For Karon, that voice was like a sacred hymn. It was the very same voice that had chased him through his nightmares.

He had wondered before: what if the ghosts inside this house had departed with the last owner? There was no longer a need to wonder. The living had left, but something remained.

Karon still did not know what to call the defilement lingering in these rooms: ghosts? Or was it something else entirely? Whatever they were, they had survived, and not even Tiz had been able to eradicate them. They existed, unperturbed, beneath Tiz’s gaze, sharing the street as neighbors.

Mrs. Hughes, however, understood nothing of this. She only frowned, her words tinged with disappointment, “I don’t want a story! I want to hear a song. If there’s no song, it’s a shame, yet even disappointment has its own kind of beauty in art.

“I can’t wait any longer, my dear Karon.” Mrs. Hughes held the gun in her left hand and the knife in her right. “So handsome, it makes me salivate. No, not just me. Both of us. Karon, would you prefer to take a bullet first, or the blade?”

She smiled. “I suggest the knife. If I shoot you, I’ll have to chop you up quickly and leave in a hurry. I might end up leaving parts of you behind. But if I kill you quietly with the knife, I can take my time. I’ll cut you apart carefully. Not a scrap of flesh will go to waste.”

She tilted her head. “Well? Why haven’t you chosen yet? What are you waiting for?”

Mrs. Hughes stepped toward him, her expression twisted.

Karon sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the radio. What is this? You already responded! You said your line! Why did you stop after just one sentence?

Damn it! Don’t tell me demonkin don’t fight other demonkin. But then... am I not demonkin too? So why does she want to kill me?

***

Outside the courtyard gate, the sleeve of a red suit stirred softly in the night breeze.

Alfred stood there, his handsome, solemn face calm, his blood-colored eyes steady.

He dared not speak, for fear of disturbing the apostle’s pleasure.

He dared not act, for fear of disrupting the apostle’s rhythm.

He waited, cautious and reverent.

He even ignored every one of Ms. Molly’s pleas.

***

Mrs. Hughes was already standing right in front of Karon. She tilted her head, her smile blooming, her voice soft, “What are you still waiting for?”

She raised the butcher’s knife. The sight tore a shout from Karon’s throat, “What are you still waiting for!”

***

The wind stirred at the gate. Alfred’s red-clad figure vanished from the street.

In the same instant, the terrace window shattered, though without a sound. The glass did not scatter after shattering, but drifted down like spun sugar to settle gently across the floor.

Everything happened too fast. Mrs. Hughes’s knife was still descending when she realized that someone was kneeling between her and Karon, one knee pressed to the floor.

“Alfred, at your command.”

“What are you?” Mrs. Hughes shrieked, her mind on the verge of collapse. She brought the knife down again, this time aiming at the man in red.

Alfred turned his head. For a single heartbeat, his eyes flared with a sinister, unnatural light.

Mrs. Hughes froze instantly. She remained locked in the act of striking, blade suspended in midair, utterly unable to move.

Alfred turned back. He maintained a low posture, still on his knee and not once daring to meet the gaze of the being seated on the edge of the bed. His right hand rested on his chest, his manner humble to the point of reverence. “Forgive my presumption. If it accords with your will, shall I punish the corrupter before us with the Light of Order?”

I...

Karon’s eyes bulged. He had imagined countless outcomes. Perhaps the thing haunting this house would not appear at all, and he would be butchered on the spot. Or perhaps the two horrors would tear into one another, leaving him to be finished off by whichever remained. No matter how far his imagination had stretched, it could never have reached this.

Who is he? Why is he kneeling before me? Who am I? Where am I? What am I supposed to do? His mind went blank. Even so, Karon managed to follow the other man’s words and force out a single sound, “Mm...”

Thankfully, it was only one syllable. Had he tried to say more, the clatter of his teeth would have betrayed him. He doubted he could have formed a full sentence even if he tried.

“Alfred, in accordance with your will.” Still kneeling, his head bowed, Alfred spoke again, “Ms. Molly.”

“Eee... yaaaaaaaa!”

A piercing shriek erupted from beneath the bed. Karon nearly leapt up in terror, but his knees had already given out. His feet remained planted on the floor, and he stayed seated, frozen in place.

Two legs.

A face.

He saw her again, the woman from his nightmares, only for real this time. Her mouth opened.

Then, it widened. It widened still further, distending to an impossible degree until it spanned the height of a grown man.

Mrs. Hughes, still immobilized, could only express her terror through her eyes as her body was inexorably dragged to the gaping maw.

She struggled. She panicked. It was futile.

Karon had experienced Ms. Molly’s horror previously in his own dreams. He knew the terror of her chewing, her swallowing. He knew exactly what was coming.

Mrs. Hughes’s body began to split. Red lines opened across her limbs, her neck, her hands, and her feet. Finer tears followed, multiplying and deepening, until her body began to peel apart.

She came undone, like a loaf of bread crushed between two hands, the whole crumbled into fragments.

A sphere of black light tore free of her body, struggling to escape, but Ms. Molly swallowed it in a single motion. As the glow vanished, the dark stains on Mrs. Hughes’s face faded with it. Relief appeared in her expression.

Her eyes turned to Karon, warm and gentle. The corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles.

For a brief moment, Karon believed the real Mrs. Hughes had returned. His heart lurched. He raised his hand, instinctively trying to call out, to stop it. If she had killed only because she was possessed, then she was innocent, especially now, with the spirit gone.

But before he could speak, her body collapsed entirely. She dissolved into a red mist that was drawn into Ms. Molly’s waiting mouth.

Nothing remained on the floor but the woman’s clothing. Her dress. Her undergarments. Black lace lay scattered where she had once stood.

Mrs. Hughes was gone.

Ms. Molly, reduced back to nothing but two legs and a face, knelt on one knee before Karon. He stared at the remnants on the floor, silent. A faint sorrow stirred in his chest.

The God of Order had established the laws, yet it had been his own daughter who had been the first to break them. In the end, he had cast Ankara into the jaws of the beast to uphold the dignity of Order.

That was the Light of Order.