The Tall Dog of Barrow Heights

The apartment building eats children. It’s been doing it for almost a century now, ever since the first girl vanished back in 1936. 

I fish inside my black suit, pulling out a notebook. Inside are newspaper clippings. Notes. It’s a record of this case: The Barrow Heights Anomaly. I’ve been tracking it peripherally for the last six years, biding my time, waiting for the next turn of the cycle. 

And now it’s showtime.

The glare of the sunset is pouring across the apartment's crumbling red brickwork. It’s ten stories tall. A rotting behemoth succumbing to the same poverty as its residents. The sounds of the inner city howl at my back: sirens, honking, and everything else that reminds me of my past, that reminds me of her, that reminds me of—

‘Jesus, Vincent,’ I mutter, clawing a hand through my hair. ‘She’s dead. Let her be dead.’

I shake the memory, punch the unit number into the buzzer and it rings twice. 

A woman’s exhausted voice crackles through. ‘H-Hello?’ 

‘Evening, Mrs. Copeland. This is Inquisitor Jhune—’

‘Who?’

I clear my throat, raise my voice to cut through the static. 'Inquisitor Jhune. With the Order of Alice. We spoke over the phone regarding your son, Tyler’s—'

A sharp intake of breath. 'You’re here. Thank God.'

Click.

The line goes dead. There’s a harsh buzz as the lock disengages, and I push through the front doors and step into the lobby.

A chill runs the length of my spine.

This place, there’s something about it that’s setting my teeth on edge. Maybe it’s the peeling wallpaper, and the black mold forming beneath it. Or maybe it’s the graffiti scratched across the walls, or the paint splashed over it like scabs on a wound. Or maybe it's what's underneath it all, something I can't quite name. 

A weight. A held breath.

A feeling like this building has been waiting for me. 

A girl's voice echoes in my mind. 

Are you even coming home? Or should I just go to bed? 

It’s been fifteen years since she died. Fifteen years of her memory finding new ways to gut me.

I give my head a firm shake and force my legs forward. The elevator doors are covered in overlapping layers of duct tape and a hand-scrawled sign: OUT OF SERVICE.

Of course it is. 

I take the stairs, my mind churning through the details of the case, distracting itself from how familiar this building feels. How much it reminds me of my old apartment. It’s the same claustrophobic air. The same creaking steps. The same—

'Tyler Copeland,' I murmur to the empty stairwell, refocusing. 'Male. Ten years old. Two months of recurring hallucinations. Medication ineffective. Psychiatrist out of options. Mother desperate enough to bring in a priest for an exorcism—which failed, naturally, because real monsters don’t leave when you tell them to.’

The kid claims he found a basement beneath Barrow Heights. Says there's a monster down there, living in the belly of the building.

Trouble is, Barrow Heights doesn’t have a basement.

I checked. 

I even phoned ahead and got the landlady to pull up the original floorplans, and the documents confirmed that Barrow Heights is strictly above ground, and that's all it's ever been. 

Which means Tyler Copeland’s either lying, delusional, or knows something I don’t.

I'm still undecided when I reach the apartment. I slip my pocket watch from my suit. There’s no alerts. No warnings. Just a pair of antique hands ticking lazily behind scuffed glass. 

I knock twice. 

A stampede of footsteps answers. The door swings open to reveal a stout woman with frazzled hair and kind eyes darkened from sleepless nights. 

'Ah—Mr. Jhune!' She seizes my hand, shaking it with the desperate grip of someone who's been drowning and just spotted a lifeboat. ‘Come in, come in. I’ll show you to Tyler.’

I follow her into an apartment that assaults my senses in the best possible way.

It's cluttered. Carpets overlap carpets in clashing patterns. Drapes in jewel tones frame every window. Antiques teeter on the edge of every surface. But it feels lived in. Loved. It’s the opposite of my own apartment: a sparse, functional, series of cube-shaped rooms devoid of anything that might remind me I once cared about something outside my job. 

She leads me to a door with a Superman poster taped crooked to the front. ‘Oh—one more thing. Try not to touch his action figures. He's got them arranged to protect the bedroom.’ 

She lowers her voice. 'Dr. Kinsley says it's a sign he's developing his own coping mechanisms. If I make him feel safe with his rituals now, he might be more willing to try healthier ones I suggest later.'

‘Right,’ I say. ‘No problem.’

‘Bless you.’ Her knuckles rap the door. ‘Tyler, dear? There's a man here to see you.’

A muffled groan from the other side. 'Another doctor?'

'No. I’m an Inquisitor. I'd just like to talk for a bit.'

There’s a beat of silence. 

‘Just talk?’

‘Just talk,’ I tell him. 

The door swings inward to reveal a room that looks like a comic book store exploded. Every inch is covered in superhero paraphernalia. And there, arranged across his desk in careful formation, is an army of action figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers manning a barricade led by Superman himself. 

‘Cool suit.’ A small boy stands before me with mousy brown hair that sticks up in the back and bloodshot eyes that tell me hasn’t had a proper sleep in weeks. ‘You look like you work for SHIELD, dude.’

‘Not dude,’ Mrs. Copeland says gently. ‘Mr. Jhune.’

‘Right. Sorry. Cool suit, Mr. err—Jhune.’

She sighs, turning back to me with an apologetic smile. ‘Right, well I’ll let you two get acquainted then. Supper will be another hour, so no rush. Hope you like roast beef.’

I feel my cheeks burn. ‘Oh, I appreciate it but—’

She’s waving her hands as she sweeps past me. ‘Nonsense. You’re a guest, Mr. Jhune. If you’re under my roof, then you’re eating my food, and I won't hear otherwise.’ She levels a finger at Tyler, ruffling his hair. ‘And you, my littlest gremlin, had best behave.’

‘I always behave!’  

She snorts as she closes the door behind her, clearly not buying it. Her footsteps fade down the hallway, accompanied by the distant clatter of pots and pans.

Tyler and I stand there for a moment, sizing each other up.

'Inquisitor, huh.' His eyes narrow. 'You don't look very Spanish to me.'

It takes me a second before it clicks. 'Ah… Spanish Inquisition,' I mutter, shaking my head. 'Very funny. I'm old, but not that old.'

‘What kind of Inquisitor are you, then?’

‘The kind that likes stories. I hear you’ve got a good one.’

He slumps back onto his bed, pulling his knees up. 'Mom and Dr. Kinsley hate my story.'

‘Why’s that?’ I ask. 

'Because it's scary.' He starts picking at a loose thread on his blanket. 'They don't think kids should tell scary stories or whatever.'

I’m hearing them again—Abigail’s screams. 

‘Maybe I disagree.’ I pull out his desk chair, take a seat, burying my daughter’s memory. ‘Maybe I think scary stories are the only ones worth telling.’

Tyler gets smaller.

He reaches for a blanket crumpled at the foot of his bed and pulls it around his shoulders like a shield, bunching the fabric in his fists. ‘You want to hear about the Tall Dog, then?’

I pull out my redbook, click my pen. ‘The… Tall Dog?’

He swallows hard. 'That's its name. Or at least, that's what I call it.'

My pen scratches across the page. ‘What else can you tell me about it?’

‘Well, it whistles to me.’

His eyes swivel, fixing themselves on the rusty pipes running down the wall. 'At night. When everybody's asleep. It started a couple months ago, just once or twice a week sorta thing, but then it got worse.' 

He pulls the blanket tighter, like he's trying to disappear inside it.

‘It lives in the basement, but you have to know where to look to find the entrance.’

‘And how did you know where to look?’ 

‘The landlady told me.’

A frown creases my face. ‘You’re talking about Agnes Miller. The ninety-six year-old woman that runs this place?’

He nods. ‘She called me on the phone, the old one out there in the hallway that spins.’

‘When?’

‘A few days ago. After Mom fell asleep. The Landlady said she used to hear the whistling too, back when she was younger. But she knows a secret to make it stop, a secret that’ll make me happy again.' His voice cracks. 'A secret that could bring my dad back.'

My chest tightens.

Constable Frank Copeland was killed in the line of duty two years ago. I read the file on the way over. An undercover op gone wrong, caught in the crossfire of a human trafficking bust. 

The kind of grief a predator could smell a mile away.

'So you followed the landlady downstairs?' I ask.

Tyler nods, cheeks red like he’s ashamed to admit it. ‘When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Ms. Miller seemed to change.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She didn't look right. She was all... slouched and fat—like, way, way bigger than I remembered. Her hair was hanging down past her shoulders, and her face looked stretched out like Silly Putty.' He shivers. 'There was this hole in the wall behind her, and she told me it led to the basement, and that only she could make the entrance appear. Then she told me my dad was on the other side. If I crawled through, we could be together again, but first I’d have to make a hard choice.'

Tyler’s voice cracks. His eyes crinkle shut.

‘I crawled through the hole like she said, and it was dark inside. Pretty much pitch black. But I could hear the whistling up ahead and it kept getting louder. The Landlady told me to follow it. I came out into this room full of old laundry machines. Everything was rusty. Brown and orange, like it had been down there since forever. And—' 

His voice snags.

'I shouldn't have listened.' His hands twist the blanket tighter. 'I should've known better—'

'You didn't know,' I say firmly. 'You couldn't have.'

His hands shoot up to his hair, fingers tangling in the mousy strands. 'It was obvious! I should've run away, but I was too scared of the Landlady, and I just—I just—'

My hand closes over his wrist. ‘Tyler.’

He looks up at me, shaking. 

‘Let go of your hair,’ I say gently. 

His lower lip trembles. Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks.

'It's gonna kill me,' he whispers. ‘It’s gonna kill me and—’

‘No. It isn’t.’

'You don't know that!' The panic breaks through, his voice climbing. 'You're just saying it to make me feel better—like Mom does, like Dr. Kinsley does! Everyone keeps telling me it's not real, but I know it is, and it's gonna—'

‘Listen to me I grab hold of Tyler’s wrists, holding them and looking him in the eye. ‘I hunt monsters, that’s what being an Inquisitor means. So I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’ I tap the Red Book lying open on my lap. 'Monsters are like puzzles, and every puzzle has a solution. All you need to do is tell me everything that happened and I'll put the pieces together, okay? The Tall Dog won’t hurt you, or anyone else, ever again.’ 

Tyler sucks in a shaky breath. Wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘O-Okay.’

I settle back into the chair. ‘You said you saw old laundry machines in the basement.’

‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. ‘And a shadow.’

'A shadow?’'

He nods.

'It had these long, floppy ears. Like a dog's, but too big, hanging down past where its shoulders should've been. And patches of fur all over, but not like... not like a real animal’s fur. More patchy.' His hands move as he talks, sketching the shape in the air. 'Its arms were really long, too. Longer than broomsticks even. And it was just sitting there, hunched over, drawing a picture with a crayon and whistling to itself.’ 

His voice catches. 

'Then the whistling stopped. It dropped the crayon and held up two drawings in either hand, just holding them in the air without even turning around.' His breath quickens. 'And it spoke to me.’

I lean forward, heart pounding. ‘What did it say?’

His lips press together. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. It takes three attempts before the words finally come out, broken and small:  

‘Here, boy. Come and get it.’

The tone. The unnerving cheer. It’s enough to make my stomach twist. 

‘It wanted you to take its drawings,’ I croak. 

But he shakes his head. 

‘No,’ he says softly. ‘It wanted me to choose between them.’

‘Choose between what? What did it draw?’

Tyler rubs his arm like he's trying to warm himself, but I can see goosebumps rising on his skin. 'Barrow Heights,' he answers. 'All of us, everyone who lives here. We were stick figures, but labeled like Tyler, Mom, Mr. Andrews in 4E. It looked like a kid drew the pictures. The first one showed me-’ His voice catches. ‘--showed me being eaten by the Tall Dog. All the other stick figures were watching. Cheering. Like they were happy I was being chewed up and---'

‘The second drawing,’ I say, cutting him off before he spirals. ‘Tell me about that one.’

His voice cracks. 'It showed me running away. Escaping. But then everyone else in Barrow Heights—all the stick figure neighbors—they were all killing each other. There was bloody scribbles everywhere. Bodies hanging out the windows.'

I cut my voice to an urgent whisper. 'Tyler. This is critical. Did you take one? Did you accept a drawing, touch one, agree to anything even in the vaguest terms?'

He shakes his head so hard his hair flies. 'No! No, I just... I ran. I turned around and ran back through the basement as fast as I could, dove into that hole in the wall and crawled until I was back at the bottom of the stairs, then I ran past the landlady, right back to my apartment and told mom there was a monster in the basement and I’d show her right now but…'

His shoulders slump, all the air going out of him. ‘But when we got there, the Landlady was gone. So was the basement entrance. It was just bricks again like it never even existed.’

I squint down at my notes, searching for patterns, for weaknesses, for anything that might tell me how to kill this thing,. The sun's fully set now, the room dim enough that I'm struggling to read my own handwriting. I reach for the desk lamp, click it.

Nothing.

I frown, getting to my feet. Head for the light switch on the wall.

'It doesn't work either,’ Tyler says quietly. ‘None of the lights do. Not while it’s whistling.’

I stop, hand halfway to the switch. ‘You’re hearing it right now?'

He nods.

My hand drifts toward my jacket, feeling the weight of the revolver beneath. 'And the voice? Is the Tall Dog speaking to you again, too?'

Tyler swallows. Doesn't answer. Then his eyes shift past my shoulder toward the pipes.

'No,' he croaks.

Then, more softly: 'Not to me.'

'Then who is it—'

The question dies in my throat.

There, threading through the groaning pipes along the wall. A voice is emerging. It sounds like torn velvet dragged over broken glass, each word oozing into my ears like hot wax, burning as it settles.

Here, Inquisitor, it whistles, the sound warping between syllables. Come and get it.

My blood goes cold.

‘You hear it now, don’t you?’ Tyler asks.  

I exhale slowly, forcing my heartbeat to steady. 'Stay here. I'm going to find this basement.'

But he grabs me, small fingers closing around my forearm. 'You can't go out there. It's not safe. Not until the whistling stops.'

'I appreciate the concern,' I tell him, prying his fingers free. 'But I'll be fine.'

I pull the door open.

Darkness swallows me whole. It’s the kind that presses against your eyeballs, that makes you question whether you've gone blind.

Shit.

‘Mrs. Copeland?’ I call out, voice echoing strangely. 'Are you all right?'

No answer but the creak of settling wood. 

I draw my revolver and pull my flashlight with my left, clicking it on. The beam cuts through the dark, revealing an apartment that looks like a carnival mirror. The dimensions are off, walls slanting at angles that shouldn't be possible. The hallway stretches longer than it did when I walked in, doorways sagging like open mouths.

I move forward, boots creaking against warped floorboards, sweeping the light left and right as I make for the kitchen. Please let the kid’s mother be okay. Please let her just be in bed, asleep, unaware—

My breath stops.

Hanging from the ceiling fan is a woman in a white apron, her stout frame swaying slightly in a draft I can't feel. Frazzled hair plasters across a face frozen in bulging-eyed terror, tongue protruding from slack lips. Below her, on the linoleum floor, a knife lies in a spreading pool of red.

'Jesus—no—'

I'm already scrambling onto the kitchen counter, knife in hand, reaching up to cut the rope when—

The blade slips from my fingers.

Clatters to the linoleum.

Because there, on the floor behind the counter, is another body.

Tyler’s.

I stagger back, my mind reeling. When? How? He's lying on his back in a spreading pool of blood, arms splayed, eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. His Superman pajamas are shredded across the chest, so many stab wounds that the fabric has turned from white to crimson, the blood still wet enough to gleam in my flashlight beam.

'See what I mean?'

The voice comes from behind me.

I spin, and there's another Tyler standing in the kitchen doorway with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He walks past me, crouches down beside his corpse, studying it with the detached familiarity of someone who's seen this exact scene a hundred times before.

'The apartment changes when the Tall Dog’s whistling,’ he explains. ‘It shows you what happens if you don’t choose one of the drawings. Shows you the Bad Ending.’ He doesn't look up from the body as he rises to his feet. ‘That’s what the Landlady told me.’

I look up at Mrs. Copeland hanging from the ceiling. ‘So none of this is real.’

‘No.’ Tyler swallows hard. ‘Not yet. But now you know why I stay in my room. The action figures keep me safe. They keep the Bad Ending out.'

I press my palms against my eyes, heart racing as I try to fit the pieces together. 

An entire alternate dimension. A prophetic one that shows potential futures based on choices not yet made. That's reality manipulation on a scale that requires power far behind your typical boogeyman. The Tall Dog would need to be a Class 5 Threat at minimum. More likely a Class 6.

That puts it squarely in cosmic horror territory.

Fuck. 

I flip open my pocket watch with shaking hands, twist the crown three times counterclockwise, and bring it close to my lips.

'Inquisitor Jhune,' I whisper. 'Investigating Barrow Heights Anomaly. Requesting Protocol 5. I say again—Protocol 5.'

The watch throbs once in my palm. The vibration travels up through my hand, into my jaw, directly into my inner ear where only I can perceive the response:

REQUEST RECEIVED

PALES DEPLOYING

CALCULATING ETA…

58 MINUTES 34 SECONDS

Tyler blinks up at me. 'What are you doing?'

'Calling in the cavalry.’ I snap the watch shut, slip it back into my vest. ‘You said the Landlady showed you how to access the basement. I’d like her to show me too.’

He scrunches his face, thinking hard. 'I know she's on the 10th floor.'

'Good enough.' 

I draw my revolver, crack it open. Six chambers, six rounds—each one glowing faintly with arcane sigils etched into the brass. Standard issue for Inquisitors. One bullet per threat class, assuming perfect accuracy.

It’s enough. Just barely. 

I snap the cylinder closed, holster the weapon. Move toward the exit. 'Your landlady knows how to gain access to the basement. Once my friends arrive, we'll need that access point to breach the Tall Dog's lair and put it down for good.'

Tyler darts forward, small and vulnerable in his too-big pajamas. Blocks my path. 'Promise you'll come back.'

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. 

My voice stalls.

‘I…’

_____________________________________________

'I know, Abby.' 

My throat is tight, the phone cord curled around my hand. 'My squad got a call last minute. It's an emergency. I’ve gotta do this.'

She sighs. 'It's always an emergency.'

I'm pressed into the phone booth, gray concrete walls boxing me in on three sides. A mile of bedrock separates me from the surface. This deep in the Order of Alice’s headquarters, everything smells like gun oil, recycled air, and slow-rotting nightmares. 

'You said you wouldn't work late. You promised you’d be home for my birthday.'

A squad marches past in formation; five soldiers encased in living white armor that shifts and breathes with each step. Pales. Their suits are scratched and gouged, white carapace stained with blood that won't wash out no matter how hard you scrub. The leader’s armor is the most scarred by far. 

'Jhune!' Bishop Stevenson's voice cuts like a whip crack. 'That better be your mother on the phone—and she better be fucking dying. You should’ve been suited up at The Hearse ten minutes ago.'

I press the receiver against my chest, muffling it. 'It's my daughter, ma'am. It's her birthday and I—'

But Stevenson's already turning away, her scarred armor rippling with barely-contained irritation. 'Hang it up,' she barks over her shoulder. 'We deploy in ten. If you're not in The Hearse by then, I’ll make sure you’re in the dirt.’

My heart sinks. 'Yes, ma'am.'

I'm the newest addition to the Order of Alice’s shock troopers. The pay is nearly twice what I made as an Analyst, and the abuse is almost worth it. 

'Dad?'

Abigail's voice pulls me back.

'Sorry.' I force the words out. 'I've got to go.’

'Seven years, Dad.' Her voice cracks. 'You haven't been home for my birthday since Mom died. Not once.'

'Abigail—'

'What?' The tears are audible now, thick in her throat. 'You gonna tell me I don't understand? That it'll make sense when I'm older? That you're doing this for me?'

The PA system crackles to life overhead.

'Private Jhune.' Bishop Stevenson's voice echoes through the complex, patience worn to nothing. 'Report to The Hearse immediately. Final warning.’

I close my eyes. 'I have to go, Abby. But I'll be home before midnight. I promise. I'm not missing this birthday. Not this one.'

A long, tired sigh filters through the phone. ‘Whatever, Dad.’

Click. 

The line goes dead. 

An alarm shrieks overhead. Around the corner, an engine roars to life like a demon. Tires squeal against concrete as something massive barrels toward me.

The Hearse.

It screeches to a halt three feet from the phone booth; a black, angular monstrosity the size of a garbage truck, panels shifting and realigning like it’s a living thing. Steam hisses from hydraulic joints. The rear door splits open with a metallic scream, revealing the cargo hold: two rows of vertical chambers lining the walls, each one shaped like an upright coffin.

My squad stands inside, already locked into their positions. Waiting.

The empty coffin waits for me—third from the left, still stained with something dark around the edges. Beside it stands Alvarez, my assigned fireteam partner, already half-encased in his armor. He flashes me a grin beneath his mustache that feels entirely too relaxed for a member of Stevenson’s crew.

'Ready to light up some boogeymen, hermano?'

I step into coffin with a small nod. 

'Good,' Alvarez says, still grinning. 'Cause this is a Protocol 13. A real spank n’ shank. You make it out alive, and I’ll buy your beers for the rest of the year.’

I give a nervous chuckle. ‘That’s generous.’

‘Nah, just playing the odds.’ He laughs, low and cold as the coffin door swings shut. ‘See, no rookie has ever survived a Protocol 13.’

‘Wait—’

The door closes.

Darkness smothers me. Smothers my voice. I’m clawing at my neck, sucking back air that won’t come. My mind is reeling, disoriented, my fists bashing against a lid that won’t budge. And through all of it, all I can think about is her. 

How I’m going to miss her birthday again. 

How I’m going to miss all of them. 

My mind dims. My limbs go limp. Somewhere in the void, a child’s voice reaches me. 

A boy’s. 

Promise!

_____________________________________________

My eyes snap open.

I'm standing in a demented version of apartment 8H, staring at a ten-year-old waiting for an answer I don't know how to give. Tyler looks down, picking at the edge of his sleeve. 'My dad didn't come back. He said he would. But he didn't. So promise you will, okay?'

My chest tightens.

'Sure, kid. It's… It's a promise.' I swallow hard. ‘But only if you stay in your room until I get back. Deal?’

He studies me. Then nods. 

He turns for his room, pausing at the threshold to look back one last time. It’s a look I’ve seen before. A look that says he doesn’t believe me.

Then the door closes, and I’m alone. 

I make for the exit. 

Brrrrnngg

The phone.

It’s ringing with the mechanical trill-trill of an ancient rotary. I cross the hallway and lift the receiver, bringing it slowly to my ear.

‘Hello?’

Silence answers. 

Then, cutting through the static comes a voice decrepit and papery. ‘Mr. Jhune.’

My jaw clenches. 'Agnes Miller.’

‘I’ve been listening to your discussion through the pipes. Such a precocious lad that Copeland boy is.’ A gravelly chuckle rasps through the line, dry as dead leaves. ‘And such a perceptive young man you are.’

It’s true, then. The kid’s story has to be true. 

‘You tried to killer Tyler,’ I breathe. 

‘Kill is such a terribly loaded word. Let’s retire the dramatics, shall we?’

My voice shakes with rage. ‘You’ve been feeding children to that monster for years.’

'On the contrary—I'm all that's standing between the Tall Dog and Barrow Heights becoming a slaughterhouse.’ Her tone hardens. ‘I've protected the residents for nearly a century, and now you want to risk their lives by angering something you don’t understand.’

No, I don’t plan to anger it. 

I plan to murder it.

‘Where are you?’ I say coldly. ‘I think this conversation would be better served in person.’

‘Apartment 10-R.’ There's a wet, labored sound of her struggling to breathe. 'On your way up, feel free to enjoy my sister's artwork. I had them hung in her memory.'

Click.

The line goes dead.

I make for the front door. Pull it open. 

The outside corridor is somehow even more twisted than the Copeland apartment. It stretches long. Too long. Doors line both sides at irregular intervals, some close together, others separated by vast expanses of rotting walls. From behind those doors, voices bleed through: shouting matches, sobbing, the wet thud of fists on flesh.

This is the Bad Ending, broadcasting its distorted prophecies at full volume. 

'It's not real,' I mutter, forcing my legs forward. *'*None of this is real, Vincent.'

Unless I fail. 

I shove open the doors at the end of the hallway and my breath goes out of me. 

The stairs. 

They’ve become something out of an Escher nightmare, each flight a different length, some compressing into only three or four steps, others stretching upward for what looks like thirty, forty, climbing at angles that make me want to hurl. The walls tilt inward, then outward, geometry refusing to behave.

And the wallpaper.

It hangs in long, defeated strips, peeling away from the plaster like skin sloughing off a corpse. But where I expect to find black mold or water damage beneath, there's color. Faded pastels. Crayon strokes in pink and blue and yellow, pinned directly to the bare wall.

Children's drawings.

I slow, angling my flashlight to get a better look.

Stick figures. Crude and wobbly, the proportions all wrong in that way only a young child's artwork can be. And at the bottom of each one, printed in careful block letters:

FLORENCE MARIE HOLLIS

The name hits me like ice water.

Florence Marie Hollis was the first—the first child to vanish from Barrow Heights, all the way back in 1936. Subject zero of this nightmare.

How did I miss this?

I'd researched the building. Combed through census records, property transfers, newspaper archives. Agnes Miller had been listed as landlady for seventy years—since 1952. I'd noted her age, her contact information, the fact that she'd been managing Barrow Heights since she was in her twenties.

But I'd never looked deeper. Never traced her maiden name. Never connected her to Florence Hollis, the six-year-old girl who disappeared without a trace nearly a century ago.

Sloppy, Vincent. Dangerously sloppy.

Maybe I should've stayed a Pale. That job didn't require thinking, just following orders, pulling triggers, destroying whatever I was pointed at. But I'd wanted more. Wanted to prove I could do more than murder things that went bump in the night. Wanted to prove I could save people. 

That’s how I got to be an Inquisitor, and I was the first Pale in history to make the jump.

And I'm doing about as well at it as I did at being a father.

I grit my teeth, refocusing. Tyler and his mother are on the 8th floor. Agnes is on the 10th. Under normal circumstances, that's two flights of stairs, maybe ninety seconds of climbing.

But in the Bad Ending dimension, nothing follows normal rules.

The stairs shift as I watch them, treads rotating like puzzle pieces, railings bending at impossible angles. It could take me ten minutes to reach the top floor.

It could take me an hour.

Move, Vincent. The clock's ticking.

I take the steps two at a time, ignoring the way they seem to multiply beneath my feet. As I climb, I study Florence's drawings, a chronological gallery pinned to the stairwell walls. The first few are innocent. Happy. Two stick-figure girls holding hands in matching triangle dresses. A mother and father standing behind then.

Then the pictures change.

In the next, the father stands apart from the family, separated by a wide gap of white space.

In the one after that, there's a shape visible behind a scribbled mess of green bushes. Something dark. Something with ears.

I stop on the landing between floors, pulling the drawing free from the wall for a closer look. The shape is rendered in thick black crayon, with heavy strokes that tore the paper in places. It's got long, drooping ears. A hunched silhouette that's too tall, too crooked and—

The floor drops out from under me.

I'm falling.

Not down, but sideways, reality tilting ninety degrees as the drawing in my hand expands, swallows, consumes me. Dimensions collapse. The world flattens.

And suddenly I'm not in the stairwell anymore.

I'm in a nightmare.

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