In failure, he felt closer to his grandfather. Both lifetimes amounted to wasted effort. His grandfather’s notes decayed, day after day, while Al’s attempts to complete the research proved useless. Tapping his foot, Al stared across the office: from floor to ceiling, the opposing wall was decorated with a patchwork of assorted clocks, their turning hands reminding him of approaching failure. Tick…tick…tick… Time lost was lost forever. Al’s options proved limited, narrowing even now. He wasn’t a Mage. He needed a Magician. Familiar lines of thought were retraced, reaching common conclusions. Unfortunately, his introspection was interrupted. Bram’s desk was currently on fire.

“Al! Some help!” Bram shouted, pushing junk away from encroaching flames.

Al walked to the fire extinguisher and—

“Hold on, avoid—!”

The extinguisher hissed, blasting Bram’s desk with foam. Beaten flames escaped; heat and light vanished. The office settled into cold daylight, fluttering ash falling like snow, and Al coughed. He could smell, could taste the tinge of smoke-heavy air.

Tick…tick…tick…

Behind his desk Bram flung open the room’s lone window, leaned out despite the precarious height, and coughed as smoke fled. His blond hair, long and tied back, became speckled by ash. Air cleared. With a sigh, he turned and began poking through charred remains.

“Lucky day? The damage isn’t so severe this time,” said Al, putting back the extinguisher. “At least your desk survived. Mostly.”

“The desk isn’t the problem. I can replace the desk.”

Al shrugged. Bram’s office was odd. One wall was covered by clocks, while its opposite hosted shelves upon shelves of assorted books, artifacts, and—Al suspected—junk. In being replaceable, the desk distinguished itself from the trash and treasure. The collected oddities were unique. Among the hoard, the sole source of unity was cobwebs and a layer of dust.

Bram’s office was odd, crooked, and disorganized, but generally reliable when called upon. A fitting reflection of its owner, thought Al.

“Honestly,” Bram began, “are Magicians selfish by default? Who spends a lifetime hoarding knowledge then destroys all the evidence? I’m not expecting a full confession, just a lead,” he vented, picking up the culprit behind the fire. Nothing, save for a smoldering cover, remained of the grimoire.

“Just a lead? Really? Magic isn’t so simple, and neither are Magicians. My grandfather left plenty of leads, and we still can’t figure out what he was trying to build.”

“Fair enough,” Bram grumbled, “but I’m still hedging my bets on easy answers.”

Internally, Al laughed. For Bram, the world was one grand game of chance. He hedged his bets, lost, and kept gambling while complaining that everything and everyone had always conspired against him. ‘Rigged! Rigged!’ He had ranted, half-joking, upon discovering that Al’s late grandfather had clairvoyance, the ability to spy from afar. The whole world was rigged, and if he had been born with second sight, he would have already gamed the lottery of life—and poker—and he would never again scavenge old bookstores and thrift shops in hopes of finding fragments of the occult.

That final remark, Al suspected, was a lie.

Several clocks chimed, their ringing slightly out of synch. The hourly ritual reminded them both of sparse time and approaching night.

“Right, onto business,” said Bram, setting aside all else. “Our investigation tonight should be straightforward, given your advantage in these sorts of situations. The client—”

“How serious are they?”

“Good question. The client seemed nervous, clearly hesitating throughout the call. I can’t know for sure, but Hildreth Investigators was probably his last gamble.” Bram leaned back. “He made his position clear. According to him, it’s all just superstition.”

“Superstition,” Al muttered. “So, he only hired you out of desperation.”

“Possibly. Probably, even.” Bram shrugged. “No point complaining, it comes with the territory. You know that better than anyone.”

Al crossed his arms, turning away. Seconds passed in silence. His refusal to acknowledge Bram’s point was damning confirmation. Al knew, and so had his grandfather.

Bram coughed. “Anyway, I’ve got errands to run. We’ll meet up and review everything before heading out. Until then, however, you’ve got an important task to complete.”

“What?”

Bram thrust his thumb towards the side, singling out a couch half-covered by junk. “Sleep.”

“What?”

“It’s obvious your insomnia came back. Don’t bother denying it, you’ve been impatient and snarky all day. Get some sleep, mentally prepare yourself, and thank me later. Alright?”

Deceptively perceptive as always, Bram’s observation proved correct: Al’s insomnia had returned, bringing its blessings and curses. Nights went slowly, every second seared into memory, yet the absence of dreams, or rather, nightmares, was welcomed. The double-edged sword had swung, severing his link to lucid terror. Bram understood this. Bram also understood that sleep skipping had drawbacks, that Al’s competence would suffer. Another night may have allowed small errors; the investigation, however…

Bram liked to gamble, but he wasn’t an idiot.

Begrudgingly, Al agreed to rest.

Artifacts and books were set aside as Al excavated the couch. He patted worn fabric, releasing clouds of dust that overwhelmed his senses. Coughing, he recognized the scent of musty paper, of past decades and indistinct nostalgia. The taste of decay entered, burning his throat. Al shook off the dust, shook off creeping memories, then settled onto rough fabric. It wasn’t comfortable. It was good enough.

He noticed Bram pocket various necessities—a wallet, phone, rabbit’s foot, and other essentials—in preparation of departure. Halfway out the door, Bram paused.

“Oh, and don’t forget your amulet. Just in case.”

A click and faint footsteps, then silence minus the chorus of clocks. Alone, Al tried to sleep. Scattered thoughts looped, analyzing the day’s every moment. Errands, Bram had claimed. Al assumed he was buying scratch-off tickets. He sighed. Al calmed his mind; the rhythm of clocks lulled him closer to oblivion.

Tick…tick…tick…

Even in sleep, his memory remained infinitely stubborn.

***

“…and that’s all the client knows,” concluded Bram, walking alongside him.

They approached their destination, guided by city lights. Defiant of night, the excessive glow lit their concrete path at expense of distant stars. The city hid heaven and reaffirmed earth, stitching together time into a single, endless day.

“So,” Al began, “you’re assuming the place isn’t really haunted, right?”

“The evidence suggests a non-entity, likely a sigil or ward. No voices, only headaches and hazy memories among the renovators. The client suspected gas leaks or heat strokes or hallucinations, and now he suspects the supernatural. Got spooked by old urban legends, probably. Anyway, he’s gambling on us, hoping we’ll exorcise the ghost or demon or…”

While Bram rambled, Al observed the city’s skyline. Towering buildings—endearing eyesores, Bram had dubbed them—unnerved him. Stained slightly by rust, those urban behemoths symbolized the unnatural. Like lines of dominoes, they seemed both carefully constructed and always a nudge away from toppling over. Vell City, Al knew, was possessed. Most cities were possessed: their towers held mysteries, hiding magic among the mundane. Inevitably, those mysteries would leak, rumors would form, and superstitions would spread; once every explanation, every rationalist prayer was proven false, then—and only then—would Bram and similar eccentrics be briefly acknowledged.

The world pretended the supernatural didn’t exist, scorning all who suggested otherwise.

They continued forward. Al spotted an oddity: an apartment complex, another domino, whose roof was crowned with a garden. He stared, curious if someone was staring back. Paranoia aside, he tried imagining what the garden’s overlooking view could reveal. An observer could spot Bram and himself walking, the pair’s blond hair suggesting a familial connection. Brothers, perhaps. The error would be unoriginal. Two weeks prior, during his high school graduation, several classmates made similar assumptions. The confusion stemmed from Al’s lack of family presence. His father remained home, hidden, while Bram congratulated him. Of course, Bram only arrived because—

“We’re here.”

Al looked.

Here was a house. Modern towers grazed its sides, casting lights and shadows, yet the abandoned home stood oblivious. Three floors were decorated with columns and windows and gables and cobwebs… a wooden shell coated by cracked paint. Here was a house whose history predated the City’s, a memento from Vell’s distant founding. Here was a house whose walls were tainted by mystery, that universal quality granted to all ancient places.

“Weird, right? Seems completely out of place and time,” said Bram, withdrawing a key. “It definitely looks haunted, no wonder the client hired us.”

“Speaking of, where is he? Inside?”

“Home, I’d wager. Probably too terrified, or embarrassed, to stick around.”

Al grumbled, complaining that—

“Hey, you’ve got it all wrong! This is great, it means less oversight!”

Bram strolled up creaking steps, cheerfully, Al noticed, and unlocked the door. Following him inside, Al stopped before coughing. Decay stained the walls and furniture and air. A thousand blemishes recorded the house’s history; a slight crack on the window, a tea stain upon the sofa, the lingering scent of tobacco… every scar preserved forgotten lives, allowing their memories to linger like ghosts.

“See anything suspicious yet?” asked Bram, already inspecting the area.

“Plenty, but nothing related to the client’s troubles. How about you? Feel normal?”

Bram nodded. “Whatever was tormenting those renovators hasn’t affected me yet. It might be localized to another floor. Either way, keep looking for strange objects or symbols.”

Sure enough, he kept looking. Upon closer examination, Al recognized the signs of recent polish: an absence of dust and newly applied paint, among other adjustments. Slowly, the house was being dragged into modern times. That unsettled him. He wasn’t quite sure why.

“That’s enough, I think,” said Bram. “Ground level seems clean. Now, onto the other floors.”

“What about the basement?” Al gestured toward the door next to the staircase.

“Locked and off-limits. The client claimed that, whatever was happening, the basement seemed unaffected. He also mentioned wires and tools and all sorts of stuff that shouldn’t be disturbed.”

Al raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I know, but he refused to budge. Worst case scenario you could always open the lock, but let’s check upstairs first. Maybe we’ll luck out.”

“Luck out? You?” Al sighed. “We’re doomed.”

“Obviously, but not today,” Bram chuckled. He patted his pocket. “We’ll be just fine. I even brought my good luck charm! Which reminds me, did you bring your amulet?”

“Like I’d forget.”

“See? We’re both prepared. This case is simple, so let’s just keep searching.”

Al shrugged and followed Bram. They walked over creaking floorboards towards the upper domain. The staircase was unusually narrow, and Bram stumbled slightly before regaining his footing. They reached the top, flipped a switch, and flooded the room with light.

Perhaps the first floor was camouflage, obscuring the previous owner’s peculiarities. Between the higher and lower, the second floor was likely a Magician’s study. Everything necessary was present: shelves of peculiar tomes lining the walls, a desk covered in notes, and a sigil marking the territory. Specifically, the strange symbol was a painting. It hung innocuously among familial pictures and the like.

“Well,” Bram began, “Isn’t that interesting. What do you think?”

“I think we found the culprit. The previous owner was clearly messing with magic,” replied Al. He knew the signs well. His grandfather had possessed a similar workshop.

Using his phone, Bram snapped several pictures. “I’m not so sure. A strange painting might be just that, strange. Not magical—not purposely magical, anyway. More importantly, I haven’t felt anything since arriving. If this sigil were the cause, we’d expect the effects to be strongest here.”

“True. Time to investigate floor three then?”

Bram nodded. “If we find nothing, we check the basement.”

With a last glance, Al committed the room to memory. Heading towards the house’s summit, they climbed wooden steps. Bram chuckled and stretched, explaining he was glad that this staircase wasn’t so narrow; he promptly stumbled and collapsed against the wall, knees bent as his hands grasped railing and prevented his skull from crashing against the step’s edge, finally falling and crawling back.

“Bram!” Al rushed forward, helping Bram retreat onto the second floor.

Slumped against a shelf, Bram breathed heavily and shook his head. “Floor three. It’s definitely floor three,” he coughed out.

“Whatever is affecting you isn’t affecting me. I’ll go on ahead, just wait here.”

Bram nodded, resting his head against his hand. “It’s the strongest ward, I think it’s a ward, I’ve ever felt. Keep your guard up, the client never mentioned anything like this…”

“I’ll find and remove it quickly. Wait here.”

Once certain Bram’s condition was stable, Al stood. He climbed the stairs, gripping the railing while treading carefully. Every step reinforced his alertness. An eternity passed before he arrived.

The highest floor contained a hall of many doors. The rooms were, with one possible exception, dead ends concealing the ward’s origin. His search began. Rooms of various objects, normal and strange and displaced by renovators, were examined. Nothing escaped. He moved furniture and tested floorboards, knowing better than to overlook potential hidden spaces. Still, nothing emerged. His search narrowed. The final rooms approached, every failure contributing to gnawing thoughts of mistake mistake mistake! Could—no, did something somehow escape his perception?

Entering another room, he flipped the switch—broken, just great. He fumbled with his phone’s flashlight, eventually scanning the room. Reflected light pounced upon the walls, creating overlapping patterns that slithered as he searched. They revealed a bed and window and mirror, and little else. He stepped forward, then collapsed onto the bed.

Stretching and leaning back, Al exhaled as cool fabric brushed against his limbs. The taste of bile tinged his mouth. His amulet rested over his heart. Alone, he considered options and possibilities. Perhaps the ward’s origin was sealed within the walls themselves, requiring everything to be demolished and rebuilt. The thought alone was exhausting. He could regroup with Bram, yet that was unacceptable, as his efforts had produced nothing.

Time was wasting away. Despite fatigue, he stood and continued the investigation.

He paused. Beside the bed was a table, nearly hidden and housing nothing but a picture frame. Looking closer—nope, neither sigil nor inscription. It depicted a man, bald with bulging eyes. Still, his gaze lingered. Reaching out—huh? The frame felt like a brick or block of iron. Heavy yet hollow, it almost seemed like—he turned it sideways. Gleaming in the phone’s light was a lock. It wasn’t a frame. It was a box.

Shoving his phone onto the bedstand, he shook the box. Contents rumbled. Normal circumstances would demand keys or picks or hammers. Instead, Al withdrew his amulet. The silver shone as it moved, gently tapping the locked enigma. Click. With trembling hands, Al—

“Well, isn’t that interesting.”

***

Al spun, skin crawling as he confronted nothing. The room was void. Impossible. That voice—

“Hello, young thief. Are you a Magician? That trick was quite impressive. I applaud your efforts! However, those are my secrets you’re stealing, so—”

Box in hand, he sprinted towards the open door. Voices. Autonomous forces. Neither relics nor wards matched the unpredictability of those unknown beings. Until understood, there was only one proper response: total avoidance.

“Rude, aren’t you? Are you a Sorcerer? You lack the discipline of a Mage.”

Near the exit, Al—fell backwards, thrown aside by furious winds whose rage tore into him. The door slammed shut. The box flew from his grip. Al crashed against the window, his body screaming as the distinct crack of glass rang out and breath escaped and rushing blood drowned out all else.

Dazed, forcing in ragged breaths, Al stared into the tempest. The room hummed and trembled with power. Bashing began against the door—its cause unknown—and everything became caught within the chaos; everything except the mirror, hanging apathetically upon the wall.

“Really, this is your fault. You’re simply too stubborn. The others were so open-minded, so easily confused and confounded. You, however—”

He crawled through the storm. Braced against the wall, Al dragged himself forward using loose floorboards; the rough wood shaved away skin, forming a thousand burning cuts. Nevertheless, he continued. Time seemed ever slower. Somehow, finally, he reached the mirror and gazed into the abyss. The reflection gazing back was not his own.

“I’m honestly baffled. Was your mind carved from stone? That ward, I think it’s a ward, is the strongest I’ve ever seen. Is that mental protection? Or pollution?”

He closed his eyes. He lunged into silver glass, his forehead stung by chilled fragments that cracked and fractured and broke the spell. Power scattered. Wind vanished. Heavy breaths calmed his pounding heart. It was over. Silence returned—would have returned, except for the bashing against—

The door burst open, nearly falling off its hinges. Inside rushed Bram, right hand holding his rabbit’s foot while his left gripped a pistol.

“Al, are you—!”

Bram paused. Slowly, he glanced over the wreckage. He spotted the window and mirror, both broken, then stopped to stare at Al. Staring back, Al felt something trail down his face.

“So,” Bram began. “Did you win?”