Since I left Deal and came to the city, I have had Angela – still imprisoned in her throne of sticks – stored safely in the front room. The idea of her spending all day and all night here, in a rundown apartment, is somewhat incongruous and absurd. Yet it is precisely these qualities that make me smile from time to time. In Deal, I kept her in the tunnel system that she and I first discovered all those years ago, and the scene was rather grand and magnificent. Angela would certainly view such an arrangement as another marker of my love for the theatrical. By placing her here in this ordinary little apartment, however, I have done something that would doubtless surprise her a great deal.

  I'm sure she would appreciate the irony.

  “We should go,” the girl says after a moment. “He might come back soon.”

  “I'm not leaving until we've got something,” her companion replies. “I'm not having this turn out to be a total waste of time.”

  “There's nothing here!”

  “There's gotta be something. Maybe a safe, or a tin or some gold.”

  “Listen, I was wrong, okay?” she says, sounding tired now. “It's my fault, but let's leave. If he comes back and catches us -”

  “He'd better hope he doesn't,” the male voice replies. “For his own sake.”

  “He's just an old man!”

  “Exactly. He's just an old man. Have you ever seen him with anyone else?”

  “What does -”

  “No-one gives a fuck about him. When he dies, he'll probably be one of those sad of fucks who end up rotting in their apartment for months. No-one'll even know until one day the person living in the place below'll start noticing a weird stain on their ceiling, and do you know what that'll be? His guts.”

  “You're gross, Scott.”

  I step closer to the doorway and see that the girl is looking now at my bookshelf.

  “What's this?” the male voice asks, and he steps into view holding a book in his arms.

  I feel a flicker of concern as I see that he has, in fact, found the ancient text that I acquired from Angela many years ago. He's looking through the pages, handling them like an oaf, and I'm starting to realize that I'll need to do something about him quickly. After all, an untrained mind could cause a great deal of damage with the information contained in that book. He might even have some sensitivity to certain abilities, in which case he might abuse the book's guidance. He could -

  “It's just junk,” he says, tossing the book aside.

  “It might be worth something,” the girl suggests, picking it up again. “It's gotta be worth a shot, right?”

  “Whatever. This place stinks like old man pants. I'm done wasting my time.”

  With that, they both turn and comes this way, and then they open the door before suddenly the girl gasps as she sees me blocking their way. With the lights still off, all she'll be able to see is my silhouette.

  Suddenly the man lunges at me, grabbing me by the lapels and pulling me into the room, and then he slams me against the wall just a few feet away from where Angela remains in her prison.

  “What the fuck are you doing home early?” the man sneers, leaning closer to me. I can barely see his face at all, but he looks like a typical young thug. “Shoulda stayed out for longer, old man. You're about to regret walking through that door.”

  “Scott, let's go!” the girl hisses, trying to pull him off me. “Let's just get out of here!”

  “Did you hear that?” the man asks, still staring at me. “She used my name. My real name. That's bad for you, my friend, because it takes away any chance that I might just walk out of here.”

  “Can we leave?” the girl asks. “I'm feeling really weird. I feel like I'm being watched.”

  “We're leaving when I say we're leaving,” the man says, although by now I'm looking at the girl and watching as she turns to look toward Angela.

  Does she sense her?

  There's no way she'll be able to see her, but if she's sensitive to these things she might pick up on the presence.

  “I didn't wanna have to hurt anyone tonight,” the male thug says, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a knife that glints in the low light. “Shame how the universe works sometimes, isn't it? Maybe it's just time for you to check out, old man.” He holds the knife up for me to get a closer look, and now I can just about see the idiot's eyes. His pupil's are distended, and it's quite clear to me that he's riding high on some kind of narcotic. “I'll make it quick,” he adds with a whisper. “Real fucking quick.”

  “Scott, let's just go,” the girl whines. “I'm not -”

  Suddenly she screams as the thug stabs his knife into my belly. He twists the blade slightly, then he pulls it out and stabs me again and again, making his way up to my chest and then to my throat. Each time the knife slices into my body I feel the serrated metal edge ripping through my flesh and skin, and catching against my ribs. I don't scream, of course, even though any other person in my position would cry out for help. I merely flinch slightly as I feel the blade slice between two of my ribs and its tip plunges straight into my heart.

  The thug keeps his knife embedded in my chest as he stares into my face. In the gloom, I can just about make out his eyes watching me, waiting for the first hint of agony. He wants me to be hurt. He wants me to sob.

  Finally he twists the knife a little, as if he's still trying to get a reaction.

  “What the fuck?” he says finally, pulling the knife out and taking a step back.

  Behind him, the girl is staring at me with wild, horrified eyes.

  I maintain eye-contact with the thug for a moment, before slowly looking down at my chest. There are a few torn slits in my clothing, but apart from that there is no damage. And then, slowly, I look over at the thug just in time to see blood start soaking through from the myriad wounds up and down his torso.

  He tries to say something, but all that emerges from his throat is a faint gasp before blood starts dribbling from the left side of his mouth. His eyes switch from hatred to fear in an instant, and he takes a stumbling step back before tripping. I watch as he crumples to the floor, clutching his belly as more and more blood leaks from the wounds he thought he'd inflicted upon my body. He's flailing now, and desperate, but I can see from the look in his eyes that he understand he's dying.

  “No!”

  The girl turns to run, but I look at her and immediately she's held back. She gasps as she struggles, but an invisible force is holding her in place. As her thuggish boyfriend gasps on the floor like a dying fish, I step over to the girl and stop right behind her, and I peer around at her terrified, pale, acne-pocked face.

  “I'm going to be very generous to you,” I say calmly, speaking over the continued spluttering sound coming from the floor. “You won't remember this in the morning. Not the specifics, anyway. You might have a sense of something awful having happened, but you won't remember what happened to your companion.”

  She tries to say something, but she's trembling with fear.

  “I could peel your body open layer by payer,” I continue, “until you're nothing but a line of organs and bone hanging in the air. To be honest, that's what my gut is telling me to do. However, I wish to try something a little less theatrical. I wish to plant in your life a more subtle horror. Just as a test, you understand. If I don't enjoy the outcome, I'll consider the test a failure and I'll go back to my more grandiose ways, but for now...”

  I hesitate, still struggling to subdue my instincts.

  “For now, get out of here,” I add finally. “Go on, move. Go home, go to bed, and stop sitting in that corridor with your cellphone all the time. You irritate me.”

  I release her and she suddenly stumbles forward, almost tripping against the leg of the table. She turns and looks at me, and then she almost looks at the thug as he continues to suffocate and bleed out on the floor. For a moment the girl seems hesitant, as if she's staring to become aware of something here in the room, but then she blinks several times before turning and walking out of the room, then out of the apartment. She even shuts the door after she's out in the corridor, which is rather kind of her.

  Next to my feet, the thug lets out one final groan before falling silent. I look over at Angela, and I can just about make out the side of her face caught in moonlight that shines through the window.

  “Impressed?” I ask. “I did all that without even having to turn on the lights.”

  She doesn't reply, of course. She can't reply. Her eyes remain closed as I turn and crouch next to the thug's body. I shall have to think of an enjoyable way to dispose of this idiot's wretched corpse.

  Sixty-Nine

  Sebastian

  “That's right,” I say with a smile, standing halfway along the alley at the side of the building and watching as the dogs continue their meal. “Don't waste anything.”

  It's morning now, and I had no trouble slipping the thug's corpse out of my apartment and down here to where the wild dogs can feast. There were just two of the beasts at first, but now several more have come along and they're happily chewing on the body. One dog in particular is tugging and tugging on the left arm, trying to tear it away at the shoulder, and I watch with a growing sense of fascination as the muscles and ligaments finally pull away and the dog succeeds.

  Just a short distance away, people are walking past the end of the alley, going about their routines. No-one looks this way, of course. I've made sure of that. I don't want to give them a free show and, besides, they'd probably ask awkward questions.

  I'd forgotten what it's like to have pets. In some ways, I miss the creatures that surrounded me in the forest. Angela might have created them, but it was me who really gave them a reason to be alive. Still, all things must change. I might get a dog, though. Just one. It would be nice to have some company.

  ***

  As soon as I get back into the building, I realize I can hear voices shouting frantically upstairs. I hesitate for a moment, wondering what might be amiss, but then I tell myself that this is merely another day of human wretchedness. Bracing myself for the noise, I start making my way up the stairs. If the idiots won't be quiet today, I might have to find a way to shut them up.

  When I get to the landing, however, I immediately see that one of the closest doors is open, and I hear agonized cries coming from inside one of the apartments.

  “Where's the ambulance?” a woman sobs. “Harry, where the hell is that ambulance!”

  “It's coming!” a man insists. “Oh God, what's she done to herself?”

  “Hayley, stop!” the woman shouts. “Hayley, why? Why would you do something like this?”

  Realizing that this must be the apartment where the cellphone girl lives, I step over to the doorway and look inside. The hallway is filthy, with trash and junk all over the place, but I can hear a kind of faint, desperate moan coming from one of the bedrooms. I know I should mind my own business, of course, and I have mostly avoided even the briefest of eye-contact with the building's other residents, but curiosity compels me to step through and make my way to the next door.

  If anybody challenges me, I can simply lie and say that I came to help.

  “What's wrong with her?” the woman cries, and finally I see her kneeling on the floor next to a bed.

  The whole apartment stinks of oil and hot fat.

  “They're coming,” the man says, “I promise. They're coming.”

  “She must have been doing it all night!” the woman continues. “Hayley, whatever's gotten into you? Are you on drugs?”

  I lean around the side of the door, and now I can see that there's a figure in the bed. The man is standing in the way, however, preventing me from seeing the bed's other end, although after a moment I see that there's a fair amount of blood smeared on the sheets.

  “What's wrong with her?” the woman moans, before suddenly turning and looking at me. “Who are you?” she asks. “What are you doing in our home?”

  “I heard voices,” I reply, taking a step forward and trying to see around the man, to see the girl's face. “I thought I heard a commotion.”

  “Stop that!” the man hisses, leaning over the girl and struggling to restrain her hands. He's still blocking my view. “For the love of God, Hayley, why are you doing that?”

  I take another step, and finally I see her.

  Her face is gone.

  Most of it, anyway. All the skin has been torn away from her cheeks, and much of the flesh is gone too. There's still some skin on parts of her nose, and around one side of her mouth, but the vast majority has been scratched away and now sits scattered and curled on the bed-sheets. Even the skin around the girl's eyes is gone, exposing parts of her twitching and reddened eyeballs, and I watch in horror as her mouth continually opens and closes as if she's trying to say something.

  A moment later, the man lets go of her hands and steps back, and the girl immediately reaches up and starts scratching once more at her face, digging her nails into what remains of her flesh and scraping against the rapidly-emerging chunks of bone. Scraps of pinkish flesh still cling to the exposed sections of her skull, but it's as if the girl has spent all night digging away as much of her face as possible. She doesn't even seem to be in pain, either. A faint clicking sound is coming from the back of her throat, but otherwise the only sound is the continued rustle of the bed-sheets as she continues her frantic work.

  “Dear Lord, save us from this nightmare,” the mother whimpers, lowering her head and clasping her hands together. “What has gotten into our daughter? Why has she done this to herself?”

  In the distance, sirens are coming closer.

  “Why would anyone to this?” the father asks, taking another step back and stopping next to me, having apparently given up trying to hold his daughter's arms down. “What's wrong with her?”

  “I honestly don't know,” I reply, watching with fascination but also a growing sense of concern as the girl digs and digs at what's left of her face. “This is not my doing.”

  ***

  I can hear the paramedics working in the apartment along the hallway, as I open the ancient book on my desk and start searching for answers. My heart is racing, and I feel as if I'm losing my grip on what is and is not possible. I have always known that my actions might have unintended consequences, but until this morning I have never seen such consequences in such a graphic form.

  That Hayley girl was supposed to go to bed and forget everything. Instead, she evidently spent the night digging and clawing at her own face. I cannot believe that her predicament is my fault, yet there is no other possible explanation. Somehow, I made that girl do those awful things to herself. I do not particularly care about her, of course, but I care about my powers and I must understand if I have mad a mistake.

  Yet as I continue to search through the book, I find nothing to explain these events. Over the many years since I first acquired this text from Angela, I have come to know the lines by heart. I do not wish to get ahead of myself, but I consider myself to be something of a master when it comes to these particular arts, and never before have I tripped up or made a mistake. Indeed, as I continue to read I find that everything is as I understood it previously, which only deepens the mystery. Finally, feeling a growing sense of concern, I close the book as I realize that the answer perhaps does not rest within its pages.

  Along the hallway, the mother is weeping and moaning, and I can hear the paramedics wheeling the girl out of the apartment.

  Seventy

  Sebastian

  “It has to be in here,” I whisper to myself, as I turn to yet another page in the book. “I've missed something. The answer is in here somewhere.”

  It's getting late now, and night has fallen. I am at my desk still, having returned again and again to the book in search of answers. Every time, I end up more and more frustrated, but I know that the answer is in here somewhere. I have been here for hour upon hour, to the point that I feel myself being driven out of my mind. Never before have I been so uncertain about my own powers, not since the day I knew that I possessed them at all, yet now for the first time it is as if I have hit an impassable barrier.

  What have I done wrong?

  I turn to another page. I already know every word, every drawing by heart, yet I force myself to try reading them all as if they are new. I see scratched illustrations, and handwritten annotations in the margins, and deep down I already know that this entire endeavor must surely be in vain. My hands are trembling, and after a moment I happen to see that on my right hand there is a fresh section of dry, peeled skin in the space between my thumb and the first finger. I pull the scrap of skin away, but then I see another on the knuckle.

  “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, closing the book yet again. Even as I do so, however, I know that sheer desperation will drive me to open it again within a matter of minutes.

  I glance at the pile of other papers I have gathered over the years. Historical scraps, mostly, although I have found traces that hint at others who discovered these powers. I obtained the papers of Doctor Rudolf Langheim, a genius whose work was forever tainted by his links to the Nazis. I also obtained rough details of the work of a man named Thomas Paternoster, who I believe was one of the first mnesmologists. Paternoster worked with the early Sopphyrs and, although much of his theory was incorrect, I regard him as a pioneer. There are other names in those papers, names of people who have been sniffing around these powers. Yet none of them, I believe, have come as close as I am today to discovering the powers' true source.

  Leaning back in the chair, I take a deep breath as I try to compose my thoughts. I look around the dimly-lit apartment, hoping that inspiration will strike at some point, and for a moment my gaze falls upon Angela as she sits in the prison of sticks and poles that I once – many years ago – constructed for her.

  She would know what to do.

  Her knowledge was vast.

  I stare at her for a moment, before turning back to the book and reaching out to open it once more. Perhaps this time, I can clear my mind and come up with an answer. Before I can turn to the first page, however, I freeze as I realize that something else is wrong. I stare at the book for a moment, trying to convince myself that I am mistaken, and then slowly I turn back and look at Angela.