Even so, Lydia took a step back as she cupped her hand over her nose. The smell emanating from the body was overpowering and so much worse than the stink that had accompanied the creature in the hall. The stench had a wet quality to it, as if everything within the dead woman's skin had turned into a slurry of liquefied tissue and clotted blood.

The corpse's body jerked as though a jolt of electricity zapped through it and its shoulders flexed. The dead woman rocked from side to side, gaining momentum as her torso snaked forward. Within moments, she had slid over the edge of the tub and her body plopped into the puddles on the floor with a squish as Lydia scrambled backward a few more steps.

She knew she should be racing toward the broken sink, but was loathe to turn her back to the corpse. Even though it seemed incapable of standing, her imagination tortured her with images of it suddenly springing, knocking her to the floor, and smothering her beneath the chill of waterlogged flesh.

Lydia tried to keep herself from blinking as she studied the monstrosity on the floor. It didn't exactly crawl, but waddled, rocking its body from side to side as it inched across the tile. The swaying motion squeezed water from the thing's pores as if its flesh were a sponge and a wet trail marked its pa.s.sage as it edged closer to the woman with outstretched arms. The left hand was practically useless; the wrist was severed so deeply that it seemed as if only a thin ribbon of flesh kept it from falling off. When the hand was lying flat, the injury wasn't noticeable. But the slightest movement caused the hand to bend backward, revealing gristle and shredded muscle surrounding bone. This happened every few seconds, the hand flapping in a macabre wave while the rest of the body wriggled, its intact twin digging fingernails into the grout as the corpse pulled itself forward.

The thing may have tried to speak. Its mouth moved, but the only sound released was a faint gargling from somewhere deep within the remains of its lungs. Even if words had been produced, they probably couldn't have made it past the thing's swollen, blackened tongue.

Unexpected emotion paralyzed Lydia as she watched dirty water leak from the corners of the thing's lips. Her eyes warmed with tears and her mouth hung open as she tried to form words of her own. She, however, was just as incapable. Though she felt like she should say something, there simply were no words.

Instead, another snippet of memory slammed into Lydia's mind. An injured dog dragging its carca.s.s off the street, crawling toward a mailbox shaped like a scaled version of the house behind it. She sat in a car, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it felt as though her knuckles were about to burst through her skin. The beagle had come out of nowhere, had darted between two parked cars, and she'd slammed on the brakes as she jerked the wheel to the left. The stench of burnt rubber accompanied a thud that she felt more than heard as the car fishtailed and her hatchback straddled the center line. It would have been kinder if she'd hit the dog head-on. A b.l.o.o.d.y swath marked its progress across the road, smeared onto the pavement by the intestines trailing behind its mangled hindquarters. With her window down, Lydia could clearly hear the breathless whimpers that accompanied each movement and knew the dog had to be in excruciating pain. And yet it continued on inch by inch, pulling itself ever closer to the house. A small boy burst from the front door and ran across the lawn, yelling and crying as a harried-looking mother with red hair chased after him.

Like her other flashbacks, this one disappeared as quickly as it had descended upon her, leaving her with only lingering emotions: Guilt twisted her gut and sorrow scooped a hollow cavity between her throat and chest. She felt like weeping, like whispering an apology to the universe until it finally decided to accept her contrition, like pinching herself until the sharp sting of physical pain overrode emotional turmoil with something palpable; but all she could do was continue watching the thing as it squirmed on the floor.

It's not a thing! It was a woman once. Someone like me!

The thought struck her like a physical blow, causing her head to snap back. Somehow, the corpse's outstretched arms didn't seem threatening now. Maybe it simply wanted to know it wasn't alone. Maybe it reached out for compa.s.sion, for rea.s.surance that there was something else out there, something besides cold bathwater and the darkness of eyes it was no longer capable of opening.

Not it...she.

How long had the body languished in this bathroom? How long had it been suspended somewhere between life and death? Did she pray for release? Or did she long to become the person she'd once been, someone who had a family, perhaps even children.

Lydia squatted, balancing on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, and tried to see past the grotesque mask the woman's face had become. Somewhere beneath all that water-bloated skin were the traces of an honest-to-G.o.d person. She'd probably cried into a pillow as slivers of a broken heart pierced her soul; she would have had moments of carefree laughter, times when she felt broken and defeated, instances when self-confidence had empowered her into acts and deeds she never thought possible. She would have known the warmth of the sun on her face long before the icy bathwater had chilled her to the marrow.

The corpse wriggled forward again and its arm reached for Lydia as a gurgle burbled from within its chest; more water dribbled from the corners of its mouth and Lydia's shoulders drooped. She hadn't been aware of it until it was gone, but tension had hunched them to the point that her head looked as if it sat directly on them. Now that tightness was gone and it almost felt as though her muscles sighed in relief.

I'm sorry this happened to you. Whoever you are.

Lydia's thoughts swirled like smoke somewhere deep within the recesses of her subconscious.

You didn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

Did she even inhabit the body thinking these things? It felt as though she were simply floating in the ether, no longer a pilot within this sh.e.l.l of flesh but a mere pa.s.senger along for the ride. She couldn't feel the damp chill in the air or taste its staleness on her tongue. All she had left, it seemed, was the ability to see, hear, and think...but even those things felt fleeting and tenuous.

A dense fog seemed to have rolled into the bathroom, veiling details within a sinuous gray mist. The leaky spigot dripping into the tub, the squish and rasp of the dead woman writhing across the floor: These sounds were as m.u.f.fled and indistinct as though Lydia were listening to them with her head below water.

You're not alone.

There was no energy left in her body. Her muscles felt flaccid and useless, and if she allowed herself, Lydia was sure she could curl up and sleep for days. She was tired...so very, very tired. With half-closed eyelids she observed the corpse, somehow knowing that her focused attention was the only thing keeping her from succ.u.mbing to exhaustion.

I'm here.

Lydia saw her own arm rise so slowly that it seemed as if it had become weightless. She knew she was powerless to stop the movement, for she now existed solely in a state of disembodied detachment. Her sense of self had severed its connection with the physical body and drifted lazily within its confines. What the flesh and muscles and bones did was no longer of concern. She was content to allow her thoughts to float through the void.

Lydia watched her fingers unfurl and her hand reach toward the corpse with slow-motion clarity. There was neither apprehension nor revulsion, such things no longer being of consequence. It was simply something that was happening, something that didn't affect her either way.

Or was it? Somewhere within the husk of her body, Lydia became aware of a voice. One that sounded strangely familiar. It was no more than a murmur with occasional words breaking through the lull. Don't...wake up...now!

Don't wake up. It sounded as though the voice were telling her what she already knew: that it was best to sink into numb thoughtlessness, that she should simply allow her consciousness to continue drifting away from the body that had once housed it. After all, in this state there was no fear. No pain or sorrow.

The corpse reached toward Lydia's hand as well, its wrinkled fingertips trembling as it strained for contact.

The lull of words became more distinct, revealing more of its message.

Don't touch it!

Lydia's hand was still outstretched, but had gone as far as it could. Mired with fatigue, she could stretch no farther. If the dead woman wanted someone to hold her hand, someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, she'd have to complete the circuit herself. Lydia just couldn't muster any more strength.

Wake up, girl! You wake your a.s.s up now!

Lydia now knew why the voice sounded familiar: It was her own. This revelation, however, didn't trigger any type of emotional response. It was nothing more than an observation of fact. One that didn't really seem to have any bearing on her situation whatsoever.

Don't touch it!

Stifling a yawn, Lydia watched as the corpse inched closer. It lifted its own arm, trying once again to touch the woman squatting before it.

Wake up!

The voice clamoring for attention faded, as though it were rushing away from her. The insistent tone became a whisper, the whisper a murmur, and then was no more. But that was for the best. As soon as she touched the dead woman's hand, as soon as she gave her physical proof that she wasn't alone, Lydia would allow herself to slip into the sleep she so desperately desired. A sleep free of panicked voices. Free of uncertainty. She would be safe there. Safe forever.

With fingertips no more than a hair's width apart, Lydia thought she heard laughter resounding through the darkened corridors beyond the bathroom; but there wasn't time to ponder what this might mean.

Before the cackling had even begun to fade, cold flesh touched warm and Lydia's screams shattered her dream-like complacency, revealing the darkness and soul-shredding agony that had secretly awaited below.

Chapter 6.

The String of Theseus

Chuck stood in the curved stairwell of the medieval turret, looking through a window whose stone border was slick with algae. This was the same opening through which he'd viewed the silhouetted man, and that figure's presence seemed to linger in the s.p.a.ce, tainting the air with a chill that was deeper than what could be explained by ambient temperature. Rather than coming from outside his body, the coldness seeped through Chuck from within; it was as though liquid nitrogen flowed through veins his astral body didn't actually have, crystalizing his essence from the inside out.

This is what evil feels like.

The thought burst unbidden from Chuck's mind, making him frown. He hadn't truly believed in evil since he was a teenager; the way he saw it, everyone had reasons for the things they did, even ma.s.s murderers and serial killers. The so-called logic behind those reasons may have been so skewed that they only made sense to the person thinking them, but they were reasons nonetheless. Rationalizations. Justifications. A myriad of excuses to justify the most-deviant behaviors. Even extreme cases could be chalked up to mental illness or some psychological deficiency: He'd been positive of this. People didn't do bad things simply because they were bad.

Now, however, he wasn't so sure. He didn't try to explain away the cold as a trick of perception or a rogue atmospheric pocket in the Cutscene; he knew what he felt, and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Pure, unadulterated evil.

Stepping away from the window, Chuck tried to concentrate on the features of the turret-things that would distract his mind from thoughts of morality. Flames sputtered in the breeze gusting through the window and molten tar hissed from a torch as light and shadow fought for control of the stairs. The glow burnished the condensation-covered walls, tinting the pa.s.sageway with a soft orange light but never defeating the darkness completely. Time and time again, the shadows lurched and jumped, ripping bites of illumination before retreating to nooks and crannies the light couldn't reach, only to attack again. The torch's brightness weakened with every a.s.sault and the shadows pushed forward, claiming more of the battlefield with every pa.s.sing second.

Before long, the torch would burn out completely. The light would die and darkness would hold sway, free to mask whatever horrors crept behind its veil. He could sense their presence, just beyond the edges of sight; they cl.u.s.tered and writhed, hungry for suffering and sensing that something new had been introduced into their world. Something whose screams would feed insatiable appet.i.tes, something warm and vibrant and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with potential pa.s.sions. Something that would expose itself with the slightest show of emotion.

Chuck, however, thought he was safe. All he had to do was observe protocol. The human mind was easily controlled, and he'd spent days learning how to isolate rational thought processes from sentimental ones: replacing emotional responses with tangible facts, responding to situations with sound judgment rather than blindly reacting, controlled breathing, and meditation. There were a myriad of tools at his disposal, each one effective in its own right but made all that more potent when combined with others. Even in a worst-case scenario, he reminded himself, he still had backup.

The torch's flame was now so small that Chuck could have entirely blocked it with his hand and the impending gloom eased closer. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked out the window again. He couldn't see the ground from this angle, but the mountains rose above the horizon like inverted fangs. Their peaks raked the sky, seeming to pull long strands of cloud from the heavens as if they were tendons ripped from a carca.s.s. No trees dotted their slopes, the ground being too rocky for roots to ever take hold. No birds looped or dove through air. The entire place was lifeless and barren, a diorama dedicated to entropy and destruction.

This Cutscene had been responsible for the destruction of Abigail's Crossfade. It had consumed the energy the little girl's construct radiated, devouring it so thoroughly that not so much as a speck of pollen remained. Had her soul fled to another location, retreating to a place where her tire swing and field could rebuild themselves, offering the comfort she so desperately needed? Or was she here somewhere? Trapped within the confines of this G.o.dforsaken world, more alone and frightened than she'd ever been?

An image of the child flashed in Chuck's consciousness. She cowered in the shadows with her knees pulled to her chest, the lenses of her gla.s.ses cracked, and her eyes squeezed shut as tears cleaned swaths from the grime covering her face. The scent of decay was so thick it saturated her hair and dress, and she cringed every time thunder rumbled across the sky.

You don't know that...she could have moved on. She could have crossed The Divide out of sheer necessity.

Chuck knew that was a possibility. The shock of the event could've been great enough to propel her into whatever lay beyond. But he couldn't shake that image. It was as clear as if he were actually seeing her, and his body tensed as his hands balled into fists.

This was no place for a child. It was barely tolerable for him, a trained professional. What must it have been like for someone who still didn't understand how these things worked? For an innocent soul who didn't even realize she was dead yet?

The air suddenly felt too thin and dry, and Chuck clenched his teeth as he breathed through his nose. The shadows surrounding him looked darker than they had before, almost as though they were gaining strength from the sense of dread that clawed at Chuck's rational thought processes.

What the f.u.c.k are you doing here, man?

From somewhere farther down the stairwell, a woman wailed. Her cries sounded as if they came from the far end of a long tunnel, m.u.f.fled but echoing slightly. Though no words were actually spoken, Chuck felt the desolation as keenly as if it were his own. He felt as if hope had all but evaporated, leaving only a cold and empty expanse. So much despair in those choked sobs, so much fear in the whimpers punctuating them...

Chuck looked back over his shoulder again, seeking to calm the anxious quiver in his stomach with his silver cord's ghostly radiance.

"Remember the feel of warm sand against bare feet. The smell of salt.w.a.ter and gulls squawking overhead." It was Control's voice, broadcasting across The Divide and creating a link between his office and this castle of suffering. "Remember slicing your heel on broken gla.s.s, half-hidden within the dunes. How the wound stung as your blood oozed over sand so wet that it was almost reflective."

She was good. With nothing more than his vital signs to guide him, Control had skillfully reinforced Chuck's bonds with the physical world, summoning memories from vague descriptions in his file. Her ability to capture sensory details, to construct an impression of a place and time beyond the Cutscene, was just as important as his silver cord. Without her to reel in emotions when he couldn't, his cord would fade; without her, he ran the risk of being lost forever.

Images of the beach chased away thoughts of Abigail and the crash of waves drowned out the woman's wailing. He was no longer within the turret of a castle, but standing before the ocean, watching sunlight sparkle on the blue water as if millions of diamonds bobbed within its surface. A white-crested wave rolled over the sand and lapped against a gnarled piece of driftwood. When the tides pulled the water back into the sea, it left behind a layer of foam whose bubbles popped until a new surge wiped it clean. But the water also washed away stress; tension was coaxed from Chuck with each new breaker, and he felt as though physical weight was removed from his chest and shoulders. Breathing became easier and confidence swelled within him, replacing the doubt and fear that had struggled to take hold. Within minutes, he was calm enough to turn away from the ocean and its limitless horizon. At his back was the castle's pa.s.sage, and he stepped into it slowly...not from lingering trepidation, but because he felt so light and airy that quick movements were a physical impossibility.

"Control..." He knew the transmission was one-way. The halo allowed her to speak to him, but he had no way to actually reciprocate. And yet he whispered to her anyway, taking comfort in the knowledge that he was never truly alone. "Thanks for having my back."

Instead of succ.u.mbing to the false world, Control's guidance allowed Chuck to face the spiraling stone stairs. Other voices reached him now as well, lending their distress to a caterwaul of suffering. Weak pleas for help and mercy, hysterical crying, and strained, warbling wails: Their torment circled him like an invisible demon. It scratched the back of his neck with cold talons and chased chills down the length of his spine; its tail constricted around his neck, squeezing him in its coils as fangs plucked at his silver cord, testing its durability and resolve.

This place is strong. So d.a.m.n, strong...

Despite Control's earlier intervention, Chuck felt the flutter of panic deep within his core again. Part of him didn't want to go down those stairs. His feet had become leaden weights and he channeled all of his willpower to muster the strength for a single step.

What the f.u.c.k am I doing here? This is so out of my league.

"Remember your training." Control again, establishing a link to a world of sunshine and flowers, of spring breezes and laughter. "You can do this. It's only as real as you make it, Chuck."

He forced himself to take another step, and the keening of tortured souls grew louder. His palms felt as moist and cold as the stone walls surrounding him and his instincts screamed for him to go back, to follow his cord home and turn the a.s.signment over to a Level I like he should have done in the first place.

"Chuck..."

A spasm tremored his thighs and yet he still placed his foot upon the next stair. Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Chuck focused on the next bend, the next flickering torch. Anything to keep him moving forward as he descended deeper into the abyss.

I can't even get the d.a.m.n equation right. What the h.e.l.l made me think I was ready for this?

"Chuck, you have to keep that emotion in check. For G.o.d's sake, don't expose yourself. Commence Kundalini breathing in three...two...one."

Drawing a deep breath through his nostrils was like snorting a line of decayed flesh. The stench watered his eyes and infected his sinuses, seeping into his saliva and immersing his mouth in the rancid tang of decomposition. His diaphragm hitched in protest, expelling tainting oxygen through retches that left his throat lining feeling as though he'd belched fire.

"That's it. I'm pulling you out." Control's words were a panicked babble, shouted so loudly into her microphone that they cracked and popped with static.

"Negative, Control. I've got it covered. I can do this. I can. Mission proceeding."

Since she couldn't actually hear him, Chuck knew he had to act fast. He had to let her know through respiration, pulse, and brain activity that aborting the mission wasn't necessary. He had to show her-and himself-that undertaking this Walk hadn't been an error in judgment I've got this. I can do it.

Closing his eyes, Chuck imagined his breath pushed down his spinal column and into his legs. When he could feel it halfway down his thighs, he envisioned the exhalation taking on physical form, molding itself into vines that snaked and intertwined through his knees and calves, steadily spreading into his feet. The vines merged into one another, forming roots that burrowed through the cobblestone and into the earth, far below. Winding through soil and bedrock, through underground rivers where eyeless fish dangled phosph.o.r.escent appendages in front of needle-like teeth; deeper and deeper until the roots broke into the molten core.

Tension, fear, and uncertainty: All negativity coursed through the roots and burned in the fires below, so completely incinerated that only pure energy remained. He sucked the energy back up through his roots, back through the outer core, through the mantle and crust; it coursed into his body and dissolved the vestiges of panic. A sense of calm spread through Chuck's being as his roots retracted and he opened his eyes with a sigh.

"Grounded and centered, Control. Nothing to worry about. Just a little hitch. Won't happen again."

At the bottom of the stairs was a lightless void. With his focus returned, however, Chuck didn't need to see. He could feel the walls on either side of him, could sense when pa.s.sages branched out, and knew without exploring them which ones lead only to dead ends. With his silver cord trailing behind, he felt like Theseus in the labyrinth of King Minos. The horrors awaiting him here, however, were far worse than anything imagined in ancient myths; for he could feel the presence of something unnatural in the darkness, a beast whose mere scent would scatter herds of minotaurs in a frightened stampede.

And it was close.

If he hadn't performed The Tree Exercise before descending into the darkness, Chuck wouldn't have stood a chance. The creature would have homed in on his emotions and pulled him down, calculating its attacks as it milked pain and terror from his thrashing body.

But for now he was safe. He told himself that he, too, was a professional. Even though he hadn't received any of the advanced training-even though he'd only previously dealt with simple Crossfades constructed by children and infants-he told himself he was ready. And, at that moment, Chuck actually believed it.

He moved through the corridors at a brisk pace, adjusting his trajectory each time he heard a moan or sob from the solitary woman; the din of suffering had faded completely, telling him the souls who endured that particular h.e.l.l had been somewhere farther up the stairs. Down here, far beneath the tower, there was just that one voice, and he was positive finding the woman it belonged to would be the key. If he could save just one person from this place, it would prove beyond all doubt that he had what it took. That he would then be able to ascend the stairwell and tackle the larger job.

With his focus returned, Control fell silent, allowing him to concentrate solely on the task at hand. Minimal distraction, maximum concentration: just as the handbook advised.

In time, Chuck saw a doorway in the distance and readied himself. Whatever lay on the other side wouldn't be good. He knew this. But he also knew that he had to press on. The mission demanded it.

In the darkness, something sniffed.

Metal grated against stone in a long, slow sc.r.a.pe.

The doorway loomed closer and the woman's crying was so loud that she could have been standing right beside him. A twinge of fear returned to Chuck's stomach as his insecurities bubbled through stomach acids, undermining the confidence he'd fought so hard to attain.

He'd bit off more than he could chew. He wasn't ready for this. He needed to pull out.

"Stay calm," he reminded himself. "Don't blow your cover. Just breathe and remember what Control said: This is only as real as you allow it to be."

But with every step, it was harder to maintain detachment.

With every step, the creature sniffed a little more insistently.

Chuck struggled to reel in his emotions, but part of him suspected he'd never make it through that door. And that part whimpered softly as unseen feet scuffled through the darkness.