Marcello was annoyed, I could tell from the metronome tempo of his foot. 1, 2, 3, 4, and again, 1, 2, 3, 4. We were waiting outside a looming manor. In all honesty, the sheer size of it seemed so unrealistic in the modern age. I’m sure a few 100 years ago it was a beautiful and tasteful home, but it definitely didn’t fit in between a small vet office with a colorful rainbow sign and a playground. Not to mention the color scheme, all black? Not even a shade of grey? Just pure darkness? It had looked even more out of place when we had arrived during a gorgeous sunset, which was almost an hour ago. I gazed up at the sky, only making out the moon’s light covered by clouds. I turned to Marcello.
“Perhaps we should-”
Before I could finish my thought, the doors began to slowly creak open at a snail’s pace, scraping slightly. Marcello flinched at the sound before quickly turning on his heel and forcing the doors open.
“It’s this exact reason stereotypes exist,” he muttered. I followed him as he speed walked, in that passive-aggressive way some people speed walk, rigid posture, straight knees, slightly clenched fists, emphasized steps.
The doors slammed shut behind me as soon as I stepped inside. The darkness engulfed me for a split second. Before I even had the chance to adjust my eyes, all the candles in the hall lit up, revealing an interior just as monotone as the exterior, the velvet walls and wood paneling all painted black. All of the paintings depicted the same man, with long white hair and blood-red eyes. Except I nearly burst out laughing at how exaggerated they were, with his chest and musculature barely contained in the painting, and glitter added to his face, he looked less like a real person and more like an over-idealized caricature.
“Ah…” A low, long rasp filled the corridor, shaking the house. “A pup and a birdie, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The voice was French, hesitant to pronounce the s in pleasure, instead saying “plea,” a long rasp “ure.”
“Just talk face-to-face, let’s not drag this out,” Marcello glanced around the corridor, looking for the origin of the voice, ignoring the “pup” jab.
“Very well, I will give you the greatest privilege, that of meeting me, Noritis.” The doors ahead of us opened, this time much swifter, and we saw him, Noritis.
Marcello couldn’t help but groan at Noritis’s over-the-top furling cloak, complete with a shiny suit vest and a puffed collar with a massive ruby attached. If that was all he was wearing, I would’ve let it go, but he was wearing black spandex tights, with what I could only describe as elf shoes. It was like he had just watched “The Labyrinth” and decided to dress like the goblin king. Except he was most definitely not David Bowie.
“Sit! Sit!” he said, his accent making it sound like “it! it!”
He quickly waved his hand to the small spruce coffee table and chairs across from him. They looked straight out of a historical drama. The chairs were black, with gold-patterning of flowers. I found them quite pretty. What I did not find pretty was the abomination of a coffee table, covered in old water-ring stains and chipped edges.
I looked around the room, which I had concluded was the living area. It was filled with items just like the chairs and tables, none of them matching, and some in better condition than others. Random lamps of different shapes and sizes were strewn about the sides of the room; his only other piece of big furniture was his brown leather couch, which I would have thought looked quite comfortable if it weren’t for the fact that all the leather had seemingly peeled off of it. It was like an antique shop. Marcello sat down, looking like an alien who had just crash-landed on Earth in his khaki shirts and bright yellow Hawaiian shirt adorned with pineapples.
“Look, this is just a quick registration procedure. Since you recently moved into this sector, we just need to create your profile,” Marcello slid a questionnaire across the table. “Fill this out, and my associate,” at that he glanced towards me standing behind him, I had been too caught up with examining the room to sit, “will confirm the validity of your answers.”
“Is. . . that all?” Noritis asked, he was obviously disappointed, “No ritual circles? Or orb divinations?”
“What’re you talking about?” Marcello raised one brow.
“Er, never mind,” he plucked a pen from inside his cloak and began to fill out the questionnaire. His pen skittered across each page, a continuous scratching sound as his expression fell after each boring question. I looked at him apologetically, though I had nothing to be sorry for.
“Ah, I think that’s all.” Noritis handed Marcello the questionnaire; his bravado and over-the-top acting all gone.
“Mhm, yeah, that should do.”
Marcello glanced at me, a cue. I rubbed my pointer and thumb against each other before placing my hand on Noritis’s shoulders. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing.
“Did you answer truthfully?” I opened only one eye and stared into him. He stared back at me, and I captured his gaze, staring deeper and deeper into his eyes. I watched as his pupils grew into black orbs. I flew into those orbs, and his mind became my forest, and I began to hunt.
Determining whether someone was lying was slightly complicated; it wasn’t just a cut-and-dry red light = lie, green light = truth. I had to make them want to tell me the truth; I had to use their wants and dangle them like a string in front of them, telling them the only way to get it is to tell the truth. While dangling the bait, I also observe their emotions in that moment. If they lie, I’ll then I’ll notice. I usually visualize it as a delectable mouse running from a shiny piece of cheese as I swoop down to grab it. This is, of course, dangerous, and if the person is in a highly volatile mental state, or has thoughts that I just can’t understand, then it won’t work, and might get a tad dangerous.
But Noritis was basic, and that mouse went for the cheese just as he said, “Yes, I answered the questions truthfully.”
I glanced at Marcello, releasing my grip on Noritis’s mind. He nodded to me and got up Noritis just glanced around, not even realizing I’d done anything.
“Thank you for your time. If you have any questions or any needs that fall under the forced sector provisions, then call this number.” I handed him our company mandate business card before jogging to catch up beside Marcello.
“Hungry?” Marcello got into his Vintage Shelby. He’d found it abandoned by a creek and slowly fixed it up over a few years. Sure, maybe its doors were squeaky, and the windshield still had a few cracks, but it ran great, and the seats were incredible.
“Sure, any fast food joints around here?” I opened the passenger-side door, slid into the car, and buckled my seatbelt.
“Yeah, closest one is 10 minutes away.” Marcello started the engine and slammed the pedal, zooming onto the road. I turned on the radio and reclined my seat, both of us blissfully unaware of the chaos that awaited tomorrow, that same chaos that would bring us right back to this home.
Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash