Web of Lies

An eccentric professor, his student, and a dachshund on an adventure that feels like the love child of Douglas Adams and Alice in Wonderland, conceived while Edgar Allan Poe brooded in the corner. . .

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.  ~  Sir Walter Scott

Prologue 

Virgil’s day began, as all great adventures do, with a scent. It was rich and earthy, the kind of smell that curled its tendrils into his little dachshund brain and whispered, Come find me. He sniffed the air, his tail wagging furiously, and set off across the yard.

The source of the smell was the compost pile behind Marcus’s house a sprawling heap of kitchen scraps and garden clippings that pulsed with endless potential. Virgil approached it like a knight approaching a dragon’s lair, his ears perked and his nose twitching.

The first layer of compost was unimpressive. A few wilted lettuce leaves, a soggy tea bag, and a sad, brown banana peel. Virgil sniffed disdainfully. He was a dog of refined tastes. He dug deeper, his paws kicking up dirt and potato peels until he struck gold.

Coffee grounds!

They clung to his paws, their sharp, bitter scent electrifying his senses. He licked eagerly, savoring the taste. The world seemed to sharpen, every sound and smell suddenly louder, brighter, more alive. He dug faster, his heart racing, until Marcus’s voice rang out from the house.

“Virgil! Get out of there!”

Virgil froze, his head snapping up, coffee grounds smeared across his nose. He considered obeying but decided against it. The fickle whims of humans bother him not since in a past existence he had guided souls into the inferno.  Even more importantly there was more treasure to be found.

An hour later, Virgil found himself in the parking lot of the city mortuary, his leash trailing behind him. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he didn’t question it. The asphalt was a buffet of scents, each one more intoxicating than the last.

The first prize was a half-eaten hamburger, nestled beneath a faded receipt. Virgil devoured it in a single gulp, ignoring the faint taste of cigarette ash. Next came a sticky lollipop, which he chewed thoughtfully before abandoning in favor of something better.

It was tucked beneath a crumpled paper bag a half-smoked joint, its pungent aroma making his head tilt with curiosity. Virgil sniffed it, sneezed, and then took a cautious nibble. The taste was odd, but not unpleasant. He licked his lips, his tail wagging.

Virgil! Marcus’s voice again, this time closer. Virgil looked up to see his human jogging toward him, his face a mix of panic and exasperation. What are you . . . is that a joint? Drop it! Drop it right now!

Virgil barked once, wagged his tail again, snatching the joint with his teeth, and bolted. The chase was on.

__________________________________________________________________________

Web of Lies

Marcus was yelling at a spider web.

The web, glistening under the pale glow of a street lamp, stretched between the side mirror of a rusted pickup truck and a dented shopping cart someone had wedged beneath it. Its threads were thick with dew and a stray leaf, which Marcus gestured to emphatically as he delivered his soliloquy.

"Lex falsa! Justitia vera!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the deserted lot.

The spider didn’t seem impressed. It crouched in a corner of its web, perfectly still, as if weighing whether this loud, sweating man posed a threat or merely a curiosity.

"Marcus!" The shout came from behind him, accompanied by the slap of hurried footsteps. "What are you doing?"

Marcus whirled around to face Professor Abbot, his face flushed and triumphant. "Practicing, Professor! Engaging with the material. You know, applying theory to the natural world."

Abbot stopped short, his tweed jacket flapping like a trapped bird. His eyes darted from Marcus to the spider web, then back again. "I see," he said slowly. "A metaphor for justice, perhaps?"

Marcus blinked. "Yes! Exactly. The web of justice. Fragile yet unyielding, elegant yet deadly. You can’t rush insights like this, Professor."

Abbot squinted at him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "I knew I could count on you, Marcus. Your dedication to the pursuit of truth is unmatched."

Marcus allowed himself a smile. In truth, he had no idea what the Latin phrase meant, and he’d been yelling at the web because it seemed like the kind of thing Abbot would find profound. And here it was, working like a charm.

The professor stepped closer, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Do you recognize this?" he asked, holding it out like a sacred relic.

Marcus squinted at the paper, which bore a series of spidery Latin phrases scrawled in Abbot’s frantic handwriting. He nodded slowly, stalling for time. "Ah, yes. Of course. Vital context for... the work we’ve been doing."

"Exactly!" Abbot said, beaming. "It’s all connected, Marcus. This phrase�"Lex falsa, justitia vera�"it’s not just a legal axiom. It’s a prophecy."

"A prophecy," Marcus repeated, nodding as if that made perfect sense.

Abbot’s enthusiasm grew. "Serrano’s entire history, its very foundation�"it’s tied to this phrase. And the vigilante�"well, they’ve latched onto it like a parasite. Twisting it, using it for their own ends. But we’ll uncover the truth, Marcus. We’ll show the world what it really means."

Marcus opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Behind Abbot, something moved�"a shadow that detached itself from the night. It took the shape of a person, broad-shouldered and deliberate, its features obscured by the brim of a wide hat.

The figure stopped several yards away, their posture relaxed but their presence suffocating. When they spoke, their voice was low and steady, carrying the weight of an unspoken threat.

"Professor Abbot," the figure said. "This is your last warning. Seek the truth, but not at the expense of the higher good."

Abbot froze, his hand clutching the crumpled paper. "Who are you to warn me?" he demanded. "Who are you to decide what truths can and cannot be uncovered?"

The figure didn’t respond. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, as if pronouncing judgment on Marcus. "Truth without virtue is a blade without a hilt," they said. "Walk away while you still can."

Marcus’s pulse quickened. "I’m just... uh... assisting the professor."

The figure’s gaze lingered on him, heavy and unblinking. "Even the web breaks under the weight of what it cannot hold," they said. Then, without another word, they melted back into the shadows, their silhouette dissolving into the night.

Abbot let out a shaky laugh, clutching the paper tighter. "Well, that was dramatic, wasn’t it?"

Marcus nodded, his hands still trembling. "Do you, uh, get a lot of threats like that?"

"All part of the academic life," Abbot said dismissively. "Truth ruffles feathers, Marcus. It’s inevitable."

Marcus glanced around the parking lot, half-expecting the figure to reappear. Instead, his gaze landed on the spider web, where the leaf had dislodged itself and fallen to the ground. The spider, apparently unbothered by the night’s events, continued its work in silence.

"Come, my boy," Abbot said, striding toward the university. "There’s much to discuss. And justice, as you know, waits for no one."

Marcus hesitated, his eyes lingering on the web. It looked fragile now, its threads swaying in the faint breeze, but it held fast. For a moment, he felt something close to admiration for it. Then he shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets, and followed the professor into the night.

The Room of Shadows

The professor’s office was less an academic haven than an archaeological dig. Stacks of papers teetered on the edge of collapse, their corners curling with age and coffee stains. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of knowledge, with volumes stacked two rows deep and leaning precariously, forming spires that reached for the ceiling. In one corner, a model skeleton posed jauntily, though its femur had been replaced with a taped-together ruler. The air smelled of ink, old parchment, and the faint tang of brandy.

Marcus perched uneasily on the edge of a faded armchair, careful not to disturb the precarious pile of manuscripts inexplicably leaning against a full size concrete mixer. His eyes darted to the skeleton, its hollow gaze a silent judgment. Across the room, Abbot rummaged through a filing cabinet, muttering to himself in Latin that sounded as improvised as Marcus’s own attempts at the language.

“I’ve been thinking,” Marcus began, his tone intentionally casual. “That vigilante… they seemed pretty serious about us leaving this alone.”

Abbot paused, turning with an amused gleam in his eyes. “Serious, yes. But misguided. That’s always the way with zealots�"they fear what they don’t understand. Knowledge threatens their illusions.”

“I don’t know,” Marcus said, shifting in his seat. “It felt more like they were trying to keep us safe.”

Abbot straightened, holding a yellowed document aloft like a prize. “Safe? My dear boy, safety is the antithesis of discovery. Galileo wasn’t safe. Neither was Newton. You can't stand on the shoulders of giants if you live in fear of toppling off!” He placed the document on the cluttered desk and smoothed its surface with reverent hands. “Ah, here it is.”

Marcus leaned forward, his curiosity tempered by unease. The page was covered in cramped Latin script, the ink faded but legible. Sketched in the margin was an intricate web-like design, its strands converging on a central symbol: a crown adorned with jagged lines and strange etchings.

“What is it?” Marcus asked.

Abbot’s expression turned grave. “This journal belonged to one of Serrano’s founders�"a man who claimed to have discovered artifacts of immeasurable power. Charlemagne’s crown, for one. The true crown, not the ceremonial replica used by the Holy Roman Emperors. And…” He tapped the page, his finger lingering on the sketch of a spear. “The Spear of Destiny.”

Marcus blinked. “The thing Hitler was obsessed with?”

“That too was a copy of the real thing,” Abbot corrected. “This is the real one. Legends say it was hidden here, in Serrano, long before the Nazis even dreamed of power. A relic of divine judgment, lost to history but not to myth.”

Marcus leaned back, letting the weight of Abbot’s words settle. “And you think… what? That they’re still here?”

Abbot’s smile was thin and knowing. “I don’t think, Marcus. I know.”

The room felt colder suddenly, the faint hum of the desk lamp a discordant backdrop to Marcus’s thoughts. He glanced again at the skeleton, its bony grin mocking his silence. “And the vigilante?” he asked. “You think they know about this?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Abbot said, his voice tinged with disdain. “Why else would they try to scare us off? They fear what these artifacts represent: absolute judgment. Truth stripped bare of all pretense.”

“Judgment?” Marcus repeated, the word sticking in his throat. “That sounds… ominous.”

Abbot’s eyes gleamed. “Only to those who have something to hide. For the worthy, judgment is liberation.”

Before Marcus could respond, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A spider, no larger than a coin, descended from the ceiling on a thin strand of silk. It landed delicately on the journal, its legs moving with unnerving precision toward the illustration of the web.

“Professor,” Marcus said, pointing. “We’ve got company.”

Abbot tilted his head, his expression curious rather than alarmed. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Look at it�"drawn to the symbol, as if it recognizes its significance.”

Marcus edged back in his chair. “Or maybe it’s just a spider.”

“Nothing is ever just anything,” Abbot replied, his gaze fixed on the creature. “It’s a metaphor. A reminder of how truth weaves its way through the strands of deception, always seeking the center.”

The spider paused at the edge of the crown sketch, its legs twitching. Then, with a final, deliberate movement, it scurried across the page and vanished into a pile of papers.

Abbot clapped his hands together, startling Marcus. “Well, that settles it. We must visit the necropolis tonight.”

“Tonight?” Marcus’s voice rose. “Don’t you think we should, I don’t know, prepare? Maybe research a little more?”

Abbot dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “There’s no time for hesitation. Truth waits for no man.” He began gathering supplies, his movements efficient but chaotic: a flashlight, a stack of notes, and a flask that smelled faintly of brandy. “Besides, we’ve already done the hard part. The journal gives us everything we need.”

Marcus picked up the journal, its weight heavier than he expected. The leather cover was smooth yet cold, like polished stone. As he flipped through the pages, the words seemed to shift beneath his gaze, the Latin phrases rippling like shadows under moonlight. Each symbol, each phrase, felt foreign and familiar all at once, as though they were whispering to something deep within him�"something he didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He snapped the journal shut, his hands trembling. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

Abbot paused, the flask halfway to his satchel. “Good ideas are for bureaucrats and cowards,” he said. “This, Marcus, is necessary.”

Marcus glanced at the skeleton in the corner, its empty eyes seeming to mock him. He wasn’t sure what they were chasing anymore�"truth, justice, or some twisted version of both. All he knew was that the threads of the spider’s web were tightening around them, pulling them toward a center he couldn’t yet see.

Dreaming Lake

The water shimmered like liquid glass, reflecting a sky that pulsed with colors Marcus couldn’t name. Small islands dotted its surface, their shores lined with impossibly perfect trees. On one island, a group of teenagers sat cross-legged in a circle, their laughter echoing across the water. They looked ordinary enough�"until one swiveled his head in circles revealing eyes that glowed like embers.

“Marcus,” one of them called to him as their form fractured into rays of light. “You’re late.”

The air smelled of lilacs and burning hair, a combination that made Marcus’s stomach churn. The teenagers laughed, their hollow voices ringing out. “Come on, Marcus,” one said, beckoning with a hand that seemed both too small and too large. “We don’t bite.”

His shoes disappeared as his feet met the water, warm and viscous like melted candle wax. Compelled forward he waded in. The water clung to him, thick and iridescent, every stroke sending spirals of color outward. At the lake’s center, the teenagers stood. Their forms stretched and shimmered, twisting into something both beautiful and monstrous.

“You seek answers,” one said, their voice layered with echoes. “But you swim in circles, Marcus. Always in circles.”

“The spider weaves,” said a third, their hands unraveling into threads. “But you tangle yourself in lies. The shadows do not fear you. They pity you.”

The water beneath him grew cold, pulling at his limbs. The teenagers�"or demigods�"began to chant, their voices rising in a haunting melody.      “Return,” they sang. “Return. Return.”

Marcus gasped, his lungs burning as the water turned to air. He was falling�"or at least, he felt like he was falling�"and then his face hit something wet and cold. He jerked upright, sputtering. Around him, the world was painfully normal. He was in the corner of Abbot’s office, his head drenched and his neck stiff. Virgil sat beside him, wagging his tail enthusiastically. His leash was tangled in a chair leg, and a puddle of drool pooled around his paws.

“Marcus!” Abbot snapped. “What are you doing?”

Marcus blinked, still disoriented. “I… I was swimming. In the lake.”

Abbot gave him a look of pure incredulity. “Swimming? You were snoring into the dog’s water bowl.”

Marcus glanced down. Sure enough, the bowl was overturned, water spreading across the floor. Virgil barked once, wagging his tail harder as if congratulating Marcus on his performance.

“Get up,” Abbot said, turning back to his desk. “We have work to do.”

Marcus wiped his face with his sleeve, the demigods’ words echoing in his mind, their meaning just out of reach.

“Return,” he muttered under his breath. “Return to what?”

Virgil sneezed and began pawing at the spilled water. Marcus sighed and stood, silently resolving to stay far away from lakes�"and demigods�"for the foreseeable future.

The Necropolis of Madness

The necropolis gates were missing.

Instead of the imposing wrought iron Marcus had imagined, the entrance was marked by two gnarled tree stumps. Between them stretched a thin, translucent barrier that shimmered like heat waves. When Abbot stepped through, it rippled as if swallowing him whole.

“Uh… what is that?” Marcus asked, clutching Virgil’s leash as the dog sniffed the ground with erratic enthusiasm. Virgil had been unusually energetic since sneaking an ill-advised bite of Abbot’s “herbal relaxation brownies” earlier that evening, and Marcus was already regretting bringing him along.

“Pay it no mind!” Abbot called from the other side, his voice distorted. “It’s a liminal threshold. Perfectly normal for spaces like this.”

Marcus frowned. Nothing about this felt normal. Still, he took a deep breath, tightened his grip on Virgil’s leash, and stepped through. The air on the other side felt thick, like stepping into a room filled with invisible cobwebs.

The ground beneath them was loose gravel that crunched loudly underfoot, though Marcus couldn’t see what he was walking on. The necropolis wasn’t dark�"it was lit by a faint, sourceless glow�"but the landscape refused to come into focus. Shapes shifted at the edges of his vision: gravestones that appeared and disappeared, trees that bent unnaturally as though listening, and distant structures that shimmered like mirages.

“Are you seeing this?” Marcus whispered.

“It’s remarkable,” Abbot said, not bothering to look back. “You should be taking notes, Marcus. We’re witnessing history�"or perhaps its shadow.”

Virgil tugged hard on the leash, his nose pressed to the ground. “Not now,” Marcus muttered. “We’re in a cemetery, for God’s sake.”

Virgil ignored him, dragging Marcus toward a crooked mausoleum that jutted out of the earth like a fractured rib. The door was ajar, and as they approached, a low voice echoed from inside.

“Enter, mortals,” the voice crooned. “Face the weight of your transgressions.”

Marcus froze. “Professor, did you hear that?”

Abbot turned, his face alight with curiosity. “Fascinating! A sentient projection, perhaps? Or a psycho-emotive echo?”

“It’s probably a raccoon,” Marcus muttered, though he didn’t believe it.

Virgil, tail wagging furiously, nosed the door open. Inside, the mausoleum was cluttered with mismatched furniture�"a sagging armchair, a card table littered with playing cards and empty bottles, and a rusted birdcage with a taxidermied chicken inside. . . At the center sat a woman who could only be described as… perplexing.

She was wrapped in a fraying satin robe that might once have been red but now leaned toward the color of regret. Her hair stuck out in wiry tufts, and her smile revealed a chaotic arrangement of teeth�"or the lack thereof. She raised a chipped wine glass in greeting.

“Marcus,” she drawled, though he was certain they’d never met. “And the professor. About time you showed your faces.”

“Who�"” Marcus began.

“I am Lith,” she interrupted, rising unsteadily from her chair. “Goddess of retribution, keeper of debts. And you”�"she pointed a crooked finger at Abbot�"“owe me.”

Abbot’s mouth fell open. “Madam, I assure you, I’ve never met you before.”

“You think I’d forget the man who cheated me at strip poker?” Lith demanded, slamming her wine glass onto the card table. “I should smite you where you stand.”

Marcus blinked. “Strip… poker?”

“You heard me!” Lith snapped. “He peeked at my hand, the scoundrel. And now he owes me restitution.”

“I don’t even play cards!” Abbot protested, though his voice lacked conviction.

Lith stepped closer, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud. “The altar awaits,” she said, gesturing to the card table. “We settle this here and now. If you win, I’ll grant you safe passage. If you lose…” Her smile widened, though Marcus wished it hadn’t.

“Professor,” Marcus hissed, “can we please just leave?”

Abbot’s eyes darted to the journal in his hands, then back to Lith. “Very well,” he said finally. “But know this�"I do not lose.”

Lith laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Oh, honey. You already have.”

The game began with a reshuffling of cards, each one marked with symbols Marcus couldn’t understand. Lith dealt with the precision of a magician, her gnarled fingers moving too quickly to follow. Virgil sat beneath the table, gnawing on a piece of wood that may or may not have been part of a gravestone.

Marcus watched helplessly as Abbot’s expression shifted from confidence to confusion, then outright panic. The symbols on the cards seemed to change in his hands, rearranging themselves into patterns that refused to make sense. At one point he thought he made out what cards he had and realized all five cards showed a 3 of spades. . . Lith, meanwhile, sipped from her wine glass and hummed a tune that felt disturbingly familiar.

“I fold,” Abbot finally muttered, throwing his cards onto the table.

Lith’s grin returned. “Smart choice.”

“What now?” Marcus asked, his voice shaking.

Lith leaned forward, her face inches from Abbot’s. “Now you fulfill your debt.”

“Which is?” Abbot croaked.

She jabbed a finger at the journal. “The secrets you’re carrying. You’ll give them to me.”

Before Abbot could respond, a sound outside drew their attention�"a faint rustling, like footsteps on gravel. Lith’s gaze snapped toward the door, her expression hardening. “You brought shadows with you,” she hissed. “Fools.”

“You don’t belong here,” the figure said, their voice a low growl.

Lith’s form seemed to ripple, her robe billowing as though caught in an unseen wind. “And yet here I am,” she replied. “Retribution comes for everyone�"even you.” The figure stepped forward, their shadow stretching unnaturally long. “Leave! Now!”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Lith snatched up her cards and turned toward Marcus. “This isn’t over,” she said. “Watch your back, mortal.”

And with that, she vanished, leaving only the smell of stale wine and the faint rustle of cards in her wake.

Abbot collapsed into the armchair, clutching the journal to his chest. “This is extraordinary,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “We’re closer than I ever imagined.”

Marcus didn’t respond. He was staring at Virgil, who had climbed onto the card table and was chewing on a Teletubbie squeaky toy. For a moment, Marcus envied the dog’s simplicity.

“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered finally, tugging Virgil off the table. The necropolis stretched before them, its paths shifting once again. Whatever lay ahead, Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

The Surreal Gallery

Serrano Art Museum was quiet for a Friday night. Perhaps not unusual, since it had closed five hours earlier. Marcus followed Abbot footsteps echoing in the lobby. Virgil trotted beside them, his leash looped loosely on Marcus’s wrist. Officially, dogs weren’t allowed, but Abbot’s laminated “visiting scholar” badge satisfied the night security guard.

“Why are we here again?” Marcus asked, glancing at shadowed hallways that seemed to branch endlessly. He half-expected one of them to dissolve into a dreamlike lake.

“Perspective,” Abbot replied, not slowing his stride. “Surrealism is the art of the in-between�"the space between reality and imagination, truth and deceit.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “And staring at melting clocks is going to help us understand why a goddess wants your head?”

Abbot gave him a sidelong glance. “If you approached life with even a fraction of Salvador Dalí’s insight, you’d see why that question answers itself. You’re looking for the truth as if it’s a single, solid thing�"something you can grasp and hold. Truth isn’t like that, Marcus. It’s more like a spider’s web, delicate and layered. Ambiguity is the only true constant. The sooner you accept that the world refuses to be pinned down, the freer you’ll be to see its patterns.”

Before Marcus could retort, they entered the main gallery. It was cavernous, the walls lined with paintings that seemed to vibrate with their own internal logic. In the center of the room stood a statue of three women, their forms twisting and overlapping as though carved from smoke. One held a broom, another a mirror, and the third a pair of shears.

“Ah, the Wyrd Sisters,” Abbot murmured. “A fascinating interpretation of the maid, the maiden, and the crone. Note how the distortion of their features blurs identity and archetype.”

Marcus frowned, his gaze drifting to the crone’s gnarled hands. “They look… familiar.”

Abbot ignored him, stepping closer to the plaque. “Fascinating. It says the artist�"”

“Marcus,” a voice interrupted.

Marcus’s stomach flipped. The voice was low and resonant, with a faint metallic echo, like a bell struck underwater. He turned, expecting to see the vigilante. But the gallery was empty.

“Did you hear that?” Marcus asked, gripping Virgil’s leash tighter.

“Hear what?” Abbot replied, distracted by the plaque. 

“Marcus,” the voice repeated, more insistent now.

His head whipped around, searching for the source. The room seemed to shift, the paintings blurring into streaks of color. The Wyrd Sisters’ statue loomed larger, their shadowed faces tilted toward him, though their stone eyes remained hollow.

“Marcus,” they said in unison, their voices overlapping like a dissonant chord. “You cannot run forever.”

Marcus stumbled backward, his vision spinning. He felt Virgil’s leash slip from his hand as the dog’s paws skittered on the floor. The gallery tilted, the paintings and walls collapsing into a vortex of sound and light.

When the spinning stopped, Marcus was sitting on a patch of grass beneath a bright sun. The sky was impossibly blue, the grass unnaturally vibrant. In the distance, hills rolled gently into the horizon, dotted with strange, colorful structures.

He blinked. “No. Oh no.”

A giggle�"high-pitched and saccharine�"came from behind him. He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.

They were there. The Teletubbies.

They waved at him from the top of a hill, their colorful bodies swaying. The sun, which now had a baby’s face, laughed softly, its cherubic features radiating invasive warmth.

“This isn’t real,” Marcus muttered. “Just stress.”

But then the Wyrd Sisters appeared. Their forms were exaggerated now�"cartoonish and fluid, like characters pulled from the warped logic of a child’s mind. The maid swept a path that disintegrated behind her. The maiden held a mirror reflecting static. The crone’s shears glinted in the unnatural sunlight, edges impossibly sharp.

“Marcus,” they said, their voices layered and haunting. “Your secrets have weight. They will drown you.”

“I don’t have secrets,” Marcus said quickly. “I don’t even know what this is!”

The crone stepped forward, her face a shadowed void. “You know exactly what this is.”

Behind them, the Teletubbies danced harder, their laughter growing louder and more distorted. The baby-faced sun twisted, its eyes narrowing as it sank toward the horizon.

“Face it, Marcus,” the witches said. “Or the lake will claim you.”

The ground beneath him turned to water, rippling outward in waves that carried the laughter, chanting, and baby-faced sun with it. He sank, legs kicking uselessly as he was pulled under.

Marcus woke with a start, his face cold and wet. He sat up, sputtering, to find Virgil wagging his tail beside him, tongue lolling happily.

“Marcus!” Abbot snapped. “Why is your head in the dog’s water bowl?”

Marcus wiped his face, groaning. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Virgil barked, spinning in a circle before diving nose-first into the overturned water bowl. Marcus watched him, wondering if the dog had the right idea after all.

“We have work to do,” Abbot said, pulling Marcus to his feet. “And whatever nonsense you’ve been dreaming about, leave it there. The world doesn’t wait for clarity.”

Marcus nodded, though he couldn’t shake the witches’ words. Your secrets have weight. They will drown you.

Retreat to Barbie Castle

Marcus slammed the door to his basement sanctuary, leaning against it as though he could barricade himself from the chaos of the outside world. His heart was racing, his shirt damp with sweat, and his head still buzzing with fragments of voices�"Lith’s cackling threats, the Wyrd Sisters’ haunting warnings, and, faintly, the dissonant giggles of the Teletubbies.

“I’m done,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I am done with all of this.”

He flicked on the light, bathing the room in a garish pink glow. The walls were covered in shiny fuchsia wallpaper, dotted with tiny, glittering stars. Plastic turrets jutted out from the corners of the ceiling, and a chandelier shaped like a tiara cast a soft, rosy light over the plush pink carpet. His bed, a replica of Barbie’s Dreamhouse canopy, stood in the center of the room, complete with a miniature ladder leading to an upper level that Marcus never used.

Virgil bounded past him, clearly unbothered by the night’s events, and flopped onto a beanbag chair shaped like a giant high-heeled shoe. Marcus sighed, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the bed.

“Forget the necropolis. Forget the vigilante. Forget Abbot,” he muttered, pulling a sparkly blanket over himself. “I’m done with this terrible quest.”

Marcus allowed himself to relax. The world outside faded into the background, replaced by the comforting absurdity of his Barbie sanctuary. He ran his fingers across his well loved VHS copy of Teletubbies: Tubby Time Adventures, though he stopped short of putting it in the VCR. The dog had again expressed his displeasure with endless replays of Teletubbies by urinating on the remote.  

Virgil snored softly from the beanbag, his legs twitching as if chasing something in his dreams. Marcus envied him. The dog didn’t have to deal with witches or vigilantes or professors who made everything more complicated than it needed to be.

The peace was shattered by the thrill of Marcus’s phone. He groaned, and reached for the headset of his clear plastic phone as it flashed its multi-color pattern. For a moment, Marcus considered letting it go to voicemail. But curiosity�"or masochism�"got the better of him.

“What do you want?” he answered, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Marcus,” Abbot’s voice crackled through the line, breathless and intense. “I had an experience tonight. An… extraordinary experience.”

Marcus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to hear about it. I told you, I’m done with this madness.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Abbot said, his voice rising. “It was transcendental. Life-changing. It awakened something in me, Marcus! It was like a turgid love affair mixing the lust of Aphrodite with the epicurean pleasures of Persphone.”

Marcus sat up, his heart sinking. “Please tell me you didn’t call to describe some sordid tryst with Lith.”

“Lith?” Abbot sounded confused. “Why would you�"oh, no, no. This was far more sensual.”

Marcus cringed. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“But you do!” Abbot insisted. “You must understand what I’ve discovered.”

“I really, really don’t.”

Abbot ignored him, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “It arrived this evening, wrapped in foil. Warm, yet firm. Its aroma filled my senses, transporting me to another realm.”

Marcus blinked, his confusion deepening. “What?”

“It was Sbarro’s, Marcus,” Abbot continued. “A slice of pizza flown in from the mall in Cincinnati. The grease shimmered like liquid gold. The crust�"perfection. It was like suckling the ambrosia of the goddess.”

For a moment, Marcus couldn’t speak. He stared at the phone, trying to process what he’d just heard. “Wait. You’re telling me you had a spiritual awakening … over mall pizza?”

Abbot huffed indignantly. “Not just any mall pizza. This was Sbarro’s, Marcus. You can’t get that here in Italy!”

“Are you�"” Marcus stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“You mock me,” Abbot said, his tone defensive. “But I have seen the truth. And it lies not in shadows or prophecies, but in the perfect balance of cheese and sauce.”

Marcus rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t!” Abbot barked. “There’s more.”

“Of course there is,” Marcus muttered. “Fine. What is it?”

Abbot’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “The slice came with a message. A single word written on the receipt: Return!”

Marcus’s stomach twisted. The word rang in his ears, carrying with it the voices of the Wyrd Sisters, the vigilante, and even Lith’s mocking laughter.

“Return to what?” he whispered.

“That,” Abbot said, his voice heavy with significance, “is what we must discover.”

Marcus hung up without responding, tossing the phone onto his bed. Virgil stirred, blinking up at him with bleary eyes before returning to his beanbag with a grunt.

“Return,” Marcus muttered, the word gnawing at the edges of his mind. He looked around his room�"the pink walls, the glittering stars, the tiara chandelier. It was supposed to be his escape, his refuge. But tonight, it felt like a trap.

He sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Whatever was happening, he had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Anchored in Absurdity

The phone call with Abbot had left Marcus shaken. The professor’s reverence for Sbarro pizza was bizarre even by his standards, but it wasn’t the absurdity that gnawed at Marcus. It was the word�"Return. It felt like a command, an inevitability, a gravitational pull he couldn’t resist.

The knock on the basement door startled him. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. “Marcus,” Abbot’s voice called. “It’s me.”

“What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” Marcus asked, opening the door to find Abbot standing in his tweed jacket, holding a thermos that smelled faintly of coffee and something stronger.

“I thought you might need company,” Abbot said, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. He glanced around, his eyes widening slightly. “Ah. I see you’ve created quite the haven for yourself.”

Marcus flushed, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not a haven. It’s just… a room.”

Abbot chuckled, setting the thermos on the vanity. “Don’t be embarrassed, my boy. We all have our escapes. Mine just happens to be bourbon and 16th-century cartography.”

Abbot sank into the beanbag chair, his long legs folding awkwardly. Virgil climbed into his lap without hesitation, and Abbot scratched the dog’s ears absentmindedly. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said after a moment. “And I can’t blame you. Things have… escalated.”

Marcus sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing his temples. “Escalated is one word for it. I didn’t sign up for witches and vigilantes and necropolises.”

“No,” Abbot admitted. “You signed up to fake your way through a mentorship with an eccentric academic. And I, foolishly, believed you were exactly what I needed�"a brilliant, eager protégé with a passion for uncovering the truth.”

Marcus winced. “I didn’t mean to�"”

“Let me finish,” Abbot said gently, holding up a hand. “You’re not who I thought you were. But that’s not a bad thing, Marcus. It just means you’re human.”

For a moment, the only sound was Virgil’s soft snuffling. Marcus looked at Abbot, unsure what to say.

Abbot leaned back, his expression softening. “Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see someone who’s been running for a long time. Running from what, I don’t know�"but you’ve built up a remarkable array of defenses. Charm, wit, a keen ability to deflect and distract. Those are skills, Marcus, and they’ve served you well. But they’re not going to get you where you need to go.”

Marcus frowned. “And where’s that?”

“Wherever the truth is,” Abbot said simply. “Not my truth. Not Lith’s or the vigilante’s or the Wyrd Sisters’. Yours. The one you’ve been burying under all this glitter and plastic.”

Marcus’s chest tightened. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Of course it’s not easy,” Abbot said with a wry smile. “If it were, we’d all be philosophers and saints. But you don’t have to do it alone. That’s the point of having people in your life who care about you.”

Marcus laughed bitterly. “And who exactly is that?”

Abbot reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Me, for one. I know I’m not the father figure you’d choose, but I’m here. And I’ll keep being here until you figure out what you need.”

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Marcus exhaled. The tension in his chest eased, just slightly, as if someone had opened a window in a stifling room.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Abbot replied, standing and brushing dog hair from his jacket. “We still have work to do.”

Marcus’s stomach sank. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Abbot smiled faintly. “The truth doesn’t wait, Marcus. But that doesn’t mean we can’t face it together.”

As Abbot left, Marcus sat alone in his Barbie Castle sanctuary, feeling both lighter and more burdened than ever. For the first time, he wondered if Abbot’s obsession might not lead them to answers but to ruin. And for the first time in this madding saga, he felt truly afraid. 

Betrayal

Seeking solace and truth, Marcus ended up in Abbot’s car, the streets of Serrano stretching before them like veins under moonlight. Abbot drove in silence, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. Marcus sat beside him, clutching Virgil’s leash as the dog snoozed in his lap, his small breaths grounding Marcus in the moment.

Where are we going? Marcus finally asked.

The museum, Abbot said without looking at him. There’s something we need to retrieve.

Marcus frowned. From the art gallery?

Not exactly, Abbot said. The exhibit.

Marcus stared at him. The Wyrd Sisters? Why?

Abbot’s grip on the wheel tightened. The answers are there, Marcus. The truth we’ve been chasing. We just need to unlock it.

The word we set off a warning bell in Marcus’s mind, but he said nothing. Instead, he stared out the window, watching the darkened streets pass by in a blur. The tension in the car was suffocating, but Virgil stirred, nuzzling his paw into Marcus’s lap, a quiet reminder of trust and simplicity.

The museum was eerily quiet when they arrived. Abbot led the way, his movements purposeful and precise, as though he’d planned this for weeks. Marcus followed reluctantly, Virgil trotting beside him with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. The silence felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

They stopped in front of the Wyrd Sisters’ statue. Up close, the details were sharper�"the broom’s bristles, the shears’ edges, the cracks running through the maiden’s mirror. Marcus felt a chill run down his spine, as though the sisters’ stone eyes were watching him. What are we doing here? he asked.

Abbot didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a small flask of a strangely iridescent and gruesome-looking liquid. In a single motion, he opened it and threw the liquid on the statue of the Wyrd Sisters. The hall was filled with an otherworldly wail as the statue began to melt and disintegrate. In moments, what had been an intricate work of art sculpted in rich Italian marble was reduced to a puddle of goo. As the last bit of the statue flowed out across the floor, it revealed an ornately wrought crown and an ancient bronze spear. Even as his mind spun wildly, Marcus realized these were the treasures Abbot had long coveted.

Is that…? Marcus whispered.

Charlemagne’s crown, Abbot said, his voice reverent. And the true Spear of Destiny. Proof of judgment�"and the power to shape it.

Panic filled him but before Marcus could process what was happening, the museum alarm blared. Lights flashed, and Virgil barked furiously, pulling at his leash. Marcus turned to Abbot, incredulous. What did you do?

Abbot’s face remained calm, almost kind. I’m sorry, Marcus, he said, stepping back. But the real truth is you are the only one they will suspect.

What? Marcus’s voice cracked. What are you talking about?

Abbot tossed a worn journal at Marcus’s feet. The delusions. The Barbie Castle. It’s all there, Marcus. You’re unstable. Unreliable. No one will question it.

Marcus’s heart pounded. You can’t be serious.

Oh, but I am, Abbot said, his voice steady and deliberate. Truth, Marcus, isn’t about what is real. It’s about what people believe. And tonight, they’ll believe you’re the one who cracked.

Security guards arrived in moments, their voices loud and accusatory. Words caught in his throat and he could not explain. His pleading eyes looked for Abbot, but he was gone, disappearing into the shadows with the crown & spear.

Virgil barked incessantly, tugging at his leash as Marcus was led away. The journal sat abandoned on the floor, its pages fluttering in the artificial breeze.

Hours later, Marcus sat in a police interrogation room, his wrists free but his head pounding. The events of the night replayed in his mind, but one thought stood out above all others: Abbot had betrayed him. The one person he thought he could trust, the one anchor in the fog of absurdity, had used him as a pawn.

But as the anger faded, it was replaced by something heavier. Questions. Had he been betrayed, or had he betrayed himself by trusting so easily? Was trust itself a lie�"a web woven to keep the world from unraveling?

Virgil’s small, warm body curled against Marcus’s side, the only constant in a night of shattered illusions. The dog’s unwavering loyalty was a sharp contrast to the fragile, tangled web of human connection.

Maybe truth wasn’t the point, Marcus thought, his eyes on the flickering streetlights outside the interrogation room. Maybe the lie was what held everything together. Abbot had lied, yes, but wasn’t the world built on lies we agreed to believe? The crown and spear, symbols of power and judgment, felt hollow now. They weren’t truth�"they were just tools, and Marcus couldn’t decide whether they meant everything or nothing at all.

The door to the room opened, and the officer’s voice cut through the haze. You’re free to go, for now. But don’t leave town.

Marcus nodded, standing slowly. Virgil wagged his tail, nudging Marcus’s leg as they walked out into the early morning light. The air was cold, sharp, but it felt real�"solid in a way the night hadn’t been.

As he stepped onto the street, Marcus looked down at Virgil and smiled faintly. We have work to do, boy. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Marcus’s steps felt steady, even as the questions lingered, unanswered but alive.

Epilogue

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Once Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering about, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He did not know he was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuang Zhou. But he did not know if he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuang Zhou.    �" Chinese Philosopher ~350 BC 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Virgil lay sprawled on the fuchsia Barbie bed, his body barely fitting into the cat-sized cushions. The glittering letters spelling "Princess" mocked him faintly, though their original owner�"Charlemagne the cat�"had long since abandoned her claim to this particular spot. Virgil stretched luxuriously, his paws brushing the floor as he blinked sleepily.

Somewhere in the haze of his mind, echoes of the night replayed�"spider webs, ancient crowns, Marcus’s panicked voice, and the delicious scent of pizza. He yawned, shifting to a more comfortable position. His best stories always came from these naps.

He sniffed the air. Across the kitchen, Charlemagne sat beside her pink bowl, daintily licking up the last remnants of wet food. The sight made Virgil’s tail twitch with vague envy�"Charlemagne always seemed to get the best treats, the softest beds, and the most admiration. But tonight, Virgil had his story, and that was enough.

Marcus shuffled nearby, muttering something about stains and ancient pizza grease. Virgil watched him absently, his ears flicking at the faint sound of water dripping from the overturned bowl in the corner. Humans were strange creatures, he thought�"always chasing things they couldn’t eat, building webs of lies to catch truths that weren’t there.

“Good boy,” Marcus murmured, scratching behind Virgil’s ears. The dog wagged his tail lazily, his gaze drifting to the window, where a single strand of a spider web glistened faintly in the moonlight.

The web trembles, the story spins, and the crown is just a pizza box. But what did it matter? Dogs didn’t need truths�"they just needed naps, treats, and the people they loved.

Author's Note

I wrote this drivel while taking a break from my book on Firefighter Mental Health and now I’m shamelessly trying to convince you to read it. Please, roast me mercilessly—but if you spot any redeeming qualities mention them if you must.