Prologue

It was a house of magnificent design. At least at its conception. A two-storied abode, with differing curvature and edges. Walking from one side, you would see the extrusion of walls, with three rectangular windows in a line, before the walls retreated, laying the way for two large glass doors onto a beautifully designed balcony. If you turned the corner, however, you would see the walls curve, becoming cylindrical, as if Tolkien took over construction for the last half of the house. The roof was tiled with premium slate, and edgings were lined with what seemed at first glance painted wood, but on closer inspection, was indeed pristine white marble. The house was built with the utmost care, be that out of love, or out of its price.

However, this was at its conception.

Smithson stood at the maw that now dug into the wooden paneling of the eastern wall. The wood had become rotten. The marble cracked and withered. Glass lay just in front of him, smashed and scattered across the flooring. This wasn’t atypical, housing was abandoned quite regularly in Soho. Those who move here either become perturbed by the nightlife and less fortunate, the prostitutes and homeless, or are indeed, murdered, the house closed as a crime scene and then abandoned.

This normally happened in a span of 6-8 weeks. Enough rain to batter the wood, structure degradation to crack the marble, and vagabonds to smash the glass. A clear-cut explanation.

But this house hadn’t suffered that long.

In fact, according to documents found on its construction, it was only finished yesterday.

This does not happen.

Not only do houses of this design rarely get built anymore, but houses don’t just ‘decay’ after 24 hours of being built. It made no sense. Then again, that was Smithson’s job, to make the nonsense make sense.

He sighs, taking a cigarette from his blazer pocket, and with a flick of his zip lighter, lit it, a large drag of smoke leaving his mouth as he exhaled. He pocketed his lighter, and from his other retrieved a small notepad and pen:

October 2nd, 2018

House is dilapidated. No signs of man-made damage, apart from a large hole in the eastern first-floor wall. Broken in from the outside. The scattering of wood chips across the floor stretches about two to three meters across the inside floor. The impact force was strong, though not explosive. A lack of burn marks around the edges of the wall. Could be multiple persons inside, or considering the peculiar nature of the building, a singular entity….

Smithson jolts as his cigarette burns his upper lip, causing him to spit it onto the ground. He was jumpy. Usually, he was assigned to much more horrific cases. Cult sacrifices, mass murder, creatures with anatomy that he still can’t comprehend. It was horrific but straightforward. Explainable, if challenging to do so.

But this. This was different. Sudden. Everything had a lead-up, but this just happened. It made him uneasy.

For now, this is all he could do. He takes out his phone, a bureau-mandated Samsung S5, and checked the time. 11:45 AM. Twenty minutes before it all begins. First, the site will be yellow taped and designated under some mandated disaster from the handbook. Radiation leak, infestation. Probably infestation for this case.

Then, info death. Maps, pictures, any history regarding the site at all, and its connection to any members of the public are eradicated. Of course, the Bureau states this is for public safety, to minimize civilian casualties during operations, it is hard to find a place that doesn’t exist after all. Smithson had worked long enough on the field to know that it just made cover-ups easier if s**t went sideways. They had hit it lucky here however, not exactly a lot of history regarding a building that was built yesterday.

Techies show up next. Radar, comms, readings on every ‘wave’ known to man. Smithson just knows that he goes in on a green light, and anything red is a ‘get the f**k out’ indicator.

Of course, bits didn’t make a lot of sense, like why the need for a cover story if within the hour, the place is removed from history, but it wasn’t in Smithsons position to say anything. He was just the final step. EX-138. An Explorer Agent. Trained specifically in dealing with the anomalous. This is all he knew.

The first cars pulled up.

Time for the yellow tape.

Then info death.

Then the Techies.

Then him.

With a sigh and one last glance at the strange building, Smithson made his way to the vehicles. With his back turned to the structure, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He had felt this sensation enough times to know what it meant.

Something was watching.

It was watching.