The interior looks like some academic's private study. The few rows of pews that remain (the rest having been beyond saving) are covered in cushions and books, plants overflow from shelves, and at the far end in front of a stained glass window that stretches nearly floor to ceiling, a large walnut desk has replaced the pulpit.
There's an envelope on the desk, propped up against a dimly lit lamp, your name written in neon pink marker.
The most remarkable feature, however, is the arrangement of pillows and blankets beneath a sheet suspended from a piece of rope spanning the room. Surrounding it is a pet fence, and sleepy puppies are strewn about here and there. A few glance up as you get closer, noses twitching curiously.
👁️🗨️ Read the letter? Y/N
Leaning forward like a stray, lost dog, he freezes. His gaze hangs on a rope that leads into the predatory darkness deep within the spire. The man swallows hard. A tight, subtle tension builds inside him as he fumbles for his flashlight, wedged between two spare magazines. He wants to curse out loud when the thing rattles stubbornly in his hands, unwilling to surrender its light to the ravenous dark. He strikes it sharply against the heel of his palm; with a crunch and a sputter, the flashlight blinks and shudders awake.
Once again, they have left him a letter with his name on it—as if there were anyone else here who could possibly read it. Perhaps he is neither the first nor the last to wander into this wasteland.
Leon spins around, straining to catch every murmur. He feels a sudden urge to dive under any bench, searching for the boogeyman that must be watching him. But these are just puppies. Waking up, they don't even bark yet—so small they haven't learned how to chase away intruders like him. Their noses press into the cage mesh, trying to catch his scent, trying to know him.
This darkness is so vast and impenetrable, like a night sky torn apart by a thunderstorm. The beam of his flashlight bogs down—like a radio signal in deep space, futilely searching for the source of an invisible void that binds the organized chaos of dust.
His hand reaches toward the letter and freezes. Wasn't this bizarre house, tucked inside an abandoned church, exactly where they would try to lull his vigilance?
The place looks so uncanny, as if it were Perkins’ tent rather than a derelict Gothic church in some dead, backwater town. People live here, though it is utterly impossible to imagine how without modern utilities. It is warm, smelling of autumn and book dust. Yet, there is no fireplace or stove in sight. Not even a shadow of dampness or drafts, despite what the facade suggests. Where did the fuel come from if there was no car? Maybe they had driven it away so he wouldn't record the license plates?
Cautiously, he scans the perimeter. He cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched—either remotely or directly. Why bother inviting him here, into this "home," just to leave a letter? Could it not have been left on his desk just as easily? Does it really matter whose desk you leave letters on?
The puppies race from one end of the enclosure to the other, as if they, too, are searching with him. Their bead-like eyes glint in the velvety twilight, making his heart bleed every time he looks at these caged children.
His search yields nothing, and it relentlessly fuels his anxiety. Where could someone vanish to, leaving their home wide open, heated, and lit by kerosene lamps? There is no electricity here; this place is severed from civilization—it has ceased to exist. The informant and owner of this "home" must be right here, nearby. The sooner Leon finds him, the less severe the consequences will be.
The owner clearly wants him to come inside and read the letter; that much is obvious. Just as obvious as the fact that once he does, something irreversible will happen. The bell in the darkness hangs like a shotgun over a doorway. He is no Indiana Jones, and his guardian angel choked on its own bloody feathers a long, long time ago; he won’t escape his fate if that gun fires.
Before opening the letter, he moves the puppies away from the mysterious tent. Every time his gaze drifts upward, it plunges into the darkness of the past—back to the blood-stained sheet on the bed and the smears left by his own mangled hands. He shakes off these images like a sudden frame from a documentary on Raccoon City, allowing himself to bury his face in the fur of one of the pups, who lets out a loud, wet sneeze from the cold on the tip of his nose.
The letter. Leon hates feeling like a killer in these black gloves that he so thoroughly loathes, like those of a Hollywood hitman. God, he had searched the entire town looking for colored ones, only to be met with bewildered stares directed at an idiot. A poor excuse for protection, but for lack of lab gloves, better than bare hands.
