Bubble, Bubble, I’m in Trouble || Artemis and Mike
@artemis-iokheaira
Full disclaimer: This was so not his fault.
Well, okay, so maybe that was a total lie but it really didn’t feel like it was his fault. The Demonology department had thrown the task on him all last minute and because he was still the new guy he’d had to do it. It wasn’t like he had a life or anything. And yes, getting home to check of the scary movie he had up on his list of 31 scary movies to watch this month was a life, thanks for asking.
Anyway, he had been tasked with was going to some condemned house out in the nearer farm lands of Swynlake to make sure that the symbols on the walls hadn’t actually summoned any Demons. Normally it would be written off as Edgy Teens trying to impress their friends with spray paint but the realtor had been a little spooked, considering what had happened April of 2018, and wanted to play it safe. So they were sending Mike on a road trip to check it out.
All alone. By himself. With no one else.
Oh what fun.
The house loomed because, fuck, that was all it could do with its decomposing walls and broken windows. The only thing that was really keeping it together was the brick, blackened and sick looking, but still standing. So it shouldn’t have been any surprise when Mike walked in and fell through the floor to the basement. He didn’t really know how long he had been passed out down there but when he woke up he could feel was the pain in the arm he had landed on and his lungs trying to knock loose the dust he’d inhaled.
He scrambled to pull his phone free from his pocket, switching on the flashlight to a washed out and cobweb filled room. The smell of damp earth and rotting wood coated the back of his throat. Mike clambered to his feet, looking up at the hole he had come through, and then for another way to exit.
In the far corner of the room was a door that he made a line for, wrapping his hand around the handle to pull. Something sunk into his palm and he yelped, yanking his hand back to apply pressure on. Eventually, when the initial pain subsided, he inspected the wound, a shallow puncture, and then the door handle.
It had a spike on the inside, his blood coating the rusting metal. Who the heck put that on a door handle? Where hands would go? He leaned back, catching the glint of his phone’s light reflecting back at him. There was some sort of plaque on the door and he had to use his sleeve to remove all the grime and webs that covered it.
Made from the wood of the Bloodwood tree, it is said that when replenished by the blood of a virgin the spirit trapped inside will be released.
“What the fu-?” he started, only to be cut off when the door swung open, throwing him back with a blast of cold air.