Chapter 18
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Chapter 18: Title
Upon noticing Merlinka, Donald Brighton’s expression shifted dramatically. "And who might this be beside you?" he uttered incredulously, eyes fixed on the translucent figure. "Some production crew gimmick? No—wait—her form’s spectral! Is she… a phantom?"
"Truth be told, this requires some explanation," Merlinka responded, maintaining composure despite recognizing the renowned scholar. "My apologies for the shock, Mr. Brighton. May I present Miss Waylin Beers Mandala—former mistress of this castle, now existing as a spirit. She guided me here."
Waylin executed a flawless curtsy, her ethereal gown swirling. "Evening greetings, Mr. Brighton. The House of Mandela remembers courtesy."
"Forgive my earlier oversight, Miss Merlinka," the ghost added.
"Think nothing of it," Merlinka replied with a strained smile, finding the spirit’s social graces more bewildering than her own supernatural encounter.
The tome slipping from Donald’s grasp dissolved into smoke upon impact, only to rematerialize perfectly shelved. The scholar stared transfixed as Waylin explained, "This alternate space reconstructs the castle’s memories through illusions—smoke-bound texts holding legible words, phantom stones hiding mechanisms."
Her fingers danced across seemingly ordinary masonry until floor slabs shifted, revealing descending steps. "Behold—the castle’s hidden pulse."
"’Mystical’ indeed!" Donald breathed, scholarly fervor overcoming astonishment. "This validates years of research!"
Merlinka eyed the dark passage warily. "Your abyss demon wouldn’t…?"
"Only its mortal shell remains below, sealed with holy light centuries past," Waylin assured. "Merely residual Abyssal aura lingers."
As the spirit glided toward the void, Donald surged forward. "I’ll document everything! No scholar worth his salt would—"
"I’m coming," Merlinka interjected. "This ‘witch’ might yet prove useful." Her claim carried more hope than conviction.
The trio descended through stone arteries that whispered forgotten histories.
"How many trespassers?" Waylin’s voice echoed ahead.
"Four in total," Merlinka answered, their footsteps awakening ancient dust. The hungry darkness swallowed their forms whole.
They finally arrived in front of a dungeon, but before they could approach, Waylin halted them. Merlinka was about to inquire when Waylin demanded sternly, "Is that person also your companion?"
Within the dungeon’s gloom, a hunched figure prodded at skeletal remains with some unknown instrument. "Judging by the silhouette, that should be Lucie Hehrik – the detective who came with us," Merlinka answered with forced composure.
As they stepped closer, the bone-handling figure straightened into an impeccably groomed posture. Merlinka averted her gaze from Lucie’s expression – that vivid spectrum of shock resembling spilled paint across a palette upon seeing Waylin. The detective’s renowned scientific rationalism, her firm belief that all phenomena must obey empirical laws, now clashed violently with the spectral woman’s impossible presence.
"Ms. Lucie, what brings you here?" Merlinka ventured, eyeing the grotesque bones near the detective’s boots that defied zoological classification.
"I took the hidden passage," Lucie replied without shifting her intense scrutiny from Waylin, as if attempting to mentally dissect the ghostly figure through sheer observation. Her gaze flickered to the faded patterns underfoot – the compromised magic circle.
"It’s failed," Waylin breathed, tracing the fractured sigils before turning to the bone pile. "Abyss demon remains. You disturbed them."
"Indeed," Lucie confirmed, eyes alight with insatiable curiosity. The celebrated detective’s adaptability proved remarkable – within minutes, she’d reconstructed her worldview to accommodate medieval ghosts and arcane seals. Such mental flexibility was perhaps necessary for participants in this late-night supernatural show, where weak constitutions risked genuine peril.
"Any discomfort? Strange sensations?" Waylin’s spectral fingers twitched as she scanned Lucie.
"Should there be?" The detective’s eyebrow arched.
"If not upon her…" Waylin’s brow furrowed. "Then escaped?" She muttered about reinforcement possibilities lost with the circle’s ruin.
Donald interjected, "The sealed entity?"
"When priests purified the abyss demon," Waylin explained, "its corrupting aura persisted. They repurposed William’s summoning pentagram into containment seals through structural modifications. Now broken, the Abyssal aura should devour nearby souls – yet here you stand…"
Three living spines chilled in unison as Merlinka briefed the others. Simultaneous queries erupted – "Your missing companion?"/"Where’s Augustus?" – answered by falling debris from above.
"Up! Now!" Merlinka commanded, leading the retreat.
*
Augustus froze mid-step, instinct overriding thought. His body whirled – spin, duck, leap – as ancestral bronze armor, now animate, sheared stone where he’d stood. The camera shattered beneath its wild charge.
"What cursed sorcery is this?!" His shout echoed through vaulted halls. "Since when does medieval plateware dance?!"
[Actual moving armor?! Hollywood CGI live!]
[Better choreography than Marvel! How’d they do this?!]
[The heir’s shadow! It slithered into the armor!]
Augustus tumbled past another axe swing, humiliation burning hotter than fear at being broadcast fleeing like prey. Beyond the cameras, frantic producers lamented their lost control over this spiraling spectacle – unwitting architects of a haunting reality.
