“We’re here to talk to you. If you want us to communicate with you, please touch one of these items.” Amber holds her hand over the cat ball, setting it off for a moment as it fshes a hazy yellow. “Just like this.”

  The music box starts going off, a tiny wind-up piano doing its sweet and creepy lulby, it’s got a handy motion sensor that detects ghosts and nearby movements. It seems that a presence is standing in front of it. The cat balls that line the alleyway leading up to them start flickering with light. Usually something like this is the norm, but Vukosava can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. More wrong than usual.

  John is happy. “Wow, you guys really want to talk, don’t you?”

  Amber doesn’t seem to share his excitement. But she asks in her polite way. “I have a question for you, Mister or Misses ghost, if you are Victor Alberius could you tap these balls to our left, if you are someone else, please go over to the balls on our right. They’ll light up for us if you do.”

  The right side lights up. “No? Okay, is this Charles Derhert?”

  Again, no confirmation. It’s not either of them, the two suspects that were often seen around this corner all those years ago aren’t here. But something is: the music box goes off again.

  “Who else could it be?” John ponders aloud.

  “There were more than two suspects.” Vukosava points out. “How many are here with us right now?”

  One by one, the lights start going off individually on their left side. It could be three or four different spirits wandering around. But there’s no way of telling. “Were you directly involved in the disappearance of Fodor Dresk, the pywright and actor?”

  The lights all die out at once.

  “So, none of them?” John shrugs. “They could be passing the bme around right now.”

  “Something is not right, John.”

  “Come on, Vukosava, this is nothing. They’re doing a lightshow, what of it?”

  Amber is one step ahead. “Is this Fodor Dresk?”

  The silence that follows is suffocating. No one is giving a name, it’s not unusual for a spirit to py around with someone’s identity. A poltergeist is good at doing that. John doesn’t even blink an eye. “Okay, clearly we got some activity, but if we’re going to get answers, we’re going to be changing our strategy a little bit.”

  James takes out a spirit box, whilst fishing out a pair of noise-cancelling headphones with a bandito blindfold. Both done up in the same red hue as his shirt. His voice breaks through their idleness with a single word. “Run.”

  “You want us to go? What’s going to happen to us if we stay?”

  “New. Painting.”

  “A new painting – what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Amber slowly pales. “Mark, think! A new painting, us!”

  Vukosava nodded in agreement, Amber took the words right out of her mouth. “That’s not some idle warning, Mark. That means a blood painting.”

  “What? You think we’re talking to the original killer right now?”

  “I’ve studied the Eternal Prince, he’s not one to dirty his shoes by dispying his artwork in some dingy, backwater alleyway. It couldn’t be him that we’re talking to now.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s Fodor Dresk instead. The rival of Prince Zar’va? Why isn’t he giving us a clear answer? Is something stopping him?”

  “There’s a lot of mixed emotions here. A lot of bad things happened - let’s ask him directly.”

  Vukosava looks down at John who is tilting his head from side to side, trying to capture more words to say. “Fodor, are we in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the Prince waiting for us?”

  “He expects you. Tonight.”

  “We should listen to him, Marcus. We need to get out of here.”

  Mark is still directing the camera at them, and for the first time that night. There is hesitation written all over his handsome face. “But we need a video - we can’t go back with nothing.”

  “Wrong.” John’s voice cuts through the air, his demeanor is neither bright or fmboyant, communing with ghosts is an exhaustive process. His forehead is tan with sweat and every so often he winces, gritting his teeth together and cwing subconsciously towards his headphones. There is something bothering him and it’s not stopping.

  “I’ve studied Fodor Dresk more than anyone else here. If his ghost is here with us, do you really think he’d be the type to py games with us? If Fodor is saying we’re in danger, we should listen to him.” Vukosava mutters quickly, feeling a cold rush of wind dig through her skin into her bones and heart. “What about the Prince’s men, are they here with us, Fodor?”

  “Waiting.”

  “Waiting, what are they waiting for?” Amber asks, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.

  “Permission.” That single word inspires fear and concern, there’s no jokes or ughter going around. It’s a sickly feeling that settles into their bones, into their skin. Vukosava furiously rubs her hands together, trying to fight off the cold. The others are doing the same.

  John speaks again, this time with more urgency than before. “Fresh. Meat.”

  Vukosava shakes her head firmly. “I’m not waiting around for bad shit to happen, these things are going to target us, they’re making their intentions very clear.”

  Amber takes John by the shoulder; he stirs from his trance. He removes the blindfold and the headphones, whilst rubbing his eyes.

  “Fodor Dresk gave us a warning, and right after something else turned up. Something bad.”

  “Bad? That’s the reason we are here.” Fred, John’s fellow shit-stirrer, dismisses the case out of hand. “Besides, we wouldn’t be here if we had common sense.”

  Fred and John are going deeper into the alleyways, and despite their concerns – it’s safer for everyone that they stick together. If there’s a way to tackle this situation, it’s remaining as a group.

  Nathen is one of the wiser ones of that group. He can’t hide his concerns completely, nor dismiss them. He’s fiddling around with his journal, trying to calm himself down. “Maybe we should have common sense, this doesn’t feel right.”

  “Come on, Nathen, are you folding already?”

  “You know I’m not the type to be pulling arms and legs.” He flicks his ponytail over his shoulder, looking like a singer from the st century. “We’ve gotten warnings right off the bat.”

  Fred scoffs loudly. “You agreed to join the Red Shirts.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Barry digs into him a bit. “Once you’re a part of the Red Shirts, you’re a member for life and death.”

  “Don’t be saying stuff like that, Barry.” Nathen is opening his book quickly, anger spilling over as his pen starts going crazy. His hand fidgeting like crazy.

  Harley is holding her own book open, her pen resting on the paper, leaving flicks and scratches on it. Rough and uneven, but the lines are going across the pages. She’s looking off into the distance, like a golden retriever pointing in the direction of danger with its forepaw. It’s a thousand-yard stare into the darkness; she’s chewing reflexively on the corner of her mouth. Great, freaking fantastic. Vukosava groans in annoyance. It’s a sign – pin as day, dark as night.

  “What are we dealing with?” Vukosava asks.

  “A big one.” Harley mutters, looking down at her book. “I don’t think we need a magical GPS to know where we’re going next.”

  “Do you want to go there?”

  “You only fear something if you give it power. I don’t give these things the means to do it.”

  “I know you’ve got to follow the medium code of conduct.” Vukosava replies sharply. “Are you seriously agreeing with Fred and John again?”

  “This again? You really have to wring it out, don’t you, Vukosava?”

  “Yeah, it’s called having survival instincts and not sticking your foot in it.”

  After an intense pause.

  Vukosava carries on with a scowl. “I know how you operate, Harley. I’m just saying out of all the locations we could’ve gone to, this feels like the worst.”

  “Are you a medium too?”

  “You know I’m not.”

  Amber interrupts them. “Come on, guys, we got to catch up with the others.”

  Mark shrugs. He’s not one to step in on other people’s business.

  It doesn’t take long to find the two brothers-in-arms, ughing and joking around. They’re getting some highlights for the cameraman. Gregory looks over his shoulder. “Nice of you to join us, kiddies.”

  “We’ve been waiting long enough; it’s time for the main event of the evening.”

  Vukosava looks at them. “Yeah, dies and gentlemen, we’re moving onto the most prominent of the folktales. They call this the Castle of Eternity – a reminder of the brutal past of medieval dynasties. Especially with kin that disgraced the name of royalty. To paint a picture, we have the Eternal Prince, known as Zar’va of Cn Vestris.”

  “So, did he have mummy or daddy problems, that’s the question.” Fred jests.

  “He was a problem for both of them.” Vukosava answers ftly. “His father wanted a son that carried on the prestige of the family – he instilled principles and ambition into the prince when he was a young boy. To put it this way, he was barely five years old before his formal education began.”

  “I’ve done my best to do a reimagining of what was described.” Amber says, holding out a good sketch of the two. An overbearing father who couldn’t lose the glint of war and tributions from his eyes, and a youthful brat on his knee. The intensity is suffocating – a dark void that threatens to engulf everything. Perhaps that’s why the young boy didn’t st, conformity is the path of least resistance.

  “We don’t need pictures of him.” Harley whistles. “I do not like the look of him at all.”

  “I’ve drawn eyes before, but none like his.” Amber trembles slightly.

  “The Lord of War, Harald Vestris, born in early January, 715. It's specified in the World History Archive that he was raised from his youth to be an instrument for his own father’s personal ambitions. He gained his education from the field as a knight, killing his first man at the age of 16. His boyhood was vanquished in that moment. He climbed high, building a legacy as a blood-soaked usurper who climbed and fought his way to kingship. Harald is a merciless and brutal fighter; he killed a lot of people. The dungeons were built quickly, and he had people thrown in, men, women, bastards, drunks, criminals, anyone that posed a threat - political or otherwise. He ensured that no one would dare challenge him or his family. His son, who would be named Prince Zar’va Vestris, was born in 746 during a fierce winter.” Vukosava states in an authoritative, well-versed manner. “He was a brutal taskmaster, King Harald, there was nothing of his youth left in him - many accounts from the University of Saint Augustine state that he was empty and vicious, not even a man, but a demon wearing human skin.”

  “Holy shit.” Mark shrugs. “I don’t want to see any of them. Especially not that freaking lunatic”

  Fred scoffs loudly. “Would you accept my company, your grace?”

  The group moves on towards the castle. It’s a stark, militaristic bastion of stone and rust. It’s a far cry from its glory days. There is rubbish everywhere, beer bottles, wrappers, old crates, trollies, graffiti covering the walls. The most unnerving thing is the warnings that run up and down, usually there should be skulls and other nonsensical scribblings. But not here - there’s a sickness written on this warlord’s home.

  There are no humans here.

  Earth ends. Hell begins.

  There is so much of it.

  “This is such screwed up shit.” Harley shakes her head.

  “This pce has been lost to time, Harley.” Vukosava sees more of the graffiti.

  The dead wander.

  Watch out for the King. He’s not happy.

  “Do you want to carry on?” John extends his hand towards Vukosava. “With your research stuff?”

  Vukosava carries on. “Now, King Harald, formerly Lord Harald. He was set on securing peace and prosperity within his realm. His methods were dark and gruesome; he believed that a firm hand was necessary. The people were terrified of him and didn’t dare to steal anything - even if it was id down in the middle of a road. Whether it was coin, food, or wine. In 744, according to the World History Archive, his wife, Queen Josphine had a long pregnancy; it was suspected at one point that his son would be born with horns and a forked tongue. In 746, the king decided to allow his wife to lead the way in reforming his kingdom which included handling diplomatic efforts abroad and internally. With a young child on his knee, a beautiful boy by the accounts and records taken at the time. In 751, he finally relented. He wanted to turn over a new page - to get a new lease on life. As crazy as that sounds. He was determined for his heir to carry the legacy of the dynasty.”

  “What did he train the Eternal Prince in?”

  “How to hold a sword and when to use it. A lot of people died here because of Cn Vestris – this is the bloodiest battlefield for a long way.” Vukosava gestures towards the castle with rubbish adorning it. “After the war was won, and the Kingdom of Avaron became Harald’s, this castle was commissioned in 756. I’ve done extensive searches to find a reliable source, I will say this - it was formerly on the World Wonders Site, before it was removed. This pce is greatly disturbed, and you’ve already seen parts of it. Along the roof of this pce, weapons and armour were turned into spikes and pointed arches. It sent a clear message to everyone, if you raised your arms against the family - this would be your fate. Those that were loyal to the king and his family, were buried here. Right under our feet.”

  “How many?”

  “Thousands. The total number is hard to estimate.”

  “So, we could’ve been talking to one of the soldiers?”

  “Yes.” Vukosava answered smoothly. “Up here, only the best were honoured.”

  “Did they have some kind of motto?” John asks.

  “To Burn Twilight.”

  “Is one of those warriors a poet?” Harley blows her hair out of her face.

  “What the hell does it even mean?”

  “They would burn anyone who stood in their way. It was before Harald’s time that they gained this moniker. They were a moderate family that served as loyal counts and ter dukes to the royal line. But in the year 678, they served a traitorous king. Titles that were granted to them were forcibly stripped away and given to loyal sycophants and friends of the king. In 680, a freak disaster struck in the dead of night at the royal pace. A fire suddenly took hold and spread throughout the pace; it was seen as a horrible accident. As history would have it, Cn Vestris would climb high and in 740 they would become kings and queens of this nd.” Vukosava recounts quickly, rubbing her hands together as a cold, stiff wind makes its way through them. “Prince Zar’va never received his inheritance, and the line continued along with Harald’s younger brother, Ivan.”

  “Is there anything else you missed?” John snorts heavily. “No other tidbits?”

  Harley is more active now, her pen going across the page. Over and over. She’s staring into the graffiti, completely spaced out.

  “An X? That’s not normal. Usually it’s words or circles.” Amber sheepishly looks over Harley’s shoulder.

  John is smiling between his hands. “Well, would you look at that?”

  “I wonder how many exes he has?” Fred jokes. "This fancy prince."

  Nathen exchanges a nervous look with Harley, his page indicating a circle. What do both mean together? Vukosava couldn’t say for certain. At least with the evidence she’s gotten so far.

  The main door creaks open with defiance as Vukosava presses her hands against it, on either side were the dreary, empty windows of a long, dead castle. It’s got all the traditional markings and embellishments. Buttresses, pilrs and a torn path full of brambles and weeds poking through the floor. Their reflections contort and twist in the gss, the light from their fshlights only add to the effect, creating long silhouettes that seem to dance their way down. The young prince ran down this hall once, wanting praise and admiration from his father, and years ter he would seek to conquer something of his own. For all his years deep in the rigors of education, he didn’t emerge as the warrior his family sought.