Hell is empty and all the Devils are here
-William Shakespeare-
Chapter One
"…From the Darkness…"
She was not expecting anyone to visit her that night. It was half past eight o'clock on a Saturday. When circumstances permitted it, Aleta would spend the remains of the nocturnal hours at her easel. She had donned an old shirt and gray sweatpants, brushed her long hair into a shambolic chignon, and took dinner—which consisted of baked honey mustard chicken and a tall glass of Pinot Noir—to her personal workspace.
Outside, there was only the pleasure of silence. It seemed as if no one wanted to disrupt the peace. The Rue Cottage was situated in the fringes of a straggly little town, and was twice as far from the bustling capital known as Krimson City. There were no other communities beyond her garden, which made it appear as though she was living on the edge of the universe. People rarely passed through her road, but it was quite rampant during the holidays.
Thanking God for the comforts of a wonderful treat, Aleta browsed through her laptop and picked a playlist to match the current mood. She then sat on a chaise longue, with her bare feet outstretched, to consume her plentiful meal. Half an hour later, feeling sprightly like a little lamb in a meadow, she walked to the back of the studio; where she threw open the doors that led to her painting room.
Happy to do what she enjoyed best, Aleta put on her smock, selected a hog's hair brush and three medium-sized sable brushes from a coffee mug, and picked up her palette, upon which paint had already been administered. She turned to her canvas and merrily sighed. Aleta was about to embark on the final steps of painting—it was when highlights and deepened shadows bring the work to life. The idea was pleasant, and she painted with the passion of an accomplished artist, filling the void with broad sweeps and well-designed strokes.
Aleta was still working at around ten in the evening when, above the classical melody of Debussy, she heard someone tapping at her front door. In turn, she nearly dropped her paintbrush in surprise. She was expecting no one. The tapping went on, and it was loud enough to disturb her red canaries. With no sign of any possible threat, Aleta put her palette on an adjacent table and washed her hands clean before answering to this unanticipated company. The visitor was standing upon her doormat—a woman of medium build, dressed quite modishly from head to toe in black. Her features entailed a sprinkle of dark freckles, poorly bleached tresses, and a thin upper lip.
Being finicky in her own fashion, Aleta approved of fine clothing and elegance, and it made her feel more kindly prepared towards the guest.
"Hello, you must be Miss Aleta Volante. I'm Jennifer; I'm a correspondent. I'm sure that you've heard of the Scarlet Banner, of course."
Aleta timidly nodded.
"That's great," the woman smiled. "I'm currently researching for modern developments in fine arts, and I was wondering if I could get a bit of your insight for the paper?"
Aleta was equally annoyed and interested by this announcement. If she wished to interview her, could she not join the rest of the antagonistic mob at the Metropolitan Art Museum? Then again, she couldn't help wondering how this journalist found her way here, and why she had come at this ungodly time of night. In any occurrence, she shouldn't leave an intruder to wander the cottage. Aleta would have to attend to her, unfortunately.
"I certainly don't like to receive unwanted guests at this late hour. However, since you are now here, you might as well come in and tell me what you want." Aleta gestured towards her painting room.
Jennifer marched into the entrance hall, glancing over the walls as if she were looking for something she hoped would be there. Eventually, she noticed the armoire aviary that housed several canaries. For a moment, the correspondent smiled at the twittering birds and tried to impersonate their chirps. Then, she stood before the easel, and examined the artwork upon it. And while the oil painting was one of which that made Aleta very proud, the older woman gazed at it with indistinct frustration.
Provoked by the display of cageyness and what she considered a self-righteous air, Aleta's temper—usually mild—was wearing thin. She was accustomed to good wishes upon the quality of her work. If other qualified artists could detect the delicacy in her degrees of tone, the expertise of her details, why did this person not show admiration? She addressed the correspondent with utmost strictness, but the speed with which she spoke betrayed her underlying displeasure.
"I do not want to repeat myself, Miss Jennifer. Tell me why you have to bother me."
Jennifer seemed to flinch a little at her bluntness. "I've heard that you're a dark romanticist painter," she said, and pulled out a notebook and pen from her coat pocket. "You've made a number of fascinating portraits for someone so young." That was true; Aleta had completed at least a dozen of them by now. "I was curious to see your work—maybe with a view to a commission—and to discover a little about the profession. I should like to see more of them. Tell me, what talent is needed to be a successful painter of gothic subjects? Do you observe the grim side of things more clearly than others? Are you more sensitive to the setting or better at perceiving what is traumatic and what is tragic?"
Aleta was adept when it came to knowing dishonesty. She often said that her skill as a painter was put much into effort when reading faces and body language. The lameness of her excuse was thus immediately apparent, and because the hour was late, she saw no reason to play along with her. "I'm sorry," she said, "This is hardly the time and place for a showing. As for your second question, my observation is not actually clear, as you presumed. It is simply through involvement that made my paintings successful. And now, since you refuse to reveal your true purpose, I must ask you to leave my home."
"Wait," Jennifer loomed directly, settling her penetrating gaze on the younger woman. Her eyes, caught in the warm light of a nearby desk lamp, were bright green, hard as an emerald yet flooded with an intensity that forced the painter to look away. "When you stated involvement as your secret to success, what do you mean by that exactly?"
Aleta composed herself and responded more civilly. "I meant that, in order to achieve the riveting atmosphere of my works, I had to stand on the line between beauty and horror. There are certain themes that are generally disgusting in real life, but they could also bring amusement in fine arts. The same could be said vice versa."
Jennifer recoiled, as though her explanation offended her. "If that is so, then did you find delight in the massacre at Beacon Mental Hospital?" Her voice had dropped to a mere whisper—so soft, that when she said it, Aleta prayed she had misheard. But there was no mistake, for she repeated it again, and more defiantly. "That's right: the massacre at Beacon Mental Hospital."
She had expected this; nonetheless, her confirmation set her heart racing at an incredible speed. Aleta felt her head pound with such intensity she feared that it might explode at any given moment. She looked at the correspondent more thoroughly. She must have recognized her at some point.
Before long, the painter subdued her senses to focus her attention on the landscape portrait behind Jennifer—it was an unending field of sunflowers forever cloaked in the shroud of dusk and twilight. Her music suddenly changed qualities, and there it was: a gramophone with its dusty gold horn emitting the proper tune of Clair de Lune. Within seconds, she felt his familiar presence in the back of her mind, prodding at her resolve, and begging to be released.
Aleta blinked once, twice, and her studio had returned. The canaries were noisily singing to her, and Jennifer was now standing just beside the sunflower portrait itself. A sharp pain gripped her temple. The truth was that something in that hallucination brought to mind another shadow, one she had seen a mere seven months ago, one that nearly ruined her life. It was that memory more than the journalist herself that had set fear coursing through her veins like a draft of whiskey.
"I thought everyone knew not to bring that question into the light. Is that why you have come?" Silence developed between them, a rigid hush that seemed more disconcerting than anything else. She wanted her to break it; she craved for something that would explain her intention no matter how dreadful it was. But the only racket was the song of the frightened birds.
The stillness went on. A part of her wanted to scream. And yet some invisible energy held her back. She knew that unless she waited, she might never discover what had brought her.
"The reason why I am here is to show you something." Jennifer delved into the pocket of her coat.
For some reason, Aleta became alert. A voice in the back of her head whispered warnings of assault. In response, she edged towards her desk and positioned herself close to the long amputation knife she had kept hidden in the top drawer. But her doubt was unsupported, for the article she took out was nothing more terrifying than a folded white handkerchief.
Jennifer opened it deliberately. Couched on the smooth material were a couple of rose gold lockets, ones that Aleta had not seen for months. The inscriptions were just as she remembered them: R&A, for her and for him, with a single ruby lodged in the center. She felt unwell just by looking at them. The lockets were disturbing as ever. She did not need a residue of that former life.
"I found these lying around the Solitary Confinement Ward." Jennifer explained, holding the items closer to the young woman.
"And you simply presumed that they once belonged to me?" Aleta questioned her.
"Yes," Jennifer replied instantly, "because all of the records do not mention a patient wearing a rose gold locket until I came upon your accounts written by the late Doctor Jimenez."
Aleta quickly became curious. "How did you manage to recover the archives? I thought that KCPD had burned them all."
"I have my ways," Jennifer said, haughtily. "They can cover up the truth with whatever crazy idea they can come up with, but I wasn't convinced. I had to find out."
"What do you want in exchange from all of this?" Aleta had to ask.
"I wish to hear your version of the events surrounding the mysterious massacre. What happened then has made a profound influence upon my life. Moreover, I want to know what became of the detectives involved. Nobody has heard from them after the KCPD closed down the building, except for one, of course."
By now, Aleta could feel her fear waning, to be eclipsed by interest. "Will it give you any sort of contentment if I tell you what I know?"
"Yes," Jennifer answered. "The public deserves to know what really went on in that horrible place."
"I have to warn you though: the last reporter who had the same intent was killed for being curious, and his body was never seen again. Hitherto, of all the agonizing endeavors that I have experienced, that affair was the only one that troubled me the most to remember. I simply wish for it to fade."
"Then you're accepting my request?"
Aleta pondered for a while. "Yes and no. I can't tell you everything right now, because it is too long and complex, and I am becoming drowsy. I will write it down instead, for your sake. Meet me at my art gallery one month from now, and I will hand it to you." She paused for a moment before adding, "Also, you may keep the lockets. I have no desire of keeping them in this very house, with what I know of their origins."
"Don't you have any sort of payment required from this sinister assignment that I'm asking of you?" Jennifer said with a faint scowl.
"Yes, truthfully, I want to know who you really are and how you actually came by the lockets, and why you require this information."
The correspondent remained quiet and dropped her head, as if conceding to her will. "Very well," she said, in a voice so low she had to strain to hear it. "If those are your terms, then I can do little but agree with them."
Aleta nodded, maintaining a solemn face. "I'll be expecting you in thirty days from this evening. Until then, Miss Jennifer, good night."
With this, Jennifer exited the cottage. Aleta watched her enter a dark red car, which sped away into the gloom of the woods. She quickly bolted the door and shut the curtains. The appetite for work had vanished; she held very little concentration for it now. She spoke to her birds tenderly, bidding them to rest well, and made her way to her bedroom, where she sat on her bed and contemplated the decisions she had made. Her mind was awhirl with nostalgia.
And thus, she reached for the red telephone on her bedside table and dialed a particular number. Aleta held the handset to her ear. She waited for the dialing tone to end. After what seemed like a very long time, the person she called finally answered. The young woman had never felt so relieved at hearing his gruff voice once again—it almost brought tears to her eyes.
"…Sebastian? I'm sorry for calling you this late, but I really need your help. I need you, Sebastian."
Author's Note:
[Major Edit because I just felt the need to do it]
The romance is slow, and I will tend to lean more on the mystery and horror side of The Evil Within. This is just a prologue, but I have to thank RedVoid for her review. I hope that this fanfic will entertain you further!
Aleta will join the storyline in the next chapter, don't worry!
Please leave a review and favorite it~!
The Evil Within belongs to Shinji Mikami and Tango Gameworks. I only own my original characters and this (gestures to the entire chapter)