Sorry for the delay, I've been away…

Chapter 21: Through the looking glass

Jobe creaked upright, ignoring the twinge in his back and strode past the decapitated corpse of Vanity. Even though he didn't give it a final glance, her final words rang dully in his ears like a sombre bell toll.

'Nothing but a monster…'

'Ignore it' He hissed to himself as he drew near the mirror but the question of the obscure sentence's meaning remained, like an itch just out of the reach of clawing, groping fingers. It was maddening.

Jobe's shoes crunched the slithers of glass into the faded carpet and he came to a dead stop at the frontier of this reality, peering into the darkness before him. He suddenly found himself wishing he'd asked the optimistic Casper or Father Parker to come with him on his 'quest'. Hell, even having Virgil with him in the state she'd been in when she attacked and abandoned him would be better than facing the insanity that lay only a step away from him alone…He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and realised he was doing little more than procrastinating. Through the shattered looking glass was the only route opened to the man now.

"Well, you're damned if you do…"

With what felt like all the will power in every fibre of his being, Jobe crossed over.

"And you're damned if you don't."

He shivered as he felt this nightmare realm fall in on him like thick layers of musty dust, instantly leaving him with an unexplainable feeling of deep, incurable uncleanness.

Jobe looked once more over his shoulder at the somewhat saner side of the town and in some perverse way, his heart ached for it. There was nothing he wanted to do more than step back into the light but even he knew he'd gone too far to turn his back now…

The rusty copper grating wined as he quickly ran across the room, trying not to take in its Bosh-esq features.

There was however one spectacle that caught his eye and he paused, frowning as his brain tried to make sense of it. 

Besides the vast mirror, there had been an old, neglected armchair in the room rammed into a forgotten corner. In this hellish version of the room, the same chair rested in the exact same position, mirroring its doppelganger. Except for the fact this chair looked as though it had been brought from Beelzebub's own version of 'World of Leather'.

A mouldy canvas had been draped over it, its white hue fading to a wan, infected yellow and the leg's protruding from the hem stuck out at odd angles.

Something sat in the chair. In his jumpy state, Jobe did well not to blow a hole through it as soon as his eyes observed it. When the shadow didn't leap from its resting place and maul his face, Jobe let curiosity absolve his fear and he creped towards the chair.

It was nothing more than a baseball bat, at least, that was what Jobe though before his eyes took in the minor details of the wooded bludgeon.

It lay, its handle pointing to the ceiling but its head had been stained black, as if the very wood had rotted in the black, tar-like substance that lay in a heavy pool around it. Defying gravity, the congealed, viscous liquid ran up the bat in thin rills, fading to a threatening shade of crimson as it thinned out. From the zenith of the bat's handle, the liquid (which Jobe felt uncomfortable sure of its identity) dripped upwards, hitting the ceiling with a wet 'plunk'. It ticked away like a metronome as Jobe watched the droplets splatter against it, dying the ceiling a filthy brown, with each drip, Jobe sensed a feeling of familiar terror rise within him, setting each hair on the back of his neck on edge. The bat, despite being an inanimate object felt darkly threatening, more so than some of the berserk creatures Jobe had run into.

He tore his gaze from it and ran from the room, trying to block out the hypnotic, tireless 'plunk'. Any longer and he feared he may lose his already loosening grip on his sanity.  

The buzzing sound hit Jobe like a sledgehammer, drilling mercilessly into his skull the moment he stepped out into the hallway. The man gritted his teeth, striving to gather one consistent thought as the world screamed about him. Is sounded like Jobe was in the midst of some colossal broken machine, grinding against itself and all the while moaning beofully for someone to oil it. He staggered towards the door behind which the stairwell lay, moving on blind instinct as he tried to recall the plan of this world's reflection. He thudded into the door, his hands desperately fumbling for the doorknob. His head felt like it was going to explode at any given moment, the ear-splitting sound swelling inside it like some festering balloon, threatening to burst.

With a moan, his blind fingers found the brass knob and without a moments hesitation he tumbled through, kicking the door too as he fell.

The insane Siren ballad ceased almost immediately. Jobe lay on the floor, blinking as he revelled in his newfound silence. When his mind had time to collect itself, he found himself thanking the powers that be that in this mirror dimension, the hole left by the centaur was yet to be made.

'Wouldn't that have been a laugh if you came tripping through that door only to fall to your death.'

Man, this place was even screwing up his sense of humour. The minuet he found Phil, he was getting the hell out of here, Claudia and her 'prophesy' be damned.

Jobe rose, looking up the flight of stairs, the memory of the centaur's kamikaze dive still fresh in his memory.

He shuddered before beginning his ascent up the stairs but the second he touched the banister, he fell back from it with a scream.

It had pulsated against the skin of his hand like some obtuse artery and was unsettlingly warm. Tentivley, he pressed the palm of his hand again and instantly the railing bulked, as if trying to squirm away from his grip.

"Jesus" He muttered, drawing back and shooting a look of sheer disgust at the banister. Jobe kept his arms firmly locked at his sides as he climbed after that.

But if the banister was bad, the walls were a hundred times worse. Jagged nails had been lamely hammered into the wall but the carpenter had done a much better job at bending them than getting them to penetrate the wooden planks that had replaced the smooth plaster. Each of them was thick with dark, reeking grease, the heavy, and stagnant odder caused Jobe's stomach to somersault.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached the top step. Looking back, the two flights of rickety steps looked a hell of a lot shorter than they'd felt as he'd been climbing them…

"217." Jobe read the numbers on the door again for what had to be the third time. He looked back at the keys in his hand, just to make sure.

Standing here now, with all he'd been through to get here, it didn't feel real. After all his searching, he'd finally reached his ultimate destination…all that was left to do was simply put the keys in the lock and open the door.

Shakily, he raised the key towards his final obstacle, praying that it would fit so hard his head began to dully ache. If it didn't, he'd probably tare it down with his bear hands…

'Click'

He just left the key in the lock, its plastic key ring swinging freely and just stared at the door in a mixture of eager anticipation and bitter apprehension.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open, his skull tingling madly as he stepped into Phil's room, he was still praying as he crossed the threshold.

But he didn't know why…

oooh, cliff hanger…

anyway, first off thank-you to JonWilhoit for the rather intensive reviews and your feed back is most appreciated. In regards to your first comment, I agree that I went WAY over the top in the 1st interlude but as we see in chapter 18, Leonard doesn't seem to give a damn about his daughter's well being. However, you are right in saying  that none would be eold enough to launch an attack like that out in the open.

Also, thankyou for pointing out the error I made with the shotgun. For future references, it will be a breach-loaded weapon. As for Jobe making typical 'horror film' errors…well what would be the fun in it if Jobe had just shot Vanity out right?