Nobody knew what to do next.
The basics had been done to prepare the team for their last collection. Everybody had scrubbed the gunk of the maneater clean from themselves. Not many items remained in their luggage. Most of the useful weapons and items had gone missing. What was left was packed up and placed in the Sniper and the Medic's vehicles. Once they got the last card and deactivated the Material Emancipation Grill, they were heading straight back to the base. Well, except for the Soldier, who was still adamant about hitting up any bars they found on the journey back. Work had to come first, though.
"Miss Pauling, gentlemen, let's make this as quick as possible." The Soldier marched around his troops, trying to formulate his latest half-baked plan. "We're still missing some of our weapons. We have only one card left to find. We do not know where any of these items are. If anybody has a plan, this would be the time to share it."
The Pyro offered his suggestion. "Pahapf ve med du ook ad yur mab agun?"
"I see." The Soldier nodded. "Anybody catch that?"
"Think Mumbles was talkin' 'bout your map." The Engineer gestured towards the tattered piece of paper in the Soldier's pocket. The fellow American nodded, flipping the paper outwards. It was covered in several layers of blood and ooze. He scraped the gunk away, scribbling the rest of the manor in place. Maybe it was best to make a checklist.
The Soldier chewed on the end of his pencil. He made a face and retracted it from his mouth. That was coated in slime, too. He spat on the ground, trying to clear that taste off of his tongue. "Let's see here. Lobby, cleared. Kitchen, done. Dining room, empty. Suites, cleaned. Conservatory, check. Billiard room, done. What am I missing?"
The Medic pointed to the library and the study. "Zhe rooms have not been searched, ja? I did not see anyzhing in the study, but zhere may be somezhing zhere."
"Right. Just found these in the library. " The Engineer patted the blueprints jutting out of the pouch on his tool belt. "Can't say I checked anything out there, myself.
The Heavy's mind sparked. "Ah. Scottish man spoke about talking axe in basement."
Everybody raised their heads at once. Now everybody was looking to the Demoman for further explanation. His eyes widened. With the onslaught of horrors he had after the event in the wine cellar, he'd completely spaced off the fact that he'd left a talking axe down there. Remembering did him no great service.
What was supposed to be a long-winded appeal for mercy came out very passive. "Well, I suppose if we gotta. I'd just as soon not, boyos."
The Soldier nodded, his mind set. "Duly noted. Let's go."
The motley collection of mercenaries and the assistant proceeded to the wine cellar. It was just as murky as the Demoman remembered. One of the barrels remained where he had last been drinking from it. His stomach churned at the thought of the wine in it. It was horribly strong with age. It should have melted the lining clean out of his belly.
The troop wandered the cellar, looking for the object that the Demoman had reported encountering. It certainly didn't take long. The axe lay where the Scotsman had abandoned it, swirled in dust and cobwebs kicked up from beneath a rack. Nobody was too impressed with the weapon.
Yes, it looked spooky. It wasn't chatty, though.
Maybe Tavish had finally lost it.
The Scout rubbed it in his face. "How hammered did ya get down here, huh? Talking axe. Geez, go figure." He picked up the axe by its hilt. He forced his voice lower, speaking with a hammy cackle. "I'm gonna swallow yer soul! 'N dhen your booze! Which is yer soul! Because yer such a—such a—yer really drunk, dhat's why."
"Piss off, ya tiny rabbit man." The Demoman was embarrassed enough as is. No need to have some half-pint rub it in.
The Scout never knew when to shut his trap. "Hey, it's okay. Dhe Heavy talks to things all dhe time. Maybe dhey talk back, too."
"Is stupid idea." The Heavy felt no need to humor the Scout. "What would axe have to say?"
"Heads!"
The Scout shrieked, pitching the axe to the ground. The Demoman pointed at it, yowling as badly as the Scout. "I told ya! It's possessed by the devil, and ya woke it up! Gaaah!"
The Engineer was not as shocked as his teammate. He squatted next to the talking weapon, investigating it with a cool head. As it continued its incessant chanting, he flipped the axe over. No, it didn't look like it was battery operated. He looked for anything like a transmitter on it. The chattering got louder, which only served to irritate the Texan. He pitched the weapon aside. The noise continued, not moving from the spot where he sat. No, there had to be something over here.
"What's up, Dell?" the Sniper asked.
The Engineer started digging around the corner of the wine cellar. "Dunno, Stretch. Must be a speaker or somethin' around—eureka!" Tossing rubbish aside, the Texan found a hole in the wall. Pulling back his hand, he produced a round loudspeaker. "Wouldya look at that?"
The Soldier huffed. "What a cheap trick. What set it off?"
"Infrared sensor? Let me just dig a little further back here." The Engineer stuck his human hand back into the wall. He could feel a wooden box and cables that dropped from above. "Seems like there's some kind of hole back here. Maybe another room."
The Spy pushed his way next to the Engineer. He shooed the Texan away. "Allow me."
Finding hidden rooms was nothing for an intelligence agent like the Spy. Many villains thought they could be smart enough to hide information from him in secret rooms. Detecting them was almost second nature for him. He traced a vertical line with his eyes, wandering up from where the Engineer had found the speaker in the wall. Then he rolled them. Whatever cur had made this hidden room had done a poor job. The lock for it was clearly hidden behind the one slightly off-color brick.
Flipping the false brick back, the Spy found an access panel. It was so cheaply made as to be laughable. He sifted through the electronics, small shocks unable to pierce his gloves. With a quick yank, he popped the fake door aside.
He was not congratulated with a round of applause or a pat on the back, however. His success was acknowledged with a series of shrieks and screams.
"I assure you, that did not hurt in the—mon dieu!" The Spy jumped back from the horrible surprise he had discovered.
Just because the team had seen death tonight didn't mean that a dead body wouldn't scare the living daylights out of them. It was the corpse of a rat faced man, his face decorated with thin facial hair and a triangular soul patch. Parts of his hair had gone white, although it was uncertain whether or not that was due to aging or some strange sort of style. His beady eyes stared at nothing, jaw dropped open and exposing bucked teeth. Shoved in his mouth was the tenth and final key card.
Miss Pauling felt a cold horror spread through her chest. "It's the Director."
The Soldier's jaw hit the floor. "What?"
"I-I was sure I'd killed him!" She ran a hand behind her head, her knees weak. The Heavy placed an arm behind her back as she stammered on in confusion. "I knew I should have shot him in the head. You'd think a six-foot grave and eight bags of corpse-grade limestone would be enough to keep him down."
The Medic steeled up to the presence of the corpse before anybody else. He poked it in the face, his own visage scrunched up in confusion. "Vhen did you kill him?"
Miss Pauling did the math. "Around six months ago, I guess?"
"Zhen you did not murder him." The Medic continued his investigation. He wiggled the Director's arm around. "He's just barely begun rigor mortis. Could not be much more zhan three, four hours deceased."
Now Miss Pauling dropped her jaw. "What?"
While the Medic had been investigating the corpse, the Engineer had taken to looking at the equipment behind the Director. There were several screens, all monitoring different parts of the manor. "Looks like this has been recordin' us. Give me a sec." He fumbled with the screens, focusing in on the one taping this hidden room. Hours of nothing flashed by, the corpse sitting like a broken doll. There was a flash of white, and then the Director was upright, dragged into a vertical position like a hastily moved puppet. The Texan stopped, playing the footage back.
The Director was halfway through a tirade at this point. His voice echoed through the speakers in the room. "—was hardly an inconvenience, even with the tarp. And who shoots a man in the buttocks, anyway?"
Miss Pauling's face went red. "Well, the Administrator did say to shoot that ass. I thought it was funny."
The Director continued on, not stopping for one moment. "At any rate, getting a chance to film these peons suffering was worth that humiliation. I was glad that the Administrator saw things my way and threw her little bitch to the wolves as well. It will be grand to watch her—what? Hello?" The Director leaned out of his chair, looking away from the camera filming him. "Yes, hello? Ma'am? Can I help you?"
Everybody watched on in horror at the following events. The Director's eyes went wide, white as sheets. He leaned back in his chair, squirming and babbling nonsense. A blur glided through the door, stopping just before him. There was a moment where it looked just like a woman, frocked in a century's old dress. Nothing fancy, nothing frilly. As conservative as an old house frau's dress. The tape began flickering, static rippling across the screen. There was a smudge of something dark, chopped cuts of a man's scream. Then a blast of white noise and rippling distortions. Black. White. Black. White. Nothing. Nonsense. Nothing again. Then a dead man with a card in his mouth.
"Whu-whu-what the hell was dhat?" The Scout chattered, shivering at the footage.
The Engineer frowned. "I haven't got a clue. Should I rewind it?"
There was a splattering of noise from everyone, but the agreement was universal. No, nobody needed to see that again.
The Medic withdrew the card from the mouth of the dead Director. He wiped saliva off of it, then tucked it into his overcoat. "Let's just find zhat Material Emanzipation Grill and get it turned off. No need to stand around here, ja?"
The Spy scratched his chin, studying the monitors. "Hmm. How strange." He went through the screens, noting one that was clearly pointed at a strange machine. Most likely, that was the grill. The others seemed to be sitting inside of a church. There didn't seem to be any others that were out of place. There had to be some kind of connection there. "Zhere is a chapel here, is zhere not?"
The Heavy nodded. "Just outside of manor. To the west."
"Zhen we go zhere." The Spy tapped on the monitor as to confirm his destination.
The Sniper raised his hands. "Hold it, Spy. I thought the notes the Administrator left us said that this thing was in the cellar. Is there another cellar around here?"
The Spy laughed, amused with the Sniper's naïve reliance on truth. "Unless she handed it to me personally, I would not trust zhat letter any longer."
It was worth investigating, at any rate.
The team left the haunting room, closing the door once more. They trekked out of the manor, quickly locating the chapel in the graveyard. Considering the bright garishness of the rest of the household, the inside of this holy ground was dull. It seemed quaint, everything made of thick, centuries-old wood. The windows were nothing too grand, depicting no biblical events. Rather, they were faded with time, glowing pastel in the moonlight. The rows of pews were limited, unable to seat more than forty people. If it weren't for the simple cross on the wall, it may have been mistaken as an old-time schoolhouse. Either the Manns weren't particularly religious, or they didn't like sinking their money into churches. Neither option would have surprised the group.
"Perhaps I'm statin' the obvious, but there doesn't seem to be much right here," the Engineer said.
The Soldier shrugged. "Let's give it the once over."
The group started searching the chapel. The Scout, Soldier, and Pyro rummaged through the pews, throwing musty hymnals around in search of hidden buttons. The Heavy lifted furniture, searching beneath everything in vain. The Engineer and the Demoman walked along the walls of the chapel, looking for any structural weaknesses, hidden doors, or communion wine. The Sniper searched for a way into the rafters while Miss Pauling, the Spy, and the Medic searched the altar. The only thing of any use any of them found was a box of matches below the altar, which was quickly passed to the Pyro.
"Flame's out," the Medic mumbled.
That caught the Spy's attention. "Come again?"
The Medic tapped on a candle next to the pastor's pulpit. It was surrounded with red glass, smudged with years of soot. "Zhis. Zhe flame of a church should not be extinguished."
"Doctor, you surprise me." The Spy investigated the candle. It was new, fresh. It had been lit once, but not for very long. Wax beading trailed down only one side of the stick. This was peculiar.
The rest of the team came into the altar area to see what the Spy and the Medic were staring at. The Pyro mumbled a surprised sound. He lit a match, passing it to the Spy. The Frenchman nodded his thanks. "Good zhinking. Now, let us see." He placed his left hand around the glass, holding the match just above the wick. "You all may wish to step back. I do not know what will—"
Just as the flame from the match touched the candle, a familiar sensation visited the group. Freefall. The floor to the altar sprung open, dumping the team below. Within a few seconds of falling, they landed with an awkward splash below. Water pooled around them, standing at nearly a meter deep. The church had dumped them into an underground channel. The trap door snapped into place, locking them in the dark abyss below.
The Sniper was the first to get his legs underneath him. He coughed up water, wringing liquid out of his hat. "Gettin' tired of all the bloomin' trap doors!"
The Soldier wasn't amused either. "Anybody got a light? It's darker than a French woman's armpit."
"Connard," the Spy hissed. "Yet another suit ruined, too."
There was a series of scraping, and then a burst of orange light. The Pyro had managed to save one dry match. He stole the Soldier's map from the American's pocket. While some of the paper was damp from the sudden drenching, the dry portions managed to catch flame in a few seconds. The Soldier stammered in incredulity. He'd worked hard on that map.
The orange glow from the burning map revealed a murky, gloomy passageway. Bricks lined the walls, coated in dark green gunk and black mold. The stagnant air squatted in their lungs. Crumbling holes in the wall led up to rusting rungs. The ladder that was used to ascend and descend this pit had rotted away, chunks of metal and wood floating in the dark pool around them. Going up and out was going to be much less convenient than going straight ahead.
"Looks like we've only got one way to go, gentlemen," Miss Pauling said.
"Aye. Pity that," the Demoman frowned.
Being the torchbearer, the Pyro took point. The Scout and the Soldier were on his heels. The Medic, Miss Pauling, and the Engineer took the next row, followed in turn by the Demoman and the Spy. The Sniper and the Heavy fell to the back. With all of the tricks they had fallen prey to, everybody kept a wary vigil on their surroundings. Their path wound deeper, growing warmer as they descended. It was as if they were marching into hell itself.
The passageway dumped the team into an impossible chamber. The cobblestone walls continued throughout it, winding upwards into a wide cylinder. They could see the stars and a full, heavy moon above them. The group was just underneath a clock tower, a yellow face beaming light into the night sky. Bones were strewn about every which way, with no regard to what parts belonged to which body. The Medic studied one of the skulls around them, noting a disproportionately large number of features uncommon amongst the Mann family. The Engineer caught the same discrepancy, muttering under his breath. "The manor's built over an Indian burial ground? Ya've gotta be kidding me."
"Truckie, big picture." The Sniper brought the Engineer's attention to the center of the chamber. "Care to tell us what that is?"
The hulking metal box in the middle of the grounds was unlike anything he'd encountered before. It was some kind of computer, but nothing like the models that RED or BLU had. Its cabinets were built out of steel, riveted in place. The machine looked like it was at least a decade or two outdated. Tubes from the machine ran upwards, pumping energy up and out.
"Looks that might be controllin' that grill." The Engineer scratched his chin. "Well, let's do this."
The team huddled around the box. There were a series of ten slots to the right-hand side of the machine. With quiet anticipation, the group collected and inserted every card. The computer hummed away happily, accepting each card. It didn't even matter that some were chipped, burned, or previously slimed. As the last card slipped into the machine, an unusual quietness swept through the chamber. The bright energy above their heads fell. The night was a dark indigo once more, no more shield sealing them off.
The Soldier clapped the nearest two teammates—the Spy and the Scout—on their backs. "Good job, team! Now, onto the fiestas and senoritas!"
"Gentlemen? Young lady? Where do you think you are going?"
Everyone turned, their blood frozen. There was an elderly woman standing behind them. Her eyes were narrow, features like that of a viper's. White hair was styled back into a bun, pulling aged, jaundiced skin back too tightly. She was wearing a red house dress, the collar of her gown shielding her neck. When she smiled, the hairs on the back of their arms shot straight up.
Her voice was deceptively soothing, like that of a scheming grandmother. "We have more business to do."
From the old woman's mouth sprung dark, sharpened fingertips that snatched the team by their throats.
Author's Note
I'm glad I took my time with this. I was originally going to have the axe be a poltergeist version of the Horseless Headless Horsemann's Headtaker, but it was just too damn goofy. So, I dumped that out and placed in the not quite dead and then very dead Director. Something that would freak Miss Pauling out. What do you think? Was that a good choice?
My outline for the next chapter reads "nightmare fuel ensues." If that's not a tease that will bring you back, then clearly, I don't know how to hold your attention. (Or I could promise more sexy times. We know that would be just as horrifying, considering what just happened.)
Doing okay? We're just about done…Whose nightmare are you looking forward to seeing?