Nine, nearing middle age

I slid the key into the lock and held my breath. I believed the house should be free of danger by now—the statue was gone, and it was broad daylight. Lamia was fully armed, with both sword and rifle at her waist. I wanted to tell her that sacred bullets might be useless, but she insisted, “I just feel safer with a gun.”

Opening the door, I glanced around. There wasn’t a soul inside, not even a shadow, and sunlight—its source inexplicable, given the lack of windows—spilled across the floor. This detail was unsettling in itself. I let out a long breath; the scene was oddly reassuring. Simple: walk in, take the painting, look for clues, and leave—an hour at most. Straightforward, clean, and clear.

Lamia raised her gun, alert. “I’ll cover you. Be careful.”

I laughed. “Darling, you’re overreacting. This is my third time here. I can assure you, all the dangers have been dealt with. All that’s left is to take down this eerie portrait—”

The moment my fingers touched the painting, the woman within reached out a bluish hand and seized my wrist.

Terror struck me. “I was wrong! I’m sorry!” I cried. Her grip was monstrous, yanking me toward her. Her ghastly, sinister face loomed closer, lips curled in a corpse’s grin, as if about to bite.

Lamia grabbed my other hand, trying to pull me back, but afraid of ripping my arm, she didn’t use full strength. In an instant, we were back on that grassland—silent, pervaded by a chilling, blood-icing cold. And here, it was night.

Lamia raised her weapon. The woman from the painting stood before her, eyes blood-red, silent. She was shriveled, as if drained of every drop of blood. I clutched my bruised wrist. “Be careful. She can summon shadows.”

Lamia asked, “Is she a demon from another dimension?”

“Perhaps she’s like Vasilisa—a blood-sucking fiend, but not as strong. Otherwise, I’d be dead already.”

Lamia called out, “Answer my question!”—but didn’t shoot, though I doubted the woman would respond.

The woman turned and drifted away. No enemies lurked nearby, but I saw again the strange doors I’d seen before, built into invisible walls, leading elsewhere.

I had no wish to open them, nor see them open on their own.

Lamia and I followed the woman; we had no choice.

She floated onto a woodland path and stopped before a decaying, ruined cabin. On its wall, written in blood: “Mayan, Three Holy Maidens of Suicide, forgive my sins, grant me eternal rest.”

Suddenly, we were engulfed in visions—the gloomy forest blossomed with life, birds sang, and the cabin was restored, its roof adorned with flowers and bird nests, exuding an inviting charm.

Lamia said, “She’s making us see these past scenes?”

I thought it resembled Vaga’s brainwaves, like exchanging information across the surface of thought.

A plump, middle-aged man and the girl from the painting walked to the cabin, hand in hand. The girl looked frail and sickly.

I whispered, “Is that Henry Petz?”

Lamia replied, “Most likely.”

I hadn’t had time to ask Vaga about Henry Petz’s life. He must have been a resident of the Black Coffin, but whether before or after the Cataclysm, I couldn’t say; there was a considerable blank period.

Henry said, “Haixi, my dearest, you’ve been so much better lately—stronger steps, brighter spirits. That statue has truly helped you.”

The girl sighed, “Father, you’re always so... so unconventional. Why won’t you trust the best doctors, but instead turn to these... these medieval rites?”

Henry laughed. “My sweet Haixi, first, those so-called doctors and modern medicine can’t cure you—they can’t even diagnose you. Second, this statue isn’t some medieval superstition; it’s far older, more mysterious—Mayan, from around 1000 BC. Third, you’ve seen the wonders yourself; medieval rites have created this space, letting us walk in sunlight inside the Black Pyramid.”

Haixi shook her head. “As for your third point, that’s modern science—Professor Longinus discovered the spatial overlap in this house. Stop clinging to old superstitions.”

I couldn’t help but add, “This Longinus she mentions must be that omnipresent ancestor of mine!”

Lamia was unimpressed. “Plenty of people share the same name. He may have nothing to do with you, or the one from the undersea prison. And even if he does, it seems to me he’s brought nothing but trouble for everyone.”

Her cold water quelled my ancestral pride.

Henry sighed, “Daughter, you’re always so sarcastic, never seeing my good intentions. Is this a woman’s sharp tongue?”

Haixi replied, “What can I say to you? In this day and age, you insist on decorating the house with antiques and making me dress absurdly. I’m not a medieval noble! I’m a young, fashionable woman! And you—you’re no Count Petz, just a billionaire, a speculating bank director!”

Mid-sentence, she began coughing, blood flecking her sputum. Henry sighed as they entered the cabin, soon emerging with the statue of the goddess Ix. Henry pricked his finger, dripping blood onto the statue, then placed it in Haixi’s hands, bathing her in sunlight.

The pose reminded me of Orchide.

Lamia observed, “So this happened before the Cataclysm.”

I let out a sigh, moved by the scene. Lamia asked, “What is it? Did you notice something?”

No, I was simply struck by the hardships of middle age. Sir Henry’s devotion to his daughter was unmistakable, consuming all his energy. And yet, she was ungrateful, prickly and critical, making him feel unappreciated. Perhaps this is the so-called midlife crisis described in old books. Thinking of my adoptive father, I couldn’t help but dread my own future.

Would I also become an overworked, thinning, slightly overweight old man? If so, what a grim fate.

While I was lost in thought, the vision shifted—the plants turned golden, still beautiful but with a hint of decay. Haixi now wore a more classical Eastern robe, holding the goddess statue; her illness was gone, replaced by an aura of solemn power.

A group of young men and women, Henry among them, stood before her.

Henry, draped in red cloth, said, “With courage and devotion in your heart, you can receive the goddess’s blessing and know bliss after death! Who wishes to prove their sincerity?”

A handsome young man stepped forward, stripped to the waist, knelt before Haixi, and kissed the statue. Then, taking a dagger from Henry, he drew it across his throat, spraying blood on the goddess and Haixi.

Lamia and I both shuddered. “They’re possessed!” she said.

I pointed to Haixi’s lips. “Look!”

Haixi trembled, her eyes betraying reluctance. Henry’s face was ashen, hesitant, but this was clearly not his first time. I saw both their mouths slightly open, their canines subtly longer than the rest. Some of the blood on the statue trickled into Haixi’s hand.

Lamia murmured, “They’ve been changed by the statue, turned into the same kind as Legan and Michael.”

“Could this be a kind of rabies?” I wondered. “I’ve read of ancient diseases that drove people to madness and bloodlust.”

“Is it contagious?” Lamia asked.

“I think you have to be bitten.”

She pressed her lips together, feigning fright.

The vision altered again—trees now stripped bare, gray skeletons; the grass blotched with dark stains like congealed blood.

A stone altar had appeared. Haixi sat before it, the statue on her knees, overwhelmed by terror—tears washing away her makeup, black streaks beneath her eyes, red at the corners of her lips.

Henry approached. “Why keep the faithful outside, daughter? Ix will be displeased.”

Haixi cried, “What are you thinking? Mother was killed by Ix!”

Above, doors hovered, vanishing and reappearing, as if playing hide and seek. I guessed the evil statue had grown stronger, drawing in more demons from other realms—those shadows.

Henry said, “She passed peacefully, without pain. And now she’s in paradise.”

Softly, Haixi replied, “What paradise is that, what kind of heaven drinks blood and turns us into monsters?”

Henry forced a smile. “But Ix cured your illness. You’re completely healthy—and look at yourself; you never believed in medieval magic, but now you possess such power.”

Black shadows suddenly appeared, startling us. “They look like those followers,” Lamia said.

“Maybe... maybe they’re energy fluctuations. I’ve heard that when people die, they release some kind of heat.”

Lamia gave me a curious look. “You really want to explain everything with science.”

I smiled. “My ancestors were scientists, after all.”

Haixi said coldly, “You’re not my father—not Sir Henry Petz! The father I knew was a philanthropist, a kind man, not a villain tricking people into ending their lives!”

Henry ran a hand through his thinning hair. “What are you saying? Everything I’ve done was for you.”

Suddenly, Haixi began chanting, pointing at Henry. He let out a terrible scream, like the red demons of legend.

Ah, the fate of the poor middle-aged man—devoted to his loved ones, yet doomed to a bitter end. Middle age is an incurable affliction, an unstoppable apocalypse, driving this wealthy, well-meaning man into utter ruin.