"Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to 'Roga Storytime'…"
In fact,
Orpheus had never been inside this house, but the cold body of Lazarus, who had once lain in front of him, had long "told" him about the danger and mystery of this place.
Many things, Orpheus couldn't ask directly, but that didn't stop him from thinking, from imagining, and from speculating.
Uncle Mason, considering his first love, had helped deal with "Lazarus's" body.
That afternoon, when Grandpa returned and saw Lazarus's corpse, he ordered Aunt Mary to call Uncle Mason back immediately.
Then, Grandpa left again.
Later, on the way back from taking Mr. Hoffen to the hospital, Orpheus personally helped his grandfather treat his wounds.
It was clear, Grandpa had gone out to fight.
Or more accurately, Grandpa had gone to deal with something, and that something was likely related to Lazarus's death, and therefore related to this house. Uncle Mason being "bedridden" after a "fall" was the best evidence.
And then, passing by that house, Orpheus had seen that leg and the red high heel swaying on the second-floor window.
Grandpa had gone to handle it,
but those legs and red high heels were still there.
This meant one thing—the matter was tough, and even Grandpa hadn't been able to fully resolve it.
Moreover, with the two houses on the same street, only five or six hundred meters apart, that they could coexist like this spoke volumes about how tricky this house was.
Besides, when facing Lazarus, Orpheus had been dragged into a terrifying dream. In that dream, besides that woman, Orpheus had heard some peculiar sounds.
Static, magnetic, deep—sounds coming from a radio.
Of course, all these were just Orpheus's speculations, but when he walked into the master bedroom and saw that the bed frame had been stripped of everything, leaving only the wooden frame, yet the radio still sat on the entrance cabinet...
He understood.
That thing was the real switch.
Proposing to turn on the radio under the guise of "art" was Orpheus's final attempt at self-rescue.
He wasn't too worried Mrs. Hughes would refuse.
Because,
she was really stupid.
Even if he was currently held at gunpoint, about to be chopped into pieces by a killer,
Orpheus stubbornly maintained that
the killer
was stupid!
Now,
the radio was on.
Orpheus breathed a long sigh of relief. The heavy burden seemed to lift off his shoulders.
When the worst outcome is being chopped into mince, mutual destruction suddenly seems quite beautiful.
Except,
Orpheus didn't know that
the radio wasn't the "switch."
Whether the button was pressed or not, whether there were batteries inside, whether it was plugged in or not, even if it was just an empty shell, it didn't matter—it would broadcast whenever it wanted to.
...
[Time rewinds ten minutes earlier.]
When Mrs. Hughes's red "Cayman" was parked by Orpheus in front of No. 128 Chiswick Street,
the house's second floor
already had a reaction.
A pair of beautiful legs in high heels stood behind the curtain, the heels gently tapping on the floor.
"What is it?"
A voice came through the radio—Alfred's voice.
"Is he here?"
"Who?"
"Who is he?"
"What, it's him!!!"
There was clear terror in Alfred's voice.
Some things are scary at first sight, but after a while, they can become ordinary, like nightmares. No matter how real the nightmare, the fear dissipates quickly upon waking, leaving only a lingering sense of unease, which soon fades, becoming something to laugh about.
But,
there are other things, like fine wine, growing richer and more profound over time, carving deep impressions into the mind.
Alfred belonged to the latter.
His connection with Mrs. Molly was a bridge between their spirits. That terrifying being descended directly onto their bond, a display of power that left him trembling.
But what left a lasting impact, one that grew more severe over time, was that mysterious "hymn" sung by that being.
That hymn easily shattered the barriers Mrs. Molly had erected and left Alfred, who was just observing, with an indelible psychological shadow.
Since then, he'd frantically searched through various texts and ancient documents, finding nothing that matched the "hymn."
It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere, without a trace in history.
This was nearly impossible!
For a religion to form, there must be a "god"—whether a singular god or many deities—there must be a divine figure above the believers.
Once there is a god, there will be doctrines to explain and help believers understand and follow the god's will.
After god and doctrine, the next crucial step is... preaching.
More and more followers will continuously refine and enrich the doctrine with their thoughts and wisdom, making the god's image clearer and drawing god closer to humans, making it easier to attract new followers, like a snowball growing larger.
This is the objective developmental law of any religion.
But can you believe it? Despite this terrifying, fully-formed "hymn" existing, there is no trace of the religion behind it?
It's like finding a fresh fish on the ground, only to look around and see nothing but
desert for miles.
Even more terrifying for Alfred,
the "hymn's" language had no known origin.
He had looked through many language systems, even traced them back to ancient times, but he couldn't match the hymn's language with any known alphabet system.
Yet, when sung, the hymn was a smooth, rhythmic, highly developed language!
Its charm even surpassed most of the popular languages Alfred knew.
He regretted his perfect recall, as the hymn's melody would sometimes replay in his mind, making his heart race.
It felt as though the song would crush his body, soul, and everything he held dear!
A religion with no traces.
A language with no origin.
This led Alfred to believe one fact.
He
was witnessing the birth of a new religion!
There are many churches in this world, some with thousands of years of history, some even dating back to the previous era. Some were created by avatars of gods, while others were founded by those claiming to be servants of the gods.
But without exception, each founder was a terrifying figure, known as... an apostle.
They forcibly carved out a space in the world for their religion to grow and flourish.
So,
this was a great being,
a being to be revered,
a being whose story would become a myth, and his own story, a legend.
Thinking that such a fearsome entity had once descended onto his spiritual bridge left Alfred deeply shaken.
He had come to Rolan.
To Roga.
To Chiswick Street.
So,
was this where he chose to sow his first seed?
And amidst this endless terror,
another emotion called "hope" rose within Alfred.
When it is still a seed,
can I approach?
In the trajectory of gods and their religions,
even a stray dog caught in the picture will be remembered and celebrated by future generations!
But this thought was one Alfred dared only to think carefully because in a god's story, there are not just tales of caressing stray dogs but also many tales of slaying demons.
However,
tonight,
he had come to the door.
...
"He's here with a woman? Is she his consort or his servant?"
"Hmm? Looks like his mother?"
"Could she be the human vessel for the god's descent?"
In some religions, gods are born using a human woman's body.
In religious legend, the mother who gave birth to a god is revered and worshipped by future generations of believers.
"They're inside?"
"They're already on the stairs?"
"Coming straight to the bedroom?"
"Mrs. Molly, please hide. The first time, your rudeness was taken as a jest. The second time, an ant's insolence will surely be punished!"
The red high heels bent down and slipped under the bed.
The space under the bed, too small for others, was just right for her.
...
"This woman has a gun? Hahaha, what a foolish woman, trying to threaten a god-walking man with a gun."
"Mrs. Molly, look, whatever she says, the god does. Because to the god, everything is just a joke, his amusement tonight."
"Just like you were part of his amusement last time."
"Order Church? Ancalra? The Light of Order?"
"This woman is so stupid. She thinks the god is teaching her? No, the god is punishing her."
"Mrs. Molly, don't move. This is the god's chosen playground, his amusement tonight. We should just watch quietly, not interfere unless the god calls upon us.
Perhaps, tonight, we are merely his 'audience,' and we must perform our role as good spectators—silent during the show, applauding when needed."
"Hmm? This woman is possessed. She must have come into contact with a contaminated artifact, tainting her soul."
"Oh, poor woman. She doesn't even know who she's facing, nor does the demon controlling her."
"There are always small people who like to court death because their sight can't grasp the truth and the disparity."
"Mrs. Molly, you want to intervene to atone?"
"Rest assured, the god won't care about your sins. A god's eyes won't linger on you."
"Don't act rashly, Mrs. Molly."
"What? You want to ask this great god to restore your body?
No, no, no, don't you know what that means? Helping any demon to regain a humanoid form is a grave taboo for the Order Church and many other gods!"
"Mrs. Molly, I know your obsession runs deep, but please control yourself, for your rashness could drag me into an unfathomable vortex."
"Alright, my physical form has reached Chiswick Street. I'm almost there."
"I'm at the street in front of the house, but… I dare not enter."
"My god, knowing he is inside, I unconsciously hold my breath, fearing that even a heavier exhale would disturb this majestic presence."
"He must have already noticed me. No matter how I try to hide my presence, everything around me must be within his wise eyes, leaving no trace unseen."
...
"Ah, the god made that demon-possessed woman turn on the radio."
"Mrs. Molly, see, what did I say? He's long noticed me. My so-called proud stealth is a joke before him."
"I am but a humble ant."
"The ant heeds your call!"
...
In front of No. 128 Chiswick Street, in the courtyard.
A man in a red suit silently tilted the brim of his hat upward, revealing eyes like a blood moon.
At the same time,
his lips began to move.
And the voice came from the radio in the master bedroom upstairs:
"Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to 'Roga Storytime.' I am your host, the humble Alfred."
After saying that,
the man in the red suit outside stopped moving his lips, and the voice from the radio ceased.
But this sound, to Orpheus, was like a heavenly melody.
Yes, in that nightmare, this voice had appeared before—this very voice.
Previously, Orpheus had been worried. What if the "ghost" in this house had moved away with the previous owner?
Now, no need to worry at all. The living had left, but they were still here.
Orpheus didn't know how to address the "dirty things" in this house—were they ghosts, or perhaps… demons?
But they were beings even Dees couldn't immediately eliminate, beings able to coexist under Dees's watchful eye!
Clearly,
Mrs. Hughes had no idea about any of this.
She only frowned,
regretfully saying:
"I don't want to hear a story; I want to hear a song. But if there's no song, I'll consider it a flaw, and flaws are a kind of beauty in art.
I can't wait any longer, my dear Orpheus."
Mrs. Hughes gripped the gun in her left hand,
raised the knife in her right,
"Handsome enough to make us both drool, Orpheus. Would you like to be shot first or cut first?
I suggest the knife because if the gun goes off, I'll have to chop you up quickly to make my escape, and I might miss some of your pieces.
If you let me cut you quietly, I'll mince you up finely, not wasting a single bit of meat.
Hmm?
Why aren't you choosing?
What are you waiting for?"
Mrs. Hughes moved closer, her expression twisted.
Sitting on the bed, Orpheus kept glancing at the radio.
What the hell?
Weren't you already responding? Why stop after one line?
Damn,
is it that demons don't fight demons?
But...
Am I not a demon too? Why is Mrs. Hughes trying to kill me?
...
Outside the courtyard,
the red suit's sleeve fluttered in the night breeze.
Alfred's handsome, serious face held calm, blood-red eyes.
He didn't dare say another word, fearing to disrupt the god's pleasure.
He didn't dare act on his own, fearing to ruin the god's rhythm.
He was cautious.
At the same time,
he ignored Mrs. Molly's desperate pleas.
...
Mrs. Hughes was right in front of Orpheus now,
tilting her head,
her smile wide,
softly saying:
"What are you... waiting for?"
With that,
she raised the butcher's knife over Orpheus!
Spurred by this sight,
Orpheus shouted out:
"What are you waiting for!"
...
Outside the courtyard,
the wind moved.
Alfred's red silhouette disappeared from the street.
The next moment,
the glass of the French window shattered silently, the pieces not scattering but gently falling like cotton candy drifting in the wind.
It all happened too fast.
Mrs. Hughes was just about to chop down at Orpheus but was stunned to find a figure between them.
He was kneeling there,
"Alfred, at your service."
"What the hell!" Mrs. Hughes screamed in near-manic rage, the knife continuing downward, but now aimed at the man in the red suit.
Alfred turned his head, looking at Mrs. Hughes behind him.
At that instant,
his blood-red eyes shone with a strange light.
Instantly,
Mrs. Hughes's body froze, still holding the knife but unable to move.
Alfred turned back,
still kneeling,
not daring to meet the gaze of the "great" being sitting on the bed before him.
His right hand rested over his heart,
utterly humble:
"Please forgive my presumptuous question: shall I, in accordance with your greatness, punish this defiler with the Light of Order?"
I...
Orpheus's eyes widened.
He had imagined many scenarios, the least likely being that the house's "ghosts" weren't home, and he'd be chopped into pieces.
Then there was the idea that the ghosts would fight each other like dogs.
Ultimately
, he figured he'd be killed by the winning side.
But no matter how much he imagined, he hadn't expected this!
Who is he?
Why is he kneeling before me?
Who am I?
Where am I?
What am I doing?
Yet,
despite his mind going blank, he managed to respond with a single syllable:
"Mm..."
Thank goodness it was just a syllable. Otherwise, the trembling in his voice would have been unmistakable. Orpheus was sure he couldn't string together a coherent sentence right now.
"Alfred, at your command."
After that,
still kneeling, Alfred called out:
"Mrs. Molly."
"Eek... yah!"
A shrill screech erupted from under the bed, nearly causing Orpheus to jump up.
Fortunately,
his knees were already weak, so even though his feet stayed on the floor, he didn't stand, remaining seated on the bed.
A pair of legs, a face.
Orpheus saw the terrifying woman from his dreams once more, but this time in reality.
He watched as her mouth opened,
growing larger and larger, to an unbelievable size, as big as an adult man.
And the immobilized Mrs. Hughes could only show terror in her eyes as her body was slowly pulled into the massive maw.
She struggled,
she was terrified,
but her struggle was futile.
Orpheus had experienced Mrs. Molly's horror in his dream, her chewing, her swallowing, understanding how terrifying it truly was.
Mrs. Hughes's struggling body began to fracture.
Her hands, her feet, her neck, every part of her body showed lines of blood, while even finer cuts continued to form.
She began to disintegrate.
Like a loaf of bread crumbling into crumbs.
A ball of black light escaped her body, seemingly trying to flee but was swallowed in one gulp by Mrs. Molly.
After the black light vanished,
the black spot on Mrs. Hughes's face disappeared too.
Relief appeared on Mrs. Hughes's face.
Her gaze fell on Orpheus, sitting on the bed, filled with tenderness, her lips curling in a faint smile.
Orpheus believed that, at this moment, the real Mrs. Hughes had returned.
His heart trembled, and he instinctively raised his hand, wanting to call for a stop.
If Mrs. Hughes had been possessed and killed under the influence, then she was innocent, especially now that the "ghost" had been vanquished.
But before Orpheus could speak,
Mrs. Hughes's body shattered completely, turning into a cloud of blood mist, drawn into Mrs. Molly's mouth.
Only her clothes remained.
The real Mrs. Hughes was gone.
Just her clothes and lingerie, the black lace.