Chapter 4: The Jester's Toll

Chapter 4: The Jester's Toll

CLANG!

The sound was deafening, a concussive blast of metal on metal that vibrated through Willow’s bones. The elevator doors, now fully shut, shuddered from the force of the axe blow. A deep, horizontal gash marred the ornate brasswork, a permanent scar from the 15th floor. Outside, the Jester’s high-pitched giggling faded as the elevator, with a protesting groan, began its merciful descent.

Leo’s mother was hyperventilating, her face a mask of waxy terror. The boy was silent, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at the scarred door as if he could still see the monster on the other side. The moment the doors slid open on the 8th floor, the woman yanked her son out of the car without a single glance back, fleeing down the hallway as if the devil himself were at her heels. Willow didn't blame her.

The elevator continued its journey, leaving Willow alone with the ghost of that grinning mask and the ghost of Robby's second rule. Never answer your phone in the cage. The words were a brand on her mind now. She shoved her trembling hands into her pockets, her knuckles brushing against the cold, smooth rectangle of her phone. She wouldn’t. She never would.

The doors opened on her floor, the familiar, dingy hallway of the 4th floor feeling like a paradise compared to what she had just witnessed. Her apartment, 4B, was her only sanctuary. She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries to get the key into the lock. She stumbled inside, slamming the door and throwing both deadbolts. She slid to the floor, her back against the door, her grocery bags forgotten in a heap beside her.

Her breath came in ragged, painful sobs. It was real. The tapping at her window, the disappearing man on the stairs, the grinning thing with the axe—it was all horribly, tangibly real. Robby's rules weren't quirks; they were the bare-minimum terms of a life-and-death contract she hadn't known she'd signed.

She stayed there for what felt like an hour, just listening to the pounding of her own heart. Eventually, the adrenaline began to recede, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. She needed to feel normal, just for a second. She needed a connection to the world that wasn't this one.

That was when the first mistake happened.

She thought of her temp agency. They were supposed to call today about extending her data-entry contract. More work meant more money, which meant a theoretical chance to escape the Blackwood someday. It was a fragile, desperate hope, but it was all she had.

She pulled out her phone. Just to check. No calls. No messages. She clutched it in her hand like a talisman as she forced herself to stand, to put away the groceries, to go through the motions of a normal life.

Days passed in a blur of heightened paranoia. She triple-checked the deadbolts. She never left after dark. The tapping at her window continued its nightly ritual, and she continued to ignore it, a silent, stubborn stalemate between her and the unknown.

Then came the moment of forgetfulness. It was a Friday afternoon, and she was in the elevator, going up, which she had deemed safe. The call from the temp agency had never come, and a familiar anxiety was tightening its grip on her chest. She needed that job.

The elevator was halfway to the fourth floor when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Without thinking, driven by a week of anxious waiting and the deeply ingrained habit of a lifetime, she pulled it out and answered. The muscle memory was faster than the terror.

“Hello?”

The line was dead. Not even static. Just a hollow, empty void.

And in the elevator, everything changed.

The single dim lightbulb overhead flickered violently and went out, plunging her into darkness. A low, resonant hum filled the car, vibrating through the floor and up her legs. Then a sound, high and piercing like an old-fashioned fire alarm, blared from a hidden speaker, once, twice, three times. It was a sound of judgment. A toll being rung.

Robby's rule slammed back into her consciousness with the force of a physical blow. Never answer your phone in the cage.

Oh god. Oh no.

The elevator lurched to a stop at her floor. The alarm cut off, leaving a ringing silence. The doors slid open with a slow, deliberate finality.

He was there.

Standing at the end of the hall, right in front of her apartment door, was the Grinning Jester. It wasn’t a memory this time. It was here. Summoned. For her.

Its cracked porcelain mask was tilted, the same gesture of cruel curiosity she remembered. But now she could see it more clearly. Its seven-foot frame was hunched slightly under the low ceiling. And its grin… Robby’s rules had saved her from seeing it up close before. The smiling lips were painted red, but peeled back to reveal not human teeth, but rows of thin, needle-like points, like a shark’s. A thin line of drool trickled from the corner of the horrifying maw. It was holding the same blood-soaked axe.

It saw her. The dark, human eyes in the mask narrowed. It raised one long finger and pointed directly at Willow. Then it let out its signature, warbling giggle and began to walk towards her, dragging its axe.

Scrrraaaape. Scrrraaaape. Scrrraaaape.

Willow’s mind went blank with primal fear. She didn't scream. There was no air. She scrambled backwards, fumbling behind her for her keys, her apartment no longer a sanctuary but her only possible trap. The Jester was closing the distance, its gait slow and theatrical. It was enjoying this.

She finally got the door open, threw herself inside, and slammed it shut just as the axe thudded into the wood. CRACK. Splinters flew into the room. She threw the deadbolts—a useless gesture. The Jester slammed the axe into the door again, and again, the wood groaning and splintering around the lock. It wouldn't hold for long.

She backed away, her eyes wide with terror, scanning the small apartment. There was nowhere to go. The kitchen was a dead end. The window was a four-story drop. The bathroom had no other exit. She was cornered.

CRACK! BOOM!

The lock gave way and the door flew open, torn from its hinges. The Jester filled the doorway, its immense frame blocking out the light from the hall. It stepped inside, its head nearly scraping her ceiling, and took a deep, theatrical bow.

This was it. She was going to die.

Backed against the far wall of her living room, her hands scrabbled against the plaster, searching for a purchase, for anything. Her fingers snagged on the peeling edge of the floral wallpaper, the same spot she’d noticed on her first day. In her panic, she ripped at it. A large sheet tore away, revealing the slick, black substance underneath. But it wasn't just a substance. It was a seam. A faint, vertical line in the wall.

With the Jester raising its axe for the final blow, Willow threw her entire body weight against that spot.

The wall gave way with a soft click. It wasn't a wall. It was a door, perfectly flush and cleverly hidden. She tumbled backwards into a dark, narrow space that smelled of dust and cedar and secrets. She quickly pulled the hidden door shut just as the axe swung, embedding itself in the wood where her head had just been.

She was in a small, closet-like space, no bigger than a coffin stood on end. It was pitch black. Outside, she could hear the Jester’s frustrated giggles and the sound of it tearing her apartment apart. She pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle her sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably.

And then, a new sound cut through the chaos.

A shrill, electronic ringing.

It wasn't her phone. Hers was still clutched, screen dark, in her hand. The sound was coming from inside the hidden closet with her. Her terrified eyes scanned the darkness, and she saw it. A faint green light, emanating from an old, vintage rotary phone sitting on a small, built-in shelf. A phone that couldn’t possibly be connected to anything.

It rang again, insistent and loud in the confined space.

Outside, the Jester’s rampage paused, as if it, too, were listening.

Hesitantly, with a hand that felt disconnected from her body, Willow reached out and lifted the heavy receiver. She brought it to her ear.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A man's voice answered, calm and impossibly close, as if he were standing right next to her. It was smooth, collected, and held an unnerving tone of amusement.

“Willow Hayes. Apartment 4B. Took you long enough to find the panic room,” the voice said. “Name’s Gus. I own the place. Now, listen carefully. The Jester’s Toll is almost paid, but it's still out there. When I hang up, count to five, run for the elevator, and press the button for the lobby. Don't stop for anything. The cage is a sanctuary, for now. Go.”