Chapter 5: A Change of Scenery

Chapter 5: A Change of Scenery

The line clicked dead, plunging the tiny closet into an even deeper silence. The only sounds were the Jester’s destructive rampage in her apartment and the frantic drumming of Willow’s own blood in her ears. Gus. The owner. His voice, calm and amused, echoed in her mind, an impossible island of coherence in a sea of madness. The cage is a sanctuary, for now.

Was this a trick? A crueler part of the game? Sending her out of her only hiding spot and back into the path of that… thing? But what choice did she have? The Jester would find her eventually. The flimsy hidden door wouldn’t hold forever.

Outside, a heavy crash signaled her card table, her sacred art space, being splintered into kindling. A fresh wave of rage warred with her terror.

Count to five.

She took a shaky breath, the air thick with the scent of old cedar.

One.

The Jester’s high-pitched giggle echoed, closer to the hidden door.

Two.

She pictured the path: out the door, a hard right, a straight shot down the hall to the elevator.

Three.

She coiled her muscles, preparing to run for her life.

Four.

The giggling stopped. An unnerving silence fell over the apartment. It knew. Or it was waiting.

Five.

Willow exploded from the secret closet. She didn't look back. Her living room was a warzone—her sofa slashed open, stuffing spilling out like entrails; her sketches torn from the wall and scattered; the door to her apartment hanging from a single, tortured hinge. The Jester stood in the center of the ruin, its back to her, its head cocked as if listening for the vintage phone she’d just answered.

She bolted. Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor, slipping on a shredded page from her sketchbook. She caught herself on the ruined doorframe and launched herself into the hallway. The elevator call button glowed like a beacon at the far end.

Then she saw him.

Mr. Kindling from 4C, a gentle, stooped man with kind eyes who always gave her a quiet nod when they passed. He was standing just outside his door, holding a bag of trash, his face a picture of confusion at the sight of her demolished apartment.

“My dear, is everything alri—?”

He never finished the question. The Jester, hearing her flight, whirled around. Its human eyes, fixed on Willow for a split second, saw her nearing the safety of the elevator. Then its gaze swiveled, locking onto the easier, closer target. The Toll had to be paid.

Mr. Kindling froze, his eyes widening in comprehension and horror. The Jester let out a triumphant, warbling shriek and raised its axe.

“No!” Willow screamed, jabbing the elevator button frantically.

The Jester didn't even run. It took two long, loping strides, its movements grotesquely playful. The elevator doors began to slide open. Mr. Kindling raised a frail hand, a pathetic ward against the inevitable.

Willow dove into the elevator cage as the axe swung down. The doors were closing, a merciful brass curtain on the final, horrific act. Through the narrowing gap, she saw the axe connect with a sound that would haunt her forever—a wet, heavy crunch. Mr. Kindling crumpled to the floor, his bag of trash spilling across the pristine runner. The Jester stood over him, its head tilted, the painted grin seeming to drip with satisfaction.

The doors sealed shut. Willow collapsed against the back wall of the elevator, a strangled sob tearing from her throat. She had escaped. But her freedom had cost a kind old man his life. The cage was a sanctuary, but the building had still collected its price.

The elevator descended to the lobby, the ride smooth and silent, a stark contrast to her terrifying trip up to the 15th floor. When the doors opened, Robby was there, leaning on his mop, his expression as grim and unchanging as a tombstone. He wasn’t surprised to see her. He looked as if he’d been waiting.

“It’s over,” he said, his voice flat. “The Toll is paid.”

Willow stared at him, tears streaming down her face. “He killed him. Mr. Kindling… it just… it killed him.”

Robby’s gaze didn’t soften. There was no pity in his eyes, only a deep, ancient weariness. “Broke a rule, you paid a price. Just wasn’t your price to pay this time. Building doesn’t care who settles the tab, as long as it gets settled.” He pushed himself off his mop. “Come on. I’ll walk you up.”

“No,” Willow whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t. My apartment… his body… I can’t go back up there.”

“You have to,” Robby said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s rule number five, though I doubt anyone told you. After an event, you go back. You have to see what it’s done.”

Reluctantly, numbly, she followed him. Every step back up the main staircase—the hungry staircase—was agony. She braced herself for what she would find. The blood, the body, the axe-shattered remains of her apartment door.

But when they reached the fourth-floor landing, the hallway was silent and immaculate.

The runner was clean, with no trace of spilled trash or blood. Mr. Kindling’s door was shut. And the door to apartment 4B was whole. Not just repaired, but perfect. The wood was unblemished, the brass knob gleaming under the hall lights. There wasn't a single scratch.

“What…?” Willow breathed, her mind refusing to connect what her eyes were seeing with what she had just experienced. “How?”

“The Blackwood cleans up after itself,” Robby said, his voice low. He gestured with his chin. “Go on. See the rest.” He turned and shuffled away down the hall, leaving her alone.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. It felt cool and solid, not like the splintered wreck she’d left behind. The door swung open smoothly, silently.

The sight that greeted her stole the air from her lungs.

Her apartment was not just repaired; it was transformed. The wreckage was gone. Her slashed sofa was whole. Her scattered sketches were gone. But that wasn’t the most jarring part. The layout was different. Where the solid wall of her living room had been—the wall that had hidden the secret closet—there was now an open archway leading into a second room, a room that had not existed ten minutes ago.

A second bedroom.

She stepped inside, her movements slow and robotic. Her few belongings were neatly arranged in the larger space. Her bed, which she’d left as a simple mattress on the floor, was now assembled, a frame and headboard she’d never seen before, and neatly made. The card table that had been her art station was replaced by a proper wooden desk in the new room.

Her heart hammering, she walked into the kitchen area. There, lying dead center on the countertop, was her lease agreement. She picked it up. It was her signature at the bottom, her name typed at the top. But the description was wrong. It was all wrong.

It read: Tenant, Willow Hayes. Unit 4B. Two-bedroom, one bath.

The building hadn't just cleaned up the mess. It had rewritten the event. It had erased her one-bedroom apartment from existence and replaced it, altering the physical space and the legal document that bound her to it. It was gaslighting on an architectural scale.

She sank to the floor, the altered lease fluttering from her fingers. The horror of the Jester was a visceral, primal fear. This was something else entirely. This was a deeper, more insidious violation. The Blackwood wasn't just a prison with monsters. It was a conscious entity that could change the very fabric of her reality at will, and there was nothing she could do but watch. She wasn’t just a tenant anymore. She was a character in a story it was writing, and it had just given her a change of scenery.