Chapter 2: The Serpent's Glare

Chapter 2: The Serpent's Glare

The afternoon sun beat down on Andalusia with a suffocating intensity, turning the quaint town into a furnace. The three hundred dollars in Leo’s pocket felt like a lump of hot lead against his thigh. He needed to get off the street, find a place to lay low and count his winnings before the oppressive cheerfulness of the town gave him a headache. The abandoned houses he’d seen earlier, on a quiet, tree-choked street at the edge of town, seemed like the perfect solution.

He chose the one furthest from the road, a two-story Victorian that had surrendered to a slow-motion assault of ivy. The porch sagged, and several windows were boarded up, promising the kind of derelict privacy he craved. He slipped around the back, found a loose cellar door, and pried it open with a grunt.

The air that hit him wasn't the expected stench of damp and decay. It was cool, dry, and surprisingly neutral. He descended the stone steps into the gloom, his boots crunching on… nothing. The floor was swept clean.

“Weird,” he muttered, his voice swallowed by the silence. He clicked on the small flashlight on his keychain, the beam cutting a weak path through the darkness. The cellar was empty. No discarded furniture, no piles of trash, not even cobwebs. It was just an unnervingly tidy stone room. A prickle of unease, a faint echo of the old man’s warning, traced its way up his spine. He shoved it down. A clean squat was a luxury, not a bad omen.

He found the stairs leading to the first floor and pushed the door open. The same strange cleanliness prevailed. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light piercing through the boarded windows, but the floors were bare and swept. The wallpaper, though faded and peeling in places, was free of graffiti. It didn't feel abandoned; it felt… waiting.

"Definitely weird," he said again, a little louder this time, as if to assert his presence. He walked into what must have been the living room. It was a large, empty space with a cavernous fireplace. Perfect. He could unroll his sleeping bag right in the middle of the floor. He dropped his guitar case and backpack with a thud that echoed through the house. The sound was satisfyingly solid, a claim of ownership.

He sat on the floor, pulled the wad of cash from his pocket, and began to count, smoothing the bills out on his thigh. The simple, tactile act of handling the money calmed his nerves. This was real. This was power. Fives, tens, twenties… a beautiful sight. He was so absorbed in his treasure that he didn't hear the whisper-soft footsteps on the floorboards behind him until a voice sliced through the silence.

“You’re counting the offering in the temple. That’s a new level of sacrilege.”

Leo’s head snapped up, his heart hammering against his ribs. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hall. He was lean, wiry, with a wild nest of dark hair and a stare that was pure, predatory intensity. He couldn’t have been much older than Leo, but he moved with a coiled, dangerous energy that felt ancient. He wasn't ragged like the old man; he was sharp, like a shard of broken glass.

Leo scrambled to his feet, shoving the money back into his pocket. His mind raced, calculating angles. Fight or flight? This guy was between him and the only exit he knew.

“Hey, man,” Leo said, pitching his voice low, trying for nonchalant intimidation. “Didn’t see you there. This place is big enough for two, I figure.”

The man took a step into the room, and Leo saw his eyes properly for the first time. They were burning with a cold, fanatical fire. “This isn’t a place,” the man snarled. “And you’re not welcome here.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Leo said, holding his hands up placatingly, his performer’s instincts taking over. “Just needed to get out of the heat. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“You brought the trouble with you,” the man spat, his gaze dropping to Leo’s guitar case. “We heard you. All afternoon. Singing your filth in the square.”

Leo’s carefully constructed bravado began to crack. This wasn't a typical territorial dispute. This was something else. “My filth? It’s just music, pal. People seemed to like it.”

“‘People’ don’t know what they’re listening to,” the man hissed, taking another deliberate step forward. Leo instinctively stepped back. “You sit out there with your sad story and your clever fingers, and you pull it out of them. Their pity. Their secrets. You play it all back into the air. You think that just disappears?”

The words were chillingly close to what the old man had said. You’re playing their song.

“My name is Jett,” the man said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “And we have been listening to you. You’re loud, boy. Louder than you know. You’re singing an invitation in a language you don’t understand, and you’re doing it on our doorstep.”

“‘We’?” Leo asked, his throat suddenly dry.

Jett smiled, a terrifying, humorless baring of teeth. “The Choir. The ones who know what this town is really for. The ones who keep things quiet.”

The situation was spiraling out of his control. This wasn't some lone drifter; he was part of a group. A cult? The word flashed in his mind, stark and terrifying. His greed had led him into a nest of fanatics.

“I didn’t know this house was taken,” Leo said, trying a different tactic, feigning respect. “My mistake. I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”

“No,” Jett said, his voice flat and final. “You don’t get to just walk away. You’ve made a mess. You’ve been disrespectful. You played your song, and It heard you. Now you’re in Its house.”

Something is listening. The old transient’s words were no longer the ramblings of a lunatic; they were a prophecy that was coming true right in front of him.

Leo’s fear curdled into anger, a desperate final stand for his pride. “Look, I don’t know what kind of weirdo game you and your friends are playing, but I’m not a part of it. Now get out of my way.”

Jett laughed, a short, ugly bark. “Your way? You have no way. You blundered in here thinking you were the clever one, the puppet master. But you’re just the noisy instrument someone else is playing.”

Jett lunged, not at Leo, but at the floor beside him. With a flick of his wrist, he used the toe of his boot to scrape away a thin layer of dust from the floorboards.

There, etched deep into the dark wood, was the symbol from the bakery wall. The circle with the three jagged lines bursting from the center. It was larger here, more deliberate, and seeing it in this dark, silent house filled Leo with a primal dread that froze the blood in his veins.

“You’ve been singing on the altar, you arrogant little blasphemer,” Jett whispered, his face inches from Leo’s, his breath hot with rage. “The Listener heard your sermon. And now, the Choir is going to collect the tithe.”