Happy Halloween

Hello, all. We're about three-fourths of the way through the manuscript now and I've been trying to post two chapters a week, but things at work are getting busier and more hectic, so I'm going to change that. I'll try to upload one chapter a week now. That way, we should be able to get through the rest of the manuscript by January.

Thanks,
Pete (Properly Paranoid)

Chapter Thirty: The Heart of the Matter

I said hello to Roger as I clocked in, then sat down at my desk and began to work. It was another boring day. Actually, it was the same boring day, just repeated over and over again. Wake up, go to work, come home, repeat. Intersperse with meals and sleep. Shake vigorous and you get one life unlived.

I still remember parts of my dream. The ORACLE and the Ivory Woman. The writer and his notebook. And especially Tulip. I don't know why. They were just part of the dream.

I wish I could dream it again. I wish I could just continue the dream where I left off. I wish so many things these days.

Wake up. Go to work. Come home.

It's the small, mundane things that distract me from my life. There is a stray cat I see sometimes around the neighborhood. I left an open tin of tuna out once for it. A small gesture of kindness. I don't know why I did it.

Wake up. Go to work. Come home.

I no longer believe there is a conspiracy against me. Why would there be? I am not important. Nobody around me is important.

Wake. Work. Home.

I stay awake later and later each night, my eyes trying to pierce the veil of night, even knowing that nothing is behind it. I guess I don't see the point of sleeping and dreaming of dreary things.

Wake. Work. Home.

And then I found myself on the edge of the overpass. It was on the way to work. I stopped and looked out at the sea of cars, all of them driving at breakneck speeds, going to their own jobs, find their own ways in the world.

And I couldn't stand it. I stood on the edge of the overpass and I wanted to jump. Jump and end my repetitive existence. Break the infinite loop.

I stood on the edge of the overpass and thought about the end of my dream. "Home," the writer had said. Home is where the heart is. Home is where we keep ourselves hidden away from sight. Home is where we can see our true selves.

I stood on the edge and felt myself fly away. I let go of what I was and it floated like a ghost into the sky.

And then I walked home. I walked into my apartment and there they were. The writer, with his notebook, and Tulip.

"Took you long enough," he said.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Home

"So how do we get to the House of Forgiveness?" Tulip asked. "In fact, how did we get here? One moment we were in that freaky stair house-"

"The logistics don't matter," the writer said. "Anything I tell you would be nonsense, since that is how the world here works. Traveling between realms, domains, pocket universes, whatever, its unpredictable and better if none of us question how it happens. Got it?"

Tulip raised an eyebrow. "Sure, you're the boss," she said.

"And as for your first question," the writer said, "there is a simple way to get to the House of Forgiveness. In fact, you've been there before."

"I have?" Tulip said.

"We all have," the writer said. "The House of Forgiveness is the hardest of the Five Mansions, but the easiest to find. It goes by a different name though."

The writer turned to me and he wasn't smiling now. He looked sad and alone, clutching his notebook to the side of his chest.

"Home," he said. "We're going home."

There was no spinning sensation like last time. There was no sensation at all. I didn't feel anything. I didn't see anything. I just opened my eyes.

I woke up.

I was in my bed, in my apartment, in my world. I was home. Of course. I had never left.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Grove of Fetters

As we rose, I was able to see the sun. It was just setting, creating an interesting tableau of reds and purples, but then it fell beneath the horizon and night quickly descended. I was worried about falling off of the stairs, but the cold stone beneath my feet changed. It felt soft and I could hear the crunching of leaves. I felt along the ground and realized it was grass.

We were outside. No more stairs, no more fractals.

The stars lit up like a Christmas tree and I could see the Milky Way. It was beautiful. I looked at Tulip. She was standing next to a large tree, still wearing the red dress from the House of Fortune. As she looked up at the night sky, I felt something, an ache.

And then chains wrapped around her hands and waist and she was pulled up against one of the tall branches of the tree.

"Tulip!" I shouted and then I saw the writer was in a similar position, two chains attached to his hands and one to his feet.

Only I was free.

"We're in the Grove of Fetters," the writer said. "The House of Fortitude. You have to make a decision now. You have to make a choice."

"What choice?" I asked.

Smoke began to pour from the ground. "The Brute is coming," the writer said. "I can't get to my notebook. I can't stop him. But you can free us."

"How?" I asked.

"The chains are made from his body," the writer said. The smoke was forming into what looked like a wolf, its body wrapped in chains. "It cannot chain you, however, so it wants to kill you. You can free us with a touch, but you can only free one of us. You cannot take us both."

The wolf looked huge and angry. The chains around it were cracked and broken and even though I knew it was made of smoke, it looked real enough to kill. It opened its jaws and let out a howl.

"Fenris," the writer said. "Make your choice, Norman. It's up to you."

My choice? The writer or Tulip. The man who could lead me to the Wall or the woman that I...what? Liked? How could I like anyone? How could anyone like me? I was a delusional paranoid. The ORACLE freed me from that life, though. I owe her.

Do I? Did she free me from the life or put me in it? Was it her fault that the Ivory Woman targeted me?

No, no time, I need to make a choice. The writer or the woman. The woman or the writer.

Or both.

They were lined up. They were both chained, but they were in a straight line. I didn't stop to think about what I was doing, I just ran. I ran and I took hold of Tulip and her chains evaporated and then pushed forward right into the writer. His chains evaporated, too, and we fell into one big heap.

"Great job," the writer said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You just forgot one thing."

Fenris loomed over his, his jaws so big he could swallow the moon. He was going to eat us, swallow us whole, and we would be digested in his smoke stomach for the rest of eternity.

And then he stopped. "You are one lucky duck," the writer said. "With my hands free, I can write." And he was writing, scribbling in his notebook. "Looks like Fenris now has a burning desire to mark his territory." The wolf turned around and went away to urinate somewhere else.

"Well, that was bracing," Tulip said. "Where to now?"

"Now," the writer said, "we try to find Forgiveness."

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Fractal Palace

The stairs twisted as they climbed higher. We had walked for what seemed like miles.

"Where are we?" Tulip asked.

"The Fractal Palace," the writer said. "The House of Forever. And I'm afraid this is just the beginning. I told you it would be complex. It's a complex complex." He chuckled.

"How complex?" I asked.

"Well," he looked up the spiral staircase, "technically, the Fractal Palace is infinite. You could keep walking and walking and walking and never go anywhere at all. Something about Zeno's paradox and infinite regression."

"So we're stuck here?" Tulip said.

"No," the writer said, "because there is always a way out." He took out his notebook and wrote something in it.

The staircase began to move. The steps climbed themselves like an escalator. We pulled ourselves away from the railing and tried to keep our balance. "Here we go," the writer said.

The stairs led up higher and higher until we emerged into a room made up entirely of stairs. The ceiling, the walls, everything was steps and stairs, all of them merging and dividing, going up and down and sideways. "Ah," the writer said, "l'esprit de l'escalier!"

"Funny," Tulip said.

The stairs moved themselves, twisting and turning, until they were part of a giant spiral, a spiral that went upward, upward into the twisting ceiling and into the sky.

"That's where we're going?" I asked.

"Away from the House of Forever," the writer said, "and into the House of Fortitude. It will take bravery and cowardice."

"Bravery and cowardice?" Tulip said. "How?"

"Bravery to go in," the writer said, "and cowardice to come back out."

And so we went up, up, and away.

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Only Game

The man led us back to the casino he had come from. The neon sign above the entrance read Glückshaus. As we entered the casino, the man changed. His hair grew longer, his body slimmer, his face more feminine. He became a she.

"What are you?" Tulip asked.

"I am the House's representative," the woman said. "Call me Alea. Come now." She led us through rows and rows of slot machines, one-armed bandits. I could see the faint outlines of people playing them, pulling the handles down, entering in coin after coin. "Don't mind them," Alea said. "They aren't even here. Much."

She led us down into the basement of the casino, down a flight of concrete steps. There, she pushed a button and a large light came on, illuminating a door.

"This is a Door," she said. "Capital D. Your chance to exit the House. If you win, that is."

"How do we know it doesn't end up in the Empty City?" the writer asked.

"It does," Alea said. "A specific section of the City. I believe it's called the Fractal Palace. Your next mansion to cross off."

"How does she know that?" Tulip asked.

"Oh," Alea said, "everyone knows where you all are headed. But nobody's ever been to the Wall before. I'd love to see you try. Now, to go through the Door, however, you have to play the game."

"What game?" I asked.

"What game?" Alea repeated. "Why, the game." She smiled and gestured to the other side of the basement. There was a roulette wheel with a man strapped to it. His eyes were dice. "It's the only game in town. Spin the wheel, my friends. Spin and see what happens."

The writer looked at me and nodded his head. Of course. I was the unlucky one. I had to spin the wheel. The worst outcome would be mine. But what was worse? Staying here as a guest/ghost of the House? Or going through the Door?

I stepped forwardly and nervously turned the wheel. It spun must faster than I had pushed it.

The man in the center said nothing. He was still alive, I could see, still breathing. But his eyes had been removed, blood staining his cheeks. The dice in his eye sockets rattled -- how, I don't know -- as the wheel spun faster and then, slowly, it stopped.

Alea looked at the dice. "Snake eyes," she said. "You don't see that every day. Go on now."

We turned and the Door was opened. Beyond it was a staircase. The writer and Tulip stepped through first and I turned back to look at Alea. She was still smiling, our apparent escape not bothering her at all. "You come back any time you want," she said. "It's been a long while since we've had a snake eyes."

I walked through the Door and it closed behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The House of Fortune

I opened my eyes and took a good look around.

It looked like Las Vegas, but not the real Las Vegas. The Vegas of movies and television. Bright and shiny, neon signs everywhere advertising casinos and call girls. "Come to the Gemini," one of the the signs exclaimed, "you'll have twice the fun!"

I looked at the writer and found he was now wearing a tuxedo. I looked down and realized I was wearing one, too. Then I looked at Tulip.

She was wearing a red dress. If I thought the wedding dress looked good on her, the red dress looked even better. She had elbow length red gloves on as well and her hair no longer looked dirty or stringy -- it looked curled and elegant. I felt my own hair -- which I had been cutting for years, not trusting the barbershop -- and realized mine was better as well.

"It's not a place you come to looking like we did," the writer explained. "This is the place where dreams are made. Not good dreams, mind you. Most of them are bad."

A man emerged from one of the casinos. "Ah, newcomers!" he yelled. "Come, come! Choose one of these fine casinos! Place any bets you like! We take all wagers!"

"What shall we wager?" the writer asked.

"Well," Tulip said, "what do we need?"

"We're here," the writer said, "and now that we've crossed it off the list, we need to go."

"Ah, an exit, an egress," the man from the casino said. "We have plenty of those."

"An exit to where we were before?" I asked.

The man's smile faltered. "Well," he said, "no, not exactly. The exits here lead many places, but none you'll recognize. And to enter any of them, you'll need to put something up."

"Our lives?" Tulip said.

"No, we already have those," the man said.

"Our dreams," the writer said. "If we lose, you can have our dreams."

The man smiled. "That'll do nicely. We always need things to trade with the Reverie. Come with me." He clapped his hands. "We're off."

"Where?" I asked.

"Where else?" he said. "Now that you're in Oz, we're off to see the Wizard."

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Die is Cast

He found six-sided dice in the drawing room. "Right where I wrote it," he said. "Now all we have to do is roll it."

"And then we'll get to the House of Fortune?" Tulip asked. "Which would be...?"

"The House of Fortune is a place where luck and chance rule supreme," he said. "Think of it like Vegas only more...eldritch. You can win big or lose all."

"And what are the stakes?" Tulip asked.

"Life, death, and everything in between," the writer said. "And to get there, we need to roll a specific number on one die."

Tulip laughed. "Let me guess," she said, "a seven."

"Nope," he said. "We need to roll a thirteen."

Tulip scrunched her forehead. "That's impossible," she said. "Even if you cut the die on the way down, the most you could roll would be seven. There is no way to roll a thirteen."

The writer grinned. "Want to bet?" He tossed me one of the die. "You roll."

"Why me?" I asked.

"Because you are the lucky one," he said. "Or, rather, the unlucky one. The Ivory Woman causes unlucky accidents, pockets of chaos that turned everything topsy-turvy. You roll the die and she will make it into the worst roll ever. Which, in this case, would be a thirteen."

"Why would that be the worst roll?" I asked.

"Because the House always wins," he said with a grin.

I took a deep breath. "Still impossible," Tulip said, "but go ahead anyway."

I rolled the die in the palm of my hand and then tossed it onto the table. It landed on one of the corners and started to spin. It spun round and round and round, until I became dizzy even looking at it, and then it cracked apart, splitting into three pieces. I added up the dots on the cracked pieces. Thirteen.

The world around us spun, like a roulette wheel. I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.

It was over in a second and then I opened my eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Way

I took the book from the writer's hands and pulled off the rubber bands. Gingerly, I opened it. The first page it opened to had this written on it:

THERE ARE FOUR LETTERS, FIVE SUNS, NINE CIRCLES, TEN PLAGUES. THERE ARE THREE BODIES, FIVE MANSIONS, SEVEN HEAVENS, AND SEVEN HELLS.

THERE ARE TEN PASSAGEWAYS AND TEN BRIDGES.

YOU MUST CROSS EVERY ONE TO GET TO THE LAST BRIDGE.

THE LAST BRIDGE IS THE WALL.

I read it out loud. "What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means," the writer said, "we have a long way to go before we reach the Wall. Luckily, we've already started. The 'three bodies' it mentions are us. Turn the page."

I turned the page and read the next one out loud as well:

THE FIVE MANSIONS:

FIRE, FOREVER, FORTUNE, FORTITUDE, FORGIVENESS

"We can cross the first mansion off the list," the writer said. "We've already visited it - that was Our Lady of the Immaculate Conflagration. And now for the next one."

"Forever?" I said.

"Okay, we'll skip that one," he said. "Too complex. How about the House of Fortune? That should be easier. Relatively." He grinned.

"You're having fun?" I said.

"I'm having an adventure," he said. "I've never had one of those before. Come on then."

"Where?" I asked.

"To find some dice," he said.

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Friend

The field of wheat lead to a house in the center. It looked dilapidated, worn down, but the door was locked and surprisingly could not be pushed open.

"Yeah, you won't break it down," the writer said. He took out his notebook and started scribbling in it. "The owner of the house makes it look run down, but it's actually very well maintained. Four-inch think steel door, multiple locks."

"Who lives here?" I asked.

"A friend," the writer said closing his notebook. "A friend who calls himself Amicus Nemini."

"Um, you do know what that means, right?" Tulip asked as the writer tried the door again and opened it. Apparently, his scribbling was able to unlock it.

"What?" I said.

"The name," she said. "Amicus Nemini. I took Latin a fear years back. It means 'a friend to none.'"

The writer walked inside and I was left looking at Tulip. I just shrugged and followed him, so Tulip followed me. "Why are we following this guy, by the way?" Tulip asked.

"He's going to lead us to the Wall," I said.

"Right," she said.

"What I don't understand," I said, "is why you're coming along. You don't have to be here."

"Yeah, well," she said, "I was tired of running away. When I heard what you were doing is sounded...this is stupid, but it sounded like a quest. It sounded like something out of a story. So I made an impulsive decision and decided to come along."

"Oh," I said. We passed through a corridor and came across a large room. Unlike the outside of the house, this room was very neat and clean and well-maintained. There were security cameras everywhere, as well as a wooden table and a chair. I turned to the writer. "Where is your friend?"

"Dead," he said. "I think he's been dead for a while. But he left something behind, something we need."

"You said we were close to the turning point," I said.

"Close," he said, looking around the room. His eyes finally fell on a bookshelf. He scanned the shelf and then pulled out a notebook bound in rubber bands. "Here it is. His notes about the Wall. This is the way to the Wall. It is the outline of how to get there."

"I thought you knew how to get there?" I asked.

"I do," he said. "This is how to get there." He held up the notebook. "Take a look."