Punishment Halls

Claude squinted against the early morning sunlight as he stepped out of Ione’s elementary school, the November air cool but not quite biting. It made him miss fondly the warmth of his daughter’s goodbye hug, though it had only been minutes since he’d seen her off. He tugged his blazer closer, fingers absently tracing the outline of the solitary silver pendant dangling from his left ear —a habit born out of comfort rather than superstition.

He’d barely made it a dozen steps when a police cruiser pulled up, its windshield a mirror of the overcast sky. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a face Claude recognized but couldn’t quite place. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, and eyes that seemed capable of cowing even the most hardened of thugs.

“Detective Cavendish?” The man’s deep voice seemed to match his imposing physique. “I’m Officer Cole Benoit. The Deputy Chief asked me to give you a lift to the Seagrave Villa.”

“Ah, my chauffeur arrives.” Claude quipped, a mischievous glint of both curiosity and amusement dancing briefly in his eyes. His warm smile, however, took any potential sting out of the words. “And here I thought I’d have to brave public transport. My hero.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, the detective caught an intriguing mix of scents. Leather and gun oil, yes, but underneath… Was it potting soil? He filed the observation away, resisting the urge to start profiling his impromptu partner.

“So…” The detective began as they merged into traffic. “What’s got the brass sending me a chaperone? Last I checked, I could find my way to a crime scene without a guide.”

“Beats me.” Cole said gruffly as his hands tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. “Perhaps sending lone detectives to places where people have recently disappeared ain’t exactly department policy.”

The lightness in Claude’s expression dimmed slightly. He very much doubted it was that simple… But pushing Benoit seemed unwise.

“Fair enough.” He conceded in a softer voice. “Though I can’t help but wonder why they’d pair the rookie detective with…”

He trailed off, realizing he had absolutely no idea of Cole’s rank or experience.

“The rookie beat cop?” The Officer finished, a hint of challenge in his voice. “You did a good job stopping there, Detective. Real smart choice.”

>> “Trust me, I know the uglier sides of Cretierfield well enough to not be afraid of ridiculous urban myths or conspiracies.”

“I intended no offense.” Claude replied, his hands up in mock surrender. “Really, it’s just that I’m used to being the youngest one in the room.”

>> “It’s refreshing, actually. Us young blood should stick together, not fight. Deal? I’ve got a feeling you’d beat my ass anyway.”

As they drove, the metropolitan landscape gradually gave way to more pastoral surroundings, yet they still had a fair share of road ahead of them. Claude couldn’t help his mind from wandering, asking what would drive a man to such a desolate place away from his home city.

The alleged disappearances of the Seagraves after purchasing their rural villa had been a low-level buzz in the department for months. Only recent, more troubling developments had finally prompted action.

“You know, I made myself an evidence board with his prints inside my living room to study them.” Claude mused, breaking the silence that had settled between them. “My daughter had me take it down. Said it gave her bad feelings.”

Cole groaned noncommittally, but Claude pressed on, unable to contain the fascination that had been building in him since receiving the assignment.

“You’re not intrigued by it? Over what would a man like that… A respected artist, a family man… Just vanish into thin air? Taking both wife and kid alongside him? It’s like something out of a—”

“Horror movie?” Cole finished, his tone dry. “Or just a hokey ghost story?”

“I was going to say True Crime Podcast, but hey, I like your word choice, Officer Benoit.” Claude added with a chuckle, his affinity for the macabre peeking through despite his best efforts. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble upon some spectral ghouls in the Seagrave Mansion.”

Now that was a perfect line to deliver with a flashlight pointed dramatically upward at his face, but then again, he was also experiencing that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. An odd sensation, like the times he watched his mother commune with spirits during her work as a medium.

Could it be a warning? Unlikely. He was more inclined to blame it on his overactive imagination latching onto what was probably a mundane task ahead. His last-minute companion, at least, seemed very willing to call him out on that.

“You have an awful sense of humor.” Cole grunted as they navigated past the officers cordoning the areas surrounding the villa. “The kid faked her disappearance for social media attention. And the artist?”

>> “Probably just cracked under pressure and holed up to get off the grid. That’s what I’m hoping at least.”

Claude studied his companion’s body language, noting the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes darted between the road and mansion now looming in the distance. Was the grumpy exterior a mask for genuine concern, or just a way to conceal a more mellow interior?

Privately, the detective harbored serious doubts over such a simplistic explanation. The abrupt interruption of Samantha Marlowe’s livestream, the bizarre trail of movements that Seagrave had left behind over the past years —it all pointed to something more sinister than Cole seemed willing to admit.

Still, arguing seemed pointless. Better to let the coming investigation speak for itself.

As they approached, the Seagrave villa finally came entirely into view —Claude’s first direct encounter with the imposing estate. Its Victorian architecture stretched skyward, besieged by overgrown hedges that had devoured all available space. Unkempt branches pushed well beyond the chain-locked driveway, reminding the detective unsettlingly to grasping fingers.

Perhaps it was their sight that prompted Claude to one final attempt at levity.

“So… Tell me, Benoit…” He began wearing a disarming smile. “Are you into gardening? Can’t think of any other reason for you to have soil under your nails. Unless you were digging corpses by hand, of course.”

No sooner had they exited the car, Claude found himself confronted by Cole’s furrowed brow, his eyes silently yelling ‘The fuck do you care’ at him in response to the non-sequitur.

“Just to be clear I have nothing against it!” The detective hastily added before a fist was thrown his way, waving a hand in denial. “Actually, I think it’d be pretty cool if you are.” Claude softened his tone, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. “Always wanted to grow something for me and my daughter’s place. Too bad I can’t keep a cactus alive to save my life.”

>> “… Maybe you could give me some tips once all of this is under the bridge?”

The aggression in Cole’s posture seemed to ebb away, though he didn’t appear compelled to neither sustain nor deny his observations. Instead, the Officer’s focus shifted to the preliminary police presence bustling with quiet efficiency around them.

A few uniformed officers milled about near the entrance, comparing notes, while crime scene techs unloaded equipment from a van, preparing to scour the grounds. The atmosphere was one of controlled urgency —a welcomed change of pace for Claude, who had been monitoring the cold situation for quite some time now.

One figure, however, stood tall amongst all others. Detective Gianmarco Aerugino, better known around the department as Jagdhund, cut an imposing silhouette against the backdrop of the mansion. His frame, well over two meters, loomed over the bustling officers, corpulent and powerful. A worn-down black trench coat hung from his broad shoulders, draped over a rumpled dress shirt with a loose tie that spoke of long hours of work and little concern for appearances.

His perpetually stern expression, etched with deep-set wrinkles under balding gray hair, fixed upon Claude and Cole as they approached.

“You’re late.” Jagdhund growled as soon as they were within earshot, his usual admonishing tone slicing through the crisp air.

“But am I?” The younger detective checked his watch, certain they were well within schedule. The lecture to come, however, he already knew it by heart.

“Detectives are to be the first to arrive and last to leave a crime scene.” Jagdhund intoned, as if reciting ancient scripture. “Until the case is resolved, this place is now your sanctuary. Respect it as such.” His small, discerning black soon enough narrowed as they fell on Cole. “Who’s the tag-along?”

Claude struggled to contain a smug smirk. Whose gruffness would prevail, he wondered?

“Officer Cole Benoit, sir.” He replied, his voice steady despite the hint of tension in his jaw. His gaze, however, met Jagdhund’s fierce stare without flinching. “The Deputy Chief asked me to ensure your safety during the initial sweep.”

Their exchange was certainly entertaining, neither man willing to back down. Jagdhund’s large, calloused hands clenched menacingly at his sides, the prominent scar across his left cheek standing out starkly in the morning light.

“Malvirta, huh.” The old man grunted back, his tone wary. “He can keep all the authority he wants behind his shiny desk, but in this place, I call the shots.”

>> “Got that, brat?”

Claude supposed that was enough. Before Cole could retort, he smoothly interjected.

“Come on now, Gianmarco. You know how these old houses can be. Rusty nails, rotting floorboards, dust bunnies…”

>> “With your age you have to be more worried about such things. Let the Officer here protect us from the tetanus infections.” He felt their glares easily even with his eyes closed, but Claude merely shrugged nonchalantly. Tough crowds were part of the job. “We should get started instead, no? Surely the ghosts are getting impatient by now.”

“Why must you always be this insufferable?” The older detective spat back at him, yet despite his harsh words Claude was sure to have caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “But you’ve got one thing right.”

>> “Enough time has been wasted.”

Alongside such concession, Jagdhund pushed past them and began trudging forward, not waiting to see if the younger officers were following him.

“I do have one final question for you, Officer Benoit.” He added, not bothering to look back. “Did Malvirta ask you in person to babysit for us?”

A subtle shift in Jagdhund’s tone piqued Claude’s interest. Benoit seemed caught similarly off guard, his usual bravado giving way to confusion.

“Yes… He did, actually.” Was the reply, Cole’s gaze drifting upwards as if replaying a memory previously thought inconsequential. “Why is that important?”

“So he did…” Jagdhund mused, his broad back revealing no substantial hints. “Make nothing of it, kid.”

It was peculiar for the Hound to fixate on such a seemingly trivial detail. While Claude himself held no ill will towards Deputy Chief Malvirta —after all, he was the one who had recognized his potential and paired him with Gianmarco; he couldn’t deny that Vigo often seemed to hold all the reins in the department.

Certainly curious, Claude thought stifling a smirk. Jagdhund usually despised office politics and chain-of-command nonsense. A detective is only useful at a crime scene, something or other, he could practically hear him saying in his scruffy voice. Yeah, he admired the guy.

But as they approached the main gate, the world around Claude suddenly blurred, a cacophony of disembodied whispers assaulting his mind.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎

The intrusive message came and went like a thunderbolt, causing him to stumble forward slightly. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision only to realize he had missed his colleagues moving past the tape cordoning the villa.

Such episodes were the reason he avoided driving anytime he could. Sure, they were infrequent, but still recurring enough to become a source of wariness. He’d learned to ignore them as best as he could, convinced they held no real value —just a product of his colourful upbringing, nothing more.

“You doing ok, Cavendish?” Cole’s voice reached him as they continued towards the main gate to the mansion. He turned out to be surprisingly perceptive. “You got awfully pale all of a sudden.”

“Just a dizzy spell, no need to worry.” Claude tried to ease his concern with a wry smile, quickening his pace to catch up with the two. “The ghosts haven’t come to collect me just yet.”

By then, the more impatient older detective had already reached the wrought-iron gates of the Seagrave estate. Even through the bars, it didn’t require any special effort to see that no sign of life or activity went on behind the imposing walls —darkened windows giving Claude an ominous feeling.

“Is he always this much of a hardass?” Cole asked him with a sigh, his long strides easily capable of outmatching Claude’s pace —yet still holding back to keep his tempo.

“Yep, that’s him alright.” The young detective replied. unable to hide a fond chuckle. “But I reckon there aren’t many people with as much heart as he has.”

>> “You get used to it, as long as you stay sharp.”

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, the two fell silent as Jagdhund rang the doorbell once, then a second time. When no response came after the third ring, any lingering hope of a confused but cooperative artist answering the call quickly dwindled. Seemed like this was no publicity stunt —and that they had no choice but to break in.

“Good. Didn’t want to play nice either.” Jagdhund growled, stepping back to appraise the gate with a critical eye. Their warrant was already issued, and behind them, a team of forensics and a backup squad waited for their initial assessment. “Stand aside, brats.”

Without further warning, the veteran detective gripped the iron bars of the gate and simply… Pulled. The gates groaned in protest, but Jagdhund’s sheer strength won out in the end, tearing them from the ground chains and all with a grating screech of metal.

Though Claude was far too used to the old man’s antics to offer a stark reaction, he did direct an apologetic smile towards a flinching Benoit —the two then hurrying to follow Jagdhund’s unwavering strides through the entrance.

The overgrown path leading to the mansion was littered with dead leaves, adding to the sinister atmosphere that the structure held even in broad daylight. Claude would have preferred a more methodical approach, studying everything carefully before making decisions —his mentor though, didn’t seem quite up to that.

As soon as they reached the ornate front door, Jagdhund charged it as if here were a human battering ram. Poor thing didn’t stand a chance, the sound of its fall echoing through the stillness as old dust rose in a thick cloud.

“Well, it’s your turn now, Officer.” The old man gestured towards the broken door, directing a condescending nod at Benoit. “Time to protect us.”

Cole’s jaw tightened in response, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he simply brushed past the detectives, his heavy boots crunching through the fallen leaves carried across the threshold by the errant wind. His hand hovered ominously over his gun holster, and though they had witnessed nothing yet to warrant a violent response, he seemed more than ready to react accordingly if needed.

Claude followed close behind, the three of them stepping into the eerie stillness. Thick clouds of dust motes danced in the muted daylight filtering through the grimy windows, casting an almost sepulchral atmosphere over the foyer. Though he was familiar with Miles’ artistic inclinations, the interior held none of the macabre touches he had come to expect.

No, the place felt oddly… Artificial, devoid of any true warmth or personality. An impressive achievement, considering it had been six years already since the Seagraves had moved to the outskirts of Cretierfield.

As they moved deeper into the mansion, Jagdhund repeatedly located light switches, but no matter how many times they were flipped, the mansion remained stubbornly cloaked in shadows. Not that it bothered Claude —his eyes adjusting quickly, and the precarious illumination being more than enough for him to easily spot the recent trails of footprints leading down the hallway.

Following the path back to its origin revealed a shattered window at the far end of a corridor —no doubt originated from Sami Marlowe’s ill-fated urban exploration challenge, now reduced to a melancholic trail of evidence.

Breaking free of his companions briefly to follow the path guided by her footprints, the sight Claude had anticipated awaited him right around a corner. This was it, what he witnessed faintly through her interrupted livestream a couple days ago.

In a vast, empty hall stripped of furnishings save for the ghastly silhouettes of paintings framed across the walls, a set of spiraling stairs led down into the underground darkness. For a moment, Claude was certain he saw them rippling and shifting, their vibrant red tones bleeding together in a dreamlike display of visual distortion. It was as if they throbbed to the rhythm of some ungodly creature’s heart.

But as soon as he blinked and massaged his eyes to make sure he wasn’t falling prey to some optical illusion, the stairs fell back into normality, the crimson lighting dimming as if coming from deeper within the mansion’s entrails.

“Guys, come check this.” Claude called, his timbre holding an instinctive unease, flowing between a cautious curiosity and a thinly veiled trepidation.

Swiftly enough the two officers rejoined him by the staircase’s edge, but as anticipated, to them it seemed to be not much more than just an unusually eerie architectural feature —not inherently supernatural, at least.

“Looks like the perfect hiding spot for a deranged lunatic.” Jagdhund grumbled before approaching the stairwell without hesitation. One heavy boot after another, he started down the crimson-hued steps, not an ounce of fear in him.

“Wait, I won’t let you go down there alone.” Cole ended up being faster than him, earning a curt nod from the veteran detective as he made the move to follow him.

Had it really been just a bad trick of the light? Claude asked himself with a frown, arms crossed as he covered his chin in contemplation. The stairs didn’t appear more than bad taste now, for sure… But...

“Cavendish, you stay here and keep an eye on things.” The younger detective opened his mouth to protest at the orders, but Jagdhund silenced him with an authoritative look. “Check the rest of this floor while you’re at it. We’ll take a quick glance there once we reach wherever this damn thing takes us.”

>> “If we’re not back in ten minutes, call down the rest of the brats.”

Being sidelined like this elicited a faint bristle in Claude, but he knew better than to argue with Jagdhund when he was in this mood. The old man could be as stubborn as a mule, and it was easy to recognize his choices for what they were —an attempt to keep him away from any potential danger.

“Copy that…” He replied, diverting his focus just enough in the hope that the disappointment wouldn’t show too plainly in his expression. A very short distraction, yet still a long enough one for the frames of his two companions to completely disappear from sight. “… No way.”

Stunned by the phenomenon, Claude searched for any trace of them everywhere his eyes landed on —though he already knew that Jagdhund was far too large to hide. It was as if the very structure had swallowed them whole, neither voice nor sound of footsteps reaching the surface world.

Cautiously, he crouched down, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the nearest step. As his fingertips made contact, an invisible surface rippled subtly right beyond his perception, with a strange and thick wetness enveloping his skin —like if the hall’s floor was a freshly painted mural, instead of a solid, physical structure.

Staring down the winding staircase from that perspective was mesmerizing, its crimson penumbras almost hypnotic in their perfectly symmetric shapes. Just as he wondered what exactly was it that Benoit and Jagdhund had just entered, a faint whisper seemed to caress his ear, tempting him to descend.

As he shook off the eerie sensation, Claude felt a force ebbing upwards across his palm, making him jerk back his hand defensively —sharp shivers coursing through his body.

Nuh-uh. Nope. Absolutely not. That staircase was cursed. No way in hell was he going to wait those ten minutes. The earlier he called for a rescue team, the better.

But before he could reach the radio nestled against his side, a tendril of inky blackness shot up from the floor painting, wrapping itself around his ankle with terrifying speed and pressure.

A strangled cry escaped his lips as he was fiercely yanked off his feet, his head slamming against the wooden floor as shockwaves of pain traveled through his skull. The world swiftly spun, overtaking his senses as he felt himself being dragged inexorably towards the illusion of a staircase.

He flailed wildly, desperately trying to find purchase to halt his plunge into the unknown depths. A futile endeavor, as he was forced to breach the outline of the floor mural as if dragged into an icy, viscous pool.

The sensation of being submerged in liquid was short-lived, replaced by sheer vertigo with nothing to interrupt the precarious falling —plummeting right into the very jaws of the unseen.