The telephone rang in an infuriating tone. Everett looked up from her paper, glaring at the device as if doing so would shut it up, but it was a callous thing. She was grateful it didn’t decide to turn louder. Irritating as the noise was, it wasn’t something to curse. Telephone calls carried fortune with them– perhaps not any spectacular fortune, but they each held a chance of something good: a client, a story, or a hint to where Everett may find them. Then again, there was the possibility that it was her landlord, her bank, or some banal dullard who’d bog her down with baroque twaddle. She’d spin the wheel on it this time; she hadn’t much else to do.

  She put her paper aside and trudged to the device. Picking it up, she was met with silence. She twirled the cord around her finger and let out a sigh.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “...Aye, you’re that Everett chick, right? The journalist?”

  “That’s right. Do you have some business with me today, sir?”

  And he did, though it wasn’t straightforward business. Everett held no doubt that the man had only the simplest request for her, and if not a request, then the makings of a scoop that’d rival the most staggering exposé. She couldn’t understand him, though. He was murmuring. She stopped the man in the midst of their conversation. Suddenly, as if hearing her latent concerns, he became vocal and intelligible, but with the unfortunate foible of an aggressive tone. Everett kneaded her nose as the man tattled on. Minutes passed, minutes she didn’t count, and soon enough, the phone returned to the holder of its own accord.

  As she moved back to her desk, bewailing her luck, the phone rang again. She jolted straight at its frequency, but also at its suddenness. She dismissed her thoughts with a shake of her head. It was likely just that man calling again, and not another potential client.

  “Hey! Doyle! Rent’s due in three days! Don’t be late this time!”

  Everett Doyle returned to her seat, dragging her legs like she’d run across the city, dropping into her chair with an oomph too harsh for her weight. Her lamentation returned with the gentleness of a hornet, but its sting was one she quickly brushed aside. It was an odd day to be so typical. Blasting calls that led to nowhere or another notice. The wheezing efforts of her desk fan’s motor. The chafing stuffiness wouldn’t vacate even if she cleaved the ceiling open. Her office ran unremarkably in each imaginable way. She held her paper up, avoiding the contents of the columns, eyeing the name right below the header. Asher Blythe. She knew that name well. He was once Everett’s competitor. She clicked her tongue and set the page back on the table before standing up once more, walking to a nearby jalousie. Opening the blinds, she scanned the outside with distracted eyes. Still, all she could notice was the face of the neighboring building. Fresh paint and steel balconies that shimmered even with a clouded sun. The paint itself still looked wet, but was in actually so arid and stern, it rob the air of its moisture. She then looked behind her, back into her office, with frayed carpet, a jungle of cables, a fridge that droned rather than buzzed, and a door whose once gilded knob was suffering from melasma.

  It wasn’t her living quarters. Everett couldn’t tack on an “at least.” Standing here was a lesion curable only by a change of scenery. She leaned her head outdoors and lit up a cigarette, eyeing the opposite building, letting a wave of bitter nostalgia cloud her eyes. It looked so much like her older complex, she mustered the thought, then spat it out for the spoiled candy it was.

  The phone rang again. She rolled her eyes and moved towards it. As she nestled the device between her ear and shoulder, a little cough sounded.

  “205 Gladly Way, room 54, right?”

  Her eyes went wide. It wasn’t hidden information, but having her address so mechanically recited still wasn’t ordinary. Everett cleared her throat and replied.

  “Yes. That’s correct– who is this, exactly? If you wish to meet me, we can set an appointment. But I’ll need a name and–”

  Everett’s defensive questionnaire was suddenly and violently interrupted by a raucous banging. She turned to the noise with a hand over her chest, and a moment later the banging stopped, taken hold by a door flying open. There was a figure who was just as shell-shocked to be in view as Everett was to have heard them.

  “W-What were you thinking!? Who knocks like that! Goodness, you could've sent me to the hospital!”

  If Everett didn't know any better– and truly, Everett didn't know well at that moment –she would have hurriedly taken a handgun and bulldozed the figure, a girl, with bullets. At the very least, proving that this wasn't a monster wearing human skin, the girl stuck her hands together and snapped into a bow.

  “Sorry! Sorry! I didn't think the door would be so weak, and loud!”

  She straightened herself up, squishing her palms together right below the hem of her blouse. She had a resiliently cute face, keeping that appeal despite her slightly crooked eyes, her one-inch too bulbous head. She wore a freshly ironed, lengthy, loose skirt and had a dense silver bracelet with distinct, yet unreadable engravings on her left arm. Whatever Everett thought of the apparel– a little trite and clashing, certainly –the woman didn't wear an outfit befitting of the usual contractor. Her head was fretfully darting around.

  “May I?”

  “...Hold on a moment. I need to lower my heart rate.”

  “Do you happen to be skittish? Or did I just get you good?”

  Everett narrowed her eyes as she controlled her breathing.

  “I don't like that question. I don't like that you're asking questions right after breaking into my room. Were you just waiting outside? For how long?”

  “Oh, not too long. Only eight minutes. You sounded busy, talking with somebody, so I didn't want to intrude.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  She kept a cautious eye on the girl as she moved to her desk, gently taking a seat as if doing it too suddenly would startle her more. She sat there, picking at her teeth, looking at the girl with an increasingly bewitched face. She put an elbow on the desk and spoke.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. Does that mean I can come in?”

  “I thought it was obvious, since I didn't tell you to scram.”

  The girl shrugged as she took a vexingly cautious step inside, before moving as if she had lived here for decades. Everett told the girl to have a seat, and she did without even fussing over the creaky chair. Everett already had an odd impression, but that had sealed the deal.

  Nevertheless, if someone was banging at her door, and that someone didn't immediately ask her where their money was, it meant they had a desire for services.

  “Speak up,” she said, taking a notepad and pencil, “I mean, you have business with me, right?

  “Yeah, naturally.”

  She gave her affirmations, and she did speak up, but it was nothing that Everett was looking for. She wore a stony gaze as their eyes kept meeting.

  “You won't find much about me just by looking at how I sit.”

  “Oh, I'm not looking at your body, I'm looking at something deeper.”

  “What, my soul?” She joked with a huff, and the girl smiled, but not a smile of good humor.

  “I wish! I’m not talented enough for that.”

  Everett looked at her with a furrowed brow. Her face was stuck in place, unchanging, pressuring the girl mercilessly. She acquiesced.

  “I'm just kidding! Look, I know I made a bad first impression, but why don't we try to introduce ourselves more formally?”

  “I can get behind that.”

  Everett dropped her tools and rested an arm with an open palm. The girl looked at it with a hint of suspicion, or perhaps surprise, and it left Everett vindicated about her assessment. The girl took the hand and shook it sternly.

  “I'm Frida! Not spelled with an ‘ee,’ like in free, but with a ‘fri’ like in Friday!”

  “I'm Everett Doyle. Independent journalist.”

  “Well, I knew that much. Your listing doesn't spare any details.”

  Everett, still shaking her hand, let out a weak laugh with a scratch of her cheek.

  “I'm a big supporter of transparency, y'know… Alright, enough about me.”

  “Right, right. You're a busy woman, so I don't think it's kind to keep you waiting.”

  Frida reached into a pocket of her blouse and extracted a flimsy, square paper. She set it on the table: a Polaroid photo, and another came thereafter. Everett, complying with the insinuated question, grabbed hold of it. First, she admired the condition; free of creases and camera-fresh, despite its former repository. Then, she eyed the contents of the picture. The object was evidently captured in a place of poor lighting, as only one detail was apparent to her: the cement. It was a building, certainly. Or at least some kind of stone wall, perhaps one of a tunnel. Of which scale? Of which kind? Of which region? Everett looked at the other photo, but to no help. It was a symbol with a figure eight shape and a barbed line as a bottom protrusion. It was familiar to her, but not in a pleasant way.

  “What’s all this, then?”

  “You don't see it?”

  Everett lowered the photo. She made no effort to conceal her diminishing patience.

  “You didn't tell me what to look for. Scouting what ‘sticks out’ can only get you so far. Am I supposed to be looking for this?” She inquired, raising the photo of the symbol.

  “Sorry, sorry. You're right. Look at that picture again,” she said, pinning it down with her finger, “I'll admit it's hard to make out, but do you notice the sigil?”

  Everett had already made it clear that that wasn't the case, but Frida was urging her with an earnest spirit that was difficult to scorn. She took a closer look, irrespective of her better judgment, and scrutinized the shoddy photo with as keen an eye as she could manage. The only apparent detail was that the wall looked a far duller beige than she first judged. Then, however, her eyes jolted to their retinas. It was faint, ghostly, demanding a squint to make sure it wasn’t imagined. But there it was, a grey marking, deriving its color from a structural blemish.

  “Oh. There's a carving there, alright. Where is this?”

  “The sewers! This one in particular is closer to the outskirts, but I’ve seen the same sigil in various entrances.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Everett had a cogitating expression, but it was clear that whatever she pondered over wouldn’t be escaping her mouth. Frida chanced a guess at what those thoughts may have been, as she suddenly wasn’t so enthusiastic about explaining what she had to do with the town’s sewers. Everett observed the photos while clutching her chin. Despite that, it wasn’t obvious to Frida what she thought of. A persistent haze was present in Everett’s eyes, subtle enough that Frida couldn’t declare if it had always been there or not, seeing what was before her, but not truly observing it. Frida was no psychic, though, and ultimately, Everett’s posing culminated in a groan.

  “You have my attention,” she spoke with a rumbling reluctance, “Tell me what's going on and what you need me for.”

  “Right! Okay, right!”

  Frida paused to prepare herself.

  “So, this symbol, do you recognize it?”

  “No, but if I’m not mistaken, the law enforcement is looking for instances of these. They’re saying it belongs to a dangerous group of people.”

  “Yup! I thought you were the kind of person to be alert. Stray symbols are seen on all sorts of surfaces, inspiring ridiculous rumors. You'd be surprised by just how many people talk of it. Since you seemed a seasoned journalist, I figured you'd be suspicious too, no?”

  “Maybe not suspicious… It's certainly intriguing, but not in any profound manner. It doesn't make one froth at the mouth, begging for answers. It barely makes me curious, as I would be for a good mystery. It’s a lofty abstract, like it's asking you to tackle it. If it doesn't want to stay hidden, it has nothing worth hiding.”

  She broke into an irritated huff.

  “But if it has the attention of the police, then it's either something sinister or something extreme.”

  Frida had a deeply intense expression. She likely understood the journalist’s own words better than she did. She nodded once Everett finished.

  “I agree with you, mostly. It isn’t a random symbol.”

  Frida glanced at Everett to check if she’d been following along. Everett noticed and raised an eyebrow.

  “Right, go on.”

  “See, this symbol here, it’s the alchemical symbol for glass.”

  Everett’s expression didn’t turn any less impassioned, but it was certainly doing poorly at conveying her mood.

  “That ugly thing is related to alchemy?”

  “Yep!” Frida blurted with an unrequited enthusiasm. The girl noticed immediately that she was losing the journalist’s attention, but she didn’t put the brakes on her elaboration. She understood that any hesitation would only be a hindrance, an easy way to render this endeavor a failure.

  “To cut to the chase, not only is it an alchemical symbol, but it's also an emblem. It belongs to one of the few, err, insurgent groups still around.”

  “Oh. I see, now.”

  Everett’s attention had been fervently caught. Only, amidst her registering of information, a conflicting thought crossed her mind.

  “But the police don’t know of such a thing, do they? I’ve heard numerous times, both when asked to my face and hearing stray words in town talk, that no officers really know what the origin is. Just that it’s bad news. Trust me, they aren’t shy when asking; they’ll tell you as if God would strike them otherwise that their target threatens the status quo.”

  Everett folded her arms and leaned a wee bit forward.

  “How do you know of such a thing, Frida?”

  Frida placed the photo on the table. She posture was ramrod straight, yet incapable of sustaining the needed strength. There was no pretense to shield herself with then, no coaxing build-up, no chance at a smooth persuasion. Everett had told her the second-worst thing she possibly could have, short of being asked to just leave: to be upfront. Frida was no stranger to this; her brand of blabber was a repellent for minds and bodies alike. Everett was a staunch, straight-laced fellow. Frida chanted a silent prayer in her head that her persuadee had a big heart.

  “I’m a researcher of sorts, a former member, and a practitioner.”

  “Right, I figured– practitioner?”

  Frida nodded as a bead of sweat rolled down her brow.

  “That’s right, an occult practitioner. I’m by no means an expert, but I–”

  “Ten seconds left.”

  Her hope was crushed in a blitzing flurry. Frida scrambled her vocalizations to produce the closest thing to a suitable answer.

  “I need you to go to that sewer with me because I think the group is scheming and needs to be stopped! And, well, there’s that adage of strength in numbers!”

  Everett looked particularly unimpressed with that second sentence. Nevertheless, she replied.

  “What scheming? I hope you wouldn’t leave a rebel group because they were planning something like, say, an assassination.”

  She shook her head with a solemn, relieved motion. Odd, Everett thought, because she shook with an ease that suggested she wouldn’t have minded that proposal.

  “I left because of a premonition. The group was beginning to engage in practices that I found, quite simply, incorrect. Profane. Nothing as bad as sacrifices,” she frantically blurted with shaking palms, “It’s more of a case of trying to engage with things they shouldn’t.”

  That word, premonition. Frida spoke a heap more after, and it certainly compounded her distaste, but Everett was hung up on that one specific word. It was no coincidence, the superstition attached to such language, the reckless reality that Frida tacitly posited. Everett cracked a knuckle with one hand.

  “We’re dealing with witchcraft, through and through.”

  “It isn’t exactly witchcraft, but–”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  Frida froze with a violence that shook the desk. She composed herself shortly after, but only at a superficial level. It was made abundantly clear to Everett who held all the leverage.

  “H-Hear me out, won’t you?” Frida pleaded, “You haven’t even given me a chance to try and convince you.”

  “Convince me on what? Your bootleg voodoo magic? Going into a dangerous cult? Look, Frida. My talents and platform have been solicited by every phylum of nutcase. The exception you hold is in your looks, nothing more. Nothing you can tell me will sell me.”

  “Well, I think you’re being very unfair! Don’t you see the potential connections? Why would the police know so little about this? They’ve been talking about it for months, and while cracking down on nobodies in apartments, you’re telling me they haven’t taken one peep in the sewer? One closer look at a group that’s supposedly a massive threat? Aren’t scandals such as this what your profession strives to uncover?”

  Everett hummed at the girl’s goading, making a finger tent. Frida hoped her appeal would sway the tide.

  “Yeah, why do the police know so little? Here’s a better question: why aren’t you with them? They clearly hold oodles more interest than I do.”

  It did not. Frida clenched her fist on her lap. She darted her eyes around with difficulty. Everett could practically hear the thoughts forming in Frida’s mind, their desperate bounces in her skull, finding no point of egress.

  “They’re appearing and monitoring places they have no business being in. They’re getting away with progressively unsavory actions. They’re not trustworthy. What they’re doing feels more like a trap. As if the moment I bring this to their attention, they’ll toss me right into a cell. Their radio silence, their lazy, half-hearted interrogations wouldn't make any sense otherwise.”

  Her phrasing had snagged Everett in a fashion Frida didn’t expect. Something about her concerns seemed to resonate with her, though it was clear it surfaced terrible memories. Frida swore she saw the journalist flinch as she pondered further. She’d wipe her tongue if she had a rag for it.

  “I can’t say I don’t understand the concern,” she said with a bitten lip. Frida felt a new pep enter her system. Her veins had been flushed with a potent calmness, but now, she was restless. She had regained her advantage.

  “There’s another thing that I should mention, since you give me no real other choice.”

  She inhaled a great deal of air and twirled her lips, deliberating her words for a quick moment.

  “Listen, Ms. Doyle, I respect your act a great deal. Maybe it turns you into an insular killjoy, but people in your line of work need a stiff, frigid exterior, something to ward off the naive and sometimes insidious prole. It’s something of a necessity, isn’t it? All the more when your office is rife with squalor. But, I’ve heard the rumors.”

  Everett’s gradual, irritated look sharply collapsed. “The rumors?” Frida could hear her parrot, a feckless attempt at showing ignorance. Frida had the look of a cat ready to pounce.

  “You're penniless,” she declared, eliciting a brief sigh from Everett, “The word on the street is that the once Exalted Everett has been bled dry and is eating away at her savings. Now, don't get me wrong, I love a person who won't let their dream die. But it's astounding you're even considering telling me no.”

  “...We can talk about needs all we want. You need the coverage; you look ready to grovel for it. And, sure, you’re right. I’m strapped for cash. My principles don’t mean much in light of that. But money is an incentive I can find anywhere, and you’re working with it in a defective state. You do understand you're asking me to invade a cult here, don't you?”

  It isn't a cult, Frida wanted to say, but she paused, staring at the woman with a slight sparkle in her retina. Everett’s deduction was remarkably sharp. Frida felt as if her story– though only inaccurate in a few missing parts –painted a complete picture. It seemed that the few words of praise Frida heard for this woman weren’t for naught. She beat her shame down with a sigh, fiddling with her bracelet before answering.

  “I’m broke as well. I have no camera, no recorder, and I certainly have no funds to afford them. Even if I did, I lack the influence, the reputation, the draw, and the eloquence to make people care. Ultimately, your service is within my budget, and you have a quality I could never replicate. Even if it's dangerous, I promise I'll make it worth it. I mean, isn't some insight into this hidden mystery bound to sell?”

  The woman’s posture was restive, akin to a stray in a cage. The confinement of her chair and patinated desk didn’t allow for fluid movement. Everett had a look that said she wanted to stand, one with shut, squinting eyes, to pace around the room and bang her fist against the wall. She also had a look that understood she couldn’t. It was a sudden frustration; whether from her words or latent distress, Frida didn’t know its origins. It was, however, contemplative, and it showed its breadth in the trenched folds of her head. It collapsed. She sighed. Her jaw loosened. She looked at Frida, frazzled.

  “There are journals for the occult now, you say?”

  Frida couldn’t suppress her laugh. There was enough levity for even Everett to smile. Frida nodded as she agreed in jest.

  “The truth is, though, that whatever is going on isn’t pretty. Those symbols are new. They wouldn't put them around for any reason, especially in a place as conspicuous–”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  Frida hoped to fan the flames of her daredevil side, dormant as they evidently seemed to be. She didn't want to make any ill guesses, but there was undeniably a desire in Everett’s pursed lips, an irrefutable voice that told her to go. Frida didn't want to make her exigency obvious– at least not any more. since she was sure her pleading already gave it away. She had to sit upright, chest ballooned, donning a visage that would make one want to listen.

  “You don't have to try to look so formal. I've already made up my mind.”

  “R-Really?” Frida spouted, immediately breaking her facade.

  “I’d be lying to you if I said I’m not interested.”

  Frida clasped her palms together before her lips.

  “Oh gosh, you’ll do it? You'll really do it?”

  “You’ll have to give me a very generous debrief. But, sure. I haven’t had a client in a while, and this is novel.”

  Everett leaned in over the desk, darting her eyes left and right more for effect than purpose.

  “Besides, between you and me, money is pretty tight.”