The old sailor's premonition was correct. There was indeed an uninvited guest on this ship, and she had just been very close to him.
She hid among the reefs by the harbor, diving underwater as the ship entered port, then climbed from the barnacle-covered hull to the smooth painted planks using her inhuman limbs.
She entered the armed merchant ship through a cannon port, slowly making her way toward the cargo hold. Originally, a dim lantern hung from the hold’s beam, but as she passed, the light went out, plunging the space into near-total darkness. Simultaneously, she herself merged into that darkness—or rather, she became a blackness denser than the dim hold itself. From where she had stood, a mass of absolute darkness spread outward like spilled ink.
This was an artificial black hole, absorbing every trace of light so that no disturbance from the outside world could reach her.
In this cramped room stacked with sacks and barrels, she felt like a snail curled up in its shell. The faint scent of grain, the earthy smell of sacks, and the odor of livestock manure mingled together—strange yet oddly alive—wrapping her in an intangible film that cut off all traces of the supernatural and the abstract.
Here, in this narrow space, she found a moment of peace. In this little world, she was her own sovereign. Nothing could enter, and she could not leave. Though the protective shell was as fragile as a snail’s, for now, it granted her a fleeting taste of freedom.
Her thoughts wandered back to the tiny, isolated island and the vast, endless ocean—and the things that had happened there. After that failed ritual, she alone remained on the island. No other humans, not even any monsters.
The ritual had only left behind grotesque, humanoid corpses strewn about, their terrifying forms wielding mere crude weapons—a dull bone axe and a hollow ceremonial golden dagger. Without them, the monsters had resorted to wielding candlesticks, wooden clubs, and stones.
Though these were hardly proper weapons, Yvette still chose the lead-reinforced bone axe—its weight amplified by the molten lead filling its pores—to bludgeon the monsters’ brittle skulls. It was less horrifying than twisting their necks or gouging out their warm guts with her bare hands.
The entire ordeal had been a one-sided slaughter, yet she’d felt fear.
Back in her old world, she had wondered: what was the most terrifying monster? A flayed creature with exposed sinew? A ghost crawling from a well, its face hidden by long hair?
Back then, she couldn’t say. Now, she had a clear answer: the monsters she’d killed during the Egg of Radiance ritual. It wasn’t their grotesque forms or their strength that frightened her. No, it was their pitiful cries as they died.
“Mon... ster… Run!” “God… save us!” “It hurts… I’m dying… Will the Lord take me… like this?”
Was this the monsters’ way of deceiving her? She dared not dwell on it. Worse were the horrifying details she struggled to forget. Why, when she struck those translucent, membranous creatures, did they shatter with the crisp snap of breaking bone? Why did their fluids run red, so different from their faintly luminescent flesh and skin?
Which of them was truly human?
Stumbling back into the monastery, she searched for any real people—only to find it steeped in the thick stench of death. The patients once housed there had vanished, their rooms littered with more monsters’ corpses. These were not the same egg-like beings, but twisted forms with horns, hooves, and grotesque, malformed organs—no two alike.
Yvette guessed they’d been poisoned. In the kitchen, she found a basket of spiked, blue-and-purple butterfly-shaped flowers and half a pot of brewed broth. Though no botanist, she recognized them. In her old world’s secret club, the “Labyrinth of Thought,” members adopted poison names as aliases—and each had decorated their private spaces with paintings or crests of monkshood (aconite).
So she wandered the island aimlessly, her “hair” shifting in length. Though she recalled her true hair as flaxen—and indeed, flaxen locks still grew from her head—the slender, red tubular tendrils sprouting from her spine she stubbornly insisted were “hair,” too.
Nothing in this false world could be trusted. Not even herself.
Lost and purposeless, she wondered what to do next. The island held no one else—perhaps the world itself no longer held pure humans. She had hoped to escape with an elder god to another realm, away from this box of lies, yet even they seemed to deceive her. So she remained, defeated.
Am I truly human? If so, why did she so often hear the beast within her whispering?
When had it first appeared? It had nestled quietly in her mind for so long, but now it roared. If it had merged with her mid-journey, when had that happened?
No answer came—only echoes of thought, murmuring back and forth.
Inside the residence, the miniature world’s rain fell again, heavier and longer than ever, punctuated by low rolls of thunder. The skies had not cleared for many time-units.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Like any grand household, clocks adorned most rooms—yet these were mere decorations, their hands spinning, halting, even reversing at will. The inhabitants measured time in sand-glasses, though each “hour” varied: a maid’s might drain in the time it took to brew tea, while Leadebetter’s lasted long enough to ferment milk into yogurt.
Each attended to their duties, though their ways of life differed wildly. The bee-maids under Miss Moore bustled like servants of a prestigious family—scrubbing uninhabited rooms, laundering curtains, preparing lavish meals only to discard them untouched.
“I don’t understand,” grumbled one maid, lifting her black skirt to kick off polished shoes, glaring at her white-stockinged legs. “Why cling to these human habits? Why not let us take a more enlightened form—say, wings? And these useless, larva-soft feet—they ought to be six shelled limbs, with hooks or suckers. One swipe with a cloth, and bam, the chandelier’s clean!”
“Ahem.” Miss Moore silenced her. “And what is Rule Four of the maid’s code?”
“Never question the master’s will,” the maid pouted. “But even other residents have doubted—even accused them of heresy against the All-Father!”
Moore hesitated. True—when whispers first spread that their master might stray, panic had swept the Sanctuary. But their wise Messiah had proven it a ruse: to lull the prey, to cleanse the defiled altars with the blood of cultists. Not one had escaped.
“That,” Moore said sternly, “proves our master’s infallibility. If even we cannot fathom their plans, you must neither question nor slack off. Back to work.”
Just then, the doorbell chimed—its rhythm precise, methodical.
“Ah.” Miss Moore’s stern gaze sent the maid scrambling for her shoes. “The new member has arrived.”
Dr. Monis didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open, revealing a woman who could only be the head housekeeper, flanked by two maids.
"Welcome, honored guest," said Miss Moore with a practiced, saccharine smile. Freshly dead souls often clung to rationality, refusing to accept their demise—or their imprisonment in this place. A gentle demeanor made them easier to coax toward assimilation.
And Moore had been assimilated entirely. In her mind, this was sacred work.
"Guest..." Dr. Monis rolled the word on his tongue. "Funny—this place feels familiar. Like I’ve come home, though I’ve never been here before."
"How lovely that you think so!" Moore and her bee-maids exchanged approving glances. The House was always hungry, and its hunger had become theirs. Nothing pleased them more than a new morsel to sate its appetite. "Every guest of the Master is tended as if they were family. You’ll want for nothing."
Guest? Dr. Monis frowned. Who had invited him? His memory was a blur…
The last thing he recalled was the wetlands under a starlit sky. He’d been planning something delightful—so close to success—when—
She killed Dr. Monis!
A voice, distant but sharp.
Had he been killed?
His stomach still ached dully, legs numb—but the pain was fading like an old scar, softening into something almost nostalgic.
"So she did kill me," he murmured. "I am dead, then."
"You’ve shed the illusion of mortal life for eternal joy. Accept it quickly—for your sake and ours." Moore’s smile never slipped. She’d seen resistance before. Redbeard had been a chore to break, and his wretched brother had sunken so deep he’d nearly roused something unspeakable. The House claimed all who entered—its Master’s property was sacrosanct. She wouldn’t lose another like Edwin.
"I may have forgotten much, but perhaps this is a fresh start." Dr. Monis ignored her unspoken warning. His curiosity had always outweighed his fear. An infinite, shifting House was a puzzle worth unraveling.
"A man of reason! Come—I’ll show you to your quarters." Moore led him around a bend, where a mahogany door materialized, brass-plated with his name. His own portrait hung beside it. "Remember: the way home is in your heart. Wherever you are in the House, think of your room, and you’ll return."
"Remarkable," he breathed. Then, abruptly: "The one who killed me—she owns this place?"
"Of course. Her most sacred hand plucked you from the mire and laid you in her basket. What cause have you to object?"
"None. I only laugh at my own foolishness. She’s richer than royalty—and I tried to introduce her to a squire."
Madness made one malleable. Dr. Monis adapted with unsettling ease—but Yvette was not so complacent.
Crouched in the ship’s hold, her condition fluctuated. The tendrils sprouting from her back sometimes engulfed her entirely; other times, they shrank to mere stubs.
There was a pattern. By day, the sailors’ bawdy songs and yarns filled the air—tales of lovers, brawls, or homesick longings for mothers’ cooking. Their stories lit her imagination like sparks, kindling warmth in her chest...
...and her "hair" would retreat.
But night was agony. She stole coffee beans to stay awake—sleep now meant confronting the Fifth Essence, and that would destroy her.
Yet the endless dark left her parched and hollow. She clawed through her memories for solace, but only the waves’ whispers answered, taunting her with sins she couldn’t name.
By dawn, she was a coiled knot of tendrils. Only the sailors’ voices kept her human.
When the ship docked at Anglesey, the crew scattered ashore. Under cover of night, Yvette bundled herself in a stolen coat—hiding the writhing mass on her back—and slipped onto land.
Even at this hour, the port thrived. Taverns glowed, drunks bellowed—but to Yvette, every face was a grotesque mask.
A loneliness like brambles choked her. She was a stranger everywhere. Even death had left her less untethered than this.
"Oi—your scarf’s draggin’," slurred a drunk, reaching to tap her shoulder—then freezing.
Her glare burned him—revulsion, hatred, fear. Not human eyes. Predator’s eyes.
He stumbled back, cursed, and fled.
Her tendrils lengthened. Even in the crowd, she was drowning.
London. She needed to get home. But how?
This was an age of lax borders—no passports, no questions—but her body betrayed her. The tendrils burst free without warning.
Ports had watchers. They wouldn’t search everyone, but she reeked of wrongness. A sea voyage to London, then a carriage home? Too many chances to be caught.
She melted into the shadows.
That same night, a shipping clerk frowned at the stranger before him—hat pulled low, collar raised, oversized coat swallowing his frame.
"A crate of apples to Covent Garden?" The clerk eyed him. Apples were dirt-cheap. The shipping cost alone—
"Just pack them carefully. The recipient expects perfect condition."
"For that price—"
"What do you know of London’s elite? Hog-nosed apples are a delicacy—they’ll pay thrice this for winter pears from their hothouses. Double your fee if you must—but handle them gently."
The polished version tightens pacing, refines dialogue, and sharpens imagery while preserving the original meaning and tone. Let me know if you'd like any further refinements!
