“1,789 days left…” by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

  Orlo stirred from his sleep, his body gently rocking as if cradled by invisible hands. The sensation was strangely soothing until a voice snapped him back to reality.

  “Lolth, you need to stop with this!”

  His eyes flicked open, and he realized that he was not in his bed but rather ensnared in a sac made of web, his blanket and pillow cocooned alongside him.

  His breaths came short as he processed his predicament. He squirmed helplessly while the silky thread restrained his movements. It was only when he looked upward that the full gravity of his situation sank in—a giant spider hovered menacingly above, and its six eyes unblinkingly focused on him with an unnerving devotion.

  Desperation clawed at his chest until he realised he was being dragged to Zora’s room by the secret passage. He finally saw her and sought an explanation or any sign of reassurance. "What's happening?" he managed to stammer on the brink of panic.

  Zora exhaled a weary sigh, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, Orlo. Lolth does this every night, but today, I can’t stay, I really need to leave. Lolth, let him go now!"

  With a notable limp from its missing leg, the spider seemed to ponder her command for a moment. Then, with a grace that belied its size, it ambled over to the bed and gently set Orlo down. Her voice, surprisingly articulate for her form, issued a stern plead to her master, "Stay!"

  Zora's frustration peaked. "No! And you can't keep doing this, Lolth!" She gathered her things, ready to leave. "I’m sorry, she tends to be overly protective."

  Lolth, hanging from the ceiling with an almost guardian-like presence, seemed to mull over Zora's words before issuing another plaintive "Stay!"

  Orlo, still adjusting his pyjamas from the earlier restraint, watched the ceiling, "And she just does that? Grabs people?"

  Zora smirked as she headed towards the closet. "Only you. For some reason, my Spirit seems to have a huge crush on you, and she can be a bit dramatic.”

  Pausing, Zora turned back to Orlo with a knowing look. "Your Spirit, the Mouse, she's quite the character, too. Lolth speaks highly of her, you know. They've their… meetings."

  "Yes, she is… and chatty... but she didn’t tell me any of this." Now standing up and regaining his composure, Orlo's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You said meetings? I had no idea they interacted... she didn't tell me anything of this."

  Zora's smirk broadened. "Oh, yes. Spirits have their own ways, their own networks. It's quite the community as long as we don't talk with the dual-headed fish; the guy sounds really jerky from what they told me—I have no clue who that is. Now, I really must go see Monica. Something isn't right, and I need to check on her."

  "So, what's the plan?"

  "There is no plan—you're not coming with me!"

  "Why not? I'm a teacher; I might be more qualified at talking to her family," Orlo reasoned, noting how Zora was already arming herself, her bracelets clicking into place, linked with chains attached to the hilts of what he recognized as Ulencia’s Swords.

  "There will be no discussions," she replied. "Lolth, ensure he remains here!" Zora commanded her Spirit before disappearing into a shadow on the floor that engulfed her entirely as if she had jumped into a black pond.

  "Did she just jump into a shadow?" Orlo muttered in disbelief as he suddenly felt himself being lifted off the ground. Lolth's claw secured his collar tightly.

  "Wait! What are you doing? Put me on the ground, Lolth! Ground!" Orlo shouted, struggling unsuccessfully to escape Lolth's firm hold as he was pulled towards the shadowy portal.

  He crash-landed in a completely foreign domain—the Shadow World. Orlo was plunged into a disorienting void.

  Standing, he surveyed the surreal landscape, where decay appeared to arrest everything in an eerie stasis. The remnants of a disintegrating world hung suspended mid-air—people, birds, and trees crumbled into debris. Everything dissolved into a monochromatic landscape painted in shades of grey desolation, where even the tones of life seemed to fade into the pervasive gloom. “That Spirit is really sassy. She disobeyed Zora, good for her… good for her.”

  Orlo's heart was pounding as he pursued the fading footsteps across the rugged landscape, feeling each sharp stone and stick beneath his bare feet.

  "Zora?" he shouted, his voice reverberating through the oppressive quiet.

  In the distance, Zora moved towards a wall of grey bricks that crumbled into dust as she approached. A dark, formless shadow loomed within it, as black as the sky of the Long Night. Realizing her intentions, Orlo dashed forward, desperate to reach her before she could vanish into another portal. "Zora!"

  She turned, "What are you doing here? You're going to get us both killed!"

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  He quickened his pace to reach her. "I'm coming with you," Orlo declared, his breath forming clouds in the chilling air.

  "In pyjamas?"

  "I didn't exactly have a choice!”

  “Aren’t Spirits supposed to obey you? Dammit!”

  “But now that I'm here, I'm not letting you face this alone," he insisted, positioning himself firmly between her and the ominous shadow.

  "Orlo, this is dangerous," she repeated.

  "Maybe she's just sick, or they've moved... I don't know, I'm not sure, something ordinary! You know, typical human behaviour." Orlo tried to inject some humour to ease the tension, but his attempt failed as he leaned against the wall for support. His hand slipped accidentally into the shadow, and he found himself falling backwards onto the icy terrain of Quebaca.

  As he landed clumsily on the snow, Orlo surveyed the ghostly streets while standing up, illuminated only by sparse lamplights casting eerie shadows. He narrowed his eyes, seeking more clues, but once again, his magic remained frustratingly dormant. Each attempt to summon it was met with silence.

  Not a moment later, Zora's voice pierced the biting silence. "Ah! Fuck! I knew it! Ah, damn, it's freezing!" she cursed, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  "What did you expect?" Orlo shot back.

  "I expected you to be far away from me! You are a danger!" Zora shouted, her voice echoing off the desolate buildings, “Can’t you warm yourself? Dammit, I’m freezing!”

  Stung by her words, Orlo turned away, his voice low and wounded. "I didn't realize you hated me this much," he murmured. Seeking to steer away from their tense exchange, he shifted his focus to their task. "Which house do you think belongs to Monica?" he asked, peering into the darkness for any hint of life.

  Zora paused, then cast a wary glance over her shoulder and up toward the building's windows around them. The town appeared entirely deserted.

  Orlo, still hurt, moved steadfastly forward, his gaze fixed on the shadowy outlines of the houses, trying to spot any sign of Monica. "Wait!" she called, her urgency catching as she quickened her pace to catch up with him.

  As they walked, Orlo and Zora finally came upon a house with a gated front. Light spilt from the windows, and the sounds of laughter and music floated through the air, creating a stark contrast to the desolate streets they had crossed. In front of the gates, a silhouette loomed under the artificial glow of the street lamps.

  Zora's gaze swept across from the gates, and there stood Monica, who was unexpectedly in plain sight.

  Zora held up a hand, signalling Orlo to halt. "Please stay here," she whispered, her eyes not leaving Monica across the street.

  Orlo glanced at the gates but chose not to protest. As Zora approached the house, the gravel under her feet crunched with each step. "Hey Monica, what are you doing out here?"

  Zora's fingers fidget over the chains linked to her swords, her posture tense. Normally, her swords felt like dance partners, but tonight, they were purely weapons.

  Yet, as she drew closer, something about Monica struck her as profoundly odd. The figure stood too still, too silent for someone surrounded by the sounds of mirth and music coming from the house. It was as if Monica herself was disconnected.

  Her hair, usually untamed and full of life, remained chaotic, but her attire had undergone a stark transformation. Draped in a long black dress that flowed around her like a shadow, Monica's usual vibrancy was replaced with an air of sombre elegance. Adorning her neck was a silver necklace that caught the lamp post's light—a piece that mimicked the design of a spider web.

  The term 'Mir Fado' whispered in Zora's mind like a chill breeze.

  Approaching Monica, who stood motionless as if rooted to the spot, Zora was struck by a foul, pungent and unmistakable smell—the distinct odour of rotting cabbage.

  "Monica?" Zora called out again.

  The figure before her remained unmoving. Increasing the volume, Zora called once more, "Monica!" Yet, there was no response, no acknowledgement, not even the slightest twitch or sign of recognition from the girl who stood in front of the gates.

  Monica's lack of response was disconcerting. It was as if she was not really there or was caught in a trance.

  Zora neared Monica, the space between them shrinking to mere steps, yet the divide felt infinitely larger, emphasized by the pungent smell that seemed to envelop Monica. It was a struggle for Zora not to recoil or raise a hand to shield her nose.

  Then, breaking the silence, Monica finally spoke. "Hi, Zora." Her voice was the same, yet the smile that always accompanied her greeting, Monica's signature, did not reach her eyes. It was an empty echo of warmth devoid of the genuine affection Zora had grown to love and was accustomed to.

  "Why are you here? Why aren't you going inside? It's cold." Zora asked.

  "Nobody invited me."

  "What are you talking about? Don't you live here?" Zora replied, squinting in the dim light of the streetlamp, hoping to glean some clue from Monica's expression.

  "We don't need to go inside," she said, taking a deliberate step closer to Zora, diminishing the gap between them. The motion felt charged with an intent that Zora couldn't quite decipher. "I want to present someone I met. I think you will like her." Monica pointed to Orlo and added, "The teacher already met her."

  "What are you... who? A friend?" Zora asked.

  Orlo interrupted her, "I think we should go home, Zora."

  She turned her head and looked at him. "I need to stay, but you can go. I'm fine." Zora then focused her attention back on Monica. "Who is your friend?"

  Monica giggled. "Don't be jealous; it's nothing like that! She is my new auntie!" She reassured, her words floating in the chill air. "Her name is Zvoya. She gave me this necklace. Do you like it? She could get one for you," Monica offered her voice unnaturally even, almost rehearsed.

  “Zora! We must go.”

  Monica made a sudden sharp pull that brought Zora within tight proximity, culminating in a kiss that should have been familiar. Yet, the contact was tasteless of love, and Zora felt the flavour of dry gravel instead.

  Stepping back, Zora sought distance, a physical manifestation of the growing unease that had taken root within her.

  "Aren't you going to dance for me?" Monica's question, laced with sarcasm and a biting edge, cut through the night, jarring Zora further. This was not the Monica she knew; the warmth and playfulness that typically characterized her voice were replaced with something cold, almost mocking.

  At this moment, Zora's instincts screamed in warning. A primal recognition that the person before her, despite being Monica, was not her Monica. Zora could feel electrical dread travelling through her full body. She wanted to run away. Orlo was right; they needed to leave.

  "Monica, what happen to you?" Zora's voice quivered. As she took another step back, seeking distance, her heart raced.

  "What are you talking about, silly? I'm fine," Monica insisted. Her casual response, so at odds with the tension thickening the air, only served to amplify Zora's alarm.

  "Monica, what did they do to you?" Zora asked with a visceral fear. Each backward step was a desperate attempt to reclaim some sense of control, to put space between herself and Monica.

  But her retreat was abruptly halted. Monica's hand latched onto her wrist with a grip that was both familiar and foreign. "What are you talking silly? They made me perfect!"