White Gulch was a queer sort of place. The buildings seemed to be almost tilted on an axis, as though they had been built at the wrong angle. From every which way Mystica looked at the buildings, all never more than two or three stories high, they seemed to be leaning away from him, as though in surprise or apprehension of his sudden appearance in the sleepy Utah town. The light snowfall, just not beginning, only served to add to this oddity, creating a blanket foundation upon which the buildings seemed to be painted. The entire town was one massive optical illusion. From atop the nearby almost-mountain, the rooftops of White Gulch made the entire place look flat – almost like a labyrinth, with pathways between buildings twisting and turning to and fro with no apparent reason or design to them. It was exactly as Mystica liked it.

Draped in a new gray coat, Mystica had not yet adjusted to using Marcel LeCourt’s body. He was a hint older than David had been, having been the boy’s professor of Victorian Literature at one point, and was undoubtedly in rougher physical shape than David had been. Yet Mystica had not chosen LeCourt for his strength in body; rather, he had been delicately chosen because of his massive intellect. Though society didn’t much appreciate LeCourt’s knowledge of literature, Mystica knew his propensity for writing would certainly come in handy. A quick wit and a sharp mind are often much more deadly than a perfect physical body. When he had taken control of LeCourt’s body, the Old One had also taken control of his memories and knowledge, absorbing them like a sponge into his great unconscious collective intellect, thereby furthering his own understanding of this strange sphere known as Earth.

Turning a corner, Mystica passed by a couple, who gave him a strange, sideways sort of glance. It was not a look of fear or misunderstanding, but oddly, of reverence. Mystica did not pause to reflect on this; he had much more important things to concern himself with. The intrusive, internal messages he had been receiving had implored him to come to this small Utah town, but for what reason? And, more importantly, where exactly in White Gulch did his mental intruder desire for him to go? It was a small town – the ‘Welcome to White Gulch’ sign had noted the population as consisting of merely 1,009 residents. Accordingly, Mystica had begun a mental narrowing of the potential subjects who could have possibly sent the messages imploring for assistance into his mind. This action, in and of itself, highly disturbed him. No one had ever stolen into the enormity of his collective intellect. No one. And, more than anything else, this did not frighten him, but instead, hurt his pride.

The voice, feminine in tone, had referred to him as ‘my beloved god’ – a phrase which simultaneously thrilled and disgusted him. He was not, at least according to himself, a thing to be loved or adored. He was the manifestation of chaos – the very essence of cognitive dissonance: that which should not be, but in sheer defiance of rational thought, was. The fact that this unknown entity had referred to him as ‘beloved’ burned him in ways he hadn’t thought possible, like a worm of human devotion burrowing into his skin. He had long been worshipped by sects of human groups, but this singular person – or perhaps thing – had somehow found a way to worship him while at the same time deeply bothering him. It was both incredibly irksome and marginally impressive. It was not easy to truly get under his skin, but somehow, this unknown whoever had found a way, and it disturbed him.

“The gallery…”

There it was again, echoing inside of his head like an over-cranked stereo. But this time, he had been prepared for the encroachment inside the sacred space of his mind. As the voice reverberated through his skull, he carefully noted the finer details of it, studying away like a dedicated detective, finding all the little clues that would lead him to the source of this vocal infection in his brain.

“Feminine,” he muttered to himself, diverting his path down a side alley, aimed squarely for the dull, faded copper roof that topped the town’s art gallery as it stood above the rest of the buildings like a silent sentinel. “Secure, yet shaky. Distinctly western. No doubt native to Utah. Therefore, questionably religious in nature; perhaps Latter Day Saint? No, unlikely – mental communication would be considered a form of magic, and thus a sin. White female. High-pitched tonality suggests small stature..."

He moved with all the fury and intensity of a hungry lion, but he was hungry for answers. Before long, passing along the sidewalks, he set eyes upon the building in its solidarity, standing tall, yet oddly unpolished. The exterior of the gallery was composed of that which appeared to be a much older stone than the stone present on most of the roofs of the “rustic” buildings in the village, indicating a long period of disrepair – the citizens of White Gulch clearly didn’t care much for the almost “historically old” building. Swallowing the last bit of his pride and letting the curiosity wash over him in one massive wave, Mystica decided it was about time to let it kill the cat, and marched up the filthy front steps, ironically passing by a pitch-black cat, which mewed innocently and continued on its path, perpendicular to his own, and disappeared around the corner of the building. The windowless double doors soon stood before him, watching with unseen eyes. He could feel their heavy presence scanning him like a computer program, looking for signs of weakness. But he would not allow anything to escape from inside him. There would be no weakness today – only answers.

Pushing himself inside the doors and closing the massive wood pillars behind him, Mystica came face to face with a life-sized statue of an elderly man. His head was balding, with the remaining hair pushed along the edges of his scalp, and he was dressed in a casual suit, which suggested a man of signity or respect. From the dated look of the clothing, Mystica could tell this man was long-dead, and the plaque beneath the statue confirmed his suspicions, as the inscription upon the brass plate read, “Harold B. Newcastle; 1895-1964.” Mystica could only assume, by virtue of the fact that his image was the only statue adorning the otherwise unexceptionally designed foyer of the gallery, that he was likely the initial proprietor or perhaps the founder of the building. Noting that this notion would require further research, Mystica walked deeper into the depths of the art gallery, disappearing into the dark hall to his right.

A thin cloud of dust hung over the floor, like a toxic mist, masking the motion of his feet across the marble floors, making him appear to float across the rooms like a phantom, his eyes scanning the paintings all across the walls. Most were utterly dull or unimpressive, every so often depicting a gray landscape or a wheat-strewn farm field, or perhaps a realist depiction of some square-faced person or Elizabethan beauty. The gallery as a whole, he noticed, lacked any surrealism or experimentation with perspective. Nearly all the pieces hung upon the walls were incredibly simplistic in subject, expressing a distinct absence of any bit of what Mystica defined as “cleverness.”

But then, he reached the innermost room – a sanctum, he might describe it. It was utterly massive, and his footsteps seemed to echo into eternity as he entered, as though the room itself understood the prolific nature of the sleeping god as he made ingress to the main collection of art. Here, Mystica finally found his eyes drawn to something of interest. Upon the northern wall hung a massive portrait of a man, but it was not what one would call “normal.” Rather, the features of the elderly man painted there were distorted, as though looking at the subject through a funhouse mirror. His eyes had taken up residence high upon his head, nearly disappearing over the slop of his massive, bald forehead. His mouth took the antithesis of approach, fleeing to the man’s chin, which stood at the end of his powerful, white bearded jaw. Mystica, fascinated, drew closer to the canvas, yearning to examine it on a more microscopic level. He bent, nearly pressing his face against the sailcloth as his icy blue eyes scrutinized the paint, which he determined to be acrylic, and therefore, longer lasting. But as he began to mentally date the portrait, he was interrupted by a most familiar voice.

“Does it meet your approval, my dearest lord?"

Mystica spun on his heel, ready to confront the origin of the voice that had been resounding in his head for days now. She had managed to sneak up on him, in sheer defiance of the reverberating effect the room, with its cold tiles and massive walls announcing every tiny movement with a hearty, whole echo. But he was rather surprised by the person he found standing there.



“You?” he asked incredulously, eyes narrowing, almost in disappointment of her appearance. “You’re the fool who’s been walking around inside my head?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “And yet, despite your apprehension, you answered my call. Who’s the fool now?”

To this, he could not properly respond. She certainly had him there. Why in the world had he been so foolhardy as to follow the instructions of someone who had been sending him messages right into his brain? Ah, but that was the reason – she, like no one else, had been able to send him an unspoken message. The curiosity had eaten him alive, to the point where this meeting had been almost inevitable. And he knew this was exactly what she had expected. Somehow, she knew him to his very core without even having met him. Fascinating.

“How did you get inside my head?” he asked, striking a more defensive pose as he took a step backward, his back nearly pressed against the painting behind him.

“Unimportant,” she responded plainly, beckoning to the portrait. “I summoned you for a reason. There has been a development I think you’ll find…quite interesting.”

Mystica glared back at her, feeling the heat radiating off of his chest as his heart beat in a rapid rage. She was daring, he had to admit. And he rather liked that.

“Go on,” he implored with baited breath.

“I’m sure you’ll have noticed the welcome sign as you entered White Gulch,” she said, beginning to pace back and forth, her hand firmly upon her chin as she thought.

“Of course,” Mystica replied, stepping away from the portrait. His eyes were still firmly locked upon her, as he had not yet exited his defensive mode. There was something off about this girl – her small stature and high-pitched voice hid something peculiar, but he could not yet understand what it was about her that put him off. His shoulder twitched – an almost instinctive reaction to the energy coursing through his veins as the adrenaline flowed like liquid gold.

“It’s inaccurate,” said the girl curtly, pausing her pace momentarily. “Five people have gone missing from this town in the last week.”

“People go missing all the time,” Mystica chuckled, now feeling much more secure in as his cynicism washed over his mind like an ocean of negativity. “It’s a painful truth, girl. Be it that they die, or simply grow tired of some hodunk, backwater town in Utah. This place reeks of false morality.”

The girl suddenly turned her head to glare at him. For a moment, her ire burned like a fire in his mind. Strange. He could almost feel her anger scorching inside him – a notion which bore a strange reaction from the Sleeping God, as he felt himself beyond the human aspect of empathy. This was no ordinary Utah-born girl. She was…something else.

“While that may be true,” she muttered, biting back her anger, “there is a connection between the disappearances. Each of those who went missing were all last seen in this building. More specifically, in this room.”

Now he was interested. Earlier, she had only bore his attention. Now, she had his commitment. A strange, crooked sort of smile appeared on the girl’s face as she locked eyes with the half-conscious god without a hint of fear or apprehension in her gaze.

“The paintings are haunted, my dear Mystica.”

He froze. She knew his name. They had never met, and here she stood, locking eyes with an infinite consciousness without a hint of fear in her eyes. Though he knew nothing of her, he could tell, she was already growing on him.

“Who are you?” he asked, not daring to lose their unspoken staring contest.

She smiled that same crooked, off-kilter grin.

“I am your apprentice.”