Drifting past the sun-dappled trees at the edge of 23rd Street, Lufe held his breath as he and Jolof approached the Hoss House. It loomed ahead of them like a sleeping giant: its stone façade mottled with peeling whitewash, grotesque gargoyles perched on the corners of the roof like watchful sentinels, and a sprawl of tangled ivy creeping up one side of the front wall. A single, cracked window on the second floor resembled an unblinking eye, surveying their arrival. Even Jolof, whose broad shoulders and muscular frame usually radiated confidence, hesitated for an instant before stepping onto the cracked stone porch.
Jolof's usual khaki work pants and olive-green shirt, smudged with traces of paint and dust from unloading the truck, did little to soften his stony expression. He swept a hand through his close-cropped hair—now flecked with grey at the temples—and squared his jaw.
"Well," he said, voice low and firm, "here we are."
His dark beard, trimmed just so, framed a mouth that rarely cracked a genuine smile these days. Despite the afternoon sun's warmth on their faces, his gaze remained fixed on the front door, as if bracing himself for something he couldn't fully name.
Lufe followed closely, the thin strap of his satchel digging into his shoulder.
The air smelled faintly of mildew and dry rot, mingled with a lingering tang of rust from an old wrought-iron knocker shaped like a snarling lion's head.
"This was once a place of worship, you said?" Lufe's voice trembled slightly, though he tried to keep his tone neutral.
Jolof pushed open the heavy oak door, its upper panel splintered in places. A gust of musty air roiled out, carrying the faint whisper of aged paper and rotting wood.
"Yes," Jolof replied, stepping aside to let Lufe enter first. "A church until the tragedy. After that, no one dared come near for decades. The owners finally decided to restore it—even though everyone says it's haunted. But we need the money, Lufe. That's all there is to it."
Lufe's eyes swept across the grand foyer. The floor was a checkerboard of cracked black-and-white marble tiles, most covered in a fine layer of dust. Tall, fluted columns rose on either side, their capitals carved into roses now chipped and worn. High above them, a stained-glass window, half shattered, once depicted an angel with outstretched wings. Now, jagged pieces gaped like missing teeth, leaving only crimson and cobalt fragments gleaming dully in the dim light. A broken chandelier, its crystals missing or dulled, dangled precariously from the ceiling, its metal arms twisted into uncomfortable angles.
He swallowed hard. "It's… enormous," he whispered.
"It's your home now too," Jolof said, voice softer than before. He ran a gloved hand along the banister of the grand staircase, the wood polished to a dull shine by years of neglect. The steps creaked beneath his weight, each one settling like a sigh. "We'll start upstairs. Pick the rooms we'll need." He nudged Lufe gently toward the staircase.
Lufe nodded, running his fingers along the banister's carved swirls. The wood felt cold, almost slimy to the touch, but he pressed on. Step by step, he ascended, passing a faded portrait of a stern-faced priest whose eyes seemed to follow him. When he reached the landing, he paused to take in the long hallway that stretched before him. Along each wall were doors of dark oak, their brass doorknobs tarnished to a greenish hue. Faded wallpaper decorated with fleur-de-lis patterns peeled in curling strips, revealing bare plaster beneath.
Jolof caught up to him at the top of the stairs, lifting his lantern higher to illuminate the corridor. The light flickered, casting long, trembling shadows that made each doorway look like a yawning maw.
"We'll take the two largest rooms on this side," Jolof said, stepping toward the first door on the left. He pushed it open with a creak that echoed down the hall. "This one can be my workshop and storage area. You can take the one next to it, the one with the broken window, if you want."
Lufe followed Jolof inside. The room was vast—perhaps twenty feet by thirty—its ceiling vaulted and supported by wooden beams blackened with age. A single window on the far wall was fractured in an irregular spiderweb of cracks, and a breeze puffed dust motes into the room with each uncertain gust. Along one wall, a row of rusted hooks hinted that this space might once have been used for storage of heavy vestments or ritual items. The floor was littered with shattered fragments—bits of glass, rotting paper, and the occasional bone-thin twig that had drifted in through the open roof.
Jolof crouched to examine the floorboards. "I can fix this up. Patch the roof, replace the window. We'll put a table here, some shelves over there…" He drew a rough plan in the dust with his gloved finger.
Lufe nodded, stepping inside fully. He felt a light breeze stroke his cheek, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—something faintly metallic, like old blood. He shivered involuntarily.
"Yes," he murmured, attempting a faint smile that he hoped conveyed confidence. "I think this would be an excellent workspace." Turning, he looked at the next door down the hall—he could see a sliver of sunlight glinting off chipped paint in the corridor. He opened that door.
The second room was smaller but cozier—again coated in thick dust, though the floorboards here were less warped. A broken window on the adjacent wall was boarded up from the outside, leaving only a thin slit of light to spill through. The wall opposite the door was blank, save for peeling wallpaper and some random scrawlings of what looked like children's pencil doodles—a frightened stick figure here, a few mismatched letters there. Lufe reached out to touch the wall; a pebble of plaster crumbled under his fingertip.
He turned to Jolof. "I'll take this one." He swallowed. "I can see myself… studying here, organizing my things…"
Jolof nodded approvingly, wiping a smudge of dust off his forehead with the back of his hand. Dark hair was slicked back, revealing a high forehead furrowed with worry.
"Good. We'll set up your bed in the corner near the window. There's a closet space over there— once I clear out the debris, you can store your books on shelves."
He flicked his lantern to illuminate a narrow nook on the left side of the room, where a broken wardrobe still stood, its doors hanging open at skewed angles.
Lufe stepped toward the wardrobe, brushing aside a pile of aged newspapers—yellowed, brittle, with headlines about past tragedies in the neighborhood. He carefully opened one door all the way, revealing a tangle of moth-eaten coats and what appeared to be a child's ragged teddy bear, stained and torn. He picked up the bear by an arm—its glass eye had fallen off—and set it gently on a dusty beam.
"Looks like someone might have lived here once," he said, voice soft.
Jolof's lantern flickered, and he frowned. "Yeah," he replied. "Maybe a caretaker's kids? Or stray children who snuck in."
He stepped closer to Lufe, scanning the floor. "We'll clean all this up, don't worry. But tonight, might be best to sleep in the living quarters downstairs until we clear these rooms out."
Lufe nodded, setting down the teddy bear and moving toward the door. His boots scuffed across the wood, sending up tiny clouds of dust. As he passed through the doorway, he turned to look back—half-expecting something to leap out from the shadows—but only found the stillness of a room forgotten by time.