The Haunting - Part 3

September 24, 2023 – Rafferty (Providence)

A Coffee Shop in Providence

Rafferty Nathan Quincy clocked out from In Your Cups, a coffee sanctuary tucked away in a forgotten corner of Providence, Rhode Island.

Grabbing his satchel from under the counter, he let the worn strap settle on his shoulder, familiar and comforting. Inside, it carried the remnants of his restless mind—magazines, scribbled notes, fragments of thoughts that lingered in the spaces between reality and obsession.

The shop hummed with its usual melancholic rhythm. The aroma of espresso and aging wood wove together, clinging to the dimly lit, dark-paneled space. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast a weary yellow glow.

A woman in a tattered overcoat hunched over a crossword, her latte untouched. A young man with a battered laptop typed furiously, oblivious to the world. Rafferty sank into his usual armchair, its upholstery worn but welcoming, the kind of chair that absorbed secrets.

He let out a slow breath, letting the weight of his thoughts settle. Then, reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the latest issue of Forgotten Antiquities.

An Unexpected Discovery

The pages rustled as he flipped through, his gaze narrowing on an auction listing in Chicago.

"Unpublished 'Weird Tales' manuscripts."

The words seemed to glow in the dim light. His pulse quickened.

"This might be the find that... changes everything," he murmured.

It was irrational, but he felt it—a pull, an unseen connection to something larger than himself. He couldn't shake the sense that buried within those pages lay the answers he'd been searching for since the accident.

The door chime rang softly.

Valerie’s Concern

Valerie stepped inside, her presence shifting the atmosphere. She scanned the café, her gaze settling on him. She knew that look.

"You’re in deep today, Raf," she murmured, stepping closer. "What’s on your mind?"

Rafferty barely looked up, still caught in the gravity of the discovery. "There’s an auction in Chicago. Feels… different."

She leaned in, catching sight of the magazine page. A shake of her head—equal parts concern and familiarity. "You’ve got that look like you’re about to dive into the abyss."

He smiled faintly. Valerie understood him better than most, but this—this was different.

Without another word, she gave him a knowing look, sighed, and returned to the counter. Her presence faded into the background, swallowed by the quiet rhythm of the café.

The Decision to Go

Rafferty marked the auction page and slipped the magazine back into his satchel.

A decision had been made.

He stood, making his way to Valerie, navigating the narrow space between chairs and scattered belongings.

"Valerie," his voice was steady, weighted. "I need a few days off next week."

She paused mid-motion at the espresso machine. He could feel her assessing him.

"This auction. I need to be there."

She exhaled, offering a small smile—warm, but wary. "Of course, Raf. We’ll manage." Then, a playful smirk. "Just promise you’ll bring back something nice."

"Deal," he said.

And just like that, the journey began.

A Train into the Unknown

The following days blurred in a frenzy of preparation.

Rafferty packed only the essentials—a change of clothes, a toothbrush, cash, and the 'Forgotten Antiquities' issue. A quick search landed him a budget train ticket to Chicago, set to arrive just past midnight.

As the train pulled away from Providence, leaving the familiar cityscape behind, anticipation surged through him.

Outside, the urban lights faded, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. The landscape blurred—shadowy fields, skeletal trees, a black void rushing past.

His eyelids grew heavy, lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the tracks.

Then—a flicker of movement.

Something was outside the train.

The Apparition

At first, it was just a dark shape, keeping pace with the train.

Rafferty squinted.

It wasn't a reflection.

A forlorn silhouette, faceless and shifting, moved effortlessly through the blackness, as if gliding across an unseen plane.

A chill swept over him.

The train lights sputtered, the carriage plunging into momentary darkness.

His heart pounded.

When the lights flickered back, the shadow was gone.

But the feeling of being watched remained.

Arrival in Wicker Park

Chicago greeted him with silence.

The streets of Wicker Park were mostly empty—a few figures moved through the fog, their presence uneasy.

He checked into a modest budget hotel, its air thick with stale tobacco and forgotten years.

"Room for one, just tonight," he muttered.

The clerk barely looked up. "Room 204," he said, sliding the key across the counter before turning back to his tattered paperback.

Rafferty took the key.

Then, as he turned toward the hallway—he felt it.

A sudden cold rush.

Like something had passed through him.

Into his room.

His breath caught.

The First Night

The room was still.

Too still.

He hesitated at the door, every instinct screaming to turn back.

Instead, he stepped inside.

The stale air closed in, wrapping around him like an unseen weight.

He set down his bag, exhaled, and pulled out the auction listing once more.

"Chicago," he whispered.

"Here's to finding what’s been lost."

A Ballroom Steeped in Shadows

The ballroom was a relic of another time.

Aged chandeliers hung low, their yellowed crystals casting a dim, uneven glow over the room. Rows of chairs cradled an eclectic mix of collectors and treasure hunters, each appearing to have stepped out of a different era.

The air was thick with the scent of old books, oil paintings, and the unmistakable tang of mildew—a perfume to those drawn to the arcane.

At the threshold, Rafferty hesitated.

A wave of self-consciousness crashed over him.

The eyes of seasoned collectors flickered toward him, evaluating the newcomer in their midst. He shifted his weight, smoothing his jacket, suddenly aware of his place among them—an outsider, untested, unproven.

Seats were scarce. He made his way to the back row, keeping a low profile.

To his left, an elderly man with a monocle examined a leather-bound catalog with quiet authority. To his right, a woman with silver rings whispered animatedly about a past acquisition, her fingers briefly pausing over one ring as she glanced at him.

She offered a slight, knowing nod.

He nodded back, adjusting his grip on his auction paddle.

His heart pounded against the $431 in his pocket—three months of saving, barely enough for what he needed.

The odds were against him, but passion was his ace in the hole.

The Auction Begins

The auctioneer was a rotund man with a voice smooth as a con artist’s grin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Tonight, you have a rare opportunity—an opportunity to possess the past, the mysterious, and the utterly unique."

The first lots were vintage maps—intricate, beautiful, but not why Rafferty was here.

A brass telescope, a set of rare bird illustrations, an ornately carved chest whose origins were left deliberately vague.

The hammer fell again and again, bidding wars waged and settled in mere seconds.

Still, his focus remained unwavering.

Then—

A dusty, leather-bound tome.

An alchemical manuscript, its cover embossed with a coiled serpent.

Rafferty felt a flicker of curiosity, but he didn’t raise his paddle.

Not yet.

The Atmosphere Shifts

The room felt heavier now.

The once-muted murmurs of bidding became strained, anxious. Occasional groans of disappointment, the sharp inhale of surprise—signs of deeper stakes.

Smoke from cigars and damp coats thickened the air, turning his thoughts sluggish.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off.

Then—

The lot he had been waiting for.

Unpublished "Weird Tales" manuscripts.

The heat in the room intensified, the weight of damp air clinging to his skin.

The auctioneer’s voice rang out:

"Now, this one's special, folks—unpublished stories, submitted but rejected. Very rare!"

The Bidding War

"Shall we start the bidding at one hundred dollars?"

Rafferty’s hand shot up.

"One hundred twenty-five."

Eyes turned toward him.

The pressure coiled in his chest, but he stood his ground.

"One-fifty."

A cold spike of fear shot through him.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

He clenched his auction paddle, fingers white-knuckled.

"One-seventy-five!" His voice rang clear—firmer than he felt inside.

A long pause.

The auctioneer grinned, feeding off the tension.

"Going once... going twice..."

Time stretched—an eternity in a single breath.

"SOLD to the young man in the back for one-seventy-five!"

The hammer fell.

The room exhaled, whispers swelling around him.

A few lingering gazes followed him as he rose to claim his prize—some narrow with envy, others wide with curiosity.

The manuscript was his.

A Triumph & A Realization

At the auctioneer’s table, Rafferty reached out and touched the tightly bound pages.

A wave of emotion overtook him.

This wasn’t just about collecting forgotten stories.

It was about piecing together the fragments that had haunted him since the accident.

His old life was behind him.

He clutched the manuscripts like lifelines, swallowing the knot in his throat.

A new chapter had begun.

A Hotel Room & A Haunting Presence

The hotel room smelled of stale tobacco and damp carpet.

The bedside lamp flickered, casting erratic shadows across the peeling wallpaper.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rafferty spread the manuscripts before him.

His fingers traced the aged parchment, absorbing the brittle texture of forgotten words.

One manuscript stood out.

A title typed in crisp, elegant letters:

"The Shadows of Dead Angle" by H. P. Lovecraft.

His breath caught.

His hands grew clammy.

This was no ordinary discovery.

The pages seemed heavier, the ink darker, deeper than it should be.

The Descent Begins

The world around him blurred.

The frenetic dance of moths around the light fixture.

The hollow footsteps in the hallway.

Even the murmur of voices from the street below faded to nothing.

He saw himself descending.

A spiral staircase, winding endlessly downward.

Each step took him deeper—the ground shifting like a dream slipping into nightmare.

The words twisted and writhed, whispering secrets in a language he shouldn’t understand.

It wasn’t just a story.

It was a gateway.

The manuscript dragged him in, an unseen force pulling at his mind, unraveling the

boundary between reality and the abyss.

The walls pulsed, the shadows reached for him.

His chest tightened, breath growing shallow.

His vision darkened at the edges.

The room contracted.

Then—

There was only the manuscript.