Chapter One - I Find an Angel in the Basement

  Light-bulbs. That's what it always seems to be nowadays. 'Oh, the light's gone out can you get me a new bulb?' is a question I swear plagues my dreams at night. You don't need to be a fully qualified technician to fit a bloody bulb! Don't you think I have better things to be doing, Karen? Evidently not. Sometimes I wish I could get a light fitting and shove it up their blasted -

  I'm a nice person, really. I think I've just been working in the same job for too long. Which is problematic as I've only had it for eight months.

  Of course, it's not a bad job. The way the economy's going I should be grateful to actually have one. But it feels like every single day someone rings me up and says their light isn't working. It doesn't seem like it's working somewhere else, you pillock! Half of the workers within my jurisdiction are the 'switch off when you get to work' type. It's nice for some.

  Some of the workers are better, to be fair. You see, I work in one of the high-rises of Canary Wharf, home for too many businesses to count. Those on floor seventeen aren't too bad; calls from floor twenty-two are my worst nightmare. As seems to be the way of the world, I get up to one of the highest floors and immediately get a request from the lowest. Half the time the lifts (elevators, to some of you heathens) are packed full like a tin of sardines so I have to walk the distance. It keeps me fit, let me tell you.

  Trudging up the stairs was what I was doing the day when my world went even farther to hell in a handcart. That's one constant in my life - everything seems to get worse. But I'm not a seer, so my day was proceeding as usual: very, very slowly.

  I stopped to take a breather on one of the landings and studied the London skyline. Silver and grey spikes pierced the sky, in a way some would describe as majestically. Smaller, squatter buildings sat around them like decaying teeth. London! What a dump. I'm not a city person, myself. I showed my feelings verbally by heaving a great sigh.

  'Penny for your thoughts?' said a voice from behind me. I admit that I leapt out of my skin: so nearly ended the ballad of yours truly. I was close to pinging off down the stairwell like a marble. It would be a funny way to go, I suppose. Epitaph: 'he always was a bouncy soul.'

  'Emily!' I said aloud, and my mood lifted. Emily was a worker, around my age, on floor 19: some sort of editor, I had been led to believe. She had a very nice smile. I had first met her after falling off a ladder, fixing - would you believe it? - a light-bulb. She had very kindly helped to patch me up, and since then I'd joined her and her fellow editors in a few after-work drinks, which had always been a very excellent thing. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack!'

  'Sorry, sorry!' she laughed. 'I was only coming up for a coffee: I didn't want to bring back your dead body.'

  'I should hope not,' I said sardonically. 'How are things?'

  She shrugged. 'Not too bad, all things considering. You?'

  'Eh,' I responded. Laconic, as they say, is my middle name.

  'That tough, huh?'

  'I'd be happier if I could join you for a coffee,' I said. 'Unfortunately...'

  I made a gesture to indicate the wonders of light-bulbs and other delightful devices that fail every minute. She nodded sympathetically. We both started to walk again - in my case, my palpitations had finally eased enough to let me do so.

  'How are you doing... truly?' she said after a minute: slowly, tentatively. She was referring, I was fully aware, to the Incident. My face crumpled in spite of myself.

  'Fine!'

  I was rather too bright with my statement - she knew it was a facade. I opened and closed my mouth without saying anything. Then I saw that we'd reached the next floor, with the coffee machine. Relief flooded through me. It carried away any thoughts I might have had of saying more.

  'Enjoy your drink!' I said quickly, and raced off up the stairs. I felt her eyes boring into my back before I rounded the corner. As soon as I was out of sight I nearly collapsed, and cursed myself. In a few juddering movements I flung myself into the bathroom: thankfully, empty. I steadied myself with shaking hands against the washbasin. Nearly unseeing, I gazed into the mirror.

  I barely recognised who looked back at me. This young man, with the chin littered with stubble and worry-lines etched into the skin, was not surely the same person from a few months ago? My eyes, once a bright, keen blue, seemed pale and empty. I scrubbed at them furiously with water. And my hair - had it always been so streaked with grey? And so messy? I was certain I had combed it that morning. I felt, unwanted, the same thoughts I had been trying to run away from swarming me. I heard Emily's words: 'how are you doing... truly?' Why was it always so hard to answer? It felt like years since I'd been for a drink with her and her friends. Too much to hide from, that's what it was: too much to hide. The Incident... how long ago was it now? Four months? And everything had changed. It felt like it had changed forever.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I sighed again, a hollow sigh, a death-rattle. Then I hoisted a smile back onto my face. It wasn't a problem, I said to myself sternly. It was easy to hide. And one day the dark thoughts would forget about me. For a moment I swallowed - bile rose up. But it went back down, and I left the bathroom, walking normally.

  'It's not been working all day,' said the manager darkly. He was a portly, middle-aged man, with an alcoholic's nose. Didn't blame him, to be honest. I'd probably be the same way if I could afford it.

  'Just this one?' I said in a defeated manner.

  'Yes.'

  'I'll get on with it then.'

  I went in with an ingratiating grin: a curt nod was all I got in response. Manners are sorely lacking in superiors. I was glad I only met mine for my interview. Not many people get as close as I do to having no boss: there is, at the least, an upside to everything. Fixing light-bulbs was not one of them.

  Like I always have to do, given that the lights are ten foot up, I went first to the maintenance cupboard to get a step-ladder. I would have taken to carrying one around with me, but I fancy it would give me some odd looks. To sate the side of me which wished to be prepared for every eventuality (even the more common ones), I did have a pocket-full of bulbs. Take that, life!

  Jesus, was it a boring fix though. I think I've said that before: I'll probably say it again. Don't mind me. I'm just going insane, what with my job and... other things. Some calls are quite exciting to receive as a technician: like letting people into the computer they got locked out of. That's a good feeling - like swooping in to save the day. Not that I generally get much thanks for it. But, I digress.

  This one was a screw-in: typically, the kind I hate the most. Easy to get out, harder to put a new one in. Not that it takes me long anymore, having replaced about fifty thousand. Half-way through replacing it, though, something happened. My vision tunnelled. I heard scratching, clawing. My skin felt, abruptly, clammy and cold. The atmosphere turned heavy, thick with the miasma of noisome fumes, and I nearly let the bulb slip from my fingers.

  Odd as it seems to write, it felt as if some beast, incomprehensible and terrible, had turned its gaze upon me. It pinioned me to the step-ladder as a lepidopterist pins a butterfly to their boards. I was naked, laid bare. I shivered violently.

  And then - it passed. The scrutiny stopped: the shaking didn't, but it was of relief and not fear. I didn't know, really, what to think - some odd fit? A result of stress? It hadn't felt mental though. It had seemed physical. I looked around myself surreptitiously. Everyone was working as normal. No one had noticed my terror - no one had experienced anything similar, judging by the air of normality about everything.

  Past all the desks was a large window, overlooking the Wharf. It was a slightly (but only slightly) better view than the one I had looked out over earlier. There was a massive bird clinging to the glass. I shrugged. Slowly my cogitations, traumatised at the best of times, realised why the normality had not felt... quite right. Clinging?

  I span around. The bird, or whatever it was, had vanished. There was a small speck in the distance - but I blinked, and it, too, disappeared. The feeling of unease returned to me.

  I am not a supernatural person: I loath the sort of people that run away upon seeing a black cat, or whatever it is they do. Yet I had never felt as I did in those moments. It was as though my world had been upended. I was sure, certain, that there nothing wrong with me (apart from the normal). I was equally certain that there was something dangerous outside.

  The light-bulb went in, anyway. I turned my mind onto other matters, despite my horrors nagging at me. Unfortunately, most of the jobs I had to do were not very distracting. I spent the rest of my afternoon on edge, and eventually found myself speaking to some higher-up on the ground floor.

  'Basement level three had some issues before everyone left,' they said. It was five o'clock: my shift finished in half an hour. 'Some sort of problem with power? Could you check it out?'

  It was a more amiable request than most gave me, I'll admit that. I could hardly say no even if it wasn't - but I really didn't want to go into the basements. They're dingy places at the best of times, especially in the bits that aren't worked in. The cleaners don't bother to clean those spots, and they end up dirty, inhospitable regions that I would prefer only to visit with a large hoover. A hoover, sadly, is not part of my toolkit.

  The lift dinged forbiddingly when I reached level three. Its doors rattled opened like the maw of some creature. Everything outside of its dim light was shrouded in darkness. As soon as I stepped out of its protective box, the doors slid shut behind me. I flicked on a torch.

  The higher-up was right: there was something wrong with the power. Which was odd, as we never usually had something like that happen. But none of the lights turned on - I prowled between the desks and to the far-off fuse-box, carefully.

  Around me all the cubicles loomed like sentinels out of the gloom. Eerie places, are offices without people. Gradually the signs of habitation thinned out: the floor grew grubbier. I unlocked a door at the far end of a corridor, and entered the room behind it.

  A switch had been tripped: I eyed it suspiciously. But it made no complaint when I turned it back. I flicked the light on without problem, and the room was illuminated harshly. What was also thrown into relief was the crack in the opposite wall. That definitely wasn't supposed to be there. What was odd was that it didn't seem to penetrate the plaster - and yet there was only inky blackness within it. I know, I know: at this point I should have been legging it as fast as I was able. I didn't know I was in a horror movie, alright? And I was still not totally with it after my earlier 'bad turn'. Hence why I prodded the crack thoughtfully. I learnt immediately that was a big mistake.

  The temperature dropped to abysmal levels. The darkness seemed to coalesce. I let out a pathetic 'meep' and scrabbled at the door handle. Would you believe that it was locked? I offered up a prayer to the almighty one and shut my eyes: not that I'm religious, but when you're about to die it's probably a safe bet just in case. For around a minute I remained paralysed, hedged into the corner of the room.

  Nothing happened. I lived. I lived! I felt like laughing: all my worries slid off me. I cracked my eyes open; I realised that I'd been crying. They were crusty and salty. But no matter. No, what was the matter was the figure standing right in front of me.

  'Be not afraid,' it said.