That? Nate said, spotting the first foggy, tree-obscured view of an average, citified house. It sat in a completely impractical spot, several strenuous uphill, twisting, turning miles away from any road. ‘Cos he’d expected a huge nude statue of that George guy at least. I mean, fuck it.
Quiet down, Bob said, and opened the front door a crack. Turns out that inside the hospitable front there was zip, inkiness. Still, thanks to the scrawny, vague inflow of daylight, Nate could guess it was all divvied up into rooms, hallways, and maybe even a staircase, all painted wild black.
It’s a hellmouth, isn’t it? Nate said. ‘Cos there was a definite essence of Satan inside. Some sort of creepy crawly glow. It etched Nate with goose bumps, then spun off a fantasy wherein Bob, no, wait, Leon, yeah, raped him, wait, while The Omen played live, no, wait, murdered him, wait, or—