Vacation: Part 5, Shadows and Diversions

The storm had left Salem raw and vulnerable. As dawn crept slowly over rooftops glistening with recent rain, repair crews emerged to mend shattered windows and restore battered façades. Yet I knew better than to assume such superficial repairs could mask the deeper scars left upon this peculiar town. Within the muttering of tourists and the secretive banter of occult merchants, the city stirred uneasily, as if uncertain whether another tempest might soon strike.

One of the maintenance men patching the damage from Typhon’s wrathful storm felt compelled to share with us his experiences hiking the mountains to the north. Oleander leaned toward him eagerly, inquiring about the cryptids and spectral beings rumored to roam the shadowed forests of New England. Humoring her at first, he quickly grew pale beneath the intensity of her interest, her eyes shining unsettlingly bright.

He excused himself hurriedly, nearly colliding with Treachery Willbreak, who stood poised at the doorway, a cat ready to torment its prey. He froze as she traced a languid fingernail down his cheek, whispering some private obscenity. As she stepped aside, he bolted down the hall, her mocking voice echoing after him: “Don’t be shy!”

Oleander turned back to me, fingers twitching subtly as if eager to transcribe notes or harvest specimens. “Do you think we’ll encounter any ourselves, Progenitor?”

Scourge Lyemirror’s thin lips curved into a calculating smile before I could answer. “Oh, I assure you, dear child, there are wonders lurking in shadows here that will make your heart sing—assuming you have one.”

“Perhaps,” I replied coolly, weighing her newfound fascination and its potential uses—or liabilities. “I suppose we’ll see.”

We avoided drawing attention by utilizing a discreet method of travel: an enchanted spirit cabinet housed within a local museum, depositing us conveniently near our destination. Upon stepping out, we received museum tickets—a mundane precaution should we require re-entry.

Once within Salem’s winding streets, crowded by mundane tourists, fortune-tellers, and eager vendors hawking arcane trinkets, Lyemirror—entirely unprompted and against my clear preference—steered Kirby toward the shadowy corners of the market. It seemed Scourge now fancied herself a mentor to my progeny, an idea both presumptuous and irritatingly amusing.

Inside a particularly cramped and shadow-cloaked shop, Lyemirror directed Kirby’s attention toward a twisted wand of dubious origins, undoubtedly a favor to the shopkeeper. Her whispered tales of dark enchantments enthralled my impressionable child. When Kirby touched the object, I sensed an unmistakable ripple of potent magic—enough to distract me from my immediate affairs.

I intercepted them outside the shop, noting Scourge’s satisfied gleam with measured irritation. “I see Kirby has acquired a new toy,” she remarked innocently, as though coincidence and not careful manipulation guided their encounter. “It’s remarkable what one finds when open to... possibilities.”

Elsewhere, Typhon, ever the beacon of composure, erupted loudly at a charlatan who dared peddle aura readings by way of a computer. His theatrics attracted unwanted scrutiny, so I granted him unsupervised time to “cool off.” Experience suggested any attempt at immediate discipline would only escalate matters further.

Amid this unfolding chaos—Typhon’s confrontation, Kirby’s enchanted purchase, and Oleander’s unsettling inquiries—we discovered our museum tickets had vanished. A stern-faced curator barred re-entry. Swallowing my irritation, I paid again; it was a minor nuisance, but indicative of the careless distractions eating at our progress.

The Prophet seemed more elusive than ever, his very existence in doubt. As the day waned, we returned to our lodging, a hotel now teetering at the edge of condemnation. Only Treachery’s subtle manipulations kept its obvious decay hidden from guests, staff, and city officials.

Within its sagging halls, I reflected with no small frustration that our efforts in Salem thus far amounted to little more than chasing phantoms and indulging the whims of witches and wayward children. The day's delays and petty irritations began to weigh heavily, each complication whispering of greater trials yet to unfold.

Turning my gaze outward through rain-streaked glass, Salem appeared wrapped in uncertainty and quiet menace. The deeper we delved into its secrets, the clearer it became that finding the Prophet would require more than scholarly diligence—it would demand navigating a labyrinth of manipulation, distraction, and hidden truths. And if our journey thus far had revealed anything, it was that this labyrinth extended far beyond Salem, winding inevitably back toward Blytmoast, where the most dangerous revelations still lay concealed.