There was an all-too familiar chord; music struck the air like rain, dripping through the walls like a fountain of red. It stuck in his throat, made his knuckles twitch. Jack swallowed a lump in his throat, and with it, fear. Dan had known empty devils before, those of a void, heartless — hollow. He, himself, had simply dreamed, and in those dreams: pain, the swallowing of souls, the dissection of a Shine, of two worlds, of other worlds than these. Whatever this place was, it existed on a precipice, a plane that both, all, would stand on even footing.
When shadows fall and trees whisper day is ending — his knuckles turned pale. He readjusted his grip on the mallet. A dance, then. Fine. Jack inhaled sharply through his nose. Stay focused. He felt sharp, sharper than he had in a long time. Sobriety, pure and true. So many ghosts, so many screaming memories. A haunting, not of the mind, but the soul. Songs and whispers, tunes of the past, tunes of lives unlived. He could feel agony in every step, taste blood and bile on his tongue. The Overlook, alive. Even in this place, it was symphonic in its hatred. Its cruelty. It ached for him; how it ached.
It was the hat he noticed first. A feat, given the distant lurch the drink might have caused in another instant. The doorway seemed to press in on him, invite him in and simultaneously want to remove him like the white head of a pustule. He grimaced, jaw set. Voices of confidence and voices of disdain moved through him, a cacophony of paradox. "I'm here."
Jack nodded, Dan giving a glint in his eyes. The places were as familiar as they weren't. Had they been here? Were they here now? What was the truth when their universe consisted of a multitude of them? In another life, in countless other lives, other lies. He thought of the circus, of the lure; he had to see. He was strong, but Dan had always been stronger. One false move, one moment of allowing his guard down. That was all it had taken, wasn't it? A brick gave way to a hole, and in that hole, a message.
The mallet seemed to wink. Pup, it said. It called. A need for blood, for its purpose of violence. Not a siren's song, but a lure of the Devil himself. The glass seemed to glint back in return. One more pull, one more invitation. "Now what was so goddamn important you couldn't just call?" My thoughts are ever wending home.