THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

17. Curiosity

The following afternoon, Christopher awoke to the feeling of water on his face. Cold as icicles, tiny droplets of rainwater were dripping from the ceiling and splashing onto his forehead, and no matter where he lay, he could not seem to escape them. Eventually, he had no choice but to abandon the idea of sleep entirely.

With a groan, he climbed off the old, grungy mattress on which he'd been sleeping for the past two weeks. It was far from ideal, this room, with its stained walls and rotting floorboards, but it was the best he could get given the circumstances. The locals weren't exactly eager to rent a room to an American journalist, especially one with only a few hundred euros in his pocket.

After stretching out his aching back (caused by the exposed bedspring, no doubt), he started rummaging through his suitcase in search of something clean to wear. Mixed in with his clothes, he found six dead cockroaches and one that was just playing dead. One by one, he brought each of his shirts to his nose and inhaled deeply. Whether they were clean or not, he couldn't tell because they all smelled the same — old and musty.

He hung his head and let out a deep sigh. "A penniless writer. What a cliché I turned out to be."

Grabbing the cleanest shirt of the bunch, he quickly changed and then doused himself with cologne. Before leaving, he took another whiff of himself.

"Not great, but it'll have to do."

Just as he reached for the doorknob, someone started pounding on the door so hard that Christopher feared it might fly off its hinges. "American!" his landlord yelled in English, making Christopher jump back. "American! I want my money, American!"

"Soon, signore!" he replied. "I'll have your money soon!"

"Soon, always soon! Now, American!"

Panicked, Christopher began to search for an alternate exit.

"Okay, signore," he said, his eyes drifting over to the third-story window, "I'll get your money."

Hurriedly, he stuffed all his remaining flyers into his messenger bag and then climbed out the window.

With a loud bang, the door flew open, and his landlord stomped into the room, red-faced and monstrous as a troll. Once he saw Christopher hanging from his window, he let out a deep growl and cried, "American!" before charging him at full speed. He grabbed Christopher with both hands and tried to yank him back inside. "Give me my money! Give me my money!"

Christopher fought back with all his strength and finally tore himself free. "I'm sorry, signore," he said as he leapt onto the fire escape and fled down the iron staircase. "I'll have your money soon, I promise!" and then he darted around the corner.

Panting and stumbling over his own feet, Christopher slowly made his way through the city, ignoring the weird looks he received from locals and tourists alike. One woman had the nerve to offer him her spare change, as if he was some beggar on the street hungry for food. Of course, he did accept the money; after all, it would have been rude not to, and he was very hungry.

After a quick lunch, Christopher spent the rest of his afternoon putting up flyers wherever he could: on every light post, sign post, and door post. Some people stopped to laugh and mock them, but most just ignored them. Hard to say which people Christopher hated more.

One day, he thought. One day they'll see the truth, and I'll become a household name. Then nobody will laugh at me.

After posting and passing out all his flyers, Christopher went to the local newsstand, one of his best sources of income. There, he scoured the papers for any paranormal sightings: lights in the sky, alien abductions, Bigfoot sightings, and all the other stories that the average man would wave off as a cheap hoax. Unfortunately, he found no such story, but he did find something else that was even more interesting, and it was right on the front page, in big, bold letters: