It was dark inside, and it smelled horrifically of dust and mold. Water dripped somewhere in slow, regular plops, perhaps from a leak in the roof. It had probably been uninhabited for years; no one in their right mind would let a place go this badly. The floor creaked worryingly beneath his weight.
Unperturbed by the smell, Priestly rummaged through his bag until his fingers bumped into the cool plastic of his flashlight. He shone it around the room; the wallpaper had been practically shredded off the walls, it seemed, and all manner of mold and fungi were encroaching on the wall space left behind. In one area, a corner of the house seemed to be sinking, and the rot trailed up the wall and wooden floor, like a streak of shadow. On top of the decay, everything was covered in a coat of dust; his entrance into the house had left clear footsteps.
These details were all horribly mundane and trivial, however, compared to the most obvious thing about the place: it had been gutted in the most literal sense of the word. There was no furniture, or even walls; how the place still stood was a miracle. Pipes and wires jutted out of the wall and floor in what must have been a kitchen, and there were numerous gaping holes in the walls just above the floor, as if outlets had been forcibly knocked out.
He shone the flashlight about erratically, highly confused, until he saw a bright white blur. He moved the light back to the spot, and what he saw compelled him to hold his rosary in front of him and chant a quick prayer.
There was a young man in a leather jacket sitting on the only piece of furniture in the whole house, a worn wooden chair. His arms and legs were crossed nonchalantly, and he met Priestly's eyes, despite the glare of the flashlight. Several piercings on his face reflected the light around the room.
"...Christo," mumbled Priestly, swallowing. "Hello there."
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