I crossed the car park to the Jaguar.

​

The vehicle had an ugly patina of dirt, leaves and bird shit over its beautiful body. Hell, looking close-up, the car could have been there for months.

​

The fact wasn’t important enough to relay to Pearl. I continued towards the double-doors of the studios. From a distance of ten yards, I saw the doors were ajar. I was practically being invited inside. To someone else, this might have been comforting – the anticipation of an easy job where security was ridiculously poor. I, instead, grew more concerned. This looked more like a trap than an easy job.

​

Above the door was a small security light. It glowed feebly – a firefly would have outshone the dying bulb. Through the filthy glass panes of the steel doors, other faint glimmers of illumination were visible. The facility seemed to be on emergency power, or at the very least all the main lights had been deactivated.

​

I withdrew a pistol, attached a silencer and held the weapon ready in my right hand. Into my left I took the rubberised grip of my machete. Both weapons could kill quickly and silently: the first would kill best at a distance, the other best at close quarters. The booted toe of my right foot eased back one of the doors and I slipped into the reception area.

​

The decrepit conditions were worse, if possible, than outside.

​

My feet crunched on the desiccated remains of dozens of dead rats. These creatures had swarmed towards the exit in the hope of escaping – only to perish inches from freedom.

​

How the hell, I wondered, could Farrisher’s employees work in such conditions? It couldn’t be just a matter of money – this place wasn’t just disgusting, it had an aura of death and evil about it.

​

I paused to give serious consideration to my speculation. A year ago, the thought of a place being evil would have seemed ridiculous to the efficient, dispassionate killer I had been. Now, having faced the supernatural and escaped with my life, I trusted the instinct born from that experience… I felt a dire forewarning of the dangers I would soon face.

​

And what had killed the rats? Could it be the same force which Pearl believed was sucking the life out of people through Farrisher’s TV transmissions?

​

My eyes took in the darkened foyer. This room would have been bright and welcoming the last time it was decorated… about ten years ago. Now, it was a square space about twenty feet wide, containing a couple of desks and chairs facing the entrance; ancient PC’s on the desks (possessing chunky monitors rather than slim flatscreens); a few filing cabinets behind them; and a great deal of dust and detritus. The only illumination was small pools of vague, greyish haze from emergency lights mounted along the edges of the ceiling – and many of those were dead. A grimy calendar on one wall was eight years out of date. There were doors to the left, right and ahead. Brass sign plates had been fitted to the walls to offer directions, only to become encrusted with dirt over time.

​

The stink of the place reached into my nostrils and throat, and forced me to tense my stomach against the desire to vomit. I detected musty odours, chemical reeks from droppings and decay, and – worst of all – the sickly scent of rotting flesh.

​

Motionless, I sought out sounds, and found them. Creaks and groans of the old, rotten building. Far-off rustles – probably something loose stirring as the breeze outside blew in through a broken window. No electric hums, voices or treads of unwary feet.

​

Could I be alone in here? I doubted it: I wasn’t so lucky.

​

I took two paces and stopped in front of the reception desks.

​

And frowned.

​

There was something wrong with me. A strange ache gnawed at the pit of my stomach. I was breathing a little harder, as if after a sustained sprint. My head was beginning to throb and my eyes felt sore. Even my joints and muscles, right across my body, felt abruptly weary.

​

“Pearl,” I hissed. “I’m in, but I’m suddenly feeling like shit. Headache, stomach ache, fatigue and the arthritis of a man three times my age.”

​

“Then we’re right,” she answered. “And what Farrisher has been doing by transmission, is happening to you now just because you’ve entered the studios. Something in the building is sucking the life out of you.”

​

“You’re chock full of good news.”

​