Chapter 5: A Dog with Two Different Eyes

After a quick bite—a deli sandwich—she took me to her place.

I wolfed down a pastrami on rye—grease slicking my fingers, mustard biting the back of my throat. It was the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and your conscience. Natalie waited by the curb, glancing at her phone like she wanted to disappear.

She lived in a run-down apartment complex in the city, with buildings packed tightly together and barely any sunlight.

As we walked, the air thickened with the smell of fried food and exhaust. The block was a patchwork of old brick, paint peeling from window sills, every fire escape loaded with someone’s laundry or a broken bicycle. The neighborhood had seen better days.

On the way, she kept complaining about the holy water and the psychic’s rituals, sounding pretty dissatisfied and suspecting the psychic had made things worse for her.

She grumbled about the psychic’s incense and weird chants, her voice rising just enough for a couple teenagers to turn and stare. I nodded, letting her vent—it’s a small community, and we all know each other’s reputations.

I didn’t say much. We all make our living in this line of work; as long as you don’t cross the line, you have to respect the rules.

Don’t ruin someone else’s hustle.

But honestly, drinking holy water does nothing but upset your stomach.

I remembered the first time I tried it—burned going down, tasted like stale pennies. If it did anything, it was only to remind you how desperate you were for relief.

When we got to her building, I paused.

It was a six-story walk-up, looking pretty old. Many of the bricks on the outside had chipped off, and because it was so damp, moss and weeds grew in the corners.

Every window had a different curtain pattern—some flowery, some just old bed sheets tacked up for privacy. A kid’s bike with one training wheel missing leaned against the entry. The place had the weary look of a building that had survived three recessions and more than a few bad tenants.

The main door was set back in an alley. Looking ahead, you couldn’t see the end—only delivery guys zipping through on their bikes.

What made me stop was that less than a hundred yards from the southeast corner of the building, there was a dumpster and a public restroom.

A place of heavy darkness and filth.

There’s a chill in places like this, the kind that doesn’t come from the wind. It’s the kind of spot people avoid after dark, the kind that collects secrets and things better left alone.

I squinted at the building’s position, silently calculating.

If there were a farmer’s market nearby, the energy and the butcher’s work might balance things out, but with only residential buildings, the place was saturated with negative energy.

It’s the sort of place where nothing gets washed away—not by rain, not by time. The air tasted stale, thick with the kind of silence that makes you want to walk faster.

Even sunlight couldn’t reach here. Rats, roaches, and other pests thrived. Just walking in made me feel uneasy.

There were also many stray cats, all black and white. These aren’t like house cats—they say they can see things we can’t.

I’d already seen at least five on the way in.

A couple of them watched us from atop the dumpster, tails twitching in slow arcs. I nodded to them out of habit, like you might tip your hat to a neighbor you’d rather not cross.