Bag of Weasels. Chapter 7.

And so we did and so it was; the basement door was still open when we got there, but Number 42 was still untouched. I stepped off the street and into safe emptiness, closing the door on the clawing dead harmony of out there, letting go at last and breathing easy. I was exhausted, we'd had no time to look for food, and darkness had snuck up behind us. I was thinking of finding a corner to sleep in but Ralph came alive as he stepped over the threshold, hopping from one foot to the other, his eyes opened wide: "Where's the writing?
I went to point to the way, but Ralph was already at the stairs.
"I know, it's right at the top! He blurted as he bounded up, three stairs at a time and was gone.
I followed, but not so fast, too tired to question Ralph's psychic powers.
I entered the room and found him on his knees, sheaves of paper in each hand, tears pouring down his face, great sobs shaking his huge frame. Christ I wished he wouldn't do that, it made me edgy. The bland light of before was now replaced by bare bulb, shadow-killer illumination that takes no prisoners: Ralph was stark-lit against the boards. Then he dropped the papers and laid flat out on them, half speaking, half whispering, "It's not too late, Sunny, it's not too late. We've come in time. It's here. Whatever that was, there was no asking then: something real powerful had settled on Ralph. There was no talking to him: he'd never hear me anyway over those heaving sobs. He stretched out spread-eagled face down and heaved and cried, soaking the papers. Not so sad like, more like a release. I felt left out. I picked up some of the papers and read a few snippets:

"I have found the line that stretches back, beyond the stones. I must not be the last.
I have smiled like I have never smiled before. I have smiled like my face would rip. And tears poured into my mouth ¦¦
And light poured out.
"How can I begin to tell you of the power, the immensity of the white-out of the spirit rising?

Just like before, the words grabbed me. Not what they said, or what they meant, I had no idea, believe me.
But the act of reading sparked it off; I could hear them echoing round me and the room got brighter and the walls shimmered.
Psychosis. I dropped the papers. I freaked. I didn't want to be mad. Don't bring it on I told myself - always tell myself, another rule of mine: my grip is tenuous, but I do have one. It is precious to me, and this felt like letting go. No way.
As soon as I dropped the papers though, the crazy stuff stopped. And I missed it straight away.
I picked some up again. Curious cat.

"It told me - I live in the derelict, the derelict, find me in the derelict, find me in the untouched, the empty spaces that breathe in hiding¦¦

No shimmering walls and words leaping around this time, but that was Ralph's mantra again.

"Lines of light have burned clear through these dead pathways to lay down the new ways which are the old ways which lay deep beneath.
It is golden and it calls to us and warms us in the dark and cold.
It is fading. It is dying. It has nowhere and is dying¦¦

And more that made even less sense to me, but the freaky stuff didn't come back.
Ralph was still sobbing away into the floorboards. I'd seen worse in others, so I dropped the sheaves and went back down the stairs to give him his privacy and find somewhere to sleep. Or think. Ralph had found something that had rocked his boat, that was for sure. Him and whoever wrote this stuff.
Me? I didn't know what was what now. And not for the wanting. I was badly freaked but I wanted to be included too. I wanted it to be real though. I wanted more than this.
I'd get plenty more in time, and just around the corner.