I step into the flat with the revolver at the ready and smoothly shut the door behind me. My eyes strain in the dim interior while I sweep the revolver in an arc in front of me, on guard for any threat that may emerge. From the depths of the flat, I hear indistinct noises, coupled with snatches of conversation. That confirms it, there are definitely two people here. A man and a woman. 

My eyes continue to scan the living area before me, taking in the surroundings. A TV set. An old leather sofa, imitation most probably. A writing table and chair parked in the corner of the living room. 

And red thread everywhere, tied to every piece of furniture and to every corner of the room. A man made spider's web of crimson. My hand cautiously reaches out and tugs at the thread. Twine from the feel of it. The thread is a mundane object, there's nothing metaphysical or magical about it.  

"You seeing this?" I whisper to The Voice. 

The Voice rasps, "The work of a fanatic. You have definitely found the lair of the servant. The spiritual nexus is further within, continue to investigate."

"Yeah. It looks like all the lengths of thread seem to originate from a single point somewhere ahead." I confirm, "I'm heading in."

Taking the revolver in a two handed grip, I creep forward, deeper into the flat. There are holes that have been crudely hacked into the flat's wall, allowing Celeste's unit to merge with the flat adjacent into it. Celeste has also been tying her red thread all over the adjacent unit, clearly laying her claim over it. The servant has been occupying two flats for the price of one. With her neighbors conscripted into the crazy sex cult, there would have been no one willing to make a complaint or bring Celeste's antics to attention of the authorities. I refocus my attention on the red thread and follow the web to wherever it may lead. 

"You're close." The Voice breathes. 

"I think I'm right in front of it." I remark, 'it' being a deluxe size toy castle set up right in the center of the flat. A triumph of plastic and glitter, the toy castle is colored a garish pink with rainbow stickers slapped all over its walls. Four spires dusted with glitter tower over the castle itself, each wrapped with red thread that extends outwards to every inch of both flats. The main body of the toy castle acts like a kind of wardrobe, the walls being doors that can be opened outwards using tiny handles which have been bound fast by the red thread. 

"Bingo. The servant didn't want anyone opening her toy castle up." I remark, "The spiritual nexus you sensed must be inside."

"Secure the nexus." The Voice instructs, "It will provide far more data than a mere piece of clothing."

A quick probe with matter sense tells me that the two unknowns are lurking somewhere inside the adjacent flat that the servant had invaded. There's no telling when either of them will walk out here and stumble upon me. I should deal with the potential hostiles before retrieving the nexus. 

I dart into the shadows and peek over the corner, scoping out what's going on in the adjacent flat. The first thing I notice is that the living area has been converted into a sort of playpen, littered with toys and plastic building blocks. Like the first flat, a writing table sits at the corner of the living room, but this time piled high with documents. Sneaking over, I take a gander at the documents and find that its nothing but meaningless gibberish scrawled all over the pages. 

Nothing for it but to head towards the indistinct noises lurking ahead. I pass a stained mattress placed carelessly along the corridor, reeking of sweat and stale sex. In fact the closer I draw towards the noises, the more I smell a rank odor in the air. I place my sleeve against my nose to prevent another episode of throwing up and push forward.  The kitchen. That's where the noise is coming from. I swallow hard and ready myself for the confrontation. Core activated. Baton out for stealth take down.

Ready to rock. 

I pounce through the arch separating the kitchen from the corridor with my arm cocked back for a hard swing. Two figures seated at the dining table. I charge forward. Time slows just as one of the figures listlessly turns her head at me. 

And nothing happens. 

The woman's glazed eyes see right through me, not registering the presence of an armed man in her home. She indifferently turns back to the table and places a pair of plates on top of it, alongside the many other plates and dishes already there. The rank smell hits me with full force and I stop my attack as my eyes water. The odor, it must be coming from the table. As my eyes clear, I take in the sight. 

The table heaves under the weight of a mountain of dishes laden with uneaten, decaying food. Ants, maggots and cockroaches crawl everywhere, helping themselves to the feast. The woman pays no mind to the health hazard in front of her and adds two more plates of food to the heaping pile before addressing her companion. 

"Breakfast dear." a flat, mechanical voice. Completely soulless. 

Her companion, an angel with a weak halo and dressed in nothing but a filthy pair of underwear, picks at the rancid food in front of him, weakly shoveling mouthfuls of decay down his gullet. The angel inadvertently scoops up a stray cockroach as he eats and I watch in fascinated horror as the hardy creature crawls out of the angel's mouth, barely escaping being masticated to death. 

"Well done, Transmigrator." The Voice says, "You have managed to locate the missing Mr and Mrs Chanellor."

"Yeah. They're completely gone, aren't they?" I mutter, watching the cockroach play in the thicket of oily hair on top of Mr Chanellor's head.

"Most likely." The Voice agrees, "Prolonged exposure to the servant's power appears to have destroyed their minds. The only thing left for them is to fulfill the directives the servant had installed within their souls."

"Time to go to work." Mr Chanellor announces to no one in particular. He then gets up from his seat and walks towards a go cart in the corner of the kitchen.  The angel squeezes his flabby body into the go cart and begins pedaling out of the kitchen, making engine noises from his mouth. 

"Give me a lift dear." Mrs Chanellor's robotic voice drones as she sits on the back of the go cart, her unwashed body shedding dead maggots as she moves. 

The duo pay me completely no heed as the angel pedals his way out of the kitchen towards the living area where the playpen is. Both of them dismount and Mr Chanellor heads towards the building blocks while his wife takes a seat at the writing table. 

"I am a clerk. I like writing things." the dead voice of the woman informs no one in particular. 

"I am a builder. I like working with my hands." the angel follows up with a declaration of his own. 

"I love my husband."

"I love my wife."

"Crazy. Absolutely crazy." I mumble while shaking my head. Might as well leave the pair of retards in peace. They are certainly in no condition to stop me anyway. I make my way back to the toy castle and set out untying the thread sealing the doors shut. It takes a bit of work, but the red thread gives way in due course, allowing me to open the castle up.

"Here goes." I quip, "You ready?" A grunt is the only reply from The Voice I receive. 

 The castle opens with a creak, revealing an interior that has been painstakingly modeled into various rooms. And right in the heart of the castle is the throne room, done up with glitter smeared all over the place. A doll dressed in a red dress sits on a golden plastic throne and at her feet are three figures dressed as courtiers, on their knees in supplication. 

"Castiel, Enma and the servant." I murmur, "And the queen must represent Fate. This toy castle is a bloody shrine."

"The Queen. Its the spiritual nexus I sensed." The Voice informs, "Seize it and proceed to extract."

"Not a problem." I reply, "You got the SUV ready to go?"

"Ye - hkkkkzzzzz" a blast of static abruptly cuts The Voice off. 

A sick feeling invades my gut, just like at the hospital. Red threads blazing with spiritual energy cut across the room, no clipping through walls. No. No, I took too long. 

The servant has returned.