The door closed with a soft click. Morthisal surveyed the room, noting the mismatched furniture and peculiar devices scattered about. The smell was all wrong. The air here carried none of the proper scents of power—no burning herbs, no metallic tang of fresh blood, no musty tomb scents like dirt and detritus. Instead, it was filled with the aroma of something pungently dark, and there were so many spices all competing with each other.

Morthisal’s eyes darted around the unfamiliar space as he moved forward. Travious followed, his movements sluggish and his gaze unfocused. He tightened the thread and hoped it would last.

Travious rubbed his eyes. "Well, here we are."

"Indeed. What is that cursed smell?”

“That? Smells like pumpkin spice to me. That’s not my jam, but I ain’t judging no one. At least it doesn’t smell like patchouli and bad decisions."

Morthisal had no idea what he was talking about—just another strange phrase in a world filled with such words.

"Listen to me, Travious. I need some things explained to me as if I were a child. As soon as you leave, you will forget all about these interactions. Is that understood?"

"Sure, man. I get it." Travious nodded eagerly, but his eyes took on a distant look once more. Morthisal needed to work fast.

Travious glanced around. "Like what?“

"At the hospital, I observed moving images—a display of war plans. Storms advancing upon territories in the form of warm and cold fronts." Morthisal fixed his gaze on Travious. "Explain this."

Travious chuckled. "You mean the weather forecast?"

"Weather... forecast?"

"Yeah, it's the news predicting the weather. Tells you if it's gonna rain or be sunny."

Morthisal raised an eyebrow. "Show me."

Travious walked over to the entertainment center and picked up a small, rectangular object. "This is the remote like the one you used in your hospital room. 'Cept this ain't on a cable, so it's easy to lose. You use it to turn the TV on and off, change channels, and adjust the volume.”

A large piece of glass with a black frame mounted on the wall flared to life on the wall. A multitude of colors danced across the surface.

"Then you can change channels with these arrows." Travious demonstrated, cycling through various programs.

Morthisal's eyes were glued to the images of people, places, and strange creatures that flashed by.

"If you want to check the weather, watch this channel." Travious selected a station where a smiling woman stood before a map, gesturing to symbols and numbers. "See? No war plans. Just 'how to dress plans,' know what I'm saying?"

Morthisal did not, and it was okay. He was giving Travious as much leeway as possible right now.

"Fascinating." Morthisal leaned closer. "And these... forecasts, they are accurate?"

"Half the time," Travious laughed. "But it's better than nothing."

"These devices convey much information," Morthisal said. "The other shows, as you called them. They are like play acting?"

"Yeah, Play acting. Yeah. See, you get it."

"Are any of these play-acting shows about power and control?"

Travious grinned. "Oh, sure! Let's see... 'Game of Thrones' is all about kingdoms and battles. Fantasy's not my jam, but you might like it. ‘Succession’ dives into a family drama about scheming rich white assholes. ‘Breaking Bad’ is about this old dude making drugs and rising in the criminal world. Then there's this really old show called ‘The Sopranos.’"

Morthisal nodded slowly. "Write these titles for me."

"Sure thing." Travious searched his pockets, pulled out a crumpled bit of parchment, and looked around the hovel. He located a writing instrument on a table, scribbled the names, and handed it over.

Morthisal read over the thin sheet and realized it resembled the CVS scroll he had found earlier. He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

Travious swayed slightly, blinking. "Feeling a bit... lightheaded."

Morthisal sensed the dwindling connection. "One more question."

"Yeah?"

"The source of power—earlier, with the battery. It held great energy."

"Car batteries pack a punch," Travious agreed. "But you gotta be careful. Is that how you ended up on the ground in the parking garage?“

Morthisal n0dded. “It is. Is there an easier way to access such power?"

Travious pointed to an outlet on the wall. "Just use the electrical outlets. Plug in what you need."

Morthisal studied the outlet's twin slots. "This provides energy?"

"Yep, powers all your appliances."

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Show me how it's done."

Travious grabbed a lamp from a side table. "See, plug goes in like this." He inserted the prongs into the outlet, and the lamp illuminated.

Morthisal observed the glowing bulb. "And the energy flows continuously?"

"Unless there's a power outage, yeah."

"Remarkable. How might I directly access this power?"

"What? You just plug stuff in."

"I need it in my body."

Travious laughed. "Hell if I know. I guess you could stick some knives in the two slots. But don't do that unless you wanna be on your ass."

"I see."

Morthisal spotted envelopes on a desk. He flipped through them, noting most had the words 'bills' or 'statement' printed on them in perfect script.

"Got some mail to sort through," Travious commented.

"Indeed." Morthisal glimpsed unfamiliar terms—utilities, insurance, credit balances.

Travious rubbed his temples. "I feel kinda dizzy. I may need to sit down."

Morthisal tested the thread and found it was about to expire. He spun on Travious and said, "You will depart now. You will walk to the end of the street. Once you are away, you will forget this happened. Me and you. You will find your way to your hovel. Is that understood?"

Travious did a little shrug mixed with a nod.

"Depart now."

"Okay. Later."

"No. Not later. We are done with the conversion and will not meet again."

"Right," Travious said and headed for the door.

The door closed, leaving Morthisal in silence. He returned to the living room, the television still glowing. He picked up the remote and navigated his way through several channels. He came across a channel with a play that depicted a family sitting at a table eating food. Somewhere in the background, laughter filled the speakers between lines of dialogue.

Morthisal left the television on and moved into the kitchen, his gaze roaming over the array of unfamiliar appliances. A device with a glass pot and numerous buttons caught his attention. He grabbed the handle and pulled. There was dirt inside. He sniffed. No, not dirt. It was coffee. Morthisal pushed the tray back in with a grimace.

Next to it was a box with a door and a panel of buttons of unknown energy. Morthisal opened it cautiously, peering inside to find a glass plate.

"What is this?" He pressed a few buttons, and they beeped each time. "Fascinating."

A drawer revealed a collection of gadgets he couldn't identify.

In a cabinet, Morthisal discovered a treasure trove of exotic spices and ingredients, their scents somewhat pleasant. Beside them was a stack of papers with lists. He read one, and it read: Shepherd's Pie.

"Ah. Recipes."

Morthisal's stomach grumbled. He hadn't had anything to eat since he had arrived and would need to remedy the situation. He was unsure how to prepare food since he'd traditionally had a cook to handle such matters. The last had been a goblin named Churl, who had also been useful for sniffing out poisons in case one of his minions or wives tried to kill him. Churl was probably dead by now. It was a pity, he supposed.

He moved on to the living space, taking in the shelves lined with books on various topics—he sneered at them and wished one was a spell book.

On a nearby table, framed photographs depicted Vince with friends and family, their faces smiling.

He ventured into the bathroom. There were gleaming fixtures and an array of products lining the shelves. A glass enclosure sat in the corner. He pondered its function.

In the bedroom, he found more personal effects—clothing, and books filled with colorful food dishes with accompanying recipes.

Morthisal returned to the living area, where the television was still on. A group of men in bright outfits fought each other on a field of unnatural looking grass while a mass of people screamed from the seats in a large coliseum.

“At last. Proper entertainment,” Morthisal muttered, wondering when the warriors would begin chopping at each other with iron weapons.

A framed painting on the table next to the long cushioned chair caught his eye—Vince's face smiling from the frame and his arm slung around another man. Morthisal set it down.

An image of his former fortress rose in his mind's eye. Jagged towers pierced storm laden skies. The echo of marching dread legions, the armies of the dead responding to his calls, the thrill of power coursing through his veins, the taste of victory as kingdoms fell before him—all were now beyond reach.

"This pitiful realm," he whispered.

Something brushed against his leg. He glanced down to find a small bag. He picked it up, realizing it must have fallen out of his pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out the cylindrical object of smooth, opaque brown material.

The rude healers had given it to him to keep him calm. Morthisal had enjoyed the feeling. He examined the bottle, noting the tiny script and symbols adorning its surface.

He gripped the cap and twisted. It didn't move. Frowning, he tried again, applying more force. Still nothing. He pulled at it, pried with his nails, and even attempted to bite it open.

"Confounded object!"

Frustration building, he stood and hurled the bottle against the table's edge. It bounced off and landed on the floor unharmed. He picked it up, scowling.

Squinting at the minuscule writing on the side, he spotted instructions: "Push down and turn to open."

He pressed the cap downward and twisted. A soft click sounded, and the lid came loose. Inside, small white tablets rattled gently. Trickery!

He poured a tablet into his palm and inspected it. There was no scent or markings. He placed it on his tongue and swallowed dry.

A hollow ache gnawed at his stomach. The realization struck him—he hadn't eaten since arriving in this bewildering place. Rising from the seat, he made his way toward the adjoining area where he'd seen those peculiar devices and containers but was interrupted by a banging on the door.

Morthisal turned. “Hmm.”

He waited to see if the noise would return.

It did, louder this time.

Morthisal approached the door and struggled with the knob. After figuring out there was a lock engaged, he pulled it open.

A woman stood before him. Her dress was stained with swirling patterns and vibrant hues that cascaded to the floor. Her hair bore waves of purple and teal, with silver streaks catching the dim light of the hallway. In her hands, she cradled a straw hat adorned with dangling crystals and tiny metallic charms.

Her bright green eyes were framed by dark lashes dusted with flecks of sparkling particles. An array of necklaces hung around her neck—crystals and carved stones. Was she a shaman?

“Vincent, right? Wait.” She smiled brightly. “You prefer Vince. You know, Vincent Price was a legend. Not from the Michael Jackson video, but his movies. I loved him as Doctor Phibes. Did you ever see The House of Usher? Classic, am I right? Listen to me ramble."

"Yes. Rambling on. I assume you at some point come to a… er… a point?" Morthisal stammered.

"You don’t remember me? It’s Penny from down the hall. Penny Thompson. I wanted to let you know I opened a shop a few blocks from here over on Summit. You should come. You know I’m a mystic and a psychic. I’m also a medium, in case you need to contact any deceased loved ones."

Morthisal perked up. "My dear. Are you implying that you can reach the dead? In a necromantic way? Please, dear Penny. Do come in."

Morthisal gestured for her to enter as he stepped aside.

In a single day, he had already learned how to access some of his old powers, and now he had met a person who could reach the dead.

Life in this world was already beginning to look up.