Chapter 2 - The Scent of Lavender and Lies
The elevator ride was silent,
except for the rhythmic squeak of Holden’s boots against the polished metal floor.
He stared at his reflection in the mirrored walls,
looking at the buckets,
the mop,
and the ridiculous green rubber that reached his thighs.
I could see the gears turning in his head,
the first cracks in the pedestal he had built for his mother.
When the doors opened on the fourth floor,
Holden stepped out cautiously,
his auger held like a weapon.
He expected the smell of waste,
the sound of rushing water,
and the sight of ruined laminate.
Instead,
the hallway smelled of expensive lavender candles and roasted rosemary.
There was no water on the carpet,
no frantic neighbors,
and no signs of a restoration crew.
"It’s very... dry,"
Holden whispered,
his voice echoing in the plush corridor.
"Maybe she managed to contain it to the bathroom,"
I suggested,
walking toward door 4B.
The sounds of soft flute music drifted through the wood,
accompanied by the low,
melodic chanting of a man’s voice.
Holden stopped in front of the door,
his hand trembling as he reached for the handle.
"Should I knock?"
he asked,
looking like he wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
"No,"
I said,
leaning against the wall.
"She’s your mother,
and it’s an emergency,
remember?"
"What if she’s passed out from the fumes?"
Holden took a deep breath,
his sense of duty winning over his mounting embarrassment.
He didn't knock,
he simply turned the knob and pushed.
The door wasn't locked.
The scene that greeted us was something out of a fever dream.
The living room had been cleared of furniture,
replaced by white silk cushions arranged in a circle.
Dozens of candles flickered in the dim light,
casting long,
dancing shadows against the walls.
In the center of the room stood a man with long,
oiled hair,
wearing a robe that probably cost more than our monthly rent.
He was waving a bundle of burning sage,
muttering words about "portals" and "vibrational alignment."
And there was Evelyn,
sitting on a golden throne-like chair,
dressed in a shimmering white gown.
She wasn't wet.
She wasn't crying.
She was holding a glass of chilled champagne,
looking like the queen of a very expensive cult.
Holden stood in the doorway,
a bucket in each hand,
his green boots reflecting the candlelight.
The music stopped.
The chanting stopped.
The man in the robe,
presumably Master Aurelius,
looked at Holden with an expression of intense disgust.
"Who is this vibrational disturbance?"
the Master asked,
his voice a deep,
affected baritone.
Evelyn jumped,
nearly spilling her drink.
"Holden!"
she shrieked,
her face turning a shade of red that matched her expensive lipstick.
"What on earth are you wearing?"
"Mom?"
Holden croaked,
his voice breaking.
"Where is the flood?"
Evelyn quickly recovered,
setting her glass down and standing up with practiced grace.
"Oh,
the flood!"
she said,
waving a hand dismissively.
"It was a spiritual flood,
darling."
"A surge of negative energy that threatened to drown my abundance."
"Master Aurelius came just in time to bail out my soul."
Holden looked down at the drain auger in his hand,
then at the silk cushions.
"You said the neighbors were going to sue you,"
he said,
his voice getting louder.
"You said the laminate was buckling!"
"It was a metaphor!"
Evelyn snapped,
her eyes darting to the Master.
"You wouldn't understand,
Holden,
you’ve always been so... literal."
I stepped into the room,
dropping the bag of rags on the floor with a loud thud.
"We brought the bleach,
Evelyn,"
I said,
May you like
a smile spreading across my face.
"Where do you want us to start scrubbing the spiritual waste?"
