Hp/Marvel: John Wick The Witch King

Westview, New Jersey. The town was a portrait of idyllic American life, with rows of cozy, well-kept houses and an air of peaceful isolation. It was beautiful. It was also the last place Ariana was seen.

John stood at the town's edge, the afternoon sun warming his back. He drew his wand, the smooth wood familiar in his palm. "Point me," he whispered.

Instead of settling on a direction, the wand began to spin violently, a compass gone haywire. It thrashed in his hand, fighting against an invisible force, unable to lock onto a target. John's brow furrowed. The spell was simple, and his connection to Ariana should have been more than enough to find her within the confines of a small town like this. For it to fail so spectacularly meant one of two things: she was being deliberately hidden by powerful magic, or she was no longer in a place his magic could reach.

"Strange," he murmured.

Tucking the wand back into his sleeve, he scanned the quaint streets. Whatever was blocking his spell was far from simple; few in the magical world possessed that kind of power. He would have to search the old-fashioned way.

As he walked into town, the peaceful facade was almost suffocating. People mowed their lawns, a woman walked a pristine white poodle, and children on bicycles zipped past him without a second glance. In a local supermarket, he approached the clerk, his unfamiliar face earning him a long, curious stare.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.

John produced a slip of paper with the address copied from the shipping label. "I'm looking for this place."

The clerk glanced at it, and his friendly demeanor vanished. "Sorry, never heard of it."

His expression said otherwise. John didn't waste time arguing. He pulled out his wallet, slid two crisp bills across the counter, and met the man's eyes. "Now?"

The clerk's gaze darted around the empty store before his hand shot out, snatching the money. "Follow this road to the end," he said, his voice low. "It's the two-story cottage that stands by itself."

Money always worked. John soon found himself standing before a short, isolated house that stood in stark contrast to the neatly planned neighborhood around it. The lawn was a neglected mess of weeds and bare, dusty patches. The wooden planks of the porch groaned under his weight, and the curtains, bleached pale by years of sun, gave off a faint scent of decay. He pressed the doorbell, which produced only a choked, unpleasant buzz.

The place had all the hallmarks of a classic haunted house. He could see why the clerk had taken the bribe without any guilt; he probably thought no one in their right mind would live here.

After another failed attempt with the doorbell, John stepped back. He could have used magic, but for a door this rotted, a simple application of physics felt more respectful. With one solid kick, the lock splintered and the door swung inward.

Dust motes danced in the thin slivers of light that pierced the gloom. The air was heavy and still, thick with the smell of mold and neglect. John's eyes, accustomed to the dark, adjusted instantly. He walked down a corridor where the silence felt like it could swallow a person whole, the wind from the open door stirring up a blanket of dust. With a casual wave of his hand, a magical current swept the dust outside.

He entered the living room. A garish red sofa sat in the center of the room, directly under a chandelier that had fallen from the ceiling and now lay in a tangled heap on the floor. The walls were peppered with over a dozen small holes, the tell-tale sign of a shotgun blast.

John remained calm, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Hogwarts had actual ghosts, and most of them were far more interesting than this. Peeves, for one, was a true artist of chaos. His gaze swept the room, finding nothing of magical significance. He continued his search, stroking his chin. "You'd think they'd just tear the place down and rebuild," he mused to himself.

Upstairs, he found a bedroom with a single framed photograph on a nightstand. He picked it up. It was a wedding photo, the bride's face mostly obscured by a thick, white veil. As he set it down, he heard a noise from outside.

He walked to the window and looked down to see a real estate agent showing the house to a woman clutching the hands of her two young children.

No way, John thought, stunned. Someone's actually buying this place?

The agent, a nervous man in black-rimmed glasses, was talking a mile a minute. The woman, who had the weary look of a single mother, tightened her grip on her children's hands, her expression a mixture of hesitation and desperation. Finally, seeing his sale slipping away, the agent played his trump card.

"Two thousand!" he declared.

"Two thousand?" the woman asked, her eyes wide with shock. She thought he meant the down payment.

The agent's eyes were firm. "It's yours. For two thousand."

"Mine?!"

The idea of buying a house—any house—for two thousand dollars was so absurd that it instantly vaporized her fear. The specter of poverty was a far more terrifying demon than any ghost that might haunt these halls. In a city where rent was a nightmare, this was a miracle.

"We'll take it," she said, her decisiveness shocking her own children.

Seeing this, the agent sincerely invited them inside for a tour. At the doorway, he paused, gesturing at the splintered frame. "It's been windy lately," he said, his expression miraculously unchanged. Ignoring the obvious signs of a break-in, he smiled and led them inside.

The moment they stepped into the dim interior, the agent felt a wave of timidity. But, as the saying goes, poverty makes people brave. The agent, who drove a beaten-up sedan, silently mumbled a few 'Amens' and took a courageous step forward.

They started in the living room, which looked undeniably like a murder scene. The woman's younger son hugged her leg, his voice trembling. "I don't want that sofa."

The red sofa was alarmingly bright, its color unnervingly vivid. The child's fear was understandable.

The woman squatted down, gently stroking his hair. "Good boy," she said warmly. "This will be our home from now on." After comforting him, she remembered something and looked up at the agent. "Oh, and these furniture pieces are free, aren't they?"

The agent was filled with a new kind of respect. "Take them, take them, don't be shy! They're all yours to dispose of."

With that confirmation, the woman suddenly found the sofa much more appealing. She turned to her son, her voice firm and full of irrefutable logic. "It doesn't cost money!"

Her words were resounding, leaving her son dumbfounded.

When it came time to address the bullet holes in the wall, the agent was at a loss. There were even faint, dark stains inside them. "We can put hooks on them," the woman announced, "and use them to hang photos."

The agent inwardly marveled that he had met such a formidable person.

Next came a refrigerator with a door that wouldn't close; the woman said it could still be used after repairs. There was a strange, industrial-looking meat grinder; she thought it would be great for making hamburgers. A dented frying pan; she said it would be fine after being washed. No matter what horrors the house presented, the woman saw only savings.

The agent hesitated, wanting to suggest that she tear the house down and rebuild, but now he knew it was impossible.

Finally, they reached the second floor, ascending the wooden stairs with trepidation. Each step produced a loud creak, as if it might break at any second.

"The lighting here is very good," the woman said to her eldest son, whose face was a mask of resistance. "This can be your room."

"No, I don't want it! I refuse!" every cell in his body screamed. But his protests were no match for his mother's sheer force of will.

The agent pushed open a bedroom door, his cheerful expression freezing on his face.

In the windless room with its tightly shut windows, a wooden crib was gently rocking back and forth. Inside, a porcelain doll wearing a faded white dress sat propped against the bars, its glassy eyes staring into nothing.

As they all watched, frozen, a fallen baby bottle on the floor began to roll slowly across the wooden planks, coming to a soft stop against the agent's shoe.

In that instant, the young man was drenched in a cold sweat.

(End of Chapter)

***

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