Greetings, dear maidenless readers! I am Sir Loquacious McRambleston III, before we resume with our scheduled programming I have a special announcement: the previous narrator, smooth-talking and annoyingly charming as he was, couldn't keep his life together. The bastard was neck-deep in debt—who racked up so much that he had to take a... uhmm... loan from a certain group of mafia. Turns out, the [REDACTED] most terrifying loan shark, Xandar the Merciless (great name, I know), doesn't appreciate missed payments. So as he was working on this chapter, BAM! The office walls exploded and Xandar walked in. Bye-bye! Mate was dragged out kicking, screaming, and pleading for his life as Xandar's goons packed him into ship. Honestly, I'm sure Prius is orbiting some black hole of despair right about now.
Good riddance.
And then there's me. Guess who got "promoted" to fill the spot? Yours truly. Plucked straight from my peaceful (soul-sucking) life as a corporate drone in this author's twisted little literary sweatshop. It's me against the existential dread, day in and day out, narrating like my life depends on it—because it absolutely does.
Oh, and the author? He's no better than Xandar, if we're being real. Probably some kid running some illegal mining business, because why else would he draft an innocent schmuck like me into this madness? KD's got me strapped to this desk with the faint hope of surviving to see retirement—spoiler: very unlikely.
So if you notice the tone shifting to "teetering on the brink of a mental breakdown," congrats! That's my personal touch. You're not just getting a narrator—you're getting a hostage.
Now... BACK TO READING DAMN IT!
---
THADDEUS POV
"Auntie Em's Garden Emporium," I muttered, my eyes fixed on the sign hanging precariously above the entrance. "Rundown steel shack? Check. Creepy aura? Double check. Yep, definitely the perfect place to hide a mystical green pearl. Because why would anything important be in, you know, a nice place?"
The view from the outside didn't exactly scream safe haven. Dead plants hung limply from rusted hooks like nature's forgotten relics. Cement fountains were scattered across the lot, their once-elegant designs marred by cracks and grime. And then there were the statues. Cherubs, lions, and... angels. I froze for a second, narrowing my eyes at the winged figures.
"Wait. Angels?" I muttered under my breath. "They don't look like the ones from Doctor Who—yet. So, I'll keep breathing. But if these statues twitch so much, I'm declaring this quest over and heading straight back to camp."
The whole place emanated a deserted vibe, like it had been abandoned long before any of us were born. The only signs of life—or at least recent activity—were two vehicles parked carelessly out front: a rusted pickup truck that looked like it had barely survived Y2K and a Cadillac Eldorado with Illinois plates that had definitely seen better days.
Annabeth's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "This seems rather...arbitrary. Are you sure this is the place?" she asked Percy, her sharp gaze flicking between the sign and the map he was holding like she was trying to will the answer into existence.
Percy glanced down at the map again, tracing something with his finger before nodding. "That's what the map says," he replied, folding it neatly and tucking it back into his bag. Points for tidiness, I guess.
Grover shifted nervously, his ears twitching slightly as he looked toward the shack. "Right... so, how are we doing this?"
Before anyone else could volunteer a plan, I chimed in, "Easy. I'll stay out here and supervise." At their questioning looks, I raised a hand to cut them off. "Look, it's a totally valid strategy. Someone has to keep watch out here. Do you really want to walk into the creepy horror movie shack without backup? Plus, I've got a gut feeling—and my gut is rarely wrong—that there's something else hanging around this place. If I see anything weird, I'll scream and charge back inside to save your sorry butts."
Annabeth rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "I'm sure you're working incredibly hard...at finding the simplest way to avoid doing any actual work."
"Lazy?" I scoffed, offended. "It's called Tactical Delegation. Think about it. I'll be out here monitoring our surroundings, ensuring we don't get ambushed while you three are busy pearl-hunting inside. Every good team needs a lookout." I pointed to the rusted truck and the Cadillac. "And while you're at it, someone should check if the owners of those cars are still breathing or if they've joined the lawn ornament collection. Priorities, people."
Grover blinked, looking between me and the others. "You know... he does have a point. Sort of?"
Annabeth just shook her head, muttering something about useless wizards. Percy, meanwhile, was already halfway to the door, map or no map, clearly operating on pure determination and maybe a dash of misplaced optimism.
I crossed my arms and leaned casually against the pickup truck, keeping one eye on my friends and the other on the unsettling statues surrounding us. "Don't die in there!" I called after them. "And remember, if anything moves, you scream first, then I'll come running. Okay?"
---
THIRD POV
As the trio stepped inside, the atmosphere in the room, particularly the old grandfather clock in the corner, felt slightly eerie to a full-on horror movie set. Dust clung to every surface like it had been trying to choke out the life in this place for years. The darkness didn't help—it was the kind that seemed to actively swallow the light, leaving shadows to crawl across the walls like they had a personal vendetta.
"Hello? Anyone here?" Percy called out, his voice echoing way too loud in the emptiness. Bold move, buddy. Maybe next you can hand out your GPS coordinates to any lurking serial killers.
Grover wandered over to a cobweb-covered rotary phone mounted on the wall, picking up the receiver like it might have an answer. He held it to his ear for all of two seconds before dropping it back down with a grimace. "Dead," he announced, wiping cobwebs off his hand like they personally offended him.
Annabeth jested, "Auntie Em might have gone back to Kansas."
Percy, meanwhile, had discovered the cash register at the counter. He popped it open with a clink. "Jackpot," he muttered. Inside, a stack of crisp American bills and some very out-of-place ancient drachmas glittered under the dim light. But because he apparently has zero sense of foreboding, he ignored it and pushed open the creaky screen door leading to the back lot.
"Check this out," Percy said, stepping into what could only be described as an artistic fever dream from hell.
Annabeth and Grover followed, and the trio froze, taking in the sprawling nightmare in front of them. A winding gravel path snaked its way through acres of statues, so many it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began. Animals frozen mid-roar, tourists with horrified expressions, soldiers standing stiffly at attention. Gargoyles crouched on pedestals like they were waiting for someone to blink. It was a freaking labyrinth of stone nightmares, and the silence made it worse.
"Generally speaking, there must be thousands of them." Annabeth murmured, running her hand over the surface of a cherub that looked far too alive. "Hypothetically speaking, how are we to determine a pearl in this cement stack?"
Percy, smirked. "You're the grand strategist. Figure it out."
Grover, meanwhile, had wandered to an old, rusted Coca-Cola cooler sitting under a makeshift tin awning. "Anyone thirsty?" he asked, flipping open the lid with zero hesitation.
Big mistake. Huge.
He yelped, slamming the lid back down as fast as humanly possible. A dozen or so mice had exploded out like furry little grenades, scurrying in every direction. "Never mind," he muttered, backing away from the cooler like it owed him money.
"Alright," Annabeth sighed, clearly trying to hold onto the last shreds of her patience. "We need to cover more ground. Split up and check every statue."
"Split up? Brilliant idea," Grover said, already looking like he regretted every life decision that led him to this moment. But he shuffled off toward one section of statues while Annabeth picked another. Percy, never one to follow a plan without making it worse, meandered toward the center of the maze.
I'd say they're doomed, but let's be real—they were doomed the second they walked in.
As they disappeared deeper into the maze, something shifted in the shadows. A gargoyle roosted high on a pedestal turned its head ever so slightly, its stone eyes locking onto Percy as he passed. Its mouth curled into what could almost be called a grin. Almost.
---
Meanwhile, outside, Thaddeus was... well, Thaddeus. Standing there with his hands in his hoodie pockets, injured arm was loosely bandaged. But don't let that fool you. Behind that was pure boredom and curiosity duking it out for dominance.
Guess which one won.
Eventually, his gaze drifted to the two cars parked out front—the rusted pick-up truck and the Cadillac Eldorado, both looking like they'd seen better decades. His eyes narrowed. Innocent curiosity? Absolutely not. He was about to be that guy—the one who pokes his nose into places it has no business being.
He strolled up to the rusted truck, a vehicle that looked like it could disintegrate if you sneezed too hard. Raising his good hand, he snapped his fingers, and the lock clicked open like it was just waiting for a criminal with telekinesis to come along. "I mean, it's not like I'm stealing," Thad muttered to himself, pulling the door open. "Just...borrowing some information. Or whatever."
Once inside, he got to work like he was auditioning for CSI. He started with the glove compartment because, duh, everyone knows that's where people stash stuff. Pulling it open, he found:
- An ancient map of New Jersey, creased and faded, like it hadn't been updated since Disco died.
- A crumpled pack of cigarettes that reeked even with the wrapper intact.
- A handful of ketchup packets.
"No keys. Great," Thad muttered, tossing the ketchup back in because even he had standards. He checked under the seats next—digging through a jungle of loose change, an empty bottle of what could've been motor oil (or poison, honestly), and what appeared to be a melted gummy bear that had fused to the carpet.
"Man, people are nasty," he grumbled, wiping his hand on his hoodie. "Who lives like this?"
Sliding it open with a mix of telekinesis and a whole lot of skepticism, Thad struck gold. Four grand. In cash. Just chilling there, like a stack of pancakes at an all-you-can-eat breakfast. "What kind of moron leaves this lying around?" he said, pocketing it faster than you could say 'finders keepers.'
He continued his search, flipping the visors for any keys hidden there—because, let's be real, someone this careless might as well gift-wrap them. Nothing. Not even a poorly-written parking ticket.
"Alright, if I were a key, where would I be hiding?" he asked the universe, lifting the grimy floor mats. Underneath, he found:
- Dust. Lots of dust.
- A receipt for something illegible from 1982.
- A half-melted penny that looked like it'd been through a nuclear reactor.
"Okay, now it's personal," Thad muttered, straightening up.
He closed the truck door with a disgruntled clang and moved on to the Cadillac. This car had "sketchy" written all over it. He tried the door handle first—locked, of course. "Figures," he said, summoning his telekinesis again. The lock clicked open, and Thad grinned. "This is almost too easy."
But his smile quickly faded. The Cadillac was pristine—cleaner than the truck, sure—but it was also completely useless. The glove compartment? Empty. The seats? Bare. Even the trunk was devoid of anything remotely interesting.
"Who keeps a car this clean?" Thad wondered aloud. "What is this, a serial killer's getaway vehicle?"
Growing increasingly irritated, Thad started searching for the holy grail of lazy drivers: the key hidden somewhere outside the car. He checked:
- Under the wheel well. Nothing.
- On top of the tires. Nope.
- In the cracks around the headlights. Still nothing.
By this point, Thad was practically lying on the ground, checking every nook and cranny like his life depended on it. "Who doesn't hide a key?" he muttered, slapping the dirt off his jeans as he stood back up. "You're telling me these cars are just...locked? Like, on purpose? What a waste of time."
And so, with no keys and nothing else to loot (aside from the four grand he'd already "borrowed"), Thad leaned against the truck and resumed his waiting game, keeping a wary eye on the emporium's door.
"Well, that was productive," he deadpanned to no one in particular.
---
Grover waddled along, his dagger tapping each statue he passed. Tap. Tap. Solid. Each statue was stiff, lifelike, and eerily mundane, frozen in strange, everyday poses. A woman holding a basket of fruit. A jogger mid-stride. Grover frowned. This place was creepy—even by his standards, and his standards included hanging out with a guy who fought and got bit by summoned hellhounds last night.
He reached a Roman soldier mid-salute. Tap. Solid. Grover let out a breath. Just stone. He turned away, his hooves clicking on the gravel path, missing the faint, grating scrape behind him.
The Roman soldier's sword was no longer at its side. It was raised.
Grover hummed nervously, moving to another statue. Tap. Solid. He glanced over his shoulder, the soldier was... perfectly still. Sword raised high now, though Grover didn't seem to notice the shift. "Weird wind patterns in this place," he muttered, hobbling further down the path, oblivious.
---
Meanwhile, Percy wandered his section of the maze, tapping each statue with casual detachment. Tap. Tap. All solid. No signs of pearls or traps. Just statues... way too many statues.
He came upon a relatively new-looking one—a middle-aged man wearing a Chicago Cubs hat, map in hand, with a look of utter terror frozen on his face. Percy paused, staring at the detail, the fear etched into the man's features. "Creepy tourist guide much?" Percy muttered, shivering.
At the end of the row, a large statue of a coiled cobra caught his attention. Its body was thick, the sculptor's attention to detail impressive, almost grotesque. The snake's head rested on its body as if sleeping, mouth slightly ajar. Percy, curiosity sparked, took a step closer.
---
On Annabeth's side of the maze, efficiency reigned supreme. Tap. Mark. Tap. Mark. Each statue she examined was left with a chalk "X" to signify it had been checked. A good strategist always worked methodically, even in a death-trap garden of horrors.
Her thorough pace was interrupted by a flicker of motion in her peripheral vision. A blur darted between the statues. Annabeth whipped around, her chalk gripped like a weapon. "Hello? Is someone there?" she called, voice steady but sharp. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the maze.
No answer.
"This isn't funny, Thad," she added, louder, irritation lacing her tone. If this was one of his half-hearted attempts to play pranks while the rest of them did the actual work, she was not in the mood. She turned back, chalk poised to mark another statue.
And then she crashed directly into someone.
Startled, Annabeth stumbled back, coming face-to-face with a crazed, trembling woman in her late fifties. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair a stringy mess, and her eyes wide with terror. The woman grabbed Annabeth's arms with a desperate strength.
"You have to leave," the woman hissed, her voice a frantic whisper. "She's coming. She's coming!"
"Who's coming?" Annabeth demanded, trying to steady the woman. "What are you talking about?"
"She—" the woman choked out, her voice trembling, "we stopped for directions. Bill... my husband... he's—he's stone!"
Annabeth froze, her stomach twisting into knots. Stone? The woman's panicked eyes bore into her own.
"She's coming!" the woman cried again, yanking Annabeth forward with surprising force. "You have to get out of here!"
Before Annabeth could respond, the woman started pulling her deeper into the maze.
---
Let's cut to Thaddeus for a moment. You know, the guy who was supposed to keep watch. Doing his job. What was he doing, you ask? Well, he was definitely not standing guard with a serious face, ready to charge in at the first sign of trouble like a noble protector of his friends. Nope.
Thad was in the rusted pickup truck he'd broken into earlier, living his best life as though he were auditioning for The Voice.
The cab of the truck smelled like a mixture of old leather, grease, and whatever tragic life choices its last owner had made. The dashboard was cracked, the upholstery was torn, and there was a faint buzzing sound that could've been a dying fly or the ghost of the car's dignity. The truck's radio, miraculously, still worked, and it was playing A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton.
And Thaddeus? Oh, Thad was feeling it.
"If I could fall... into the skyyyyy..." he sang, spinning the steering wheel like a DJ on a turntable. His voice cracked slightly, but did that stop him? Absolutely not. This was his moment.
The windshield wipers squeaked as he fiddled with them—why? Who knows? He wasn't going anywhere. "Do you think time... would pass me byyyyy?" His free hand drummed on the cracked dashboard, his fingers tapping in perfect rhythm.
For a guy who'd been bitten by a hellhound the night before and was possibly on a death-defying quest to save the world, he seemed... way too at peace. Like, suspiciously chill. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was denial. Maybe it was just Thaddeus being Thaddeus.
He glanced toward the decrepit shack of Auntie Em's and sighed dramatically, slumping against the cracked leather seat. "Of all that is holy, what's taking them so long? It's just a green pearl!"
But, of course, he didn't really care enough to investigate. Not yet. That was Future Thad's problem. Present Thad had lyrics to belt. The bridge was coming up.
"'Cause you knooooow I'd walk a thousand miiiiiles... if I could just... see you... toniiiiight!" His voice hit a particularly shaky tenor on the last note, and he cringed at his own lack of pitch control. But whatever. The truck was empty. No one was judging him. Except maybe the universe.
And speaking of the universe, it was probably judging hard. Because while Thad's impromptu karaoke session continued, something in the stillness outside the truck began to shift. A faint rustle, like footsteps on gravel. Something watching. Something waiting. But Thad? Delightfully unaware. Too busy replaying the song in his head for a second round.
"Making my way downtown..." He tapped the horn for dramatic flair.
Yeah, Thad was doing his job alright. Doing his job... poorly.
---
While Thaddeus was busy totally not doing his job and Percy and Annabeth were getting dragged through their respective horror movie subplots, Grover found himself in a slightly different nightmare. The kind that involves statues. Moving statues.
Yeah, you read that right. Statues. Five of them. And they weren't just standing there looking creepy—they were trailing behind Grover like some cement cosplay of The Walking Dead. The leader? None other than the Roman Soldier statue, who looked like he was auditioning for Gladiator 2.
Every time Grover turned around, the statues froze. Their poses were disturbingly lifelike. Swords mid-swing. Shields raised. Eyes locked on him. The kind of thing that makes you rethink your whole life, starting with the decision to join this quest in the first place.
Grover muttered under his breath, "This is fine. Totally fine. Not creepy at all."
Spoiler: it wasn't fine. It got worse. Because Grover, being Grover, stopped in front of a statue of an old satyr. And this one? Oh, this one hit differently.
"Hey... you look like my Uncle Ferdinand..." He chuckled nervously, as if he hadn't just admitted the statue looked like his dead uncle. Then it hit him. Like, hard. "Wait. No. Uncle Ferdinand was killed by Medusa..." His throat tightened. "Auntie Em. Shit."
Whack!
A concrete sword smashed the statue of Uncle Ferdinand into bits. Grover barely dodged the strike. He spun around and found himself completely surrounded by the cement zombie brigade. The Roman Soldier had upgraded from creepy to full-on homicidal.
Grover screamed, "PERCY! ANNABETH! WE'RE IN MEDUSA'S LAIR!" And then? He ran. Like, ran ran. But his hooves weren't exactly made for stealth, so it was more like a loud, panicked racket.
---
Percy, standing near the coiled cobra statue, froze when Grover's warning echoed through the maze. His brain caught up in record time. Medusa. Great. Just great.
Then the cobra statue's eyes opened. Because of course, they did. And just to make it worse, one of those creepy eyes was a green pearl. The thing they were looking for. Because life couldn't throw Percy a normal scavenger hunt, could it?
The cobra struck. Percy barely dodged, rolling away like an action hero who wasn't getting paid enough. He whipped out his trusty pen, clicked it, and watched as it morphed into Riptide. "Alright, snake. Let's dance."
---
Annabeth was having her own adventure, being dragged through the maze by a hysterical woman who clearly skipped therapy one too many times.
"We have to... get out... before she finds us..." the woman stammered.
Annabeth tried to break free, but damn, this lady had a grip. "Who? Who's 'she'?" Annabeth demanded. The woman didn't answer. Instead, she kept pulling Annabeth deeper into the maze.
---
Back with Grover, the cement army was closing in. But Grover? Grover wasn't going down without a fight. He raised his crutches like they were nunchucks. His eyes narrowed. His stance widened. The dude was ready to rumble.
"You ugly stiffs want a fight?" he yelled. Then, for added effect, he kicked off his shoes, revealing his hooves. That's right. Satyr mode: activated.
And then? He went full Shaolin Satyr. Grover whacked one statue so hard with his crutch that its arm fell off. Another statue charged, but Grover kicked it in the knee with his hoof, crumbling it to dust. "Who's next?!"
---
Meanwhile, Percy was still locked in combat with the cobra statue, which had decided it wasn't going to make this easy. Its tail whipped at him, sending Percy crashing into a group of statues. He groaned, pushing himself up, but the cobra wasn't done. It struck again, narrowly missing his face.
Out of nowhere, Grover leapt into the fray, hooves first. "Got your back, bro!" The cobra turned its attention to Grover, giving Percy an opening.
With a quick flick of his wrist, Percy hurled Riptide like a javelin. The sword soared through the air, slicing through the cobra's face and embedding itself right below its glowing green eye.
Boom.
The cobra crumbled into rubble, the green pearl rolling to Percy's feet. He picked it up, breathing hard.
Grover, panting and holding the now pen-shaped Riptide, handed it back to Percy. "Dude. Never let me fight a giant snake alone again."
Percy just nodded, too worried to reply. Grover noticed and raised an eyebrow. "Hey. You okay?"
Percy stared at the green pearl in his hand. His jaw tightened. "I hope we're not too late."
---
Meanwhile, back with Thaddeus... again.
So there he was. Thaddeus. Our resident
mage-slash-professional-"I'm-just-keeping-watch"-enthusiast, stationed outside Auntie Em's House of Doom. And boy, was he thriving. Or maybe just vibing too hard. It was debatable.
This time, Thad had moved on from his earlier performance of A Thousand Miles and shifted gears into Over My Head (Cable Car) by The Fray. Yeah, that emotional early-2000s anthem. You know the one.
Leaning casually against the rusted pickup truck he was definitely not looting (again, do not ask him), Thaddeus had one foot propped up on the bumper and was straight-up feeling himself.
"I never knew..." he began, tapping his chest dramatically with a finger like he was channeling his inner rock star.
"I never knew that everything was falling through..." His voice was... okay, let's be real, it wasn't great. But who cares about pitch when you've got soul? Thad tilted his head back, eyes closed, belting out the next line like he was auditioning for American Idol:
"That everyone I knew was waiting on a queue..."
Then he kicked it up a notch. Cue the exaggerated air-drumming with invisible sticks, banging his hands against the truck's roof. "BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!" Thad might've forgotten he wasn't in a soundproof room, but hey, the truck didn't seem to mind the abuse.
"To turn and run when all I needed was the truth!" he practically yelled, clutching his chest like he was a mid-Broadway soliloquy. Honestly, if anyone was watching, they'd probably think he was possessed by the spirit of Emo 2005.
But he wasn't done. Oh, no. Thaddeus took things even further, bouncing on his heels and swaying like a guy who just discovered his hips could move.
"But that's how it's gotta be—" He pointed an accusatory finger at absolutely no one, his face scrunching in mock frustration.
"It's coming down to nothing more than apathy!" This was where he got really into it. He gestured wildly, pacing back and forth like he was delivering a TED Talk on Why I'm Singing My Heart Out in a Haunted Parking Lot.
And then... the chorus hit.
"And everyone knows I'm in... OVER MY HEAD!"
He threw his head back, practically screamed it to the heavens. One hand was in the air like he was summoning the gods of alternative rock, the other dramatically gripping the side-view mirror of the pickup truck for extra stability. Because why not?
"OVER MY HEAD!!! Eight seconds left in oooooooovertiiiime!"
At this point, Thaddeus was fully headbanging. No music. Just the raw sound of his voice echoing in the eerie silence. His hair bounced with each swing, smacking him in the face occasionally, but did that stop him? Nope. Did it add to his energy? Hell yeah.
"SHE'S ON YOUR MIND! SHE'S ON YOUR MIND!"
As he sang that last line, he threw his arms wide like a conductor, spinning dramatically in place. But this was Thaddeus, so of course, he tripped over a loose rock.
"Ah—gah! I meant to do that!" he muttered, brushing himself off quickly before glancing around, making sure no one saw.
He sighed, leaning back on the truck with his arms crossed, trying to act all nonchalant now. "Alright... where the hell are those guys? How long does it take to grab one green pearl? Seriously."
But just as he was about to start another round of Over My Head (yes, really), something caught his eye—a slight shadow, moving far too quickly along the maze's outer edge. Thad froze mid-air drum solo, his instincts kicking in.
"Okay... must've been the wind," he murmured.