2020-01-07 - Progress: To Move On

The couple of times that Alexander has been to 13 Bayside Road, the place has never really stood out, despite the eccentric nature of its resident. It's a lovely little house in a lovely little neighborhood, and relatively quiet. And yet, something's changed. He knows it before he even steps foot off the road; the house is empty.

At first, he wonders if it's just a bad time, and wanders up to look into the windows, like a creeper. It's an open floor plan, so it's not hard to see the empty interior. No rugs. No furniture. No Carver, nor anyone else. He does a full walk around the building, just in case this is some oddly elaborate prank. He doesn't know Carver very well, but somehow it seems like 'periodically empty your house of all furniture' might be a thing the guy does.

Not, however, in this case. So, he puts his hand on the front door knob, once he makes it back around there again, and exerts the part of himself that he rarely does, the healing/destruction abilities that he often tries to ignore. Feels the lock break, delicate metal crumbling in the interior and the knob goes loose in his hand, loose enough to push open like he belongs.

I really have to learn how to pick locks, Alexander reflects, as he closes the door behind him, and it only barely latches. He roams through the empty rooms, looking for signs of foul play. There are none. No blood, no broken items. No scuff marks or scratches. The house could very well have never been occupied. The thought makes him pause, heart thudding in his chest. Carver was real, wasn't he? Yes. Other people remembered him. Other people spoke of him before Alexander even met the guy. He was real. He was probably real.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, but his hand is shaking. He moves back towards the kitchen; maybe there's a forgotten root beer in the fridge. There isn't, but the door to the basement is open, and there's no hesitation in Alexander before he lowers himself down the trap door into the...rather plain, unfurnished room. Had there once been a door down here? His brief glimpse of the place before, and a bizarre text conversation, never made that quite clear. But if there was once a door, it's gone now. This is just a room.

A room with an envelope.

A room with an envelope with 'Alexander Clayton' written on it. He turns back, looks up through the trap door to make sure the world is still there, that the world is still probably real, before going to the envelope and sitting down next to it. It's a high-quality thing, sealed with actual wax on the back, a fact that brings a bemused smile to the investigator's face. He unseals it carefully, working his fingernail between wax and paper and prying up, bit by bit. He reads what's inside.

//Mister Clayton,

I came to Gray Harbor looking for one particular thing. Instead, I lost what I had for a foul reflection of what I once was. I do so ever try to not deal in certainties regarding any particular subject, but I am certain that it was not worth it. I did gain in some ways, however, and I intend to hold on to them with all the power I can muster. Something that cannot be done in this town. As such, to use a more modern parlance: We out.

Because, seriously, what doesn't kill you in this town will not make you stronger. It'll just circle around and wait for you to be weakened by something else.

Don't worry about the house. It can take care of itself. I'd recommend taking four to eighty eager steps backwards once you re-close the front door I imagine you picked. My friends tend not to worry about collateral, and I'd hate for you to fall into that definition.

The other three pages in here are in regards to a certain acquaintance you informed me about. I had to double check a few things. I hope it helps.

Do take care of yourself.

-Alistair Samuel Carver.//

There are, indeed, more pages behind the letter, and Alexander folds them and slips them into a pocket of his jacket, and the letter and envelope into another pocket. Collateral. It's one of those words you don't ignore, in certain contexts. But he looks around, and says, "Goodbye, Mister Carver. Pax tecum."

Then he leaves. Quickly, and without looking back, the front door closing behind him as he takes those four to eighty steps (let's be honest, it's more like a dozen, before the sounds behind him force him to a halt, the gnawing curiosity within him making him turn around) as the house begins to shudder and quake. He turns, because he has to turn, because the story - this part of the story - doesn't end unless there's someone to watch it and someone to know, and somehow he seems to be the one appointed. The house is cracking like glass struck with a thousand tiny hammers, an image shattering into nothing but a memory.

It's over quickly, and when it's gone, nothing but dirt and a mailbox remains. "Pax tecum," Alexander says, again, and turns to walk back into his own story, which also progresses inevitably towards an ending of some kind.