I rose early to a misty morning, unable to see much more than a foot past the wide windows in the living room. On top of the hill above the channel, unable to see anything but vague whiteness was a stifling, unnerving feeling. It was three days after my rescue of Mr. Blud and I was going to be making my first trip down to the coffee house in far too long. Every sip of coffee I had taken in my cottage had paled in comparison to Anabel’s brew, no matter how I slaved over the details. Atmosphere matters. I trussed myself up in my walking gear, the mouldy hat now resting comfortably on my head, having reformed itself to a new wearer after years of disuse. My walking stick had the beginnings of a groove where my hand gripped it. I had even considered adding a rubber cap to the bottom.

Once the image of myself as the lone writer on the hill was sufficiently close to the rendering in my mind, I set out for Hertledge. I had informed Riven the night before that fetching my groceries would no longer be necessary, and he had seemed very pleased. I did not bring up my request of him again, though I still held out hope he would say yes. In addition to the library that had dropped in my lap, it seemed obvious to me that Riven could be a tremendous source of information if made to speak. What Riven must have been privy to and what he had witnessed was the main thought that cluttered and occupied my mind on my descent.

It is difficult to explain the joy I felt at seeing the steamy windows of Anabel’s coffee house. I stopped for a moment just outside to appreciate it. The simple routines of our lives take on more meaning than we can possibly understand until they are taken from us.

“Who is this old man with his cane coming in here?”

“Methuselah needs his coffee too.”

“It’s on the house today, dear. How are you? I came...”

“Riven told me. You’ve done plenty. Thank you, Anabel.”

“And all on my account, when really...I was being hysterical and there’s no...”

“Please, please.”

I put my hand up.

“We’ll hear no more of it. Like I’ve never been gone. How about that?”

“I like that, Mr. Grady. I like that plenty.”

When Anabel returned with a carafe, cup, and saucer, she sat down across from me and asked what I was up to now that I was out and about once again. To tell the truth, I hadn’t been thinking much past my cup of coffee, but the answer came to my lips as if they had been there all along.

“Working,” I said. “Going along to Mr. Blud’s library. He invited me to peruse his shelves for the book I’m working on.”

“I didn’t know Mr. Blud had a library.”

“He seems rather fond of it.”

“Likes to keep things for himself, that Theophilius. You ought to feel honored. Other than that...man he employs, he’s a ghost.”

Due to recent events, I was inclined to think of Mr. Blud with kindness, so I simply smiled at Anabel and let her comments roll harmlessly off my back.

After finishing my erstwhile morning routine, I bid goodbye to Anabel with a tip of my mouldy cap and ambled towards the docks, only realizing during my walk that I could by no means be certain of finding the rowboat tied up there. To my delight, there it sat, ebbing gently against the docks, tied up as before, charmingly unaware of the hell it had been through. It was lucky that the bastard thief with his gunshots hadn't put a hole in its side. It lived to cut more waters. It was a calm day, dark and somnolent on the channel, the only breaking of the black glass surface caused by the occasional puff of the barest wind. I rowed easily across and tied off in the shadow of the bloody light, taking care not to look at it, for it still made me uneasy. I cut around the path, leaving the Douglas firs to my left, and going around to the front of the house. While on this short trek, I found a small, gated cemetery of the family variety. It's wrought iron was new yet, the grass clipped short, and flowers lay on the two headstones side by side. I knew what this place was. Most disconcerting to my mind was the clearly delineated third plot, staked out and strung with red string. All that was missing was a hole and an occupant. I shivered, hoping it was from the mist, though strongly doubting my conclusions.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I walked uneasily to the front of the grand house. I care not to describe it in detail. If you have seen one patrician waterside house you have seen them all. What really set Mr. Blud’s apart was the interior rooms which will get there due. There were two flower boxes on each side of the double front doors. In one of these, Riven was in the process of pulling up rhododendrons. He favored me with a grunt and I paused a moment.

“Have you given any thought to what I asked?”

“Have.”

“Will you help me?”

“Still thinkin on it.”

He was evidently done speaking, as he went back to his work. I rang the bell, sidling back a few steps out of polite habit, and looked up at the second story windows. A reading nook jutted from the second-floor landing. The windows were barred in brass and brought to mind an uncanny resemblance to the funereal brass I had just passed. Before I could think on this unsavory comparison any longer, the door opened and warmth flooded out.

Mr. Blud invited me inside quickly, beckoning that I should make haste. I sidestepped past him and inside so that he could shut the door. He was very concerned that the door be closed. He looked...well, terrible. His skin was waxy, pale, and unhealthful. He wore a manic, unslept look and a bathrobe. Still, outwardly he maintained a deranged positivity.

“Mr. Grady, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your unit broken?”

“Pardon?”

“The heat.”

“Ah that. I prefer it very warm and as I live alone and don’t entertain much...you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course, of course. I’m fairly handy...well for a writer. I thought I’d offer my pitiful assistance.”

Even as I spoke, Mr. Blud pulled his robe around him and I thought I saw him stifle a shiver.

“The library?”

“The very thing I’ve come for. If I could get some early background on the channel, it would help me tremendously. I love the color stuff you know, speaking to the residents and getting their oral history, but I’ll need to flesh it out a bit with some historical detail.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at all. I went through a bit of an amateur historian phase. Wanted to know all about the channel. All its little secrets.”

“Just need the basics.”

“Of course, of course.”

On my first visit to the house, I was unable to get a very good idea of its layout, so quickly was I raced through its corridors by my manic host. What little I was able to deduce was this: it was not as it appeared from the outside. I have said that it appeared every bit the expensive waterside manor. The inside did not match that description in the slightest. There were no gilded portraits hung on the walls, nor tapestries, or plush carpets on the floors. The floors were plain boards, well laid, but not even finished properly. The walls were not papered, and light bulbs hung from strings without decoration. It was haphazardly furnished, with some rooms being entirely empty, while another appeared to be stacked to the ceiling with nothing but chairs. In short, it was a strange house, made all the stranger by Mr. Blud’s library.

The library was another universe entirely. A Persian carpet covered the floor, and three of four walls were wall to wall shelves full of tomes, with a small cut-out window with a view of the channel the only exception. Two high-backed red, reading chairs sat on either side of a mahogany end table on which rested an ashtray, a stubbed cigar in its bowels. Here was a room that fit with what the house should have looked like.

“Do you like it?”

I was nearly too astonished to respond.

“Mr. Blud, this is a room to dream about.”

Mr. Blud beamed at me, and when he did the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared as if they were going to crack open and allow the skin of his face to simply fall down the front of his robe. He was shivering again I realized, noticing that the library was a much more comfortable temperature, likely to preserve the books.

“I’ve something to attend to. You’ll make yourself at home won’t you?”

“Thank you, Mr. Blud. I can hardly say how much this means.”

“Your readers will thank me more.”

“I’ll have my mother send you a card in that case.”

He smiled humorlessly at my parting joke and closed the door of the library behind him, leaving me cloistered in the room.

Where to begin?