It was well before dawn when the agency of Sullivan, Cohen & Goodwill gathered, the night’s air chilling to the bone, the air crisp and laden with a slight damp that only worsened the already present cold. The sound echoing out around the storage yard behind their office building sounded overly loud as Frank and Donny pulled the wooden doors to their unit open, something one of the residents of the surrounding buildings seemed to agree with, the overweight, naked man screaming at them to, “Shut the hell up!” before tossing a glass bottle towards them. Considering how far away the man was from the group, he had a damn good throwing arm on him, but the bottle still fell far short of reaching its intended target, smashing loudly on the street between the man and them.
Watching this, Frank walked to the side to join Goodie, who stood to the side, stomping his feet and clapping his hands as the boy tried to warm himself, his breath just visible in the night air, while Donny went inside to get the Beast started up.
They were heading to some place called Black Cherry or something. They being Frank and Donny, who had explained it to him yesterday, but Goodie was never good with names, and was even less good at remembering things at whatever bloody time it was now. A haunted house that was also not haunted, apparently, but might also be just a normal house where the bad stuff that occurred there had merely left it with a bad reputation, so, oh, never mind…
The real purpose of the place was to give them a legitimate paying job that would get them out of the city for a while.
Technically, they were not getting paid for going there. Instead, the owners or caretakers of the place would give them free room and board while they assisted some “government thinker”, as Frank had put it, in doing some tests to find out whether it was truly odd or not.
It would also serve to help familiarise Goodie with the more tedious aspects of the job, or so Frank had said. Goodie strongly suspected that that was just the man’s way of prepping him for doing all the work while the two older detectives did whatever.
After Donny pulled out and put the Beast to rest with a mechanical squeal of whatever machinery lay inside of it, the three of them then went about grabbing the several duffel bags they had brought with them, dragging the overly-stuffed items around to the rear of the agency’s truck.
They looked weird to Goodie, who, having long been used to the presence of synthetic materials, was still unused to a world that needed to rely primarily on more…natural substances. All of the bags looked to be made from someone’s carpeting, many of them having a checkered pattern to them, their colours mostly greens or reds.
Despite having ridden in the truck several times, he had never actually seen inside of the large rear compartment of the vehicle, though he had known from the sound that emanated from its back that it had full of…something. Just how full, Goodie had no idea of, so it was with some surprise that when Frank unceremoniously yanked opened the rear door that he was then presented with a site that one would more associate with some garden shed whose owners had long ago decide to just use as a place to keep everything they did not want yet could not bear to part with.
Any type of tool, weapon, and actual gardening related miscellanea seemed to be present within the large cavity he now looked into, most hanging disturbingly from the roof, a series of rails along which many, many metal hooks, on which the various items themselves were very loosely secured, dangled, some of them still in motion despite the Beast being at a full stop. Most of everything was old, some of it beset by rust or rot or the simple wear of time. Metal, wood…bone…and that was not even the weirdest material present.
But drawing his focus away from the obvious, Goodie instead began to look at everything else. There were two trunks towards the front of the Beast, on his right. He could not discern their contents from where he stood, obviously, but he concluded that they were something that needed to be secured or protected, considering that barely anything else was stored away, which more than likely meant dangerous.
Knowing what little he did of his partners, it was probably something that would explode.
To the left of those trunks looked to be a crude toilet of some sort. An odd sight, but he assumed there was some reason for its presence, though, if he were to be honest, he could not imagine one…beyond the obviouse, that is. While he had not been with them for long, he had yet to see either of the two ever willingly leave the office, let alone the series of islands that he now called home, so Goodie wandered why the truck looked as if it was meant for long journeys.
Again on the left side of the vehicle, about a foot from the rear, was a wooden standing shelf that reached to the roof of the rear compartment, fully stocked with large cans.
“What’s stewgel?”
“Hm?” asked Frank, the man turning around, then turning back to follow where he was looking. “Oh…you don’t have that where you’re from?”
“Not by that name,” replied Goodie.
“Grabbing one of the cans and then handing it to him, Frank explained, “Old Man Sawyer’s Stewgel; That lot make a stew, then dehydrate it somehow, then mix up the remains into a gelatine that you just add to boiling water to get yourself a stew again.”
“Ugh…,” Goodie commented, the look on his face not a complimentary one as he imagined what such a concoction tasted like. The boy found it hard to care about anything after they had set the wolves on him, but that sounded positively revolting.
“It’s actually not half-bad,” Claimed Frank. “But you add this to some boiling water, and you’ll have enough to keep a decent sized group fed. And it’s cheap, and lasts yonks before you need to toss ‘em. It’s why we keep so many. Anything bad happens, and we’ve got enough to survive a year, or to help out in a disaster.”
Goodie nodded in understanding, but then asked, “But no medicine?”
“Hm? We’re not doctors.”
“Yeah, but bandages and such?”
“What about ‘em?”
“Shouldn’t you have a small medkit? With bandages and sowing needles for wounds and stuff? With how dangerous you and Donny keep making this whole line of work out to be, surely that would be a good idea? For flesh wounds and bleeding?”
“Kid,” Frank huffed as he strained to lift another duffel bag into the vehicle, “cuts and bruises aren’t the things we need to fear. If something happens, you’ll either be dead within seconds, or relatively unharmed. It’s rare that you’ll be somewhere between those two—even rare that you’ll be in a position to do anything about it.”
“Still, it’d be a good idea to have some.”
“Eh, if you feel like it, then sure, get some.”
Goodie had to remind himself that this was not his world. He had personally seen the effects of some of their method of healing, methods which allowed people who had been severely shot, burned and otherwise injured to be up and about mere moments later. The miraculous magic not getting them to a state of full recovery, true, but that was still beyond what even his world’s best medicine could accomplish.
Still, “always be prepared”—or whatever the boy scouts said. He would have to put together a basic medkit if he could, his knowledge of them being only what he could remember from media, most of which was his pressing of ‘E‘ as he sought to save the world from some alien invasion.
Goodie had already been meaning to assemble something for himself, but had just never had the time, or even knew where to start. Not just with the assembly, but with where to buy anything. While healing was more capable here thanks to magic, that in turn had hindered the medical industry, and pharmacies operating within the city far fewer than they were in his world, their inventories also far more restricted in what was available, the places little more than glorified storage for potions you chugged and tossed.
They continued to pack the bags into the back, Frank just shoving them into whatever space that would not see them rubbing against any of the sharp instruments on display.
As Alex handed Frank the last bag, he thanked the man without looking at him, turned to pack it as he had done the others, but stopped halfway as he realised who had handed it to him, Frank then doing a double take in surprise.
“The hell are you doing here?” he near shouted, more from having been surprised than anger.
Alexander was about to answer, but hesitated, looking to Goodie for confirmation. An action that Frank mimicked with a frown.
Rolling his eyes, Goodie looked to Frank and told him, “I told you three times, now, Frank…and you know I hate repeating myself?”
“I think I’d…”
“Frank,” Donny called out, holding up his hand, two fingers raised, the look on the man’s face stating that Frank would only lose this argument.
‘Right,’ Goodie remembered, ‘Donny had had heard him two of those three times.’
Frank bristled and huffed in frustration, but then visibly deflated. He turned back to finish packing, ignore the lot of them while he groused to himself.
“You all set?” Goodie asked Alex.
“Yeah, got everything,” the man replied, presenting a small case in his right hand. “Germain here?”
“Not ye…oh, there he is.”
Germain, the fourth of their number, slowly made his way to them from the other side of the street, the man visibly limping thanks to the crude artificial limb Goodie had purchased to replace what had been lost at the museum.
It was not of inferior quality for Goodie’s unwillingness to purchase something better for the man, but because it was literally the best that money could buy here, the limb an ornately carved piece of wood, fashioned in the image of what Germain had lost.
“Boss; Rodent,” the man greeted as he approached. “Others,” he then said as he addressed Frank and Donny.
There was no real coldness in his voice towards anyone here, other than that caused by the chill of the night air, the nearing approach of dawn sending the temperature further down for some reason. No, the man seemed to have forgiven Frank and Donny for their leaving him behind. It was not personal, and the man would be a hypocrite if he claimed that he would not have made the same choice himself.
Still, the man had lost his leg because of them, and he used that fact to keep them from responding to his constant ribbing.
As for why he called Alexander the Rodent like Frank and Donny did? Well, Alex had an attachment to the antagonistic nickname, for some reason, and preferred its use to that of his actual name.
After a brief round of nods and greetings, all five of them packed into the Beast, to then finally begin their journey.
Goodie had chosen to deposit himself in the very back set of seats, the truck’s front having three rows instead of the normal two. He did this because of the small aisle that ran between the first two rows separating the seats there. He wanted to lie down for the long journey, and it was only the very last of rows that would allow him to do this comfortably, that final row absent an isle, but there was a gap in the back rest far larger than it, the space created by it meant to allow one to use the small door there to enter the back of the truck without exposing yourself to whatever dangers that might lurk outside of the vehicle.
But he found himself too tired to sleep; Goodie was weird that way. Once he was awake, he was awake, no matter how tired he was or how little sleep he had gotten, so after sitting up, Goodie instead looked out the window.
The sight did not please him.
Old-fashioned buildings, like ones would see in some film noir or other black and white movie, stared back at him, their windows dark—most for the early hour, but some for having no access to the electricity he took for granted back on his original world.
No cars were present along the road either; such things meant only for the rich and the oddities, like Frank and Donny. So too were there nearly no people. As Beast rolled onwards, he would spot the occasional figure, someone hurrying off to work, or coming back from the night-shift, but they were few and far between. Were it not for those sightings, he might almost think the city dead, the place utterly devoid of life, human or otherwise, the night only absent of silence now thanks to the passing of the noisy truck he now rode in.
It was all too alien to him.
Even a small town would not be this silent, even in the early hours.
Too dark, too quiet, so absent of the chaos that his Earth had to offer.
That was not a complaint, mind you? In fact, he rather liked it. It was just that it felt too strange, too different.
As fast as the Beast was, and as free as it was now to race along without interruption, it would take them over an hour to reach the border guarding The Long Island.
A journey made all the longer for the Beast having no radio. They had them here, but the vehicle was of military origin and the military of this world had apparently deemed the addition of one an unnecessary excess, and neither Frank or Donny had bothered to rectify that situation. The two instead actually preferring to, ugh, talk to each other.
The Long Island, not Long Island; An odd similarity between his and this world, but Goodie supposed that there were only so many things you could call an island that was long. But that was the only similarity that he had come across so far, the City of New York here instead simply called the city. No, The City. A name it bore even when it was no larger or more populated than any of the small settlements that dotted this America.
Donny had told him that even if one of those settlements were to grow enough to form a second city—knock on wood—The City would still be called so; the heart of the new world, and what had once been hoped by the people here would have become the centre of the entire world, the virgin territories and their untouched resources having inflated the dreams of those who had initially founded everything.
The border they now approached was not one of states or countries, but of sectors—a necessity meant to ensure that some part of the human population could remain safe if the worst should happen. Though honestly, this border was more meant to divide the well-to-do who could afford to live in the isolated sector from the riffraff who could not.
One there, Donny had to stop and hand over a large volume of papers, ones they had needed to get from the Department of Central Processing, the security procedures in this world more than a match for any bureaucratic mess from his Earth, but was by and far—to his knowledge—less corrupt. Apparently, having a supernatural threat always looming over you made people just a little bit more honest.
‘Or perhaps this Earth was just better?’
Whatever the case, their time spent waiting for the highly professional and highly armed soldiers to verify and register their passing was no lesser for it.
The sun began rising by the time those guards let them through, the landscape soon bathed in a multitude of reds and oranges, the warmth of the light battling with the morning chill, giving rise to a morning mist that blanketed the fields on either side of the road they now travelled down as the world began to resurrect from the death of night.
The Long Island was far less alien to him, the greenery and smaller housing closer to what he would have seen on his Earth, but it was no less harsh to his eyes, the contrast between the more open areas and the city behind him too great for him to easily adjust to. Especially after having spent so long without seeing such a thing, such greenery.
They had some gardens at the asylum, but those were mere mockeries of true nature. Pampered pets in comparison with the untamed wild Goodie now zipped past.
Not that Goodie was into nature by any means. No, he did not hate it, but Goodie would always prefer that the bugs and plants—and whatever else may be lurking in this world’s magic infested greenery—keep a respectful distance from him.
Instead of taking in the sight, though, he attempted to try to sleep again; it would still take several hours to get there; Several hours of either silence, or several hours of listening to a bunch of old men gossip.
…
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“…so I got a cousin down near the Border,” Frank went on, “works for the military. Not a soldier; works in one of their workshops. Anyways, he says that they're prepping for something big…’making another push’ kinda big?”
“You say that like it’s a good thing?” Germain remarked.
“How’s it not? Things get cheaper, people get happier—at least until they screw up—and crime always drops when they do.”
“Yeah, because the military grabs up anyone they can get.”
“So?” Frank asked, confusion furrowing his brow.
“They take all the kids stupid enough to sign on with them, then who we going to get to replace all the people who died in the museum? Reason why jobs pay more is because there’s no one else to do ‘em.”
“Exactly! We get more jobs, and more money for ‘em. Win-win.”
Germain Rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner as withdrew from the conversation then, the man realising that he and Frank were of just too different a mind set for him to get the fool to understand the obvious.
Unfortunately for him, Frank was all too eager to continue the conversation. Thankfully, the man was interrupted as Donny asked, “Gentlemen, please? I’m trying to read where to go.” the man holding up a mess of what was either a paper map, or this world’s first exposure to modern art.
“We’re still an hour away from Garden’s Keep; just keep straight on this road, then an hour after that, you’ll find Bastionport,” Alexander informed him.
“Used to live here, did you?” Donny asked sarcastically.
“Yes.”
Donny made to say something in return, but stopped short as he and everyone else sensed that the Rodent had not merely been talking back, but had been sincere in his reply.
The Long Island was for the rich, and the Rodent…was not.
It happened, of course, but to see someone having fallen so far was not pleasant to any of them. Only the truly cruel would find humour in such a thing.
They rode in silence for several seconds before Frank put his foot in his own mouth by asking, “So…you grew up here, hey?”
Donny and Germain wanted to slap the fool, while Goodie just watched, not having the context the others did to fully understand what was going on.
“No; moved here when Janey got pregnant with the girls.”
To fall from such a height was bad enough, but to have first risen to it first and then fall was just so, so much worse. Even Frank was not so thick-headed as to push things further than he already had. Unfortunately, his mouth was not, the shock of discovering that the Rodent, of all people, had earned his way into the upper-classes, when he had spent most of his life barely able to rub two coins together, left Frank’s mind reeling.
“How the hell did someone like you get all the way up here?!”
“Used to be a lawyer, Frank,” Alexander answered in a humble tone.
“Frank,” Donny called out to his partner before the man could again go on.
“Ho…?”
“Frank!”
“No,” Frank shot back, turning to Donny as he did, “this is important now!”
Frank turned back to the man, saying “Ho…,” before breaking off once more, turning to Goodie to explain, “Yeah, Goodie; Layers aren’t just a rich man’s lot, they're connected with the government, so they don’t lose their job unless they really screwed up…meaning your friend here annoyed some really powerful people.”
As he did this, Alexander and Germain both frowned in confusion, not understanding why Frank was explaining the obvious. Neither of them would disparage Goodie for his age—mostly because he was technically their boss—but though he was young, he was also almost an adult, and should have already known this?
Frank and Donny had had them sign the appropriate documents, what Goodie had called a non-disclosure agreement, to ensure their silence on everything, but they had refrained from broaching the subject of Goodie’s particular origin—mostly for the doubt that either of the two would actually believe them—so the two men were still in the dark on that matter.
But any questions of theirs took a back seat to Frank’s, “Now, what’s the deal?”
With a melancholic smile, Alexander tipped his head and asked, “You ever hear of Kathleen Morrison?”
“You were her lawyer?!”
That came from Germain, not Frank. Everyone but Goodie and Alexander shared in the shock of that revelation, to then be nearly be floored by Alexander’s correction.
“I was her prosecutor.”
But for the incessant growl of the Beast’s primitive engine, you could have heard a pin drop.
Goodie was the only one who was still not in the know of things, looking from face to face as he watched everything unfold.
Frank opened his mouth…and then closed it, repeating the motion once more before simply turning around.
A moment passed, the atmosphere of awkwardness only thickening as time moved. Noting his continuing ignorance, Alexander turned to him than and, breaching the heavy silence, told Goodie, “Kathleen Morrison was a notorious black widow, boss. Could employ some sort of enchantment, like we do—ensorcelled those around her. That she was beautiful didn’t exactly hinder her efforts, either. The government wanted her dealt with, but she was too connected; had to do things by the law, or the political fallout would have been, and was, immense. Almost caused a civil war. or so some say”
“She charmed you,” Goodie guessed.
Alex shook his head.
“Government made sure the entire court was protected. No; all my life I wanted to be a hero, a protector of the weak, the defender of justice. But working for the government…well, it often left me feeling as if I was doing the opposite, sullying what should have been sacred. …and when she came a long.”
Alexander sighed.
“Well…I was so convinced that she was innocent and pure that…well, I had to be the hero who saved her.”
The man laughed at that, his moustache wiggling as his mouth turned upward.
Goodie sensed that it was either that or cry.
“So,” he concluded, “she charmed you the old-fashioned way?”
Alexander snorted at that.
“I charmed myself. I was so deluded by the idea of her, that I could not see the reality right in front of me. And for the crime of trying to come to her rescue, I lost everything that I should have been protecting. My career, my status, my home, the woman I loved…I can’t even see my children unless I can get the cash to square off the alimony I owe her.”
The man seemed to lose himself then, staring out the window at something only he could see.
Another moment of silence passes then, this one lasting far longer.
“Alex,” Goodie started, “you know trees?”
“Kid…,” Donny warned him from up front, though there was no real strength to his words. Another world was earth-shattering, yes, but there was no real emotion connected to that particular revelation. Alexander’s confession, however, was…closer to home, and thus far more impactful. Compared to it, what Goodie was about to tell him, seemed…lacking.
Looking to Donny in confusion for a moment, Alexander saw the man give Frank a tired look, Frank just shrugging in turn before both men turned frontward to look at the road.
Turning back, still confused, Alex answered Goodie with, “Uh…yes?”
“And do you know the universe? Creation, whatever you want to call it?”
“Uh, what I’ve seen of it, yes?”
“And you do you know about the experiments that the Department of Higher Understanding gets up to?”
“Yeees?” the man repeated, growing all the more confused. An emotion mimicked by Germain, who listened to them from his pulled down hat, his left eye peering out from under the brim.
“Well,” Goodie started, “there is, in fact, not one reality, but multiple such existences, branching out like a tree—the branches or the roots. Or both. One of the D.H.U.’s experiments brought me in from my Earth, hence my stupidity when it comes to everything here.”
Like Frank had done earlier, Alexander opened and closed his mouth a few times, but said nothing, returning his stare back to the window opposite him, mostly to avoid having to reply, his brain still processing the nonsense that Goodie had just told him.
As everyone else turned away from him, Goodie looked to the only man who had not, Germain looking around at all the others, the man obviously wandering what sort of madness he had stumbled into.
Goodie tried to convey that if he had anything to add to the round of confessions, that now was the time to speak.
Seeming to sense this, Germain said, “Don’t look at me; I’m normal.”
The two hours it took to reach Bastionport were spent mostly in silence, the atmosphere too strange for Alexander’s revealing of what must have been an extremely vulnerable part of himself to them, and the absurdity of what Goodie had said. As if adults working for and with a teen were not already weird in itself.
Frank and Donny preferred to ignore the situation entirely. Alex, or the Rodent as they called him, was not their problem, nor was Germain, and with Frank’s visit to Higher Understanding revealing that the Department was not too concerned with the boy’s origin coming to light, the two’s only concern was for all the types of crazies that could come out of the woodwork because of it.
They were, however, forced to give at least a minimal confirmation of Goodie’s legitimacy, or at least confirmation of his sanity, later on when they stopped for a bite to eat; each man separately coming to them in private in a failed attempt to be subtle about their doubt in him.
Goodie could only judge things by what he could determine from their body language, but it was obvious that their minds were not settled by whatever Frank and Donny had had to say to them.
It was a small café that they had stopped at, just on the outskirts of the town, a delightful little place that made its business by catering to the people like them who were coming into the town after a long journey from the border, or to it. Though Goodie imagined that such people were, more often than not, tourists, and not a group of dishevelled freelancers jumping up and kicking at random to work the life back into their numbed limbs.
Bastionport was originally just a means to help the local population subsist on fishing, and also to act as an emergency harbour for when a storm at sea would cause the more developed ports nearby to become overloaded with ships seeking sanctuary.
But at as time passed on, and the rich claimed The Long Island for themselves, the area had been developed into a marina of sorts for their personal vessels, with various other seaside attractions present to amuse or—if you went more towards the south end of it, titillate.
They even had a very small rollercoaster there, which utterly amazed Goodie. He had always thought that they were a more modern creation. Well, like nineteen-fifties modern…or something like that, not of a time where electricity was barely present.
This world had not developed like his one, not entirely. The threat of not being the dominant lifeform—well, if the supernatural could be counted as life, that is—and the lack of resources because of that sad state resulting in the stifling of humanity’s development.
He only had had television to really base his opinion on, Goodie more inclined towards what might come than what had already passed, but what little he had seen of this place had left him feeling as if the culture was stuck between the Victorian era and the roaring twenties, as if people of the eighteen-twenty had been told what their descendants a hundred years later would be getting up to, and as a reaction to that knowledge had attempted to cosplay as them.
The clothing was off, the building styles familiar, but not quite, and the vehicles—what few exited—like nothing he had ever seen in any mobster movie.
None of them were in the mood to sit down to eat, especially not after getting the eye from some of the café’s other patrons, but returning to the confines of the Beast’s interior was equally undesired, so they stood there, using the large vehicle to protect them from the rising wind as they dug into a number of rolls and a few sodas they had brought from the elderly couple who owned the place.
The soda’s, each in a glass bottle rather than a plastic one or a tin can as he was more used to, were again something that was close to being from his world’s, but were also no—just on the cusp of familiar but feeling alien for that near replication—each tasting like some new, off-brand product. Not that he was complaining, mind you. Goodie did not know what he would have done if they had no junk food in this world. It was caffeinated, which was all that he truly desired from the stuff.
Inside the rolls was a mixture of slices of ham with olives worked into them and an assortment of varying types of thinly sliced cheeses—along with something that Goodie could not quite place, the taste triggering some memory that simply refused to come forth.
They bought near a crate’s worth of them, far more than they could attempt to eat here. For all that they had packed into the rear, no one had thought about what they would be eating for supper tonight. There were the cans of that stew gelatine stuff, but for all that Frank insisted on the decency of the stuff, none of the others seemed as keen as he, so Goodie was forced to revert to his original impression of the contents of those cans in the back as being something best avoided.
After finishing, but before heading to the Black Cherry place, they first had to meet with the agent in charge of the estate, the actual owners wanting little to do with what Goodie assumed was a huge money sink for them, the property avoided by any potential for its bad reputation, but far too valuable to just shed themselves of.
A rather pleasant man but the name of Henry Richardson, but beyond that, there was little to note of him, other than the information he provided them with. After registering their attendance, Frank received some keys and a small brochure from the man; both of which Donny immediately took into his possession—the act nearly starting another childish argument between the two. He had reasons to, and Frank did not disagree with them, so Goodie now knew to tune out to gruff words passed between the two, the argument the type of teasing that came about because of years of genuine friendship. As socially inept as he was, Goodie knew enough to not intrude on such a thing.
An opinion both Alexander and Germain seemed to agree with, both also choosing to observe the surrounding town.
Germain for the novelty of rarely getting to rub shoulders with the well-to-do, and Alexander for…well, that was probably something else that Goodie would do best to stay out of.
The Black Cherry Estate was an enormous affair; a near twenty minutes’ drive outside of Bastionport, and a near minute’s drive after entering it just for them to reach the mansion itself. The place looked to be a cross between an old-world castle and an ornate, new-world mansion, the land it was built upon both huge and lush with life, the border of the property lined with large trees bearing the fruit the property took its name from, the black cherries of such a size and perfection that Goodie could only compare them with those tacky glass and wax decorations from his world that never looked like anything but a gross exaggeration of the real thing they attempted to depict.
Several stories tall, its exterior was built of thick, roughly carved, grey stone walls that left him feeling colder than last night’s air. Goodie could see enormous towers of similar construct rising out of the tiled roof like icebergs out of a black ocean, a particularly big one then catching his attention.
“The keep,” Frank told him, after noticing his interest. “With all the danger in this world, those who can afford to build themselves a little castle to keep themselves and their loved ones safe if worse comes to worst.”
Germain snorted, but said nothing.
Goodie looked from him to Frank again, question the man with a look.
“Places are a slaughter. Things that could be kept out by a building like that are generally not the type of things that cause the colony’s defences a problem, so if something’s already gotten inside, its rare that more stone walls can do anything but keep you in with whatever’s after you,” Frank explained.
Germain nodded in confirmation.
Perhaps the original builders knew of that flaw, or perhaps they were just stupid—but whatever the case, the gigantic stone walls of the mansion sported equally large windows, the interior no doubt near fully illuminated with the light of the day. Why bother spending so much on the security yet put in an obvious fault like that?
It would only be much later on that he could get an answer, a closer inspection revealing that the bars of the windows were made from an unusually thick steel, each bar nearly as thick as his arm, if not as wide, with each of the frames they supported also being of a far, far thicker make, each pane barely a one-foot rectangle in size.
Frank and Donny had yet to actually get him started on magic and monsters—a conversation he was still meaning to bring up with them—so Goodie did not know how such windows would fare against the things that the people of this world seemed to fear. But judging from the lack of any proper reaction to those portals, he imagined that they would either fare rather well, or were not of such a foolish make as to be worth anyone’s time to mock.
Donny parked the truck several metres from the entrance; though that might have been too misleading a word for it, the man simply bringing the Beast to a stop in the middle of the driveway with little regard to how the odd position would impede anyone else who might arrive from getting near the place.
…or how it would keep others already here in.
There was a car in front of them; it was hard to see it fully with everyone else in front of him, but as he exited the vehicle Goodie saw a long, tan-coloured vehicle—a four-seater, with the rear seats overladen with random equipment, whose nature he could not even begin to guess at. The boot was likewise overly stuffed, a thin green rope being the only thing keeping everything within from bursting out.
A man and woman were standing in front of it, both giving them a wave as the came out. The man in his mid to late thirties, the woman in her twenties, both possessed brown hair and eyes, but did not look as if they were related to each other.
At least he hoped not. The way the woman was not so subtly touching the man was…yeah, best not to go there.
“Sullivan and company?” the man called out.
“That’s us,” Frank replied casually, “Mr. Boxley, I presume?”
“Please, call me Peter….oh, and company,” the man answered with a laugh as the woman nudged him, “My assistant, Ms. Clapton.”
The woman introduced herself, asking them to call her “Heather”.
It was not the end of the introduction; Frank, Donny, and the man then going into detail about what the man and his assistant hoped to do here, and what would be required of the five of them.
He should have been listening, and normally he would have, stress driving him to overly obsessive about whatever the man had to say, but since being bitten by the wolf, Goodie found it hard to get worked up about anything anymore, his mind blessedly peaceful. It was not that he was bored, or he was dismissive of the value of what was said, it was that he literally found it difficult to care. Instead, he found himself looking around, observing the house some more while he wondered as to whether or not he could grab one of those sodas they had brought with them.
It was then, in the dark of one of the third-floor windows, that Goodie saw a shadow move. That movement was both slight and brief, the figure vanishing before he could even confirm that it was, in fact, a person, and not some figment of his imagination. It might have been, but he had seen too many horror movies to play the idiot.
“Hey? There anyone else here?” he asked gruffly, Goodie’s tone intentionally antagonistic to grab everyone’s attention.
“Uh…yes,” Boxley answered, “My other assistant, Eric Hartley. He should be surveying the interior for a place for us to set up our equipment.”
“I take it by ‘He’, this assistant is male?”
“Naturally…,” the man answered, confusion lacing his tone, only for Donny to interrupt before he could go on.
“You see something?”
“Third-floor window; a woman…I think. All I saw was a shadow.”
Frank and the rest did not question him, not with the memories of the last old building that had shadows running around them still haunting their nightmares.
Mr. Boxley, however, was of a different opinion.
“Fascinating…you needn’t concern yourself, gentlemen; the entire estate has been thoroughly tested. Nothing scarier here than the local wildlife.”
Goodie did not comment. He saw what he saw, but it felt like it would be childish to say so.
“Oh, please, don’t get me wrong, young man; I’m certain you did see something. That’s actually why we’re here…,” the man began.
The uncertainty of the situation was then undermined as the man, the professor, began to waffle on about the exciting field of psychology and how he believed the reputation of the Black Cherry Estate was due to a series of unfortunate events that, when brought together, culminated into what the people of his Earth would call and urban myth.
To make matters worse, Frank and the others had taken the opportunity to escape by offering to help the Ms. Clapton carry the equipment inside, leaving him to his sorry fate.
…which was just fine.
It was not the apathy talking; if there was something was in there, then it was by better to be out here, bored or not. Frank and them would serve as early warning, their bloody screams able to echo out far and wide in the clear and near silent surrounding.
Not that he was bitter for those bastards leaving him to his current fate, of course.
As the man beside him kept talking, his need to breathe seemingly suspended for a time, Goodie could not help but think, ‘Good gods, this guy’s boring.’