Chapter 4 - A Cold Home

Irene stands frozen outside of the store, the fog hiding the street behind her. The door is closed, with a message pinned to it in scratched writing.

‘DON’T ENTER, GO QUEENS STRT’.

Clutching her bag to her side tightly, she steps parallel to the window, refusing to get any closer, trying to see if she can see anything of the inside. The thick curtains still shroud any visual of the interior.

“Surely they couldn’t have found it already…” Barely a whisper, her husky voice creeps out from her lips. She backs away slowly from the building, repeating the name of the street under her breath. Stopping short, for just a moment, when the sound of tapping on glass resounds from the storefront.

At this distance the mist is obfuscating the store, and rather than getting close she continues to proceed away from the building, leaving it behind in the fog.
The glow of a lit cigarette lights her face as she strides further down-town, the tremors in her hands fading with each exhaled breath of smoke clouding the air in front.

-

She slows upon approaching the wooden barricade that blocks off the street, manned by a uniform-adorned police officer, his helmet under his arm. He steps forward, his short, cropped hair laden with sweat, holding up his hand to halt Irene upon her approach.

“Sorry, Ma’am, this block is quarantined by order of the Mayweather Estate, if you live here I suggest you head immediately to a physician to get yourself checked out.” His rough voice is not harsh but carries an officer’s firmness.

“It’s quite alright, Officer, I actually work for the Estate.”

“Apologies again, Ma’am, I have been informed not to let anyone in.”

Irritation prickles across her brow, the cigarette burning in from the sharp intake of breath.  “Very well, could you at least tell me if a tall, thin man with glasses came through here? He might’ve introduced himself as Bentley.”

“Oh right, I believe I saw a man that fits that description approach the cordon before I started my shift, he should have been warned off much the same.”

“Perfect, thank you for your assistance. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

She retreats back down the street, just far enough that she can be sure the dense fog has obscured her from the vision of the policeman, before ducking down an alley between two of the cordoned off buildings. It seems that in an attempt to quarantine the spread of this ‘infection,’ the police have barricaded the alleys and boarded off the windows of the houses.

However, this fact not slowing her, she moves to a window toward the base of one of the houses, so low to the floor that it could only lead to a basement of sorts. She pulls out a pry-bar and sets about removing the boards that are strapped across the length of it. Upon removal she places them down ever so gently, eyeing the darkness of the room beyond nervously. Not only is it very dimly lit from the moonlight streaming in, the window itself is a tight squeeze, meaning she will have to lower herself in feet first, blind to what is beyond.

She takes a few long drags of a new cigarette, finding the courage to go through, before flicking the butt off into the street. Using her hands, now steady through the ritual of her nicotine, she lowers her legs through. The tight space bites into her shoulders but, with only the slightest discomfort, she forces herself through to drop inside. From the darkness of the space, her hand reaches back through to grab the tools. Her clothes now dishevelled, Irene turns to the room, the dim light barely giving a silhouetted glimpse.

Luckily, it appears empty. She lets out her held breath and lights her hand-held lantern swiftly; revealing the room to be a washroom, with a single door leading out; slightly ajar with murky darkness beyond it. That darkness is almost oppressive, as she approaches it seems to try and snuff the light she holds.

She moves forward, her breath hitching as an unsettling pressure in the air grows with each step. It’s stairs, leading up to the next floor, extremely narrow and disconcerting as the lantern barely reveals the top step. A prolonged creak calls out as her heel digs into the stairs, although she doesn’t hesitate, pressing onward. The walls close in to her sides as the floor above approaches, the sound of wind rattling boards in the house causing her to let out an unconsciously held breath. The next inhale seems to catch something unpleasant, as her sharp nose turns up, and her eyes begin to water. By the time she makes it to the landing, she has a mask tightly worn over her face.

It spreads out on the landing, into a long hall with an open front door at the far end, multiple rooms to each side, most closed off, one on the right-hand side that is open, although the staunched light of her lantern refuses to press through that consuming portal.

As she goes to take her first step, an audible creak sounds from the room ahead of her to the right, stopping her in her tracks. Her eyes seem almost to glaze over as a few moments pass without blinking, both trained on where that sound originated from. Another creak, although it is less like wood moving, and more resembling the sound you may hear just before a strip of leather snaps from overstretching. Her breath catches, her skin bristling as the house grows quieter again, waiting for anything to happen. Another breeze rattles the boards, causing her to flinch and rush in her sudden discomfort, she holds her belongings tightly to her chest and strides through the hall. Not even noticing that stood just beyond the open room to the right, hidden by the shadow, is a stock still silhouette of a man facing the wall.

Fresh air greets her happily as she near-runs halfway into the street, the tension of that house behind her. Her head flicks from side to side as she takes stock of her surroundings, ripping the mask off in a huff.

Only a short distance away, Andrew is standing in the middle of the street. He turns as Irene is catching her breath, spotting her. His lips part with a smile, chuckling to himself as he starts to jog over to her, his scarf trailing behind.

“Ms Baxter, are you quite alright? You nearly went over.” A soft tone, brimming with suppressed humour, cuts through her heaving breaths.

“Oh, Dr Bentley” She breathes with a start. “Are you alright? What happened at the shop? Why are we here?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know. I’m scared. I found something in my notes that suggests one of my own previous patients might have been involved in something to do with these Burning Shards, and was about to leave to come investigate when I noticed that the door, that I’m sure you locked, was ajar.” The half-smile drops as he speaks, perhaps as he is reminded of the reality he is in. “And so, I left, locked the door again behind me and came straight here, I had to bribe the officer to get in with my food change from Ida.”

“Oh, which house is the patient from? I’m assuming somewhere down here?”

“It’s this two-story, I remember it because I had visited here previously after I first met him, but I was not allowed inside.”

They begin strolling down the street as they chat, the sallow darkness of the night held at bay by the paired lights of their lanterns.

“I’m just wondering if perhaps Charles’ parents and his family home may have some answers to all this, all I know of his parents before they went missing was that they were odd, introverted people who avoided social integration, according to the best accounts of neighbours, although it seems that said neighbours are long gone.”

“I mean, according to that they would perfectly fit the bill for previous cult members we’ve come across. Although those were unrelated to this specific cult, we have never actually spoken to or met one from the Burning Shards. They have proved incredibly elusive.” Lighting another cigarette quickly and exhaling a long and tired sigh, Irene continues “I digress, let’s check this out quickly and find somewhere to sleep, we can always come back in the morning if needs be.”

The house in question is heavily boarded, its bricks painted an off white, stained by years of rain. The front door is marked up, signs of scratching and cracking around its edges. Its handle is broken clean off, Andrew framed against it as he slowly pushes it open with an umbrella. He stops sharply as Irene grips his arm from behind.

“Before we go in, take this, just in case.” She says, brandishing a small brass knife. “It might not help but it’s better than nothing. And wear one of these masks too, to be safe.”

Bentley quickly pulls the mask over his mouth and nose before gingerly taking the handle from her, eyeing it cautiously before slipping it into a belt loop. “Do I want to ask?”

“Likely not.” With a harsh drag and flick of faintly glowing ash.

The old door eases open with the barest push of his umbrella, and old, settled dust catches the sudden movement in a flurry. An empty foyer, covered in a layer of dust, with a set of stairs leading up out of sight immediately to the right-hand side.

The walls of this hall are covered by torn, striped and pale blue wallpaper, the floor is light wood, the stairs that lead up are covered with a runner of dull green. The foyer opens immediately to the left with an archway which appears to lead to a drawing room that contains furniture covered with sheets.

Andrew’s first step inside is accompanied by a long-drawn-out creak as his weight shifts the floorboards, freezing them both in place. The echoing silence of the house continues without skipping a beat, and he takes a further step, disturbed by another short creak as he removes his weight from the offending board. Irene follows closely, although actively avoiding making the same mistake, stepping off to one side.

“I think it best we stay together.” She whispers, flicking the last of her cigarette back into the street, pulling the mask back up. “We are looking for signs of occult research or activity, and obviously any danger and we prioritise running.”

“Irene, this building is obviously abandoned, what would be dangerous here?”

“I don’t know, but I’d really rather not take any risks.”

Their hushed tones grow even quieter as they move to the drawing room. The off-white misshapen lumps in this room give an unpleasant impression, although that abates as Andrew removes a crusted sheet from a musty green lounge chair in the centre of the room.

“I’ll be truthful, I don’t much like the green.”

“Jokes, right now doctor?”

“It wasn’t a joke, but I get your point, my apologies.”

They search the drawing room with its mostly bare décor and comfortably come to the swift conclusion that this room, if it had anything interesting in it to start with, has been thoroughly emptied since.

“Whoever cleared this place out was in a hurry to leave, there are still empty boxes left over in the corner.” Irene observes, Andrew nodding in response.

Moving to the stairs once again, the light of Andrew’s lantern suddenly dims and then goes out, and the almost imperceptible faint hum it was giving off fades, making the silence around them even louder. His breath begins to increase in speed as his hands shake from the sudden bite of fear, although impressively enough his initial reaction was not panic, but to begin charging the lantern despite the quaking of his hands.

“Well done, I’ll lead for a bit.” Irene comforts him, gripping his stiff shoulder as she passes him on the stair.

Finishing cranking the lever on his lantern, making as little noise as possible, he curls his longer fingers around the small red gem in his pocket and follows.

The stairs up are narrow, with multiple places showing off-colour marks of missing paintings or frames along the right-hand wall. The light of the lantern in Irene’s hand just begins to peek over the landing before she comes to a sharp stop. Slipping her free hand back down to her thigh, her dress bulges as she makes a fist around something inside a well-hidden pocket. On the wall opposite stands a shape, about a head taller than her and obscured by a stained sheet. It does not appear to be moving, not even a breeze shifting the hanging cloth. She climbs the last few steps, cresting the landing, her hand withdrawing from her dress and reaching out to the cloth. Andrew is only a short distance behind her, his head craning awkwardly to see around her. A soft rustle as her fingers catch the material, she drags it toward herself in one swift motion.

“Of course.” She lets out a long sigh. “Why would they have left what I would have to assume to be a valuable grandfather clock?”

“Especially considering that so far there hasn’t been a single painting or family portrait left on any walls.” Andrew closes up to stand next to her, his face painted with relief. “Could it have been too heavy for them, leaving in a hurry?”

“Well, regardless that was just… unpleasant. Let’s have a look about the rest of this place fast, I could do with resting for the night as soon as possible.” Irene pulls out what appears to be her last cigarette, eyeing it longingly and gesturing to Andrew with it. “And I could do with some more of these.”

The top floor of this house appears to be built into the roof, as the ceiling is heavily slanted at a near forty-five-degree angle, forcing Andrew to lower his head a little to walk around up here. There only appears to be a landing with a plain green carpet and two doors, both closed over.

There are signs of water damage in the corners of the ceiling, the air heavy with damp. Andrew leans forward and pushes the door in front open, revealing a young boy’s room, with baby blue wallpaper covering the walls, although mould running up the walls in streaks takes away from the innocence. In the corner is a small, wood-framed bed with a moth-eaten mattress hanging off one side, and a ratty teddy bear sat atop it that faces the now open door.

His cocoa-brown eyes scan the details of the room before he walks to the teddy. It is a little off-putting to see the two buttons that appear to have been pulled most of the way out, hanging by a thread. He rotates it in his hand and reads aloud.

“Charles Junior.” With a single breath he whispers the name. “That poor boy, it was haunting to see such fear in someone so young.”

A clattering impact echoes in the house behind them, sounding close. Both move with purpose to either side of the door, Irene holding her lantern out into the hallway.