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’. 

Irene clutches her bag to her side tightly, 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. 

“I can’t believe they would have found it already…” Barely a whisper, Irene’s voice creeps out from her lips. She backs away slowly from the building, repeating the name of the street under her breath. She stops short, for just a moment, when the sound of tapping on glass comes from the storefront. 

At this distance the mist is making it hard for her to make out the store, and rather than getting close she continues to proceed away from the building, leaving it behind in the fog.
The small 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.

-

Her fast pace slows upon approaching a 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 Irene’s brow, the cigarette being burned 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.” 

Irene 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, Irene moves to a small 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. She begins lowering herself through as fast as possible. Not quite getting wedged in and stuck, she pulls through her tools that she left on the other side, and turns to the room, the dim light barely giving a silhouetted glimpse.

Luckily, it appears empty. She lets out her held breath and lights a small 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 nearly snuff the small light she holds. 

It's eerily quiet, Irene shivers as she approaches the door, a pressure in the air getting more uncomfortable as the top of the extremely narrow staircase grows closer. It is an uncomfortable and slow walk up this staircase, the walls coming so close as to touch each shoulder of Irene as she presses onward, the discomfort growing stronger with each bated step. By the time she makes it to the landing, she has a mask tightly worn over her mouth and nose. 

It spreads out slightly 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 seems open, although the staunched light of her lantern refusing 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. Taking a deep breath and focusing doggedly on the open door in front, Irene holds her belongings tightly to her chest and quickly strides through the hall as fast as she can, not even noticing that stood just beyond the open room to the right, hidden by the oppressive shadow, is a stock still silhouette of an extremely thin man, facing the wall. 

Fresh air, greeting Irene happily as she near-runs halfway into the street, the tension of that house behind her, she quickly takes stock of her surroundings, ripping the mask off.

Dr Bentley is standing in the dark, cold air of Queens Street, when the bright light of a lantern comes bursting out from one of the abandoned houses down the road, the figure of what could only be Irene doubling over holding it. He chuckles briefly and starts to jog over to her, his scarf trailing behind. 

“Ms Baxter, are you quite alright?” His soft tone cutting 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.” He takes a moment to steady himself. “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 two small 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 need be.”

The house in question is heavily boarded, its bricks painted an off white, stained by years of rain and disuse. The front door is marked up, signs of scratching and cracking around its edges. Its handle is broken clean off, Bentley is 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.”

Bentley gingerly takes the handle first 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 Bentley’s umbrella, and the smell of old settled dust wafting out. It’s dark, chokingly so, the moonlight barely enters the place. It appears like an empty foyer, 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 an old light wood, the stairs leading up with a slightly rotten runner of dull green. The hallway opens immediately to the left with an archway which appears to lead to a drawing room that has furniture covered with sheets. The hall ends with a closed door and a corner that turns right past the end of the stairs.

The first step in by Dr Bentley is accompanied by a long-drawn-out creak as his weight shifts the old wooden floorboards, which freezes both him and Irene almost immediately. The echoing silence of the house continues without skipping a beat, and the doctor takes another step, another short creak as he removes his weight from the offending board. Irene follows closely, although actively avoiding making the same mistake, and steps off to one side.

“I think it best we stay together.” She whispers, flicking the last of her cigarette back into the street. “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 immediate unpleasant feeling, although the feel abates swiftly as Bentley quietly removes the slightly crusty 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 carefully 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 stopping makes the silence around them even louder. His breath begins to rapidly increase in speed as a bite of fear takes him by surprise, although impressively enough his initial reaction was not panic, but to begin charging the lantern immediately.

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

Bentley finishes cranking the small handle on his lantern, making as little noise as possible, and makes a fist around the small red gem in his pocket.

The stairs up are narrow, with multiple places showing clear marks of missing paintings or frames along the right-hand wall. The dim light of the lantern in Irene’s faintly quaking hand peeks over the landing carefully before she comes to a sharp stop and places her hand to her waist in a start. On the wall opposite stands a tall, thin shape, obscured by a stained sheet. It does not appear to be moving, and so she approaches the landing carefully with her arm outstretched before rapidly pulling the sheet off in one motion.

“Of course.” She lets out with a long sigh. “Why would they have left a seemingly valuable grandfather clock?”

“Especially considering that so far there hasn’t been a single painting or family portrait left on any walls.” Bentley responds. “Could it have been too heavy for them, leaving in a hurry?”

“Well, regardless that shook me quite badly, but let us have a look about upstairs fast, I could do with resting for the night as soon as possible.” Irene lights her last cigarette and takes a long drag. “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, giving a harsh claustrophobia for Dr Bentley as he needs to lower his head to walk around up here. There only appears to be a small landing with a plain green carpet and two light wooden doors to the immediate left and one straight ahead, next to the clock. 

There is a pervasive smell of damp up here, clear signs of water damage in the corners of the ceiling. Dr Bentley leans forward and pushes the door in front open, revealing a young boy’s room, with a baby blue wallpaper covering the walls, although mould running up the walls in streaks takes away from it. 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, facing the now open door. 

Bentley’s eyes scan the details of the room before walking to the teddy. It is slightly off-putting to see as its two button eyes 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 loud thump and some shuffling echoes in the house behind them, sounding close. Both move with rapid purpose to either side of the door, Irene shining her lantern out into the hallway.