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The Lonely is a dusty, rickety old building, and though each creak of rotted, grey wood sounds like the forlorn cry of a person, it does nothing but to remind you that you are all alone, that these rafters are empty of life, these support-beams devoid of human touch, the black mold crawling up the concrete wall a hostile threat to your sentience and being.
Elias shivers as he steps down stairs that groan and moan with the intent to collapse, but they don’t. They don’t, because it’s as though he weighs nothing in this place, is nothing, is merely a ghost or a spirit intruding upon a memory. He can’t remember how he got here; he just knows he needed to save Peter, and suddenly, with will alone, he was in the attic of a forlorn and melancholy house, the only structures keeping it together being the pain and despair that had seeped into its supports years and years ago.
“Peter?” He calls, but he gets no response, and he isn’t expecting one. The stairs trail from the attic to the second floor to the first, winding and groaning all the way, and the bannister beneath his trembling hand is splintered. There isn’t much color, here; everything is muted, soft. The house seems to sigh with a wind outside that shouldn’t exist, and he supposes that perhaps, perhaps, they are the only living beings on the planet.
Of course, that’s what it wants him to think. This isn’t a place that is real, not in any meaningful way of the term, and Elias knows that. But it doesn’t stop the drifting fog from seeping into his mind. It doesn’t stop the cobwebs that blanket the crown of his head whenever his tall frame stepped into a corner he shouldn’t have, on his way down.
Blackwood is sitting quietly at the kitchen table, sipping tea that should not exist. His smile, curved around the mug, watches as Elias steps down into the main kitchen, and when he pulls it away, there’s a kindness to his eyes that Elias knows is false, knows is meant to ensnare and placate. A polite smile for the entertainment of hopefully polite prey.
“Are you looking for something, Elias? You could-- You know, you could come sit. I can put on another pot?” He’s the only thing here with any color, a bright splash of red and blue upon his jumper, and it does nothing more than to make Elias feel all the more muted, all the more impenetrable from the real world.
“No, I--” There’s a worming, crawling sensation in the base of his skull as Martin looks at him, and Elias tears his eyes away, the unsettling truth of Knowing curling in his belly; if he sits, he won’t get up. If he sits, Martin will ensnare him and the loneliness of this house will wrap him tight as a cocooned bug, its energy being sucked slowly from it by proverbial fangs and venom.
Elias jerks away from the kitchen table, and towards another doorway, the light from deep in its guts weak, and fluttering, and old. He Knows this is the right way.
Martin sighs, and turns in his seat, the feet of the chair screeching across old, unvarnished and cracking wood. Who let this house become such a festering wound upon the earth? Could anyone live here and survive the ordeal? Elias watches him brush a spiderweb from his shoulder, and his gaze is icy, even if his words are pleasant, soft, lulling. “You can try, I suppose. But I don’t think he’ll want to leave. Might be best for you-- You know, you to stay, too. I just-- I just really don’t want to see you extend all that… energy? For nothing. Just wouldn’t be fair to you?”
He has a way of uplilting the ends of his sentences, as though his care and concern was your idea, your suggestion that he’s working through, and Elias can recognize it, even as it feels natural, right, good. Maybe Martin is right. Maybe it’s useless. Maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe Peter wants to stay here. Maybe--
Elias jerks out of his reverie, and Martin has the audacity to look downtrodden, disappointed, sad. He turns to the next stairway.
The stench of mildew greets his nostrils, and he whips back, intent in his voice as he compels, “What do you want with him? What are your plans?”
“Oh. You want my story ,” Martin says softly, and takes a slow sip from his tea. Then he nods his head. “I’ll tell you later. See? Not shunning the Eye. Not.. avoiding the call, I feel the pull just like you, but I’m waiting . This house is my story; I don’t have to be the narrator.”
Each word from Martin’s lips is practiced confidence, the hint of an old, old stutter buried beneath it, but Elias knows now that even that ancient sign of nervousness suits Martin, suits the persona he’s giving Elias. The thing about loneliness, is that even if you know it’s there, it doesn’t make it dissipate. The thing about spiders, is that even if you know the horrid, crawling sensation of them upon your flesh is nothing more than a biological holdover from a weaker time, it doesn’t go away. The thing about Martin Blackwood, is even if you know the polite, safe nervousness is a ruse, doesn’t mean you still don’t want to fold into it and believe every single word of platitudes he gives you.
Elias ignores him, and wills the desire to compel, compel, compel until violence splits him open to bury itself deep in his gut, and he holds his wrist as he begins his descent into the belly of this Lonely.
"If you find a box of tea, down there, bring it up, will you?"
When you were a child, and there was a holiday party sprawled across the living room, dining room, kitchen, friends and family laughing and singing and merry presences all about, what would be the one thing to jerk you from that reality? The one thing destined to take the bubbly artificed atmosphere from your soul and turn you into a frightened, terrified child? Why, Elias, can’t you go get another can of so-and-so from the cellar? Another round of this-and-that from the basement ? And the deafening silence would run chills down your little arms as the thought was that real up there? Penetrated your bones and made you wonder, will I ever find that company again ? And of course you did. But the fear remains.
In the case of this house, the dim light is the safety of a child fleeing the company of a mother whose very presence was lonely incarnate. A hiding spot beneath the stairs of a basement. Each fiber of wood counted and recounted and recounted until a small boy could cease crying and return upstairs without angering someone who wanted to be angered.
It’s all the same, though. We’ve all been there, in one form or another.
Peter is tucked between a failing refrigerator and woodblock table, the latter of which might once have been home to the crafts of a father, but is nothing more than dusty loneliness, now.
Elias would question why Martin is allowing him to attempt saving Peter, but it’s hard to question his motives, these days. Too many moving pieces. Too many unanswered what-ifs. Jon must be gloating back home, but Elias wonders if he realizes that even he’s being played by Blackwood’s intentions.
He’ll worry about it later. For now?
“Peter?”
“Go away.”
His voice is gruff and thick, and he looks absolutely ridiculous curled up like this, with his giant frame pressed into such a small space. He has a wispy appearance to him, a crumbled exterior, like the old paint cans long abandoned from a long ago house renovation underneath the table.
“I won’t be going away until you come with me,” Elias says, and though he wants to go take that tea with Martin, now, wants to curl up beneath a piece of furniture and become one with it, let the house swallow him, let it all crumble down around him, easy, so much easier than this, he presses his hands firmly to his hips and commands, “Look at me.”
He isn’t stupid. Martin wouldn’t let this happen unless he wanted to. But it still leaves him with no amount of satisfaction when Peter looks up, pale eyes searching Elias’ dutifully.
“We’re going home. I don’t care what you say.” He steps forward and wraps a hand around Peter’s wrist, and though he could easily, easily tear him off, Elias tugs him forward in a way that brokers no arguments, and Peter’s not really in a position to argue, anyways. He’s always a quiet man, let alone now. His skin is cold to the touch.
“I don’t--”
“ I don’t care what you have to say. This house is ugly. I’m not letting you become ugly for it.”
He walks backwards, slowly, and Peter is numb to follow. Martin is gone from the kitchen when they reach the first floor, and the only sign that he was there is a half-drunk cup of tea, and a small frowny face pressed into the dust laid out upon the table.
“How will we--”
“The front door,” Elias says, because he Knows what Peter will say, and he Knows the way out. Peter, unlike everyone else, doesn’t mind when he Knows things; doesn’t mind to be interrupted and his thoughts finished. It’s why they mesh, he thinks, and Peter’s love is quiet but doting, which compliments Elias’ fierceness well.
Peter twists his wrist until his palm slots into Elias’, and Elias feeds him a victorious smile. Ah. These games of theirs. Sometimes he thinks Martin would be proud. “Okay,” he says quietly, and Elias takes them home, their flesh marked cold and damp from the memory of a basement long forgotten by most.