Chapter Text
It is a month and a half after the funeral, Martin’s mind is still fogged as he drives. He distantly wonders if his brain will ever clear or if he would be this husk of a man for the rest of his life. Maybe he had always been like this, and his Mum’s death just pulled away from the facade of being okay, perhaps he was always this empty shell.
The road is quiet as he made the last leg of his trip. The only sound is the wind, crashing waves, and the white noise of the radio. The land is flat, just the scrubby trees and overgrown grass filling hiss view, he can see between the tree breaks to the rocky cliffs and get glimpses of the distant ocean.
It is cresting into dusk as Martin pulls into the parking space next to the gorgeous summer home. It is a small Italian-style villa, miles from the nearest town, pressed close to the jagged cliffs. One floor with windows covering most of the sides. A footpath leads off of the back door and down the cliffside. It’s beautiful in the setting sun.
Part of Martin wonders why Peter would want to live anywhere else. Peter, Martin’s godfather, was vaguely involved in Martin’s life but nothing beyond the occasional happy birthday or Christmas card, until Mum died. It had been years since the last time he heard from Peter. Then, during her funeral, Peter offered an open invitation for Martin to live at his seaside summer home. It was unexpected, to say the least, but Peter reminded Martin that he was the closest thing he has to family now, and family has to help family. So once Martin lost his meager-paying job, he had nothing holding him down in London.
“I’m going to be out on the Tundra until April,” Peter explained over the phone a little over a week ago. “I mean, you can feel free to stay there once I’m back, but I know how we both prefer being alone.”
“Heh yeah,” Martin stammered while looking at his empty flat “I-I-I promise I’ll have my feet under me by then, and out of your hair. I don’t need six months to get myself together, right?”
Martin winces at the memory- how manic he sounded, maybe desperate. He doesn’t need more than six months to get his life together… Especially when he’s restarting his life like this.
The house is… nice, lovely even. Martin walks through, turning on the lights and checking the water. It’s an open floor plan with an airy and bright atmosphere, though on the cold side and sparsely decorated. The furniture has white sheets covering it, and everything has a thin layer of dust. There are few personal items- the only thing Martin finds on his first pass are some seashells, boating memorabilia, and a single black-and-white framed photo of a young Peter and a man Martin does not recognize.
After the first pass, Martin goes and gets his essentials out of the car- leaving the rest of his unpacking for the morning. Not that he packed much, just what he could fit in his tiny four-door and even smaller trailer he got off of craigslist-- which holds the few pieces of furniture he did not sell when he moved out.
Once the house is checked for damage, water heater turned on, new sheets laid on the guest bed, and overnight bag unpacked it is well past dark and Martin is beyond road weary. By the time his head hits the pillow, he’s passed out.
The next few days pass in a blur of cleaning, unpacking, and stocking the villa. A trip to town is a 30-minute drive one way, so Martin tries- and fails- to not go often. On the third day in a row, he makes his way into the general store, list in hand, and the clerk at the counter calls over to him.
“Need help finding anything today, sir?” the handsome man who has been working there all three days, Tim, by his nametag, asks.
“Oh, uh no,” Martin stammers, “just need dish soap- I forgot it yesterday.”
“Ah! Isle six” Tim flashes a bright smile that Martin pretends not to feel his cheeks warm to. He takes a moment in the aisle to center himself before returning to check out. The transaction is quick with only a few items, but Tim scribbles something on Martin’s receipt and winks, “just so you don’t need to come in again.”
Martin glances down at the receipt to see a phone number “ah-uh I’m sorry- I’m not- well I am. But not right now?”
Tim raises a hand, “it’s okay if you just want a friend then. Not many people like us out here and its good to have people you can trust.”
“Yeah- I guess I’ll see you around then? I’ll text you, so you have my number later.”
After Martin heads out of the shop, he checks his watch and sees that it’s still early afternoon. Part of him wants to go back to the villa now, but part of him decides that he should at least get to know his new home a bit better. The main street, if you can call it that, is mostly taken up by tourist shops and novelty stores. There are a handful of restaurants and coffee shops as well, but it’s the offseason, so the streets are quiet, and most of the shops close early. Martin ducks his head into a few, not buying anything but just looking at the tchotchkes and knickknacks. Between the stores and coffee shops is a tiny local museum.
It’s pretty late so Martin debates whether he should go in so soon before closing, but he figures just poking his head in won’t be an issue. It’s quiet inside, the only sound a distant tv showing a documentary of some sort. It smells of dust, old wood, and even older books. It’s small but lovingly put together, just a single room with a divider in the middle. There are a few display cases, an anchor, and a rowboat hanging from the sealing. There is also an empty desk and a donation box right inside the door.
Seeing no one else in the museum, Martin drops a fiver into the box before continuing in. He wanders around, glancing at the exhibits about the history of the town and the neighboring seas. There is nothing too unexpected; just displays about how it was an army base for some earl or duke, famous and influential residence. Though there is one display that does stick out a bit. A single glass display case talking about local mermaid sightings and the history of sightings. It has a large fish scale, a mother-of-pearl comb, and a few very blurry photographs. The newest piece of ‘evidence’ coming from the mid-60s, a blurry polaroid of a fishtail breaching the waves.
Martin reads the caption for the photo “this photograph was taken by a young Elias Bushard on March 14th, 1967. It depicts the tailfin of a descending mermaid after their brief interaction.
“Elias did not make a comment on their interactions besides describing the mermaid as ‘handsome’ and ‘unlike anything he had seen before.”
many critics cite that this fin appears to be either a branching dolphin or large fish. Did Mr. Busard see a mermaid this day, or did he take a photo of an animal? You decide”
Martin snorts as he finishes the inscription, he’s always been a fan of myths, but they’re nothing besides a little fun. In that way, he does not believe that cryptids or myths actively exist. Still, he also wouldn’t be hugely surprised to find out that some sort of supernatural creature has been hiding.
He’s so taken up in his thoughts he jumps when a voice comes from near the door. “Were closing in five minutes, if you want to look at the gift shop, now’s your time.”
Martin turns sheepishly to the woman who made the announcement. A wide-shouldered woman with long scars across her face. She wears light clothing except for her combat boots and some sort of fur shawl across her shoulders.
“Oh, sorry- just reading about the mermaids.”
“Yeah yeah, cryptid hunting?”
“Oh no, just new to town- I think stories like this are just fun.”
The woman just hums in response, looking slightly annoyed “well, you can read all about it… tomorrow”
“Oh, uh yeah, thank you. The museum is lovely.”
“Yup”
Martin quickly walks out the door, the woman’s eyes burning into his back. Maybe he’ll come back tomorrow- if that woman isn’t working.