Chapter Text
It starts with a house.
Well, no, actually, if we want to be technical, it both starts and ends with a house, and everything in the middle is about the house as well.
It’s decently sized, two stories, with a fireplace. Three bedrooms, one bathroom. Beautiful floors.
It is unremarkable.
However, as Martin Blackwood stands in front of it, letting the ambient sounds wash over him, he feels an odd sort of pulse. The house feels as if it is thrumming with life. The crickets, the faint rustling of the leaves. It is a lovely night in late July. The air is warm, and slightly humid. It’s the sort of air that makes it hard to tell where you end and where the rest of the world begins.
Martin’s got the keys loosely held in one hand, and with the other he is opening the mailbox. There’s only one envelope inside, and it’s addressed to the previous owner of the house, who has gone missing. Martin is an optimist, or at least he tries to be, but even he knows that whoever Jonathan Sims was, he’s not coming back. Martin will likely stay here for a few weeks, find nothing, and then be driven back to London, where he will have to explain to Peter that this case, like all the rest, was a dead end.
Fighting off the urge to open Jonathan’s mail, Martin finally walks up the steps. The wood creaks slightly beneath him, and even though there’s no one else for miles, he’s ashamed of causing such a disturbance in the night air. The key is a little difficult to turn in the lock, but he still gets it easy enough.
The worst part of moving somewhere else is the smell. The previous owners always leave behind a smell, and Martin’s not sure if he’s just particularly affected by that sort of thing or what, but the first night in a new house is always odd. It feels almost like you’re in someone else’s house without permission.
This house is no different, but the smell isn't the only thing left over. To his immediate left is a small area- it’s got a few short bookshelves, a desk with papers scattered over it, and a few paintings that were obviously works of progress. On his right is a sitting room, with a television in the corner and- oh, wow, is that a VHS player? Retro!
Oh, and a fireplace in the wall and a coffee table sitting in front of a sofa.
In front of him is the staircase, which he decides is going to wait until he’s seen the downstairs.
Going through the living room is the dining room, with a cabinet full of plates and glasses and a table that seats eight. Jonathan Sims lived alone, Martin notes. He must have entertained a lot.
To the left of the dining room is the kitchen, black and white tiles, a kitchen table that has a newspaper laying on it. The refrigerator is empty save for a mostly empty quart of milk that has gone bad and a half eaten container of strawberries that’s now gone completely mouldy. The cabinets have a mostly gone box of cereal, and three packets of instant oatmeal.
The laundry room is through the kitchen, with another door on the far wall. Upon opening said door, Martin discovers that it’s merely the backdoor.
Ascending the stairs, he’s met with a few framed photos, mostly of the same few people. A picture of a young boy and an old woman, and neither of them are smiling. A picture of a young man, possibly the boy from earlier, standing proudly with his degree. A picture of the young man, now less young, standing between two other people. They are all smiling, but the woman on the right is difficult to look at. Martin continues up the stairs.
The hallway is straight, and the first door on the left is the master bedroom. He puts his suitcase there. The first door on the right is the bathroom. All the other rooms are bedrooms, and they are sparse, with beds and very little decoration.
Martin makes his way back down the hallway to the master bedroom. It’s eerie- this was where Jonathan must have slept. He opens the closet to see coats. He looks in the dresser- the bottom three drawers contain shirts, pants, and socks. The top drawer contains photos. Hundreds of photos, on glossy paper. He’ll look at those later, he decides. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table, which tells him it’s 12:46 in the morning.
As he gets under the covers, he feels as if he is somewhere he shouldn’t be.