Chapter Text
The crunch of gravel is loud beneath the wheels of the car as Wilbur pulls into the driveway of the cabin. It’s early morning, the sun peeking through the clouds only a little past 9 a.m., and the place stands much taller in person than Wilbur had initially imagined. It looks older, too. He checks the address again to be sure.
800 Pandora Lane.
Two stories of solid oak and crumbling cobblestone reach towards the sky like an omen, tucked away into a small clearing down an old, dusty road, just a little ways into the woods just outside of town. From inside the car, Wilbur can spot potted flowers hanging from the windows just below where faux shutters hang open—the windows themselves stretching nearly floor-to-ceiling in the front of the house, a nice reflective tint warding off any prying neighbors’ eyes. Past the music from the radio and the white noise of his AC, faintly, so faintly, he can make out the sound of birds chirping from the trees outside. Some bathe in the birdbath in the front yard’s garden.
Sure enough, it all checks. This is the place. Already, he can imagine that it will take some getting used to. (At the very least, the place appears to be a pretty omen. He’ll give it that.)
The car’s key is turned and removed, ignition cut with a sputtering hum that leaves Wilbur sitting in silence. Pulling out his phone, Wilbur steps out of the car and checks the text sent from the landlord.
Where’s a good place for us to meet so I can collect the key? (8:35)
SAM: The key will be waiting for you in the mailbox when you arrive. Be careful not to lose it. Currently, there is no spare. (8:49)
SAM: I’ll stop by tomorrow to give you a rundown of what all needs to be done with the place. Don’t worry about anything more than settling in tonight, take it easy. (8:50)
Wilbur finds the key just beneath the flap of the mailbox next to the door, taped under its roof. He doesn’t wait too long to let himself inside, the first of his bags—a ratty old duffel from summer camp just before year 6—already slung over his shoulder where the strap digs into his skin. The door creaks with the scraping of old hinges against what is likely even older wood. Quietly, Wilbur takes note.
The inside of the cabin doesn’t deter much of the heat from outside, Wilbur finds. The air is thick and sticky with humidity from the nearby coast, and it clings to Wilbur’s skin as he looks around the place with muted intrigue; his eyes squint as they adjust to the change of light between here and outside. Having been away for so long, he nearly forgot what the feeling of it all was like—it’s certainly as unpleasant as he remembers it, it would seem. Up north, the heat isn’t so harsh, nor the air so thick—practically choking, really—the lack of coastline paving the way for more room to breathe. He admits, he’d gotten used to it. To not being around.
Really, he thinks, there wasn’t much to miss at all.
(Outside of L’manberg, things have always seemed better; less crushing and small, the world just about at his fingertips, even from the confines of college dormitories and early morning schedules. As a kid, he couldn’t wait to leave. His brother had quietly shared a similar sentiment. When he got his college acceptance letter, he counted down the days until he was gone on a shitty little calendar from the corner store, white dashes through the dates marking him closer and closer. When the time finally came to leave, his first morning outside of L’manberg had been spent drinking in the sunrise, gulping down golden rays like they were his, and his alone. He still thinks it’d been his first real sunrise in years. )
Being back so soon, walking around a house with furniture as warped as he feels and the town settling like a shadow at his heels—well. He hadn’t not expected it, the whole– feeling this way. Like a bird back in its cage. But knowledge doesn’t make the fact any less bitter.
A bead of sweat streaks slick down the back of his neck, knocking him from his thoughts.
“Right,” he breathes, adjusting the strap of his bag. If he’s going to be staying here, then first things first: the heat. He ought to fix that. Surely, there’s bound to be a thermostat around here somewhere; even in the shade of the woods, nothing is immune to L’manberg’s summer heat. The house, as old as it may be, is not so old that it wouldn’t have something to help keep it at bay.
The thermostat ends up tucked away into the far corner of the main hall, just past two bedrooms and a quaint little bathroom. (Each of the doorways peels with old paint, he notices. Another task is added to his mental list.) It takes a moment to figure out, he’ll admit; the thing is older than all hell, and a little more than outdated for the times, if Wilbur is being generous. No matter—it will do. With the flip of a switch and the turning of a dial, cold air quickly begins to fill the space, much to Wilbur’s surprise and relief.
First task done, Wilbur backpedals and takes to the master bedroom to deposit the first load of his stuff. From there, moving in is rather easy.
It takes about three trips total to get all of his stuff from the car to the bedroom. The thirty minutes that follows is spent unpacking his clothes and tucking them away into the dresser at the front of the room, where the wood of the drawers is swollen with moisture and makes them difficult to pull open. When the first drawer is pried from the body of its stubborn cubby, a cloud of dust billows out into the air. Wilbur’s brows wrinkle with disgust. Coughing, he waves it all away with one hand—the other moving to pull the collar of his shirt up and over his nose—and adds yet another task to his list for later. He’s more careful with the rest of the drawers.
The clothes go in, and when Wilbur is finished in the room, he steps out. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
SAM: I forgot to mention earlier, but your father stopped by last week just before he left for his trip. (now)
Wilbur stares at the screen, unblinking. Something funny curls in his gut at the message, cold and bitter, and he chokes down the taste of it—sour and old, like it’s been sat out overnight, resting curdled and vile in whatever dish it’d had the misfortune of being served in—as it rises up his throat. It only lasts a moment.
SAM: He left you a gift on the shelf beneath the coffee table in the living room. Said he was sorry he couldn’t see you before he had to leave, but that he hopes you enjoy what he left. It’s a few things, actually. But I won’t spoil the surprise. (now)
Hesitantly, Wilbur looks up from where he stands in the entryway of the cabin, eyes drifting to where the living room stands. His grip tightens around the back of his phone, and breathing in, he forces a wave of calm to wash over himself and stifle the apprehension burning in his gut. Slowly, he takes a step forward. Then a second. When he comes to the back of the couch, he looks over with a nervous gnaw to his bottom lip. That’s where he sees it: poking out ever so slightly from the shelf beneath the table, a package sits with a note plastered to its top. His breath catches faintly at the back of his throat. He swallows thickly.
When he settles down on the couch and pulls the package out from where it lays, he sets it down on the table proper, plucking the paper from where it’d been placed.
Wilbur, it starts, and sure enough it’s Phil’s handwriting—he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Wilbur could recognize it anywhere, tiny and loopy and legible solely in the way that he’s learned to read it after so many years of watching Phil sign his and his brother’s school permission slips. His hands feel clammy around the paper, pinched ever-so-gently between his fingertips; his apprehension is replaced with an anxious curiosity.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay to welcome you back home, work wasn’t having it when I asked for a delay on my departure for the trip. They said they couldn’t afford my absence as head of our team. I hope you’re doing okay, even though I’m not there.
Sam’s place is nice, even if it needs some work. It’s not the house, but we both hope you’ll make yourself at home while you stay there. I know you’ve got some work to do as part of the agreement, but the repairs shouldn’t be too difficult. Sam says he’s more than happy to stop by should you need help with anything.
Right. Getting to the point.
Wilbur sucks in his breath.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I left you a gift. A small piece of home to keep with you while I’m away. It’s a bit old, but I’m hoping you’ll love it like you did when you were a kid. I couldn’t believe it was still working, if I’m being honest. Had to dig it out of the attic and everything. We used to use that thing every day. The fact that it held up through that and then the move is amazing. I hope you get some good use out of it, it certainly brings back some memories.
With a flick of his wrist, he flips the note over, idly reading on as the scrawl continues to the back.
I miss you lots. I left you my work number and my mailing address so we can keep in touch. Don’t be afraid to say hello once in a while, okay? No need to be a stranger. I know we haven’t been on the best of terms lately, but you can always talk to me if you need anything, mate. You and Techno both. Remember that.
I love you, Wil. I think about you boys every day. I’ll be home soon.
-Dad
(P.S. I hope some of our old music is still to your taste.)
When he finishes reading, Wilbur reads it again. Then again, and again, and again, tasting the words one by one on his tongue and ignoring the way they burn, spicy-sweet. The night before Wilbur had left, he and Phil had gotten into it. It’d been their biggest fight in years, full of sharp words and defensive sneers; clacking teeth that bit out insults and disappointment with the fervor of a rabid dog, licking away at the two’s skin like untamed flames in the wild. Wilbur doesn’t even remember what it was about. Stubborn as he is, he doesn’t want to try—not that it matters. They’ve hardly spoken since.
Here, though—here, there is almost no sign of a fight having happened at all. It’s just a father talking to his son; again, he wonders if he’d been expecting something different; scathing. Instead, it only feels nostalgic, and that makes the ice in Wilbur’s veins melt, if only a little. He doesn’t know if it’s for better, or worse.
He folds the note up when he’s done—he’d debated crumpling it up and tossing it in the bin, but decided against it in the end—and tucks it away, back into the far corner of the shelf. Out of sight, out of mind.
The box glares at him from where it sits, four corners tucked into one another on top like one does when they have no tape. Wilbur’s hand reaches for it, then stops. He doesn’t quite know why he hesitates, but the thought of opening it makes something funny swoop in his chest, hairs raising on the back of his neck and brows scrunching together. He refuses to admit that it might be guilt. When his hands do find the corner flaps and the box is pulled open, he’s met with a smaller, blue box inside: a briefcase, clamped shut with two shiny silver latches.
Popping it open, Wilbur can’t help but release a breathless laugh at what’s inside. Of course his father would leave this with him. He nearly didn’t recognize it.
It’s their old Califone 1430C record player, looking a little rough for wear but in otherwise good condition. He hasn’t seen it in years. Initially, he’d thought they lost it. Somehow, though, it stands here looking just about as battered as he is. Scratches line the surface pieces, and old sharpie scribbles out the name of the previous owner—the lines more than familiar, as faded as the ink may be. Wilbur would be a bit disappointed if he’d forgotten them, really—he’d been the one to put them there.
Just beneath the record and tucked into the crevices at its side in the box, vinyl after vinyl sits squished together, a collection of their favorite albums from Wilbur’s childhood— Infinity and Frontiers by Journey, Who’s Next by The Who, Hysteria by Def Leppard—the kinds of albums Phil would collect from the flea markets in town square while passing through. Most of them were classic rock. Wilbur remembers how Phil would put them on some nights, record player spinning away in their tiny little living room while he danced with an even tinier Wilbur standing on his toes. Occasionally, Techno would pull himself from his reading nook and join the two. He smiles. The memories had been sweeter, back then.
(That feeling of guilt swings around again, rearing its head as Wilbur thumbs through the records.)
Not so much, this time around.
Maybe, he thinks, this is Phil’s way of saying sorry. For what happened last year. For not being here now, even if Wilbur may not have wanted to see him in the first place.
If it is, he doesn’t quite know if he’s ready to accept it yet.
The box is pushed away from him. He’ll unpack it proper at another time, he decides. He has other things to do first.
It’s later that night, when Wilbur returns to the cabin with his arms full of groceries, that he sets out to explore the rest of the house.
The place isn’t exactly small, for a cabin. As bitter as Wilbur might be about being back in L’manberg for the summer, he has to admit that he lucked out with where he gets to stay in terms of space. There are two bedrooms on the ground floor, in addition to the small bathroom, living room, and decently sized kitchen. It’s more than enough. Past the peeling paint and tricky thermostat, Wilbur learns where all of the light switches are; which vents in the house are open or impossibly jammed shut; which windows open easily or are stiff against their tracks. He takes care to find which boards creak beneath his feet, which ones are splintered and frayed at the edges from old age, and which ones are solid and sound under his boots as he walks. Wilbur explores, and he explores it all.
Or, well. Almost.
He stands in front of a door he hadn’t noticed before during his first sweep of the house. Or rather, he stands under—neck craning up to get a good look at it in the dim light. It’s hidden away in the closet of the second bedroom, sealed near-seamlessly at the edges where the frame sits in the roof. A rope dangles from one side, and at its end, a handle awaits.
This, he realizes, must be the entrance to the attic. Wilbur finds himself eager to explore it.
He reaches out and grabs the handle, and, holding it firm in his grip, he gives it one tug; two; three. On the third and final tug, the attic door breaks free from its seal and swings down with a roar, startling Wilbur as from it, tall, thin stairsteps follow. He waits at the bottom of them, hesitant to move forward.
Above him, the attic looms, dark without much light to see inside. Quickly, Wilbur’s hand find its way to the closet wall, towards the switch, and flicks it on. The bulb in the closet sparks to life.
It doesn’t make much of a difference, from here.
Still, he treads the stairs slowly, peeking his head through the entryway when he gets to the top. Across from him, at the other end of the attic, moonlight pools in from a dirt-streaked window, doing little to disperse the darkness that seeps in from the corners.
Wilbur steps in further. The stairs creak in protest. Something flutters in his chest, intrigue pulling him forward.
Inside the attic, the air smells of old boxes and dust. Really, the whole house does—but here, the smell is prominent. He’s reminded of his experience with the drawers from earlier, and pulls the collar of his shirt up and over his nose to be safe. From the pocket of his jeans, he fishes out a lighter; with the strike of his thumb against the flint wheel, it flares to life.
Around him, boxes and worn furniture are piled up against the walls, covered by old, stiff white sheets. A thick layer of dust coats everything he sees, damp with the moisture of the air and likely spotting mold in more than a few places. As Wilbur waves the lighter around, he takes it all in. Several desks are crammed into the far corners of the room, stacked on top of one another in an attempt to save space. Trunks of miscellaneous things—some open, some bolted shut—are scattered at a pair’s base, supporting the weight of a tilted bookshelf smooshed into one of the spots between. Wilbur walks cautiously.
At one end of the attic, buried beneath several boxes of books and propped up by another shelf, Wilbur finds a bed tilted on its side. At another, he finds a collection of lamps shoved together in a corner. For an attic, the place is packed tighter than a crawlspace.
It’s when he reaches the window that he finds something to really pique his interest: a photo album the size of his lap, propped up on the ledge, just waiting. When he picks it up, it’s greasy with grime and he has to use the end of his sleeve to clear it all away. He has a feeling it’s from the previous owners.
Carefully, he peels the cover back to reveal the first page stacked with old photos. Each is lit aglow beneath the window’s moonlight.
The faces framed in the sleeves of the album are split with wide grins, mostly. Figures stand with their hair pulled back by white bandanas, or with thick sunglasses blocking out the flash of an old camera. In some, a face is scribbled out with sharpie; in others, a sticker is slapped over it—each with no peeking :) having been written in the corners. It’s intriguing, the way Wilbur knows that he’s pried into an inside joke he isn’t privy to, here. When he flips to the next page, and then the next, and the next—he sees much of the same thing: pictures of the same three men; some with their edges singed and smattered with the char, some with the faces obscured or faded, and some that look plain. Just plain. Taken at more private moments, like from behind the group whilst hiking a winding mountain trail, or when someone crashes on a couch or at the dinner table, wholly unaware of the scene to be captured.
There’s a fourth person yet to be seen, Wilbur realizes. He catches glimpses of their shadow against the concrete in some photos; their shape reflected in glass windows or the eyes of their friends, in others. Each time, he makes out an enthusiast thumbs-up—probably a sign that the picture is ready to be taken—and can’t help the way his cheeks tug at the corners of his lips.
Amused, Wilbur wonders just who the cameraman might be.
It isn’t until he flips through a good portion of the album it would seem that maybe, just maybe, his question is answered—a new face now stares back at him from one of the images, grinning toothily with a squint to his eyes and a flush to his cheeks that only a sunburn could bring. The person holds the camera in his hand, tilting it down towards himself and the faceless man. His arm swung affectionately over the boy’s shoulders as he smiles. The kid is pulling his hood down over his face; the barest hint of a grin can be seen at the gesture. That familiar message is scrawled up in the corner again—no peeking—and Wilbur pays it no mind, his attention drawn in by the scene that’s framed: it’s just the two of them in this one—the others out of sight, or likely not even there—seated on a wide expanse of rock overlooking the face of a cliff. A kid and his brother, it would seem. L’manberg is but a speck below.
He’s much younger than the rest, Wilbur realizes; this kid. Baby fat still clings to his cheeks and blonde hair curls away from his head, likely tussled by the hands of his brother. The strands glow like firelight in the sun. He couldn’t be older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most, with braces still closing up the gap between his two front teeth—
A loud creak echoes through the room, pulling Wilbur’s attention from the album with a startle. There’s a sound of footsteps rapping lightly against the stairs. He snaps the book shut.
“Hello?” he calls. “Sam? Is that you?”
There is no answer.
Slowly, Wilbur moves away from the windowsill and sets the album off to the side, dipping into the darkness. The hairs on the back of his arms and neck stand on-end. He flicks his lighter closed. If he listens closely, he can hear the sound of his heartbeat beating against his ribcage; a quick and heavy th-thump, th-thump, th-thump– as he tries to quiet the way he breathes, eyes scanning across the attic.
His feet tread carefully across the floorboards. One step takes him forward. Then another. Not even the wordless muffle of sound dares break through the air as he retraces his footsteps back towards the entryway. Ducking through shapeless shadows of shelves and furniture, Wilbur shimmies past piles of books and old, tossed-away items with no more than the quiet whisper of breath passing between parted lips.
In the end, a stray plug is what breaks the silence, catching Wilbur’s boot and sending him sprawling across the floor where splinters dig into his cheek. His jeans rip at the knees, and he mutters a series of quiet curses as he races to get back up, elbows pressing against the floorboards as he rises to one knee.
Creak—
Wilbur’s head whips up at the sound, eyes drawn to the entryway.
A shadowed figure stares back. Unmoving. Unblinking. Nothing else to be seen except for the unwavering glare of blue, blue eyes. There is a rattle of air against empty lungs in the silence. As Wilbur holds his breath, he becomes all too aware that the breathing is not his own.
The lightbulb in the closet bursts. Wilbur shrieks.
Then, he is left alone in the darkness.