Good For Gone

New Home

The car ride wasn't too long. I was alone on the back, anxiously chewing on the inside of my cheek and adjusting the ring on my finger.

We drove past the heart of town to the historical district, a place widely regarded as the most upscale place to live in the whole city. Every house was a grandiose Victorian style mansion. Most of them had been updated at some point in the past few years, but they all maintained their signature vintage charm.

I'd never really been that deep into the neighborhood. Why would I? Until that moment the large houses didn't mean anything to me. But now they looked haunting like I was driving to the middle of my own personal graveyard.

I saw the house in the distance and instantly had a feeling it was the one we were headed for.

The property took up an entire block, all shut off with a towering privacy fence.

The house itself, at least what I could see peeking over the fence, was beautiful. I couldn't deny that.

We pulled up to the front gate and the driver pressed his hand to a screen mounted next to the fence. It beeped a few times and the gate clicked open.

We drove around to the front of the house and stopped in front of a staircase, leading to a porch that stretched across the front of the building.

My door was opened for me and I got out. The house towered before me. It was a soft blue color with white trim, almost inviting in a way. I wondered if Peter was in there somewhere. Maybe I'd be able to find him.

I went to get my bags out of the trunk but the men already had all of them hanging off of their arms. They passed me wordlessly, headed towards the front door.

I followed them up the stairs, and one of them held the door open for me. It crossed my mind that I should thank them, but I was pretty sure I'd abandoned polite society a long time ago.

The sound of my steps echoed across the glossy wooden floors. They were so dark I felt like I could dive in and swim away.

A chandelier hovered high above my head, guiding my eye towards the expansive staircase.

To my left was a set of glass doors that led to a living room. It had the same wooden floors and sleek white furniture. But I was lead away before I could investigate further.

The men ushered me up the stairs. Our footsteps were the only sound in the house. I kept expecting to see someone, anyone, hiding around every corner. But the house was empty as far as I could see. Because the place wasn't unnerving enough on its own.

I followed them up two flights of stairs to the very top floor, which was populated by a lone set of pocket doors. They were slid opened to reveal one of the most breathtaking rooms I'd ever seen.

The bed was backed up against the floor to ceiling windows framed by heavy cream colored curtains. The wall to my right was a floor to ceiling bookcase, complete with a sliding staircase.

The men passed me and began setting down my stuff at the foot of the bed. When they were done they left without a word.

I was alone in the strange room, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I could deal with having the whole place to myself, the house was so big I'd probably never even run into Randall at all.

The bookshelves drew me in with a curious collection of oddities. In fact, there weren't even very many books. As I got closer some of them came into view.

There were glass cases full of small animal skeletons and tanks full of live spiders.

I ran my hand along the edge of the shelves and had to pause. The texture was odd, not something I'd expected. Leaning down to get a better look I felt myself jump. Teeth were built into the frame, so much so that the structural integrity of the whole thing was probably dependent on them for support.

I took a step back, afraid to investigate anymore. This was going to require some getting used to. But as long as everyone was safe I could deal with it.

I would be alright.

Probably.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, sinking low into the fluffy champagne comforter, wishing it could swallow me up. I didn't even know what to do. Where would my stuff even fit into this room?

I couldn't imagine setting my family portrait or my track and field medals next to his jarred tapeworms. There just wasn't enough room to be a normal person here.

The door opened and I shot to my feet like I'd been doing something wrong.

One of the men strolled in, holding an envelope out to me. I took it from him and set it down, but he stood there, watching me from behind his sunglasses.

"Oh, am I supposed to read this now?" I asked.

He didn't answer, but he also didn't move, so I assumed that meant yes. I picked the envelope up again and slid a finger through the seam to open it.

Inside was a fifty dollar bill and a note that said, "Go and get those hands cleaned up for me, would you?" in elegant handwriting.

I looked at my bruised and bandaged fingers. They did look pretty ragged, the rims of my nails crusted in blood on top of purple bruises. But I'm not sure what he intended for me to do to them.

But as I was evaluating my hands I heard a soft clicking noise. I looked up to see the flash of a phone camera aimed at me. Before I could even say anything the man typed something in and put the phone away.

"What was that for?" I asked even though I knew it was useless.

As expected, there was no response, so I slid the fifty into my pocket and sat down. I had no interest in going to get my hands made up, but I knew it wasn't my decision.

A second later the phone buzzed in the man's pocket and he pulled it back out. Unlocking it, he read it quickly before holding it out to me. I took the phone from his hand and looked at the screen.

It was a text message from non-other than a Mr. Randall Amy, saying that I should make myself look presentable before leaving the house and that there would be a car waiting for me at 10 o'clock sharp.

I groaned and handed the phone back to the man. He took it and left, leaving me alone in the room again.

I went into the adjoining bathroom, figuring maybe I would feel less disgusted if I took a shower. But it was unlikely.

I told myself that I only had to do what he said until I found Peter, and then together we would think of a plan and get out of this. The idea was the only thing keeping me going.