Yeah, it’s a kinda short section. Thing is, I had an absolutely terrible headache yesterday, so I couldn’t really function, let alone write. (The rest of the weekend was a lot busier than I had hoped, too, so I wasn’t able to write very much.)
Already working on part three, though. I think there might be… four parts in total? It won’t be very long.
I drove down the long dirt road, the splotches of sun that made their way through maple leaves above flickering in and out at an incredible, trance-inducing rate. A scrap of paper sat on the otherwise empty passenger seat. It contained three names and addresses, two of which were crossed out. I read the final one again to refresh it in my mind, then turned back to driving.
I read the street signs as they passed, although I’m not entirely sure if they could actually be considered streets given how narrow they were, and that most of them had only one adjoining house. I came up over a hill, and near the bottom another road split off. I strained my eyes to see the sign. It read Openhall Road, the same as on the piece of paper.
I turned off onto the road. I was looking for the first house on the left. A few minutes of bumpy driving later, a break in the trees emerged and I saw the faded pastel paint of a house beyond. I pulled up into the driveway and parked, then got out and made my way toward the house.
Windchimes and dreamcatchers were hung all around the porch, the former tinkling eerily in the faint breeze. I opened the screen door and knocked on the wooden one behind, then waited.
I’m not sure how I had envisioned the person who would open the door. The two others I had gone to first – both phonies, from what I could tell – were men that looked older than they probably were, with bedraggled hair that was home to a few strange objects. I suppose I might’ve assumed this man would look similar, especially given how distant the house was from civilization, and, of course, given his occupation.
But the man who opened the door was unlike anything I would’ve expected. He was incredibly well-dressed, wearing a form-fitting black suit with white pinstripes, trimmed fingernails, and a pair of sharply rectangular eyeglasses, from which he looked at me with a calm certainty.
“Joseph Hubrick?” he asked, and I nodded. He opened the door fully and gestured for me to step inside.
“Please, take a seat,” he said. “Can I interest you in any drinks?”
“Uh, just water,” I responded. He walked away and returned a moment later with two glasses of water. He handed one to me then took a seat in front.
“How can I be of service to you?” he asked.
“Well, as I’m sure you have assumed, I’m the subject of a…”
“Yeah. And if I’m correct, I think you could help me end it.”
“Certainly. It’s my job.”
“The thing is, there’s a bit more to this all than for most people.”
“I’m not sure if I want to end it.”
His expression didn’t change, but he tilted his head slightly. “Why, exactly, would that be?”
“Because she was my wife. This all started ten years ago.”