Tooth & Nail

• 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 •

The days were getting shorter now, and colder too. Winter was all around us; cold winds, snow caped trees, even the small lake behind Mr Whitman's house had completely frozen over.

The whole village was a ghost town.

I thought I would take a detour on my way home and drive past the Whitman house. He didn't live too far out of town but far enough to not be in the suburbs.

I pulled onto his street and was met by two police vehicles outside of his house.

I approached slowly and pulled over about twenty yards away trying to see what was going on before I got too close.

Two men were putting up bright yellow police tape between the balustrades on the front porch, they had also stuck what looked like a crime scene investigation warning on the front door.

I couldn't believe it; this was really happening.

I was hit with the sudden realisation that this was all my fault.

I could have left him to live out the rest of his life in peace, I should have put those photos back and none of this would have ever happened. Now he's probably lost somewhere, cold and scared.

As the weight of the situation loomed, I felt a warm tear fall from my cheek.

No. I told myself wiping my face. I can't feel sorry for him, not until the police find out more about his past and the meaning behind those photographs.

I looked up for a moment at that old decrepit house, angry at the cruel events that plagued me and for all the uncertainty that's yet to come.

I pulled out from the curb and drove home.

This was not the last time I saw the house. I would frequently drive past on errands or to assist other elderly clients I had been assigned after Mr Whitman's disappearance.

A month went by and there was still no sign of him. Upon inquiry the police informed me they were still investigating, but I knew they were at a dead end.

Who wants to chase a missing eighty-year-old with photos of dead bodies that were taken several decades ago?

"There's just not enough evidence" they would say.

But still, I would continue to make the detour past his house almost instinctively.

It was always the same view as I drove by. The same old decaying house in the snow, desaturated by the contrast of the bright yellow police tape that still clung to the weather-beaten porch.

It was coming to the end of winter, there was still a lot of snow around but you could feel the changing of the seasons in the air. I made the detour less and less over the next few weeks, slowly forgetting that chapter of my life and moving on, I suppose.

One night whilst coming back from a nearby job I decided to take the long way home and go past Mr Whitman's house. It had been a long while since I last checked on it.

As I arrived, I noticed a couple of strange shapes in the distance.

Approaching cautiously, I saw that they were people. One of them was throwing something at the house while the other stood on the porch.

They were dressed head to toe in black and as I got closer I saw that one had a spray can and was graffitiing the front of the house.

"Seriously?!" I yelled as I slammed my foot on the breaks and unbuckled my seatbelt angrily.

I haphazardly parked my car on the side of the road and jumped out.

"Hey! What are you doing!" I shouted, running over to the house being careful not to slip on the ice.