Monuments

I: An Unexpected Invitation

In my experience, there are many things in this world that would send even the most erudite person reeling with horror at their infinitesimal understanding of what we call "truth." While some people dedicate their lives to fanciful hypothetical sciences and theosophy, I have stumbled upon a hidden truth that, if presented to their meticulous boards of inquiry, would reveal such sickening revelations that most would prefer to bury their heads in the mud and clog their ears with silt rather than confront the harrowing knowledge I am writing about.

It was early autumn of 2019 when I found myself working as a private investigator out of a small third-floor office on Burnside Street in Boston, Massachusetts. I had been on the job for only a year, and work had been scarce. I was hungry for any case that might manifest itself on my shabby and disorganized desk, which frequently doubled as my pillow. On this day, I had just entered the office and had yet to brew even my first pot of coffee when I happened upon a manila envelope that someone had unceremoniously shoved into the mail slot beside my door. I tapped a loose cigarette from my breast pocket, lit it covetously, and sat down to examine the unexpected parcel. Inside was a handwritten note dated October 13, 2019, along with a newspaper clipping with the same date, and a couple of photographs, which I will describe in detail shortly.

The letter read:

"Dear Mr. Trench,
I was uncertain who else I could turn to, so I chose to trust in your reputation as a discreet and dependable investigator. Last night my boyfriend turned up dead, his body discovered in an abandoned factory outside of Serwick, Massachusetts. I cannot fathom for what reason this tragedy would occur, for when I last spoke with him, he had told me he was visiting his family in Boston.
I am certain he was murdered, though the local authorities claim there is no evidence of my suspicions. I have attached the news article and photographs of Stephen, along with the location where he was found. I sincerely hope you accept my request and discover what truly happened to him.
-Sarah Collins"

Two photographs were clipped to the letter. One was of Stephen, a young and not unattractive man of perhaps twenty-five. His dirty brown hair was cropped short, and he sported a smile that made his emerald-green eyes shine with intensity. The second photo depicted a derelict old factory that seemed to be gradually sinking into the fetid marsh that surrounded it. An old iron sign, rusting and decaying, hung precariously on the side of the crumbling brick building, its faded message barely legible. "Monserta Glass" was the only discernible advertisement for whatever purpose the weathered eyesore had once served. It was a most unnerving sight and left me curious about this young man's death.

The newspaper article shed some light on how he ended up in that pestilent location and what caused his untimely demise. It read:

October 13, 2019
The Serwick Sentinel

Body Found In Abandoned Monserta Glassworks Factory. Police Say No Foul Play, Victim Likely Died Of Heart Attack.

Late last night, a group of "Urban Explorers" discovered the body of Stephen Cartwright in the long-disused Monserta Glassworks Factory. The property manager has long requested that those looking to seek a thrill should look elsewhere due to the dangerous state of the condemned building. The discovery of a death on his property has "greatly disheartened" him, he said when asked for comment. Police are investigating the incident, however, they believe the victim was likely a simple daredevil who suffered a heart attack due to poor health.

The Chief of Police, Carl Sutton, had this to say when reached for comment: "It is very disappointing to learn that this young man disregarded all posted signage and paid the ultimate price for it. Our condolences go out to all of those who have been affected by this unnecessary tragedy."

We will continue to update our readers as the story develops.

"A peculiar summary of the circumstances," I thought, convinced Ms. Collins was correct about the abnormality of the surmised information. I knew from the moment I set that article down that I could not rest until I had at least spoken to this Ms. Collins and discovered what else she knew about the incident. To that end, I powered up my laptop and began my research, looking for any information that would help me begin my inquiry with an upper hand.