The Goth Detectives: Bygone and Beaches

Mrs. Bygone is...Gone!

A/N: And now, I give you, my interpretation of the Goth Detectives! : D Come with us on a journey through time and- oh no wait, that's the wrong show. Um, well, anyway be sure to read the end note for some other fun things. :)

There is a little house on the end of the street, close to London but not quite. It's on one of those streets that slowly grows sparse, so close to that random patch of nowhere that occasionally exists between towns and there nestled on the very cusp of nothingness and civilization is a small, one story house with a wee little window in the attic. From it there is a faint glow, one that beckons onlookers in this odd pocket of geographical impossibilty. It lures them, seduces them with the pale candlelight that flickers behind it's dusty panes. One such victim of the ghostly flame now stands at the doorstep of this wooden artifact of architecture. His eyes glance nervously to the the roof of this old building, pieces of it missing here and there and letting in the never ending rain that pours above it. Thunder rolls out overhead and it makes the somewhat portly man jumps back a bit. He adjusts his round spectacles and grips the piece of paper in his hand for dear life. He brings a shaking finger up to the doorbell, nervous that it might not work and questioning what a doorbell was doing there in the first place. He looks back at the steep stairs that led him up but it's too late. He reads again the ornate calligraphy on his slip of yellowed paper; Goth Detectives, 636 Helvetica Avenue. He closes his eyes tight and presses the black button with an instant regret as it tolls out out the grim moans of a hidden church bell.

He waits, still cringed, his chubby cheeks pulled into crinkles and dimples of hesitance and fear. However nothing happens. He calms himself and tugs a bit on the green plaid scarf around his neck. His hair is still wet and wild from restless nights.  His penny loafers squeak with the water in them as he peers in a bit closer at the door. His knuckles gravitate toward the wood if for no other reason than curiousity.

"Hello-" he begins but the moment his fist even carresses the door, it falls open with a creak. It's as if the inside of this haunted looking abode is somehow darker than the ever present night outside it. The shadows stretch out towards him from the doorway calling him to sweetly join the abyss.

The poor man looks behind himself one last time to his shabby automobile but escape is unlikely. The door is open and it speaks to his scholarly nature, urging him. That's when an actual voice speaks, a voice like a mocking sort of sweetness drifting out from the dark.

"Enter, sir."

The man's face is drained of color and expression but his legs obey the bidding voice and soon he is enveloped by the darkness with nothing to grasp onto but the bone shattering thud of the door closing behind him. Then he sees it, a figure in the black, a hulking mass.

"I- I came to-" the overweight, nervous man tries to speak.

"I am aware of your needs, professor," the voice says again, an odd boroquean air about his jester like tone, "I know everything. I am all knowing. I am the epitome of near omnipotence. I am-"

The flame appears in the abyss with click and fizzle and a candle lights up the room. The hulking mass is indeed a man but a frail one, lanky in his limbs and dressed as some cross between a rock star and a pirate. His lined eyes use their utmost severity making him look mad under that pile of long, teased up hair.

"-Macabre de Coiffure," he introduces himself, "and this is-"

He looks to a chair beside him, beyond the small end table with the red candle on it. He pauses and blinks a bit before sighing and mumbling to himself.

"Not again," he says, a hand on his forehead before turning back to the suspected professor, "We apologize for the techinical difficulties, I'll have this righted in a bit."