The Cannon Prequel of the Uncannon Prequel

Chapter 1

Forest Hermit Egg Farm

Taboo was never something to mess with, the people of Pennsylvania knew that.  Angel Abrams had been taught the horrors of consequence since he was a young child.  Now having survived sixteen years, he was just like any other teen and became curious of the said horrors. 

His mother had told him if he were to move away, never to go to the land of the careless.  She said monsters and damned roamed freely and their curse spread like wildfire.  Nobody had a will to live, making the South a brewing pot for trouble. 

That was before he had come clean about his desire to be a girl.

Angel had half the mind to stay close to the north, but after the incident with his parents, another half to not.  Sixteen years of what those people called 'safety' flew out the window of the plane to Oklahoma, into a small town nearing the biggest lake around.  There, the only person who would rent to him at his age was a chicken farmer in the forest who many referred to as 'The Hermit'.  A reasonable name, since his egg cartons were titled 'Forest Hermit'.  And, well, he was a hermit.

-

The Hermit, though normal on paper, was quite the oddball in reality.  He constantly wore an unreadable expression and his face, though similar to many others in the area, was hard to recall when one looked away.  It felt as if every time Angel turned, he had a new feature he didn't have before.  He had a lot of burns on one side of his face and his voice was high pitched and crackly, with a comically thick, strange accent.  Not that he spoke long enough for anyone to recognise it, as he answered in few words.  It was hard to tell at first if he was a man or a woman, or if he was old or young.

In short, he had a weird vibe to him.

Despite that, he acted like any other person (though kind of awkward as, you know, he was a hermit and didn't hang around people too much).  He handed her the keys and silently led her to the house.

To her surprise, The Hermit actually had a nice aesthetic.  Next to his own small-ish monochrome house was a tiny one, just a bedroom and a kitchen mostly, which was close enough to his but not suffocatingly close.  There were chickens running free in the yard, chasing bugs and following Angel curiously.

Angel unlocked the door, her heart thumping anxiously.  While he seemed nice, The Hermit was odd and she couldn't help but expect a dead body to be laying in the middle of the entryway.  Thankfully, while a little dusty, the little apartment-like house was kept and tidy.

With a sigh, she flopped down on the pullout couch and flung her jacket over the back of it.  "Thank you, for letting me stay here.  I don't think we ever discussed rent?"  She spoke cautiously, as if afraid the offer of money would offend him.

Surprisingly, The Hermit shook his head.  In his cracky little voice, he said, "no ren-" under his breath, the accent trying to figure itself out.  "'s jus' collectin' dust."

Angel just hummed, staring at the floor as they stood in awkward silence for a minute or two.  "Well," she said, standing up and holding her hand out, "I'm Angel.  I'm from Pennsylvania and I'm here to find one of the Wechuge."

The Hermit's eyebrows shot up in perfect black arcs, revealing to Angel that he was probably wearing some light makeup.  "Ain't wise..."  He took her hand and shook it firmly,  and his words made her pause, "Raymond Widowwood."

"Ah, well, nice to meet you Raymond..."  Angel smiled awkwardly.  The Hermit seemed to notice the tension, and stood back a little, simply nodding his head in response.  A moment of silence would pass over them before he would point to the kitchen just a few feet away.