Dragonfly; Phan

VIII

The house wasn't really much. It was the expected. It wasn't dirty, not at all, but it was plain. The walls were splattered in an empty cream and the floors were a dull beige. The pattern seemingly ran throughout the house.

Dan, PJ, Chris and Cat sat at a small table in the centre of a little kitchen as the man—Martyn, he'd introduced himself as—stood beside a brewing kettle.

"What're your names?" he asked them, and they went through the group, starting with Dan and ending with Cat.

"I'll have to try and remember that," he said, when they were done. "My memory's never been the best."

Dan fiddled with his hands on the table. "Were you related at all to the Lesters?"

Martyn slowed. "Why past tense?"

"Sorry?"

"You said were. Why not are? Why past tense? Relation isn't a temporary thing."

"I know, I just—" Dan struggled to phrase the words. "Grant and William Lester. They're both dead. And they owned Littlerock."

Martyn nodded, impressed. "Some knowledge you have there, kid."

Dan shrugged, and let a beat of silence pass. "So were you? Are you?"

"Phil Lester, too," Cat added, into the stillness. "He's dead, too, isn't he? That kid that went missing."

Martyn stared at her and folded his arms, leaning back against the counter. "What makes you so sure, Cat?"

She shrugged. "We've been in contact with an inside source."

"Inside source?" he smiled. "Now who might that be, I wonder?"

Dan's mind buzzed.

"A guy on some forums," Chris answered quickly. "Well, it could be a girl. But we assume it's a guy."

"Do you know him?" Dan pressed.

"This forum guy?" Martyn returned. "Don't think I do."

"So what happened then? How are you connected?" PJ demanded. "Because we know it's something. You're living in the household of a family with quite a bit of a name and you're not exactly the primmest of men, are you?"

"Prim," Martyn laughed. "Funny word, that. You guys are interesting—Strange vocabularies. Admirable curiosities."

The four shared a look that was hard for even them to distinguish.

"Yeah, okay," Chris replied. "What do you know about Littlerock?"

"Mental asylum. Horrible stories. Probably a whole load of horse-shit."

"Did your father own it? Was Grant your father?"

Martyn ignored the words to take the correct amount of mugs—one-by-one—out of the cupboard. He lifted the kettle and poured the boiling water into them.

"Was he?" Cat pushed. "Was Phil related to you, too?"

Martyn held his silence close to his chest, stirring a silver spoon through the hot liquids in the mugs.

"Hey," The word was so hard and sharply crafted in Dan's voice when he spoke that every trace of attention in the room snapped to him. "I'm starting to lose my fucking mind trying to figure out what the hell happened with that place and your family and this town and why everyone acts as if it spawned the damn devil. If you know something, sir, you better start talking or I swear to God, I'm out of here and I'm not ever coming back."