Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 3

In the year of our lord 1826; being the second after bissextile or leap year, and the fifteen of the independence of the United States of America. Inscribed by Christopher to the Reverent Mr. Brooks of The Old North. The Loring's of the Boston area had once been a very prominent family in the 1700's, the House, its out buildings and acreage are proof of it, and their considerable contributions, second to none, validate claims. It is my belief that the House held some localized importance, as it once served as a military hospice during the Siege of Boston, thereafter condemned for an undisclosed liability, and there was a strong likelihood that the House would have been demolished had the The Loring's not involved the diocese for help in the preservation of the House, but about the same time, the Loren's fled the House in August 1774, permanently for England. With a later inscription to Francis and his four nephews. "It is a jewel that has to be preserved."

The Reverent Mr. Brooks was to offer morning sermon to a small congregation that had slowly come together in the days leading up to Easter Sunday. A joyous start to the Lenten season of fasting and penitence, in consequence, a mass baptism was to usher in the celebration.

The Reverent Father reclined against the plush cushions of his chesterfield, relishing the comfort it provided. His glasses perched precariously atop his head, sliding down slowly as he surrendered to a drowsy state. He was drenched in sweat. It came over him smelling of burnt fruit, so strangely unfamiliar, slowly twisting his innards till he felt as if he could spill the contents of his stomach. It would always start that way and end abruptly in the same way; with a child in his arms. A boy who would frequent his thoughts haunted him needlessly. Who was he to him? Often he would ask himself. He rubbed his eyes in annoyance and puzzling over it when he noticed Olivia beside him, with an uneasy expression.

"Something has happened," Olivia began, her hand resting on his shoulder.

"I was alone in the pantry," she continued, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "That's when I first heard it. It was so abrupt I believed it to be nothing. But then, I heard it once more."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "What are you going on about?"

"A buzzing," she elaborated.

"A what?" Arthur inquired, slowly rousing from his lethargy.

"A terrible sound from within the drawing-room."

They walked the corridor to the drawing-room, without saying another word, quivering with apprehension. They lingered a moments outside, before Arthur pushed the door open with a slow, deliberate turning of the doorknob, taking a step into a surprising sight. The drawing-room was illuminated with a sort of kaleidoscope effect, so wonderfully produced by the stained glass windows that faced the courtyard. Taking a step in, their eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness, making out the remnants of a window that lay scattered across the room.

Olivia's initial fear gave way to a practical instinct as she swiftly fetched a broom from the hallway closet and began to sweep the debris. "Should I contact the authorities, sir?" she inquired, her voice tinged with concern.

Ever the logical one, Arthur surveyed the room's unsettling state. Unaccountably, he felt himself drawn to the corner of the room, and as he slowly made his way, he noticed something glinting in his peripheral vision. Careful to evade the shattered glass that clung on the oriental rug, he knelt down to investigate. His fingers closed around an unusual object—a cross. He picked it up, turning it over in his palm, sensing a familiarity, yet it was in a peculiar shape unlike any jewelry  he owned. He closed his fingers around it, holding it tightly, a clue to the mystery that lay before him. 

"We need not involve the authorities, Olivia," Arthur declared, his eyes lingering on the dustpan filled with shattered glass fragments.

After, Mr. Dolling lit a cigarette, and flung himself on the downing chair beside the fireplace. The very same one the stranger sat watching the rain fall that night. Should he call the authorities? he though then, after all, something must be done. He asked this many times, and as he continued to do so, a dreadful sensation overcame him for some reason or another.