Sigma Eta

Shadows Cast Without Light

There may be more discreet ways to break into a house, but in the ways of modern day technology Victor felt as if they had no choice but to be blunt about it. Who knows what sort of security system they had hooked up to this house, waiting for one of the windows to open, or one of the doors to be pried? It seemed that the most obvious way to disturb the dead was to just go ahead and do it, trying to keep the security guards away long enough to have a look enough inside. Victor stood back, with his back pressed against the siding of Sigma Eta while Musgrave took a couple of practice jabs with the baseball bat. He hit the air multiple times, putting all the force he had in his old bones into each and every push, and before long he felt ready to bring the bat down upon the living room window. There was a shattering of glass, loud enough to wake whatever still slept inside. Though the hole was enough, and once they had pushed away the shards of broken glass it proved to be big enough to climb through.
"No alarm." Musgrave commented, holding still to the baseball bat as if he would need it for a weapon of some kind. To be honest, Victor had no idea what was waiting inside the house. It felt silly to be armed against what may just be an empty house, though if something really was crawling about it felt better to be prepared than defenseless.
"I'll go first." Victor decided, grabbing his flashlight and taking a deep breath. The window was as clear as it could be, though Victor was not expecting to get through unscathed. It was worth a wound to see the inside of Sigma Eta; in fact he had decided to stake everything on just a look around. There might be more than an arrest waiting for him inside of this house, there might be death itself. No longer were they facing their advisory on their own turf, now they were breaking into Sherlock's house and challenging him. Victor stood up on the electrical box, shining the flashlight into the living room and examining each of the furniture pieces which were scattered around. Each couch and armchair seemed to be abandoned, if not eaten by mice then covered in dust and untouched.
"It's clear." Victor whispered, though his words were not too confident. Clear of any visible foes, perhaps. Though what was lingering there for them in the shadows still was unknown. First Victor eased his head through, pulling himself up so that he could set his chest onto the window ledge. It wasn't the smartest of attempts, though now that he had dedicated himself to it he had no choice but to try to worm his way through, trying not to fall too hard onto the glass below. Before long Victor found he had no choice but to dive through, for his leverage on the window ledge was only going to last until his hips. And so he at last allowed gravity to take hold, flinging himself as powerfully as he could through the window and dragging the top of his legs through the jagged wood, scratching through his pants and searing the skin below. Victor fell hard onto the floor, landing with a shard of glass in his palm, and whining with the effort of burglary.
"Victor, are you alright?" called Musgrave's nervous voice, his head poking in from where he stood on the most excellently placed electrical box.
"I'm fine...fine." Victor grumbled, rolling over onto his side and plucking his hand free. Musgrave followed soon after, though he seemed to take a smarter approach as he somehow managed to get his feet in first, setting them solidly on the floor before worming his torso and head out from under the shattered frame.
"Well you made that look easy!" Victor complained, to which Musgrave merely chuckled, turning on his flashlight as his only response. As soon as Victor recovered from his rather pathetic entrance he finally had the opportunity to appreciate just where he was lying, and what might have been lying here before. The hardwood floor proved to be quite what he imagined it, smooth and worn with the years of feet trampling over top. And the carpet, yes...well it was perfectly disgusting. Dust having settled into the fibers, the droppings of mice and other invaders, once a carpet that must have been so perfectly kept. Victor got slowly to his feet, beaming his flashlight around the living room with awe. So this was where they used to sit, each one of those smiling boys in the photograph? These couches held their weight, these desks their homework, these floors their bare feet? Victor ran his fingers overtop of one of the arm rests, wondering who had once shared that leather, who had once enjoyed the luxury? He breathed in the air, coated with dust, layered with the exhales of twenty or thirty boys, decades before.
"Do you think anyone is home?" Musgrave questioned, shining his flashlight within a book case and examining each one of the titles.
"I can't be sure." Victor admitted. "It looks as though they couldn't pack up; all of their things are still here."
"It wouldn't be a tragedy if they could prepare for it." Musgrave agreed, waving a pencil that he had found in the nook of one of the writing desks. Victor nodded, staring through the doorway of the living room and into the untouched areas beyond. He had never seen the rest of the house; the living room had been the only thing he could see properly from where he had stood that first day on campus, snooping within the windows in an attempt to see what all the fuss was about.
"Should we go farther?" Victor whispered, staring within the darkness and beaming the light of his flashlight onto each one of the details that caught his attention.
"I would be disappointed if we didn't." Musgrave admitted with a little smile, following Victor's lead and walking very carefully towards what seemed to be an entry way, the middle point between the front and back doors. Immediately in front of them was the kitchen, which from a quick inspection of their flashlights didn't seem to be very exciting. There were dishes still lying in the drained sink, flies buzzing around in an attempt to find another lost crumb. The appliances were all aged, undoubtedly useless and rusted, though they reminded Victor of just what time period this house had last hosted. Were they really the first to disturb the house since the sixties? Musgrave had found the staircase, and beckoned for Victor to follow him to the second floor. The stairs were lined with an old red carpet, perhaps more like velvet when it was first laid down. The staircase turned and maneuvered them to wherever it thought they most needed to go, and when they stepped off onto the second floor they find themselves face to face with an open door.
"One of the rooms." Victor said a bit obviously, for the first thing he noticed were two beds up against either wall, separated by a mere space of about five feet. Each bed was still covered in old sheets, though most of the possessions had been taken out of the open drawers and cabinets. The walls were marked as if by the ripping of tape, and where the paint once peeled was left a scarred sample of the older cover coat, a dull white.
"Maybe these boys survived." Musgrave suggested, shutting one of the empty drawers rather hopefully.
"Or family." Victor suggested. He set his hand upon the left mattress, feeling for an indent that might have been left by a continual body being hosted, night after night. The mattress proved unresponsive, for it was flat the entire way. Though he felt something, something other than a physical presence or indentation. Victor felt energy, a slight tingling, as he set his fingers down upon the sheets. Someone had slept here once, someone important to the story they were trying to unravel.
"Victor, look at this." Musgrave whispered, shining his flashlight upon his fingers as they pulled a photograph from between the wall and the desk, a forgotten memento of the occupants who had once lived here. Victor moved over, staring down upon the illuminated photo. There were two smiling faces, two boys assembled in front of a loaded car with their arm around the other's shoulders. A simple picture, made haunting by the fact that they were easily recognizable.
"John." Victor whispered, touching his finger against one of the boy's faces.
"And the other boy, from the luau." Musgrave pointed out.
"Perhaps they were roommates." Victor suggested, pocketing the picture rather urgently. He wasn't very comfortable with the fact that they were standing in the ruins of these boy's memories, these faces that were remembered only in ink and never again in real time. Where he stood now with Musgrave, that had been the very spot they might have stood. And where those boys were now was a mystery, caused by the very structure they were trapped inside.
"Another room, perhaps?" Musgrave suggested, noticing Victor's expression gravening as he looked across the room at each piece of discarded furniture. Had this really been where John had slept, along with his forsaken roommate? Those poor boys, immortalized in their youngest versions, cursed never to grow old?
"What a waste." Victor muttered, forcing himself out of the room before he could call back all of his memories of John and hear his desperate voice, crying for help to a man who could not come to his aid. Together he and Musgrave examined all of the rooms on the second floor, looking for something that they could not describe. Perhaps they searched for clues, a diary of some sort which would immortalize the happenings of the last year in Sigma Eta. Or perhaps they wanted a clue as to what had happened, if any of these rooms held the events which occurred so long ago. Victor was expecting blood to be stained onto the mattresses, ropes to be hanging from the ceilings, ashes charred to the wooden bedframes. Though nothing stuck out, in fact he might have been convinced that the rooms had been emptied just for the summer, that their occupants would return the next year with happy, healthy hearts. The dust reminded him that it could never be so, and the silence that hung in the air like a shroud made it clear that the peace had not been disturbed within these walls since the doors were last shut, six decades before.
"It's so quiet." Musgrave commented, perhaps sharing in Victor's train of thought.
"What are you expecting, if not silence?" Victor whispered, wandering over towards the staircase once more and mounting the lowest step.
"I'm not sure. A welcome party, perhaps, of all the dead who refused to sleep peacefully?" Musgrave suggested.
"Be thankful they're not here. Not yet, at least." Victor murmured, climbing slowly over the wandering stairs into a hallway that he was vaguely familiar with. It curled more than it had in his dream, though the wall paper and the carpeting was unmistakable. He had walked these halls without ever seeing them; he had envisioned them without being told what awaited him. Victor shivered, the light of his flashlight wavering as his nightmares came to life, presenting him with a door at the end of the hallway that was slightly opened, inviting him inside as if it knew to expect its final visitor.
"That's it, the master suite." Victor announced. Musgrave clambered up behind him, setting one of his hands onto Victor's shoulder as he beamed his flashlight towards the ajar door.
"How can you be sure?" Musgrave whispered.
"I've seen it before. That's where Sherlock sleeps." Victor began walking towards the door, feeling much more confident than he would have if he hadn't yet traveled these halls. It felt as though he was marching straight towards the layer of the dragon, though between the two of them they were armed only with the baseball bat that Musgrave was now bouncing apprehensively off of his leg, clinging the metal with his shin bone with every nervous step he took. Victor came to the door, feeling a cold draft escaping from the small space that separated the frame from the wood itself. Inside he heard no noise, though he felt as though the room was occupied. It was rather strange, refusing to knock. He shined his flashlight into the door before opening it, and upon seeing nothing he finally collected his courage and stepped inside. The bed was just as he had seen it before, with the twisted metal head board and the solemn hangings billowing about from above. The room was almost barren except for the bed, though it was made up nicely, with blankets and pillows that had not been removed. Perhaps Sherlock had preserved his bedroom to be just to his liking, as if he had expected to return.
"It doesn't look empty." Musgrave observed rather obviously. He lingered next to the bedside table, sliding open one of the drawers and pulling out a carton of very old cigarettes. The package crumbled to his touch, though it seemed a treasure worth more than gold Victor leapt upon it, throwing his flashlight down upon the floor and allowing the beam to spin madly at their feet.
"Give those to me." Victor demanded, holding out his hands anxiously so as to allow the cigarettes to fall into his open palms. There was still blood issuing from his wound, the one made upon his entrance, though he figured it would only compliment what must have been one of Sherlock's last possessions. Musgrave looked hesitant, his fingers circling over the small package, though the gleam in Victor's eye was unmistakable. Perhaps Musgrave began to realize that Victor was ordering him to release his treasure, not merely suggesting. He would be prepared to fight for those cigarettes, kill for them, it he had to. At last Musgrave set the package inside of Victor's extended hands, and the man clenched to them as if drawing forth a new power, a new life. It felt as if he wasn't just holding cigarettes, but instead the very hand of the mysterious Sherlock. He was connected now, in a way that was unprecedented. At that moment they were interrupted, startled from their tranquility by a loud bang issued from below.
"That sounded like a door." Musgrave said at once, his face paling as he began to consider the options for who might be lurking about. Sherlock was almost the preferable answer when compared to the campus security officers, all of which already had Victor on their radar as a known trespasser. The two were silent, ready to turn off their flashlights and hide if they sensed any lingering danger. Time passed slowly, though when silence over took the room once more Victor began to wonder if that noise was caused by any human force at all. Voices would have preceded any disruption; the campus safety officers would be yelling and demanding that the trespassers show themselves. No, this was not so easily explained. Victor regained his flashlight, his fingers wavering slightly as he stepped away from Sherlock's room and into the hallway once more. The bang issued again, this time louder, the sound waves echoing up the staircase and calling attention to a more pressing issue below. Like a man in a trance, Victor followed. His feet shuffled over the carpets as if being instructed by another, his flashlight beam illuminating only what he needed to see to descend safely. He knew what was waiting in the darkness, for some reason he could imagine every detail of this house as if he had studied it before. There were no secrets in the shadows, not any longer. When at last he arrived onto the first floor the bang came again, this time so loud that he could trace it back to the original source. The kitchen. Musgrave followed behind hesitantly, dragging the end of the baseball bat along the tile floors as he watched Victor creep through the kitchen, aiming his flashlight at the obvious source of the sound. There was a door tucked in the corner, still wobbling on its hinges as if recovering from great shock. The slamming had left marks in the wall, fresh black streaks through the once disturbed white paint, abused over the many years of use.