mister-goodfellow

I have been walking for some time. I have not noticed many turns or twists in my progression, though with my hand in constant contact with the wall, I find myself a little disorientated in terms of direction. All I am aware of is that I have been heading right, that time has passed, and that the strange humming noise has only grown louder. I had thought that it was close before, but now I realise that I had misjudged the volume of the noise. Here, in what I can only imagine to be the deepest catacombs of the building, I can feel it shaking the wall. It feels surreal, somehow, that I should find myself so calm and measured while I am in such

I stumble blindly down the corridors, which stretch before me, black, endless and meandering. I am surrounded by darkness, so deep and so dense that it almost feels warm to the skin. It is difficult for me to make sense of any of this. Lavender had warned me of these blurred lines yesterday, I remember dimly. She had said that my dreams were the only things that I could trust, and worryingly, it almost feels as though she is right. I am certain that her warning would be of more use to me, but I am struggling to find the line which separates that which is real and that which is not. I cannot accept that Nigel is dead. To accept that is to al

I am running as fast as my legs are able to carry me. Behind me, in my dust, I can hear the policemen giving up the ghost and turning back to his station on the road. I can see nothing but leaves and branches; dark foliage stretching from one edge of my world to the other. My voice is hoarse from shouting. I am calling Lavender's name. I am not even sure why I am even doing it, but it is all I can think of. Those three syllables are about the only things that are driving me onwards. Nigel is dead. Nigel is missing. Nigel is just fine, sitting at home and reading. I am going mad. I must be going mad. The boy opened the door to me this mor

I put my head on my hands and stare blankly off in the direction of the inn. It is not the best of distractions, but I hope that it will do for the moment. However, as I strain to look through the windows, I find no activity within those walls. It is unsurprising, I suppose, given the road block, but it would have made a nice change to see at least one person living on this street who had no interest in unearthing gossip about a murder and had instead gone to get themselves drunk, or something to that effect. I take a few moments to talk myself out of being that person. At any rate, I am certain I can see the barkeep himself standing in the

'David.' 'Yes?' 'You enquire with the policeman at that end of the road,' says Carmen. 'As you are the eldest, you command the most social authority among us, and therefore they are more likely to answer you clearly if you press the question to them.' I am highly amused by the "most social authority" remark. Carmen is quite oblivious to herself, it would seem. 'Charles.' 'Carmen,' I say. 'You will assist David by conversing with the policeman on the opposite side,' she says. 'As you have already developed a rapport with the man, insomuch as he has allowed you through the road block, it should be easier for you to extract more informatio

My sister suddenly wrinkles her nose. 'Those clothes are hideous,' she says, as she realises the grotesque state in which I have appeared. 'You will get changed immediately, I assume.' 'Oh, ah... yes, Carmen,' I nod. I had, naturally, wanted to do exactly that the moment I was able to, but Carmen's insistence upon it drives the point forward with purpose, and I feel almost as though I should dash away this very moment and change my clothes. 'You are quite a fool, Charles,' she says. She returns her full attention to her newspaper. Again, there is the vaguest twitch of her lips. It seems as though my sister is in quite good spirits today. 'N

It is barely past sunrise when Aristotle and I finally reach the road leading home. I am alarmingly aware of the fact that I am still wearing the same clothes that I put on some two days prior. They are creased and scuffed and stained in patches, and as I drive the cart forward, I pray silently that the streets stay as vacant as they are, as I do not wish to suffer the embarrassment of being seen in such unsightly clothes. Thankfully, having spent the night in a house for a change, I have at least had a chance to be able to wash and neaten myself up a little before returning home. I can only hope I smell a little fresher than I feel, or loo