This is not a Greta bashing blog! We stan a queen. I'm not anykind of shipper either. I just collect art, fanfics, headcannons, and discussions on this character.
I needed a place to foam at the mouth about Brahms Heelshire so irl people in my life don't think I'm insane
Real world events and politics will NEVER be discussed here. Think of this blog as the Heelshire manor, cut off from the rest of the world.
Headcannons will get updated from time to time as I steal think of more to add
Backup blog is anotherbrahmsfanblog.
My crappy writings
Master List
My crappy art
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Personal headcannons ( & some spicy takes)
Brahms is not stinky/dirty by choice. He's not opposed to bathing or shaving or being clean, he just couldn't run water or sneak a shower while Greta was there or it'd blow his cover. He has a wash basin and what appears to ne a little kitchen sink in his room for sponge baths or quick wipe downs. Same goes for his clothing, he couldn't exactly toss them in the washer and dryer. And living in the walls and attic is dusty and dirty. If he hadn't bathed or shaved in 20 years, his hair would have been long as well as his beard. His unkempt look appears to be a couple weeks of not proper upkeep. About how long Greta was there maybe.
He's always had a beard/mustache ever since he could grow one. It was a way to defy his parents and a reminder that he is not, in fact, a little boy. He generally keeps it trimmed and neat, what we see when he comes out of the wall is due to him not being able to get a proper shower and trim during Greta's stay. Also it's a pain to shave around his scars.
Speaking of scars, due to the scar tissue, he's missing an eyebrow, half his mustache and part of his beard.
Brahms has janky British™ teeth.
He used the toilet when Greta was out getting mail, out in the garden or possibly deep in sleep. He may do the whole bed pan thing... ugh..let's not think about this one too long
He doesn't have the mind of a child. He's not mentally challenged or age regressed. He uses the child voice for manipulation and trickery. Possibly due to his parents forcing him into the walls and expecting only a good little boy for 28 years.
He is socially stunted for sure.
Possibly on the spectrum.
Brahms might be a sociopath, just how bad and if it's nature or nurture, is up for interpretation.
More than anything, I believe he has rage issues. He can't control his temper and lets his anger get the better of him.
Did he kill Emily? The movie hints at yes, and there is definitely a possibility he did. At 8, kids generally know right from wrong but usually lack the ability to think ahead very far at the consequences of their actions. Combine it with him being an "odd boy" (sociopath? Possibility autistic or something???) You have a recipe for disaster. It also could have been an accident. Tho how one gets a bashed in head on accident is very sus.
He is absolutely 100% touch starved! That's enough to drive anyone a lil batty.
He has a fear of fire, candles would probably not be a good idea to have around him. Fire in a fire place also scares him, same with the gas stove.
He can sort of cook. Mainly using his microwave but he can boil water for eggs or pasta. He apperars to have a little electric burner in his room (under the pot of potatoes)
Brahms isn't a fan of his birthday. Between the killing of Emily and the fire, his birthday is a source of stress for him.
Until I hear otherwise, I've decided, personally, that Nov. 13th is his birthday!
He has a little bit of agoraphobia, or more likely is institutionalized. He could maybe go out around his house with his nanny, but to get him to come out into a public place would be a challenge. This is why he didn't chase after Greta when she got out of the basement.
He's intelligent. To go along with the "he's not a child stuck in a man's body" he can read, he can write, he listens to classical music and opera, he can play the piano and violin. There is one in his childhood room as well as his attic room. There are music sheets everywhere and tons of books. I'm certain his parents home schooled him, and they appear to both be learned people.
He has excellent hearing and can play music by ear on his violin or piano. His singing is rubbish tho, man can not carry a tune to save his life!
While he can play both piano and violin, the violin is his true passion.
Had he had a normal childhood (and possibly therapy) he would have been a professional violinist or something in the music sphere. Any fanfics or fanart with Brahms doing something with music is an instant love for me!
I feel like he's a natural romantic at heart. Loves romantic songs and stories.
His other hobbies include trapping, taxidermy, and general crafting.
He's a bit of a perv. Yeah...maybe not as bad as some fan fictions like to think he is. The Greta doll is both a sad cry for touch, as well as a...ummm...way to relieve some pent up...energy. Notice it's not stained or damaged. I feel he had some reverence for it.
While Brahms is a perv, he's not a rapist... Hear me out. He could have easily forced himself on Greta during the trapped in the attic scene. After all, she did knock herself out in nothing but a towel. Hell, there were several times he could have forced her during the entire movie, but didn't. My favorite scene is when she came back for Malcolm, she sees Brahms standing in the hall way and he slowly walks over to her and just breaths in her scent. A tense (and sexually charged) scene for sure, but there were times when he was definitely going that direction. When he grabbed Greta after killing Cole, what was the endgame of that had Malcolm not clubbed him? And the goodnight kiss scene...yeah...I don't see that not ending in force had Greta not stabbed him. But I will still defend it's the starved for love, starved for a woman, and starved for touch that pushed him that far. Could she have stopped it with another sharp "BRAHMS! "? We'll never know...
He has definitely jacked it to pictures of classical nude paintings found in his books.
I don't see him as having a mommy kink, more like mommy issues.
If he has any kink, it's definitely a voyeurism kink.
He's definitely a switch. Because of his upbringing, he can be subby, sweet, clingy, and docile. He can also be dominating, controlling, and manipulative when he wants his way.
He's a 28-30 some year old virgin. You can't convince me otherwise.
Brahms is uncircumcised.
It's established that there is no wifi or bars at the Heelshire mansion, this goes for tvs, computers, or radios. Not once did we see Greta watch TV or listen to music outside of the piano and record player. God it would be boring there. Another reason I believe Brahms is intelligent, all he can do is read and study.
Brahms is almost 100% unaware of pop culture and the world outside of his parents house. What's the internet? What's a meme? What's a Beyonce? He would have almost no clue about recent movies and TV shows. He might have heard some modern music his previous nannies played on their phones. Maybe also snagged a magazine if a nanny left it.
Did Brahms kill his other nannies? Well, that's also heavily up to interpretation. He claims as he's screaming to Greta, threatening that he'll kill Malcolm like he "killed the others". But he didn't. Malcolm was knocked out, but alive. He apparently also had final say over who got to be his nanny. "He's chosen you, if you'll have him" I choose to believe if he didn't outright dismiss them on age or looks, if they mistreated the doll they were fired or scared off with the ghost boy routine. Notice, he didn't kill Greta for tossing the doll into the rocking chair or covering it up. The difference with Greta was that this time, the parents took a "permanent holiday". Besides, if he was killing multiple nannies, there would be investigations and rumors.
To piggy back off the previous topic... He could have killed Cole, but tried to scare him off first. That's right, he could have killed Cole in his sleep, Greta and Malcolm could have come into a grizzly scene of Cole choking on his own blood that night...but no, Brahms tried to scare him off with a bloody message and dead rats.
He actually does like Malcolm a little. Malcolm was always nice to the doll and of course he delivered the food. It wasn't until he put moves on Greta that Brahms jealousy got the better of him. He could have shown himself that night Malcolm and Greta were getting frisky, but opted to cockblock with scary ghost boy shenanigans instead. This is why he didn't outright kill Malcolm like he did Cole.
He's been heavily controlled his whole life. This may contribute to why he was an "odd child" as well as his psychopathic nature in the present. I headcannon his parents fucked him up royally from birth. Heavy restrictions, dogmatic adherence to rules and etiquette... just everything. Look at his childhood room. He has toys from what looks to be the 40s or 50's. Made of wood and tin and are wind up. His birth year is 1983. Where's the he-man action figures? Where's the my pet monster doll? Where's the posters of sports stars? They probably kept him isolated at their manor, no other kids around save Emily that went there to play sometimes. His diet, entertainment, wardrobe, everything was extremely cultivated to his parents tastes. This is why he responds so well to a firm voice and authority.
His parents were the real monsters. They put him in the wall. The fact that his face is burned, I believe they tried to kill him with fire, it either didn't work and he survived or they chickened out half way. Either way, I believe they did it because of the Emily incident, which should have been a therapy situation, not murder. They wanted a quiet, obedient, non problematic son, hence the doll and the "bad seed" trapped in the walls. Possibly to also save the Heelshire name.
Brahms is a brat. Yup, because of his upbringing his only way to lash back was to be a brat at times and throw fits. The messed up toy room being one of them. The parents admitted he's spoiled and they will acquiesce to some of his demands. (Mostly his choice of nannies)
He's ashamed of his scars/face hence the mask. He might have also been forced to wear it because his parents didn't want to see the burn scars the very few times brahms wasn't in the wall/attic.
Until the nannies arrived, he had more free rein of the house. While still being forced into the walls, he was allowed by his parents to come out and shower as needed. As long as he wore the mask, and generally not while they were around or in that part of the house.
How does he stays fit in the walls? Well, he's got his attic room and it's fairly well sound proofed with the egg cartons. There's room to do push-ups and sit ups. There's also beams to do pull ups on too.
More headcannons
So, I read the original script of "the Boy" and got to the part that described his room.
I was curious if I could see if he had a shower or
I'm bored, let's discuss Brahms's love languages, shall we?
#5 Receiving Gifts: This involves giving gifts that show thoughtfulness and car
And zodiacs, and mythologies. I'm by no means an expert in all theses subjects, I just dabble for fun. Everything outside of my opinions wer
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Brahms Secret Room · So, for starters, we know the doll's room is up on the 3rd floor. We see this at the beginning of the
💬 0 🔁 1 ❤️ 3 · I have so many thoughts about all this! This was a wellspring of information, seriously, thank you so much @ms-edelweiss fo
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 6 · Brahms toys · Thinking about some of the odd and outdated toys Brahms grew up with. Remember, Brahms is a child of the 80's
💬 0 🔁 1 ❤️ 11 · hello, i’ve been scrolling your blog recently and have found myself interested in your headcanon posts. your headcanon abo
I think Brahms doesn’t actually throw tantrums I think he’s just a master manipulator and will moreso scare ppl into doing what he wants more than anything
If his parents (mother specifically) would only talk to the doll and treat him as forever 8yo, maybe throwing a "tantrum" was the only way to get his point across. I agree, his "childishness" is manipulation but it's how he's ever communicated with his parents.
I agree partially, but I think there's a strong possibility that his childishness is a coping/defense mechanism. I've probably put too much thought into this. But we have to remember that in Brahms' experience, the last time his parents weren't ashamed of him, the last time they didn't hide him away, was when he was 8 years old. We know that his primary motivation is the desire to be loved. I think in his mind, being the version of himself that he was before the fire is how he earns his parents' love. I do agree that it's a choice he makes to behave that way, but I can also easily see him accidentally slipping into that childlike space when he is feeling insecure or needy. Because his experiences tell him that's the only version of him that is lovable.
Yes! This has crossed my mind as well, what a great add on! He's such a complex character. (or maybe were making him that way, but it's like trying to sew a quilt from scraps!)
bro now I’m running through a list of slashers that might work for the role reversal because god damn I want that- BRAHMS??? MAYBE?? First one to pop in my head that might work
I'm sorry my friend.
I already have something else planned for him~🌺 😉.
Just woke up from a nap thinking about Brahms from The Boy. I mean this wholeheartedly I'd give anything to be in her position sorry to her but I'm different. To get to live in that beautiful house in peaceful seclusion away from my life and I just have to be a nanny to a haunted doll/strange man in the walls? DONE!!!
Ugh preach! Never have to work again! All I'd ask for is some wifi, my pets, and at least one trip out to town a week or even month, just to do some fun shopping and a bit of socialization.
Rewatching The Boy and the scene with Brahms coming in through the mirror got me with my hands on my cheeks while wiggling my toes n shit like a schoolgirl.. wow..
Listen, I dunno if it’s like gaydar but as a bottom I recognize that our stinky wall boi is the bottomest bottom to ever bottom. Can we all agree on that???
@goodzebra again and your response was AMAZING! such a brilliant analysis! you mentioned ‘script brahms’ being a whole different beast - what is ‘script brahms’??
Whew boy, that's a doozy! Script Brahms is more of a classical Slasher than movie Brahms. In a lot of ways, he'd have been so much scarier than what we got, but not as sympathetic or imo attractive.
Lets start with looks. Script Brahms or SB is fucking HUGE. not just tall, but massive all over. And none of that 'improvise, overcome, adapt' of Movie Brahms or MB, SB comes fucking STRAPPED!
art by Big-Buff-Goth
just like in the original filming of the movie, there's no mask or burn scars also, he has rotten yellow teeth... 🤮
He didn't kick in the mirror and stab Cole with a doll shard after punching him a few times, he STABBED THROUGH THE WALL WITH A KNIFE INTO COLE"S NECK!
and Cole didn't have a quick death, he was still alive on the floor, choking on his blood and SB stabs him through the chest to finish him off.
He's also not afraid to go outside, in fact he goes outside earlier in the script to put half dead rats in Malcolm's truck (after Malcolm and Gerti (proto Greta) fuck, yes they fuck in the script), he locks the front door and kitchen door to keep Gerti and Malcolm in the house before showing himself.
He even slashes Malcolm's tires when Gerti has second thoughts of leaving Malcolm behind. This Boy is not afraid of the outside, at least not around the house. (MB is debatable we never get any solid confirmation if he goes outside or not)
art by The-Thot-Clown
At one point MB grabs Greta in a hug/choke hold to idk subdue her or try and drag her off, it's hard to tell...
Wanna see what SB does to Gerti?
MB looks almost sweet by comparison huh?
SB is also way more vocal. Several times in the script we hear him scream out in rage. He also talks to and taunts Gerti.
SB's perversion is also waaayy more than MB. we still have the Gerti (Greta) doll, but how SB's room is set up tells of a much darker and disturbed individual.
I am so..so...SO GLAD, they went with Music sheets covering the walls over coloring book pages mixed with freaking PORN! *gags* It would have really pushed that 'mind of a child' more than the manipulation we got in the movie. and trust me, the creepy baby voice and 'playfulness' we got in the movie was more than enough.
In the script, it's mentioned that SB loves his music but that's it for any musical references. no violin on his wall or in his old room, no music sheets covering the walls.
instead, during the dinner scene with Gerti and the Heelshires, the parents tell Gerti (who's from Texas) that Brahms likes her accent, and asks if she's ever met Indians before. SB seems to be more into American Western culture than Music.
SB is also more like a traditional slasher because good god, he does not go down easy.
that's 6 stabs! (the first stab was when he was in the bed)
but wait, there's more!
we get the surprise revival/final showdown like a typical slasher movie. only when Gerti fucking RAMS HIM THROUGH THE HOUSE WITH MALCOLM"S TRUCK do we get a death. and even then, Gerti DOUBLE TAPS THAT SHIT!
SB is a freaking BEAST!
but I prefer the softer (but still edgy), sweeter (but still pervy), musically talented Movie Brahms.
Check out my "script brahms" tag for other people's posts on the script vs movie on my blog if you wanna know more, but I pretty much covered it.
Also, if you wanna read the script yourself, here's a link!
@goodzebra again and your response was AMAZING! such a brilliant analysis! you mentioned ‘script brahms’ being a whole different beast - what is ‘script brahms’??
Whew boy, that's a doozy! Script Brahms is more of a classical Slasher than movie Brahms. In a lot of ways, he'd have been so much scarier than what we got, but not as sympathetic or imo attractive.
Lets start with looks. Script Brahms or SB is fucking HUGE. not just tall, but massive all over. And none of that 'improvise, overcome, adapt' of Movie Brahms or MB, SB comes fucking STRAPPED!
art by Big-Buff-Goth
just like in the original filming of the movie, there's no mask or burn scars also, he has rotten yellow teeth... 🤮
He didn't kick in the mirror and stab Cole with a doll shard after punching him a few times, he STABBED THROUGH THE WALL WITH A KNIFE INTO COLE"S NECK!
and Cole didn't have a quick death, he was still alive on the floor, choking on his blood and SB stabs him through the chest to finish him off.
He's also not afraid to go outside, in fact he goes outside earlier in the script to put half dead rats in Malcolm's truck (after Malcolm and Gerti (proto Greta) fuck, yes they fuck in the script), he locks the front door and kitchen door to keep Gerti and Malcolm in the house before showing himself.
He even slashes Malcolm's tires when Gerti has second thoughts of leaving Malcolm behind. This Boy is not afraid of the outside, at least not around the house. (MB is debatable we never get any solid confirmation if he goes outside or not)
art by The-Thot-Clown
At one point MB grabs Greta in a hug/choke hold to idk subdue her or try and drag her off, it's hard to tell...
Wanna see what SB does to Gerti?
MB looks almost sweet by comparison huh?
SB is also way more vocal. Several times in the script we hear him scream out in rage. He also talks to and taunts Gerti.
SB's perversion is also waaayy more than MB. we still have the Gerti (Greta) doll, but how SB's room is set up tells of a much darker and disturbed individual.
I am so..so...SO GLAD, they went with Music sheets covering the walls over coloring book pages mixed with freaking PORN! *gags* It would have really pushed that 'mind of a child' more than the manipulation we got in the movie. and trust me, the creepy baby voice and 'playfulness' we got in the movie was more than enough.
In the script, it's mentioned that SB loves his music but that's it for any musical references. no violin on his wall or in his old room, no music sheets covering the walls.
instead, during the dinner scene with Gerti and the Heelshires, the parents tell Gerti (who's from Texas) that Brahms likes her accent, and asks if she's ever met Indians before. SB seems to be more into American Western culture than Music.
SB is also more like a traditional slasher because good god, he does not go down easy.
that's 6 stabs! (the first stab was when he was in the bed)
but wait, there's more!
we get the surprise revival/final showdown like a typical slasher movie. only when Gerti fucking RAMS HIM THROUGH THE HOUSE WITH MALCOLM"S TRUCK do we get a death. and even then, Gerti DOUBLE TAPS THAT SHIT!
SB is a freaking BEAST!
but I prefer the softer (but still edgy), sweeter (but still pervy), musically talented Movie Brahms.
Check out my "script brahms" tag for other people's posts on the script vs movie on my blog if you wanna know more, but I pretty much covered it.
Also, if you wanna read the script yourself, here's a link!
Warnings/Tags: tiny bit of non-con touching, Brahms being a perv, mentions of illness and hospital, thoughts of animal harm, mild violence, police stalking
Word Count: 7k!! 😱
Authors Note: *slaps the hood of this chapter* I can fit so much backstory, headcannons, and character development in this bad boy! I wanted a nice long chapter so I could really get more into Brahms head! This is a continuation from Be Mine in 3/4 Time.
Master List
Brahms heaved a heavy sigh. Sleep wasn't finding him easily tonight no matter how many times he forced his eyes closed. It didn't help that the bed he chose to sleep in was the child sized one in the bedroom he'd known in his previous life. He wanted to be close by in case she needed him, but she'd kicked him from the room, bringing up the logic that if she indeed had the flu, she didn't want him to catch it. Despite his insistence, she slammed the door on him. Sleeping here was the closest she'd let him be to her.
He glowered at the doll, which had been tossed onto the hard wooden rocking chair in the corner to make room for the lanky man on the too small bed. Its ghostly white porcelain gleamed in the sliver of moonlight pouring in through the window, casting a spectral visage of his youth back at him.
He rolled onto his other side and grumbled. That evenings date had been going smoothly and right as the perfect moment revealed itself, her stomach decided it needed to purge all its contents. 'Why tonight?' Tossing again, he gave up trying to sleep and just stared up to the ceiling, watching the shadows from the wind blown trees creep across like skeletal fingers. He held up and flexed his own hands. In the process of helping her get the make-shift dress off and into her pajamas, he had caught sight and a quick feel of her bare rounded breast. He hadn't planned it, she'd lost her footing stepping out of the dress and he caught her at just the right angle. It was the briefest contact he had ever had with her yet the sensation of her soft yielding flesh remained trapped in his muscle memory and the situation replayed over and over again in his mind. Another reason he couldn't rest. Certain parts of him just wouldn't let him sleep. He slid a hand under the covers, cupping his pulsing erection under his loose pajama pants.
Just as he'd decided to relieve this pent-up need, the creaking of wooden floor boards and soft footfalls alerted him to her presence in the hall. He sat up, reaching for his mask, ready to lend her a hand when a loud thud sounded just outside the doorway. Scrambling out of bed, he rushed to find her laying face down on the hallway runner. Crashing to his knees, he hoisted her up onto his lap. She panted in quick shallow gasps, eyes still closed, a pained expression painted her features. Her damp hair clung to her clammy skin. 'Could she be sleep walking?' He scooped her up and delivered her back to bed, lightly pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead. She was burning up. For a brief moment, her eyes fluttered open, and she mumbled incoherently before her irises rolled up under her heavy lids and she fell unconscious again.
Peace drained from every cell in his body. In all his years, he'd never experienced someone so ill. He hurried to the bathroom and soaked a wash cloth in cold water, wrung it out and returned to dab it across her sweaty forehead.
'What do I do?' He got up and paced at the foot of the bed, chewing his thumb nail to the skin. A panicked worry began building up in the pit of his stomach. He thought of the various books that his parents collected and one title jumped out. "Home Remedies." He whispered to himself, darting out of the room and taking the stairs two at a time down to the study, still decked out in last nights Valentine's decor.
His hand traced down the rows and rows of book spines as he searched in the darkness for the one he sought. Eventually, he found it and wrenched it from the shelf, frantically flipping through, using the waning moonlight to illuminate the pages. "Fever...fever..." He absentmindedly muttered as he scoured the page for the information he needed.
"In the event of a fever, keep the patient cool with light, loose clothing and cool compress." He nodded silently along. "Keep the patient hydrated and on bed rest. However -" Brahms eyes followed the bold lettering of the next sentence. "If the patient is confused, unresponsive, or has a temperature over 39°c (102°f) SEEK MEDICAL AID IMMEDIATELY"
Brahms tucked the book under his arm and trotted back upstairs. He knew her temperature wasn't right, but how far off, he'd need help to determine that. In the bathroom, he procured the thermometer and rejoined her bedside. Carefully, he pushed her eyelid up, completely forgetting he was maskless. Her pupil barely dilated in the hazy purple light of the dawning morning, but just as before, it rolled back under her lid.
Brahms searched his memories for when he was sick as a child. How his mother would slip the metal end of the thermometer under his tongue. But she was passed out and wouldn't be able to hold it in place. He rifled through the book once more, the index pointing him to a page about temperature taking.
"Armpit: A non-invasive method suitable for screening, especially in children. Less accurate than rectal or oral readings, and typically about 0.5°C (0.9°F) lower than oral temperature. "
Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, he carefully peeled her sleep shirt up her chest, exposing her breasts in all their glory. The sight alone had him licking his dry lips like a starving wolf. He shook his head to knock the lewd thoughts from his brain. Right now, he needed to focus on getting her temperature. Plunging the thermometer into the crease of her pit, he sat and worried on his thumb nail again, eyes transfixed on the peaked mounds rising and falling with her every breath.
After what seemed like an hour, the thermometer shifted, pulling his attention back to the task at hand. He held the glass tube up to the windows, squinting at the mercury level in the early morning light.
Almost 39°c
This was bad. He lept to his feet and paced the room, wringing his hands while fretting over his next move. From the nightstand, her smartphone lit up with the time and a cheery tune of tweeting songbirds. Brahms snatched the device. He'd seen her fuss with it often, both from the walls and as they relaxed together, but it hadn't intrigued him half as much as she did. He never gave it much thought until now.
Reading the screen, two circles pulsed as the short song repeated for the 3rd time. One labeled "SNOOZE" the other "DISMISS". Thinking back to the times when he did watch her, he slowly and carefully pressed down with his finger on the latter. The chirping stopped instantly and her home screen popped up. Colorful rounded square icons with cryptic symbols appeared over a multicolored geometric background. Odd titles labeled every square. 'Facebook', 'Tumblr', 'Instagram', 'Firefox', 'Tiktok', 'Youtube'. He found the whole thing garish and overwhelming.
Scanning through the mayhem, his eye was pulled to the bottom of the screen where four larger icons were segregated. The green one had an image of a telephone receiver. Now, THAT looked familiar! Pressing it, another screen popped up titled "PHONE" with more icons listed under a subtitle of "RECENT CONTACTS." This time, the icons were pictures of people and their names or titles like "Mom" or "Bestie" next to them. At the very top was a solid blue square with the name "Malcolm."
Brahms thumb hovered over the square. He needed help, that was for sure, but was he willing to get it from HIM? A low, anguished groan drew his attention from the glowing device. She shifted in the bed, sweat beads from her fever glistening on her skin. Her brows furrowed as she slept. With shoulders slumping, he pressed Malcolm's square and watched yet another screen pop up. Instead of a familiar dialing sound, Brahms was greeted with a message that read, "Unable to make call."
"Useless junk!" He growled, ready to throw the phone across the room. He paused, however, remembering that Malcolm's number was displayed just under his name. Snatching up the house phone's receiver, he dialed in Malcolm's number and waited with held breath for an answer.
Malcolm pulled up to the house and quickly killed the engine. Rubbing the sleep still crusting his lashes, he exited the vehicle and trotted up to the door, pounding his good fist against the solid wood door.
"She needs help."
That was the extent of the phone call he'd gotten that woke him from his weekend rest. If Brahms was calling him, it had to be urgent. He wasted no time getting dressed and sped his way down the English country side to the estate, horrible visions of her bloodied and near death racing through his mind.
As if phantom hands had unlatched the lock, the heavy mahogany door swung open, ushering him in.
"Brahms?" His voice echoed through the foyer. A thump from the stairway pulled his attention. He climbed them up to her room and found her tucked in her bed, panting and sweating profusely. She looked piked, with dark rings under her closed eyes. Malcolm rushed to her side, placing a hand on her forehead, finding her hot to the touch. Materializing from the shadows, Brahms appeared behind Malcolm, giving him a start.
"Geezus... don't do that!" He stammered, his hand clasping onto his chest steadying his heart. "How long has she been like this?" He lifted her limp wrist, checking her pulse.
"Since last night."
Malcolm noticed the thermometer sitting on the bedside table. "What's her temp?" He asked, leaning over her to pry one eyelid open. No response.
"It's high...39°c."
"Shit, we need to get her to hospital right away!" Malcolm unearthed her from the pile of blankets heaped on her. "You're gonna have to help me, I can't lift her with only ONE arm." He shot the masked man, the reason his arm was cast and slung at his side, a disgruntled look.
If he picked up on Malcolm's snark, Brahms didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he stood stalk still, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn't want her to leave and couldn't bring himself to help Malcolm take her away. Malcolm grew impatient. "Come on! There's no time to waste!"
Seeing that the masked man was in some sort of trance, Malcolm stood up and stepped between Brahms and the bed, blocking her from his view.
"Do you love her?" He spoke in a low, sober tone, his warm grey eyes meeting Brahms's.
Brahms was taken aback. The question was simultaneously abrupt, yet it was something he never had to dwell on. From the moment she entered his life, Brahms knew she was the one. The one he'd seen in his dreams. The one he'd been patiently searching for. The one he craved with every beat of his heart, every breath in his lungs. Of course he loved her! He focused back to Malcolm and dipped his head in a slow, steady nod.
"Then that makes two of us." Malcolm admitted, turning to glance at her sprawled body sweating in the bed, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she panted. "Which means, despite our feelings towards each other, we need to do what's best for HER." He returned his gaze back to Brahms.
Slowly, Brahms stepped around Malcolm and scooped her wilted frame into his arms.
"Good lad. I'll get the doors."
10 mins earlier:
Officer Peterson sat up in his seat, rubbed his eye socket with the heel of his palm, and yawned. The crunching of Malcolm's truck, as it sped past down the narrow winding road to the Heelshire mansion, stirred him from almost nodding off completely. Reaching for his binoculars, he adjusted the backrest in the police cruiser tucked back in the treeline, well hidden from view, but strategically positioned to have a mostly clear shot of the main entrance to the manor.
The truck skidded to a stop and a disheveled looking Malcolm hopped out of the vehicle. Peterson reached over to a camera mounted on the dashboard, clicked it on, and began recording.
"Looks like the grocery man is making an unscheduled early delivery." He commented. Putting the binoculars down he switched to watching through the cameras view finder, zooming in on the empty bed of the truck. "With no groceries." He added.
Minutes passed before any more movement was detected. The young officer watched intently until the grand front door slowly swung open and Malcolm reappeared. He held the door wide letting a much taller man, clad in ratty oversized clothing and wearing a featureless mask, exit. He was cradling the limp body of the manor's caretaker Peterson had met just a couple weeks prior.
"What in the 'eyes wide shut' is going on in that place?"
The lanky, unidentified man paused in the doorway of the house, seemingly unsure of the porch and outside in general. His masked face turned this way and that as if making sure the coast was clear before dipping down towards the neck of the woman in an embrace. Malcolm spoke to him and he began to slowly step down off the porch and head to the truck where Malcolm held the passenger door open. After the woman was secured in the truck, Malcolm circled round the front, as the other man dashed back up onto the safety of the porch, clinging to a pillar as he watched the truck pull away and speed back down the road.
Peterson sat and watched for a few moments as the masked man sunk to his knees, shoulders bobbing as he continued to tightly hug the porch. Only when he finally returned inside, did the officer turn off his camera. "I'll be back for you, later." He said, turning his vehicle on and quietly pulling out to follow Malcolm's dust trail leading out of the forest.
Brahms stumbled into the house, large, sloppy, tears cascaded between his mask and face. Pulling it off, he childishly ran his sleeved wrist under his trickling nose. Silence roared through the cavernous hallways of the house, now more empty than it had ever been before. Brahms hand dove to the center of his clavicle, finding it bare. Her necklace! He had to keep it safe until she returned! Quickly, he ducked into the wall and snaked his way up to his hidden apartment to find her necklace right where he'd left it the other night. Clasping it back around his throat, it's snugness gave him some comfort, but it still wasn't enough. He needed HER here, physically. He needed her warmth and light to keep the growing panic at bay. Only her presence calmed his inner turmoil.
The room felt stifling with it's torrents of dust particles drifting through shafts of light that streaked through the slats in his room. Following the passageway back down, he exited through the closet in her room where the air felt much cleaner. The bed still held an indentation of where she'd lain. With a heavy sigh, Brahms curled onto the other side of the bed, his hand pressing onto the mattress to capture what lingered of her body heat. Her intoxicating aroma permeated the sheets and pillows, calming his palpitating heart. Pulling one of her pillows into an embrace, he curled his body around the cushion and drifted off to sleep, nose buried deep in the fabric breathing in her essence.
*Click*
The door to the room softly shut, making the young boys head shoot up and pause his imaginative play; small tin car held aloft in one hand.
"Mummy?"
Dropping the car, Brahms stood up from his kneeling position on the rug, a semi circle of his new toys and gift wrapping scattered at his feet. As he walked over to the shut door, he caught a potent scent he couldn't identify wafting in. A dark, wet, spot slowly seeped into the rug from under the door. Crouching, Brahms dipped his fingers into the soaked fibers and held them up to his nose. It was thick and oily, the source of the potent vapors that overpowered the area.
"Daddy?"
Muffled voices echoed from down the hallway moments before a loud 'Fwoosh' drowned them out. In moments massive flames engulfed the door and rug where the strange liquid had leaked in.
"Mummy! Daddy!" The frightened boy cried out stumbling back from the angry orange flames. "Fire!" He yelled out louder, terror draining the color from his face. The room had only the one entrance, but the intense heat blocked any chance of escape. Billowing black clouds of smoke swelled and collected on the ceiling as a haze descended lower and lower. The fire spread across the entire wall, paintings smoldered before catching and the flames quickly ate away the pastoral landscapes and distinguished portraits.
Brahms turned and ran for the balcony, but try as he might, the shut door remained locked tight. He dropped onto all fours, seeking fresh air. His lungs burned as a deep choking coughs followed every gasp. Searching with watery eyes, the small glass windows on either side of the balcony door were his only option. Grabbing a metal shovel from the fireplace he swung at the window pane over and over until it shattered, creating a hole big enough for his small body to wriggle through.
A rush of cool, crisp air surged in and stoked the flames to the ceiling, encircling the chandelier in a pool of flame. The drapery became fiery pillars on either side, closing in on Brahms while he squeezed himself through the razor edges of glass, shredding his clothing and skin in the process. The tiny balcony offered only a couple feet reprieve from the blazing hot windows. Brahms pressed himself tightly to the spear shaped wrought iron railing. In the distance, he could faintly hear sirens on the evening wind. Help was on the way, but the fire raging inside made it impossible to remain on the balcony and jumping from three stories up was suicidal.
With heaving gasps, Brahms inched his way to the side of the balcony, past the broken window now spewing out smoke like a chimney. Below and to the left was another minuscule balcony outside a bedroom. If he could just reach it, he could kick in a window and escape that way. Carefully he eased himself over to the outer side of the bars, balancing with his toes on the stone block ledge. He lowered himself down slowly, extending one short leg to the side, swinging it wildly, searching for purchase. Realizing he had to hang lower, the seriousness of his predicament hit him hard and renewed tears began to overflow.
"Somebody! Anybody! Help me!" He sobbed loudly to the empty night air.
*Crack*
Brahms looked up just as the window erupted into a million shards, sending a shower of glass along with a plume of fire and smoke out at the helpless dangling boy.
"MUMMY!"
Brahms's eyes popped open as a full body tremor shuddered him awake. A cold sweat dappled his forehead. Releasing the death grip he had on the pillow, he sat up and caught his breath, rubbing the heart charm of her necklace with his thumb like a talisman warding off evil until the world came back into focus and his nerves settled. How long had he been out for? The clock on the opposite night stand read 12:38 in the afternoon. He'd been out for almost half the day already.
A loud growl from his midsection guided his next decision. Snagging his mask, he wandered down to the kitchen, feeling oddly exposed out in the open. For the first time in years, he freely roamed the mansion without his mask on to hide his face. No scolding from his parents or worse, a dreaded gasp of fright from her at his hideous scars.
Pulling open the refrigerator door, he was greeted with a few options for lunch. The two white boxes on one side intrigued him. He'd never seen food packaged in such a manner. Holding up one of the boxes, he unfurled the flaps to reveal noodles and vegetables in a strange sauce. He gave it a sniff. A sweet yet spicy aroma filled his nostrils, not unpleasant but it wasn't anything he'd ever tried before, so he sealed it back up. He then caught sight of a plate with eggs and sausage covered in plastic wrap. Now that looked much more appealing! He quickly exchanged the weird noodles for the plate. Taking off the cling wrap, his gurgling stomach reminded him of a very important part of this proper English breakfast. Beans and toast.
Popping open the pantry door, an entire shelf was dedicated to the over abundance of bean tins. Ever since she came to the manor, she ignored the beans in the pantry, letting them pile up with every delivery. Tutting to himself, he snagged one. When she came back, he'd have to educate her on the absolute necessity of this very important comfort food.
A full belly later and a steaming cup of tea in hand, he decided to relax in the study, listen to his music at a reasonable level and poke about as he cleared up all the streamers and paper flowers he'd made. He gathered them up into a fancy bouquet, ready to re-gift to her once she was back home. He paused, his fingers toying with her necklace once more. The afternoon sun hung high, its radiant light flooded the study and yet, still no word from them. As if sensing his unease, the phone rang out loudly. Dropping everything, he scrambled to answer it.
"Hello? Brahms?"
Her sweet angelic voice. Brahms sighed and closed his eyes, cupping the receiver closer to his ear. Even over a telephone line, her voice soothed the restlessness in his heart.
"I'm here." He answered softly.
"Oh Brahms...I'm so sorry! I must have scared the bejeezus out of you! I mean... I was shocked myself to wake up in a hospital bed!" She chuckled nervously. "Malcolm told me everything. I'm so proud if you. You were so brave to call him for help!"
Brahms perked up at the praise. "When are you coming home?" His tone rising unconsciously a few octaves.
"Well I had some pretty bad food poisoning..." She gasped suddenly "That reminds me! The Chinese in the fridge! We think it's what caused me to get so sick! You didn't eat any did you?"
Brahms jerked his head up in thought. Chinese? What kind of food was 'Chinese'?
"In the white boxes!? Did you eat any of the food from the boxes that are in the fridge?"
Brahms shook his head, not that she could see it. "No...I... I didn't know what it was."
She let out a relieved sigh from the other end. "Good! Get rid of it!"
"When are you coming home?" He reiterated sounding even more like his child persona.
"The doctors want me to stay over night...just to be sure. I need time to re-hydrate and get everything out of my system."
Brahms hiccuped a sob over the line.
"Now Brahms, please don't have a fit! I'll be home some time tomorrow I promise!"
"But... you've never been.... I've never been alone this long!" More sobs interrupted. "You're ok nooowww just come back!"
She groaned at his whiny baby voice. "Aww Brahms, don't cry, besides you won't be alone tonight Malcolm-"
"I don't want HIM here!" He rudely cut her off, his child-like sobs shutting off like a switch to the angry growl of his adult voice.
"BRAHMS!"
He visibility shrunk, hunching over and dropping his gaze to the floor at her scolding.
She paused, tamping down her irritation. "As I was saying.." She slowed her speech and lightened her voice. "You won't be alone tonight, Malcolm is bringing the kitty back from the vet!"
Now it was Brahms's turn to grumble softly under his breath.
"I heard that..." She let a beat pass, "I want you to be a good boy and don't attack Malcolm... or the cat. Can you do that for me?"
Brahms poked at a nearby book, flipping the pages in procrastination.
"Please?" She nudged. "I'll be home by noon tomorrow the latest, even if I have to break out of here myself." She gave him a reassuring giggle. "I'll even bring home a present or something, how does that sound?"
Brahms head shot up. "Really?" He returned to his normal inflection, a hint of excitement coloring it.
"IF you're a good boy and take care of kitty."
He let off a big dramatic sigh, making sure she heard it over the phone. "Fine. I promise I won't touch it... or Malcolm."
"Thank you. I'll be back sooner than you know. Anyways, the nurse is coming to check up on me, gotta go!"
The phone clicked onto silence, a low buzzing dial tone taking over shortly after. Brahms slowly put the receiver back in it's cradle. The hiss of the spent record finally snapping him from his stupor. As he reached for another album, a loud knocking echoed from the kitchen door. Brahms first instinct was to hide away until he remembered her words. Malcolm was bringing the cat. Just to be sure, he slipped on his mask and hid back in his walls. While most would find the tight confines of the walls panic inducing, Brahms felt safest with the comforting snugness of wall on either side shielding him from the unknown outside world. He quickly made his way to where he could spy on the back stoop from a hidden location as a second set of knocks pounded on the door.
It WAS Malcolm, his free hand clutching the handle attached to a navy blue box-cage. Carefully Brahms opened the door, letting the grocery man in while staring him down with contempt.
"Good to see you too." Malcolm sarcastically greeted as he strolled past. Setting the mewing carrier on the kitchen table, he pulled a packet of papers he'd stuffed into his jacket pocket out, along with a small paper bag.
"Here's the instructions on how to care for kitty, and the pain meds he'll need."
Brahms skimmed through packet of papers curiously. Malcolm stopped him on a page.
"The directions on when and how to give him his meds are here..." He tapped on a paragraph. "and the cleaning and dressing of his bandages are on this page." Malcolm flipped the page, pointing out the important bits. "Don't worry, she said she could handle that part, but he will need his second pain pill around 8 o'clock tonight. Think you can handle that?"
Malcolm had gotten used to Brahms's muteness around him, but was surprised when he answered with a nod and a gruff, "I can."
"I...uh.. have an extra delivery for you guys too." Malcolm stammered, thumbing in the direction of his truck.
Brahms followed what Malcolm wanted him to do, but remained silent and unwilling to budge. Malcolm sighed, dropping his head in resignation "Right then..." and took his first of several trips out to his truck and back, unloading the crate, one arm load at a time. "Just thought I'd ask." He grumbled out of earshot.
"Well then..." Malcolm stated with a deep yawn as he pushed the last can of mixed fruit onto the shelf. "My work here is done... time to head home and catch up on some much needed sleep. If you need anything, well...you know my number. Oh that reminds me..." He fished about in his pants pocket, pulling out a small scrap of paper with a phone number scribbled in pen. " this is the number for her room, but I advise you to let her rest." He handed Brahms the scrap. "It's just for...just in case." Brahms silently nodded and Malcolm made his exit.
Brahms stood staring at the number in his hand until another tiny mew caught his attention. Stepping over to the crate, Brahms crouched down. The solid black cat melded with the shadows of the crate making one indistinguishable black blob. Two shining green orbs peered out as sharp white teeth appeared from the void with another much longer and more pitiful meow. He stood and turned to walk back to the study. That thing was HER responsibility, not his. But his feet refused to budge. The cat cried out again, not liking the confinement of the cramped crate. Sighing, Brahms opened the wire door and set the crate on the floor. "Go on... just stay away from me." He sneered and stomped out of the kitchen.
Curiosity, however, kept him glancing on from the study's doorway to the hallway as he kept an eye out for the beast. Shaking his head, he instead decided to keep himself occupied with playing on the piano.
It'd been forever since he'd touched the piano in the study. Setting his mask on the bench next to him, nostalgia overflowed every sense as he splayed his fingers and lightly caressed the cool ivory keys.
"Sit up straight! Don't slouch!" Mrs. Heelshire's stern voice echoed in his mind's eye. "Now, let's practice this once more." She set the music book on the holder and flipped the pages to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Brahms was once again seven years old. The stiff, starched collar of his shirt combined with a jaunty bow-tie, strangled him around his throat. The wool jacket he wore was itchy and hot. He squirmed on the bench, but too much fidgeting rewarded him a crack from his mother's ruler, so he pushed through his discomfort and sat as still as he could. She held that sharp wooden ruler up in her hand, arms crossed, eyes closed as she listened to every note, poised and ready to rap a knuckle for each missed key.
Despite the strict discipline, Brahms still loved to play. She could never squelch his love for classical music, even with her overbearing teaching methods. Every wilting melody he played, transported him to far off lands, historic scenery, or surrounded him with the comforting feeling of just floating away with the music. This, more than her hard ruler, kept his finger placement true.
He opened his eyes, barely registering that he was playing along with his remembered childhood self. The piano pounded out the dark chords of the sonata. Outside, the afternoon sun retreated behind voluminous storm clouds casting the room in a gloomy grey to match the somber tune. So caught up in the music, he hadn't noticed a little black shadow hobbling into the study until the cat rubbed along the leg of the bench and against Brahms's shin.
Brahms faltered, the last notes sour as he quickly skittered off the bench and away from the cat.
"Go on! Shoo!" He shouted, half in mind to boot the thing across the room for daring to sneak up on him. But knowing it'd break her heart if he hurt the cat further, he instead opted for climbing up onto a chair, tucking his legs under him and away from the beast.
The cat paid him no mind, and hobbled about the room on it's three remaining legs, sniffing and chin rubbing along every bit of furniture it came across. Brahms watched with a mixture of intrigue and trepidation. The last he'd seen of the feline, it was hissing and yowling, covered in blood, a hateful nasty creature. This version was much more quiet and peaceful.
After exploring the room, the cat flopped onto it's side in front of Brahms's chair, tail twitching as it began to lick over it's side and past where it's sleek black fur became the grey shaved area of it's amputated hind leg. For the first time, Brahms felt disgust at the sight of the bandaged severed limb, or perhaps it was a tinge of guilt that panged through his gut. He couldn't be sure.
Content that the cat was now preoccupied with itself, Brahms relaxed and sat comfortably in the overstuffed chair. Reaching over, he grabbed the closest book and began to read.
Icy cold rain pitter-pattered down, turning the remaining snow slushy. Officer Peterson killed his headlights, slowly rolled back into his hiding spot from that morning, and shut the engine off. The early evening precipitation released fat droplets and clumps of snow from the tree tops, plopping with heavy thuds onto the roof of the vehicle.
He sat back and ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair, sighing as another long stake out night awaited him. Making himself cozy, he flipped open his thermos of coffee and unwrapped the sandwich he'd purchased from a convenience store. Going through his notes, he reminisced on that morning's events.
He followed Malcolm's truck to the hospital emergency entrance, and waited several minutes while he watched the grocery man rush in to get help unloading his noncontinuous passenger. Driving around to the front of the building, he parked at the visitors entrance and strolled right in, flashing his badge to the security guard. But it was all formality, in this quaint town the whole police force were well known to the hospital staff, and one nurse in particular, Peterson knew especially well.
Walking up to the nurse's station, a mop of wild red curls, currently tamed down into a messy bun, hovered behind the high counter.
"Good morning love." He nonchalantly announced himself, elbow rested lazily on the laminate top. Two hazel- green eyes looked up in delighted shock behind a pair of teal rimmed spectacles.
"Michael!" She chirped, shooting up from her chair, the paperwork she'd been looking over still in hand. "Ye hadn't been around in quite a while. Was thinkin' ye forgot about me!" She playfully chastised him in her thick Scottish accent. "Nothin' bad's been goin' on with ye, eh?"
Michael, tapped his badge holder on the desk and shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that..." He leaned back, securing the corner and making sure nobody was about to walk past. He dropped his voice low and leaned over his arm. "I need a favor Effie. There's a woman, just now, getting admitted down in the A&E." He slid the redhead a piece of paper with the caretaker's name on it. "I need to know what happened to her."
The nurse blinked at the paper and crossed her arms. "Ye know damn well I canne give you that kind of information...not without a warrant. Is she wanted for something?"
He leaned in further. "I'm on a special case, direct from my Sergeant. Nobody else knows. I just need to know what's going on with her. Any information would be of great help." He looked her in the eyes, his deep brown irises pleading. "Please... Effie."
She sighed, picking up the paper and reading the name again before tugging her glasses off, uncovering a constellation of tan freckles that bridged her nose. "I'll tell ye what... I'll see what I can find out...but.." Effie looked around then narrowed her eyes at him. "I want something in return."
"Name it!"
"A proper date with ye..." She paused, "an not just quick in n' out like last time, I want flowers and a fancy meal an-"
"Done!" He cut her off, not finding much of a downside to her proposal. "Just call me when you find out!" He grinned, already retreating out to the waiting room..
"I mean it Michael!" She huffed. "The whole kit n' caboodle!"
"We'll make plans! I promise!" He laughingly called out to her, swiftly walking back out the way he came in.
Back out in the car, Michael made off for some late breakfast at a local pub, and then a quick meeting with his Sergeant. On the way, his phone rang with Effie's name lighting up the screen. He pressed the button to transfer the call to the cars speaker.
"What'd you find out?"
"The lass has a bad case of food poisoning." Effie's voice broadcast out into the cabin of the car.
"That's it? She looked almost dead."
"Aye, she was terribly dehydrated to top it off. Poor thing. Accordin' to her chart, she's here until tomorrow on an IV drip." She paused, making sure he got it. "So...about yer end of the bargain..."
"Thanks Effie, you're a life saver." He said hurriedly, hovering his finger over the 'end call' button. "I'll get back to you on that. I promise! Gotta go!" He tapped the screen, cutting her off before she could protest.
The meeting with the Sargent went as expected. Peterson handed over all the information he'd collected so far, and just as expected, the Sargent sent him back out to continue to keep an eye on things.
Michael finished off his sandwich, crumpling the packaging and tossing it onto the passenger seat. "What ELSE could he need?" The young officer gripped, taking another sip of his hot coffee to wash down his convenience store dinner. Picking up his binoculars, he focused on the one room clearly lit up in the storm, then trailed up to one of the balcony's with a promising door. "Perhaps a closer investigation is in order."
*THUNK*
The book Brahms had been reading fell to the floor with a heavy thud, jolting him awake from his impromptu nap. He scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning from the stiffness that overtook his neck and shoulders. A hefty, warm, sensation in his lap snapped him from his grogginess. The cat had found the crook of his folded legs a comfortable spot to sleep. Brahms heart raced. Never before had he allowed any kind of animal to get so close to him, at least not still alive, and here was this cat, brazenly making itself comfy on HIS lap! Staring down at it, Brahms reached out with a trembling hand and poked it. The feline didn't move. Growing bolder, Brahms placed his hand palm down into the soft fur and stroked down the length of its back. He'd often pet the pelts of the dead animals his father retrieved for him from the many traps he crafted for his hobby, but the warm fur combined with the softness of the cats flesh felt much more comforting than the hard taxidermy forms he created.
"Murp"
The cat trilled softly, finally acknowledging him. Brahms was fascinated at how placid the cat was. Not like the other cats that instinctively hissed and ran from him as a boy. He gave the cat a few more strokes before circling it's neck with his hand. 'How easily I could snap it's neck'. He thought, beginning to squeeze tighter. The edges of his vision grew hazy and dim as he fought against the dark impulse.
Just then, a soft, low, vibration emanated from where his fingers rested. Brahms released his grip, wrenching his hand back and snapping him from the terrible spell. The cat rumbled away, blissfully unaware of the danger it was just in. Suddenly, it's ears perked and the cat's attention locked onto the night black hallway leading from the study. It stood up with a high arched stretch, jumped down from Brahms's lap with some ease, and with a sense of purpose only it seemed to possess, the cat made hast out of the room, lopping along on its three legs with surprising speed.
Brahms rose up and stretched, curious to know what caught the cats attention. Slowly, he followed the feline out into the shadowy hallway.
"Shit."
Peterson mouthed on his inhale. With the rain clouds covering the sky, everything was pitch black without the benefit of moonlight to guide his way.
The young man had climbed atop the stone porch that wrapped around half the manor, and onto the balcony just above. Luck was in his favor, as the balcony door was unlocked. But that's where his good fortune ended because as soon as he entered, his knee caught the arm of a wooden chair, scraping it across the hard wood flooring. He held his breath, listening close for any sounds from the first floor. Rain continued to pelt down outside. He might have been lucky that the weather covered his mistake.
After a few moments he released the air in his lungs and continued on. Taking out a small pen light, he scanned it from one side to the other. He was in some sort of office. A solid wood desk sat several feet in front of him, the chair he'd just bumped was the mate to the old fashioned desk. Whoever was in here last had left the chair askew right by the door.
With light steps, he made his way around the room. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. Clearly this room hadn't been used in a while. He crept over to a pair of filing cabinets and slowly riffled through a few of the drawers. Old bank statements, investment property deeds, insurances, hospital documentations...he paused on an old looking folder, slipping it out from the others, Peterson opened it for further investigation. His eyes scanned the documents hidden inside in disbelief. "Sarge's gonna wanna see this!" He whispered to himself.
He held his penlight in his teeth as he pulled out his phone, snapping a few pictures. The rain outside picked up, heavy droplets hitting the glass of the windows loudly. As Peterson was just about to return the folder, a light brush on his leg sent him flying back in fear, almost dropping his light in the process. Pointing it at the floor, he spotlighted what touched him. A chunky black cat, eyes glowing in the reflection of his pen light.
"Holy- you scared me." He whispered louder, crouching down to give the cat a scratch on its chin. The feline sat for him, purring loudly from the skritches and nuzzling into his fingers. All of a sudden, the cat looked up and meowed loudly, dashing off as searing pain shot through Peterson's skull. Collapsing onto the floor, he barely had time to turn and register the ghastly masked man from that morning, raising something over his head and swinging it down, knocking the young man out. Everything went blank.
