leave a door ajar

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56847355

[leaveadoorajar]

hello and welcome to the tumblr blog for "leave a door ajar", a detective conan | magic kaito/book of hours | cultist simulator fusion.

HERE ON AO3

This will be something like a roleplay blog, where the author posts entries from Hakuba's journals before they hit ao3 + answers any questions should there be any. If you ask a question of Hakuba, he will respond :-)

Occasional snippets from other parts of the au will be tagged #from outside

this is an 18+ horror adjacent blog

[leaveadoorajar]

A Day in the Garden

I woke up to the sensation of something soft and fluttering against my cheek. Surprised, I slapped at it, and it darted away, leaving its dust on my cheek. It must have been a very large moth.

It is far too early in the morning to get anything productive done, but between the haunting quality of my sleep and the moth that woke me, I would rather not stay in this room. The walls feel as if they are closing in on me.

As a child, the backyard was quite wild, to father’s eternal shame. I remember now that he banned me from exploring, saying that it wasn’t safe for a child. I say this because I stepped outside to watch the sunrise, and was greeted by an absolute riot of greenery. And brownery. Most of it is thick vine and branches curled all together, blocking paths. There are the shadows of elegant trees, and I can see the outline of a very beautiful western styled garden underneath the choking creeping plants.

In the end I sat on the back step with a cup of tea and watched the sun come up over the walls, painting the sky vivid oranges and pinks and then a kind of whispy blue. I decided that the first thing I’d do with Baaya’s book of handy people would be to see about a gardener.

The man who came took one look at the piano in the drawing room and made a beeline for it. He looked it as if entranced, caressing the wood like a lover. When I cleared my throat he jumped, and apologised sheepishly, and as I sat us down for tea and fresh fruit, he kept glancing over at the piano.

Finally, I asked him if he played. He told me yes, and from there he told me that he’d been a travelling musician for years now and the only thing he missed about his home was the grand old piano that used to belong to his mother. There was no doubting what he wanted, and I’m no monster. I asked him if he’d play for me.

The melody that came from his fingers was… I can’t explain it. Exquisite. I can still feel it buzzing through me as I write this, hours after the man left. I can pluck the tune out on the piano (I’m not unskilled) but there’s something lacking in my hands. I can’t recreate it. Perhaps I will just have to work harder at it.

In any case, the garden is now clear, the musician is quite a bit richer and has been invited back for tea and a small recital in a few week’s time.

I am going to hunt through the house for an appropriate set of chairs and table to put in the garden. I rather liked my morning tea outside.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Book

How awe inspiring to see something so old and so intricate, something created so very far away from here in both space and time. The gilding on the page glows in the careful lighting, and the black of the letters looks like it could eat the world.

It is surprisingly comprehensible for such an old book, and so familiar. I am sure that I’ve read something like it before. Perhaps if it is, as certain historians claim, a parody of certain gospels, it simply follows in their footsteps. It is quite possible that I’ve read a modern translation of one of its influences and am seeing those shadows in the archaic prose.

I’d deeply appreciate a further and deeper reading of the book, but it was unlikely when it was shipped in, and will be just about impossible now that it’s a target for theft. Unfortunate.

The centre’s security is quite good, from what I could see. The CCTV is up to date, and following industry best practices will leave no rooms save the bathrooms unsurveilled. Well. One hopes that they’re following industry best practices, but knowing humanity and, frankly, what they pay the security guards, I doubt that everyone’s attention will be on the task.

The glass cases are strong, sturdy, and locked. Nothing too extravagant, but enough to cause a nuisance to anyone trying to steal. I would suggest installing the book on an immovable pedestal, to prevent the thief from simply picking up the glass case, table and all, but glass and lock has never been much of an impediment to a phantom thief.

Apologies, I return to you and your now chocolate stained pages. A girl bumped into my table as I was writing and spilt his beverage all over it. As a surprise, it turned out to be the instigator for a conversation. She apologised profusely and offered her handkerchief and, upon seeing the mess she’d made on my sleeve, offered to pay for my dry cleaning. I told her no, of course, I can afford some dry cleaning, but she pressed her card into my hand. Her name is rather beautiful, Nakamori Aoko. It suits her. It also rung a bell with me, and I ended up asking her if she’d made the news lately. She smiled and shook her head, told me that her father had been in the pages lately.

She’s Nakamori Aoko, daughter of Nakamori Ginzo, the officer heading up the Kaitou Clover Task Force, and of course I’ve read about her father in the papers. She was here for the same reaosn I was, to take a better look at the book.

We’d both been to see it already, but when she suggested that two heads might be better than one, and we ended up going to see it again.

The discussion was lively and engaging, and she had some very interesting theories about the upcoming heist and its hidden links to occult happenings around the city. All rather conspiracy theory-esque, I will admit, but I’ve not yet done even basic research into proving any of it incorrect, so who am I to judge? She told me that she’d been working on this stuff for years, and that she knew she sounded rather strange, but that she really believed it.

When I didn’t start trying to pick apart her theories on the spot, she seemed rather relieved. Me? Choosing the socially correct option? Will wonders never cease.

In any case, she offered me her number, and told me she’d be interested in talking more about the upcoming heist.

I think I may have made a friend.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Book [an alternate universe]

How awe inspiring to see something so old and so intricate, something created so very far away from here in both space and time. The gilding on the page glows in the careful lighting, and the black of the letters looks like it could eat the world.

It is surprisingly comprehensible for such an old book, and so familiar. I am sure that I’ve read something like it before. Perhaps if it is, as certain historians claim, a parody of certain gospels, it simply follows in their footsteps. It is quite possible that I’ve read a modern translation of one of its influences and am seeing those shadows in the archaic prose.

I’d deeply appreciate a further and deeper reading of the book, but it was unlikely when it was shipped in, and will be just about impossible now that it’s a target for theft. Unfortunate.

The centre’s security is quite good, from what I could see. The CCTV is up to date, and following industry best practices will leave no rooms save the bathrooms unsurveilled. Well. One hopes that they’re following industry best practices, but knowing humanity and, frankly, what they pay the security guards, I doubt that everyone’s attention will be on the task.

The glass cases are strong, sturdy, and locked. Nothing too extravagant, but enough to cause a nuisance to anyone trying to steal. I would suggest installing the book on an immovable pedestal, to prevent the thief from simply picking up the glass case, table and all, but glass and lock has never been much of an impediment to a phantom thief.

Apologies, I return to you and your now chocolate stained pages. A man bumped into my table as I was writing and spilt his beverage all over it. As a surprise, it turned out to be the instigator for a conversation. He’s a magician, you see, and he pulled handkerchief after handkerchief from his pocket with the kind of natural flair that you only see from the most dedicated of showmen. I believe I started to use them to dab the liquid off your pages before he’d even gotten halfway done with his trick, which left him grumbling lightly about audiences these days.

He offered to buy me another cup of tea to make up for the mess he’d made, and I accepted. It was nice. We talked a bit about books, and he gave me his number, asked me to send the title of...oh, I can’t recall now. Darn. I’ll text him to ask what he wanted the title of.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Target

The heists are held on full moon nights. A note is sent in advance to the target, and they are expected to prepare some kind of defence,. None have been effective to date, the thief seems to waltz through walls and security checks alike, as easily as breathing. I saw shaky footage filmed at a heist half a year ago wherein the thief appeared to walk in midair. The video was too low quality for me to be certain of my deduction, but I would submit hypotheses of tightropes, harnesses, or perhaps both, if asked.

I have not been asked.

The target this time is “The Gospel of Nicodemus”, displayed at the National Art Centre. An illuminated, ahistorical manuscript in the style of the Book of Kells. It has been dated several centuries later than that and the articles online make gruesome note that the vellum of the book may not be simple animal skin, though I have noticed a recent tendency for such claims to be made without adequate scientific research committed. A convenient mystery, that. What if this old, gruesome not quite gospel was in fact painted on human skin? How fitting it would be. Forgive my doubts, but it seems rather too convenient.

I have meandered off topic somehow. The book will be taken, but that is only one part of the heist. The other is the second, unnamed target. Usually a gem, but rarely a sculpture. The second target is never mentioned in the heist note, and experts (for given value of ‘expert’) have suggested that this second object is the real target of each heist.

Looking through them, I really can’t know. I have copied a list of all targets out in full in the Lists Journal, book 4 page 86.

Tomorrow I will be visiting a certain Art Centre. I look forward to seeing the book in person.

[leaveadoorajar]

Newspapers

Father’s newspapers are still being delivered to this address. Baaya’s face was blank when she delivered them to me. I wonder how many have been thrown out, unread. What a waste of paper.

The headlines, at least, are interesting. There is an international paper reporting on a mass murder at a theatre in England. Had I been in the country, undoubtedly I would have been asked to contribute to the investigation. I put the paper aside. The news from Japan is currently less bloody. Perhaps the murderers have taken a day off. The news sweeping the papers is that of the announcement of another heist by the legendary phantom thief known as Clover.

Unknown face, unknown age, unknown gender. A thief of unparalleled skill and flair, the darling of the media. They present themselves as a magician, a silk top hat, a cape, cards tucked up their sleeves, and they make treasures disappear.

Circumstances being as they are, I am willing to do just about anything to get my mind off everything. This should do well enough. I will be back with more information.

[leaveadoorajar]

KNOCK

Kudou sat at the desk, the light of the lamp pooling orange over his papers. Maps of the stars, maps of the surrounds, and maps of the human body overflowed their bounds and drifted to the ground to land in heaps around his feet.

Heiji let his bag thunk to the ground.

“I’m home.”

“Hattori.” He responded, not taking his eyes off his notes. He tapped his pen against the desk over and over again. “What, no welcome for me?” Heiji stretched his aching shoulders and made his way over to Kudou’s side, trying not to step on anything important.

Kudou snorted, but his mouth ticked up at the corner.

“Welcome home, I guess.” he said.

Heiji put a hand on his shoulder, driven to touch by some force he couldn’t identify.

Kudou tilted his head up to catch Heiji’s eyes, and in the dim light, Heiji could swear that he could see through them to something else. There was a door hidden in Kudou’s gaze, one that Kudou flirted with stepping through every day. “Glad to be back.” He said. It was second nature to collapse sideways, let himself fall against Kudou’s side.

“Oh.” Kudou said quietly. He wrapped an arm around Heiji’s shoulder, and Heiji rested his head against Kudou’s.

“Oh, I see.” Kudou said, lit up in some kind of wonderment. “It’s the heartbeat.”

[leaveadoorajar]

The House

It has been three days since I last wrote in my journal, longer than I have left it in years. If you’re reading this (you really shouldn’t be. Unless I am long dead, I suppose) you likely will have seen the spread of blank pages between the last entry and this one.

The last entry discomforts me. When I read it, there is a sound or a sensation, like the humming of an appliance in the other room vibrating directly though my skull, prickling over my skin. I can recall so clearly the way that thing smiled—

I should stop writing about it, lest I have to leave more pages blank.

I will need to write something here, but I admit that my mind has been occupied almost solely by that strange book and the subsequent dreams. Nightmares. What have you.

I have taken to exploring the house. Most of the rooms are perfectly ordinary fare, lounging rooms, reading rooms, smoking rooms, guest rooms. But as I explore the higher levels, I have begun to find more and more strangeness. There are laboratories up here. More than one. There is a hallway half the length of the house, and each door opens onto dusty white rooms and stainless steel, equipment covered in cobwebs. They smell strange. Most are familiar, sterile scents: antiseptic, chlorine, chemicals. Others smell of dust. One smelt disturbingly of something very close to blood.

I disobeyed Baaya’s strong suggestion that I acquire company while exploring new wings of the house (though I reason to myself that she only suggested that I phone for help while cleaning, and I am not cleaning. I realise that per our conversation, this is overly nitpicky.) and made my way into the room.

At first I thought it was outfitted identically to the room next door, with a lab table and a set of rolling shelves. Then I realised that there was something else in the room: an old gynaecology cheer, unmistakable with its metal stirrups. The seat was covered in velvet, surprisingly untouched by age and elements.

There was something about that simple chair that unsettled me so thoroughly that I left the house entirely. I am writing this sitting at a starbucks. Their coffee is, as always, horrendous, but even looking at their tea selection is fit to give me hives. The options are teabags or sugar water, and I’d rather neither. Sooner or later I will explore the surrounds and find a place that sells something palatable, but right now, I think I need something to complain about more than I need a good drink.

And a case. I’m very much in the mood for a case.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Wood

I won’t bore anyone repeating myself. The dream came again tonight, but this time I kept a steady mind. There was a light that peeked through the trees, and I made my way towards it, cautiously at first and then with urgency. By the end, I was tearing my way through the branches, gravel cutting into my bare feet. There was a sighing, a rustling, like wings, coming from all around, or perhaps following me. It’s hard to recall clearly what happened. I stopped and put my hands over my eyes, but the light leaked through the gaps in my fingers, though the wood itself is dark and shadowed.

When I opened my eyes again, there was a person standing in front of me. I think it was a person, at least. Its eyes were like mirrors and I could see my own horrified reflection staring back through them. It smiled at me, a big, toothy smile, and then with the air of a stage magician, it passed a hand in front of its face. As it went, it wiped itself from existence, the moonlight white of it folding back into the shadows surrounding us.

I remember the face more clearly than I remember any part of the dream.

[leaveadoorajar]

Where is Father?

It has been a week and he has not come home. I shall call him.

He moved out and forgot to tell me. Apparently, he lives with his new wife in beika, and I will have the house to myself. Lovely! Just lovely. I love… space.

He congratulated me on the closure of his case and informed me that Yamamura-san (the rich man from a few entries ago) is quite pleased and will most likely support father going forward.

I have nothing to say about this at this moment.

In her book, Galmier speaks of “The Wood” and claims it to be part of or perhaps foundational to the architecture of this world. She claims that there is a way between, and if only I can find the path, I can follow it somewhere else, somewhere outside, where I too can observe the dreams of artisans.

My mood is strange tonight, and I feel on the cusp of something. A rebellion, perhaps. I do not know. I’ll write more in the morning.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Locksmith's Dream, Reprise

I had the same dream tonight. Again, there is something against the back of my eyelids when I wake. A forest? A crowd? I feel as if I am seeing a shadow of something.

I will talk about the book, as dwelling on the dream is superfluous. It seems to be an academic treatise on something wholly nonacademic. The subject is the dreams of artisans and revelations on “the architecture of the world”. I will admit to being riveted. Galmier’s prose is engaging and informative, though what I am being informed of, I still haven’t quite gathered. Perhaps I will understand by the time I have finished the book. Between jet lag (thankfully gone) and the case, I have not had enough time to read. I will finish it tonight.

[leaveadoorajar]

A Case

It was not an interesting case, but I think my performance has made father happy. Perhaps. He has not called me. For memory’s sake, I shall write down what occurred.

A thief entered through the window to a rich family’s house, took all of the jewellery from the wife’s jewellery box, and then fled. I led the police to gather three possible culprits, and then deduced which one had the means, opportunity, and motive to do it.

One day I will be able to turn down cases and then I will not be stuck doing these things. I slipped the man a card with a number for a good lawyer and will arrange to have legal fees paid.

[leaveadoorajar]

The Locksmith's Dream

This entry concerns a dream I had, but not one of Locksmiths. I dreamed instead of the book I read last night, the Locksmith’s Dream: A Light Through the Keyhole by Theresa Galmier. I will comment on the book after I have recorded my dream.

In it, the book glowed with an intense light, as if a streetlamp was shining through the pages, and I could make out only the occasional phrase. Beyond that, I could see something long and reaching, branches or perhaps hands. I woke too suddenly to make it out. When I close my eyes, I can still see them transposed in golden light on the backs of my eyelids.

I’ve forgotten what the words said, though. Disappointing.

Thoughts of the book were left by the wayside today, as the Police called the house asking for my father. He is not here. They apologised and hung up. The phone rang again within ten minutes, the police again, this time inquiring after myself. I hadn’t intended to get involved in any such thing, or at least not so soon, but they informed me that my father had asked them to call me. Fine!

[leaveadoorajar]

Still Jetlagged but the Reading Room is Clean

I will be staying up all day today if it kills me. It likely will kill me, I will be left a shambling corpse. Mother would find this to be a personality upgrade for me, surely she won’t complain.

I’m being cruel. She’s just worried about my “life choices”, and they are her business after all. What I do reflects on the family. However, simply existing seems to drive her into a frenzy and I am quite glad to be out of the Rose House. Why I couldn’t go to the Blue House and had to come all the way back to Japan, I do not know. She told me my father called for me, and he somewhat confirmed it over the phone, though I’ve yet to see him in person. He is quite busy.

The sunlight in the reading room is just perfect now that the film of dust over the windows is gone. And the streaks I made while trying to clean them, too, though we will not be talking about that. I have been intending to re-read some books, but Algernon Blackwood is currently failing to hold my attention, and looking around, well. There are a lot of books in here. Most in English, for some reason. Perhaps this is the English reading room, and I will find the Japanese texts elsewhere?

In any case, apologies to Mr Blackwood, but I shall be abandoning him for now.

[leaveadoorajar]

Jetlag

I would prefer not to exist. My head aches, the birds are far too loud, and I did indeed get lost when trying to find my way to the foyer. Baaya laughed at me.

She also prepared a wonderful breakfast, eggs on toast with sausage and beans. It seems I am doomed to english breakfasts while in Japan and Japanese breakfasts while in England. Perhaps Baaya’s idea of a joke…? In any case, I couldn’t eat most of it, and she gave me such a glare.

I have retreated to the closest reading room with my tea and journal.

It is so dusty in here. Perhaps I will try my hand at cleaning.

Baaya found me trying to clean and sent me out. She says she will give me a list of handymen in the area, and should I ever find myself in desperate need of a clean up, I may call one of them instead of making a mess of both myself and the house. Thank you Baaya, the trust in me truly inspires.

I am going to call someone and take a nap.

[leaveadoorajar]

Welcome Home...?

I’ve not been in Japan for years, and without Baaya’s help, I would certainly have gotten lost on my way to the house. It’s strange: one would think that their childhood house becomes larger in their memory, and then when they return as an adult, it’s to a sudden shock and a re-examination of scale. The Hakuba House is not like that at all.

The door is heads taller than me and it swallows Baaya like a yawning mouth (though she doesn’t appear at all discomforted by it), and the doors along the halls seem endless. Baaya was kind enough to show me to my childhood room without comment, and I hope that come morning, I will remember my way to the foyer.

I will stop writing now, it is far too late and the plane ride has been exhausting.