prompt: In your old London loft, you find an old spoon, and a letter from 1897 claiming the chimney makes objects vanish. When you drop the spoon and a note down the chimney as a joke, they disappear without a sound. The next morning, a bewildered reply arrives from 1897, demanding an explanation.
prompt credits to: @writing-prompt-s
The afternoon had gone grey and miserable in that classic London way: fog thick enough to chew, rain pelting the cobblestones, and wind rattling every window frame loose. It was the kind of day meant for staying indoors with a pot of tea and pretending the world wasn’t on fire.
At least, that’s what John would have been doing if he were any normal bloke. And unfortunately for him he wasn’t.
Instead of enjoying anything warm or remotely comforting, he was knee-deep in old boxes, rummaging through years’ worth of forgotten shite, praying that something in there might be worth a few quid. Rent was due in three weeks. Normally he’d skip town, vanish into the smoke, and let the debt collectors tear their hair out. But that was hard to do when several of them were already sniffing around, and this dump was the only temporary lodging he’d managed on short notice.
So here he was, Constantine: occult expert, chain-smoker, part-time con man, full-time disaster, sorting through crap like an exhausted charity shop volunteer.
Tonight he was supposed to investigate a few “mysterious deaths” which could be anything from a demon to a poltergeist to some particularly pissed-off spirit, and the case of a certain elevator that people entered and simply… didn’t come back out of. Temporal rift, he thought. Probably. If the universe was in a good mood, the missing folks were alive in some alternate dimension. If the universe was feeling like its usual petty self, they’d gone back in time. And at that point? Not much John could do, aside from sealing the rift. If it was a dimension, he knew a few tricks to yank the unlucky bastards out.
By late afternoon he’d sorted most of the antique rubbish into piles: “somewhat profitable,” “garbage,” “garbage I can con someone into buying,” and “sentimental shite.” There was one last pile , “cursed shite” and a final pile he labeled “super cursed - deadly shite”, he stared at it with a long, tired sigh.
“Right,” he muttered to no one at all.
The entire floor of the living room was drowning in his clutter. Constantine grabbed a black trash bag and started shoving anything even remotely pawnable into it. The news droned in the background, rambling on about how the world was going to hell.
John barely heard it. His world had been there for years.
…
John sighed as he stood up surveying his work, everything was in garbage bags, at least the profitable shit was in garbage bags. The rest? Just tossed back onto any hard surface tables, chairs, counters, his desk, you named it, it was covered. John might have been a mess but he didn’t care for tripping over his own useless crap. He shoved a few trashbags out of the way a few rustling as if protesting the motion. “Yeah yeah fuck off”, he grumbled at the objects kicking the shite to the side. As he finally got his floor back he noticed something odd sticking out of the floor board.
Now he had two options, leave it the fuck alone, or investigate.
Right he thought to himself wouldn’t be John Bloody Constantine if i started leaving shite alone now, would I?
He crouched down low to get a better look the worn hardware floor creaked beneath his weight. As he got closer he noticed something shiny poking out of the floorboard, or more accurately he noticed the floor board just one not quite laying flat. John stood and trudged into the kitchen ignoring the cold of the hardwood or how the cold was bleeding into his socks. He wrenched open the middle drawer near his stove and grabbed the flathead screwdriver, it was likely left behind by who ever lived here before him. John didn’t really care he was just happy he didn’t have to go prying up a loose floorboard with his damn hands or a butter knife. He had one too many scars from such ventures he didn’t need another and he sure as hell wasn’t going to a hospital because he sliced himself bloody because of a floorboard. No way in hell was he explaining that to a nurse. He had better shite to do or at least thats what he liked to believe.
He went back to the mess in the living room and whatever weird little mystery that waited beneath hardwood. John sighed briefly hoping that the damage he was about to make to the floor wouldn’t cause him to lose his damned security deposit he was already short on cash. He really couldn’t afford to lose that as well.
Some days it really felt like he was hemorrhaging money more then the average drunk or addict. Even when he tried to do good hell even when he did do good it rarely if ever paid. Oftentimes john was stuck wondering if its even worth it continuing his line of work when it often left him penniless and usually friendless. And the few friends he did have have were often ghosts, had there foot halfway in a grave, or no longer wanted anything to do with him. Which he couldn’t really blame them for that he knew he was a bloody mess and oftentimes a difficult bastard with questionable morales its usually better that they bugger off that way no new deaths could linger against his conscience.
He crouched back in front of the floor board and carefully shoved the screwdriver into the small crack working it back and forth. The wood let out a long croaking sound as if protesting against the force he was using. He held the screw driver like a chisel, “right to hell with the security deposit then”, he murmured and grabbed the nearest heavy object which happened to be a random stone statue he got from a buddhist years ago as thanks. Yeah john accepted it but he would’ve preferred cash but whatever bit hard to demand cash payments for saving someone’s life. What was he supposed to do go “hey so your about to be swallowed whole by a demon that’ll be 100 quid would you like to pay in cash or check?” Yeah that’d go over great he thought bitterly, as he slammed the statue hard into the driver the wood immediately splintered slightly the floorboard immediately popped loose. He set the screwdriver and statue aside and moved the floorboard over and ofcourse it was a faulty board some sort of secret opening inside.
He reached inside and vaguely hoped nothing would try to bite and otherwise kill him. He really didn’t have time today and he was fairly certain if he did it right he could get his deposit back if he replaced the board just right. His hand brushed against old paper and what he guessed was likely dust bunnies. And then something metallic he scooped up both things and gently pulled them out.
He blinked at his now grime covered hand in vague surprise and confusion. Someone really went out of there bloody way to hide a old spoon and a letter. John stared at the contents looking betrayed and just done. He nearly lost his security deposit for this?!
Still he already committed to it he might as well bloody see what the hell it said he walked over to his small kitchen pulled out a cheap wooden chair that screeched every time he dragged the thing back to sit at the table. He sat down and turned on the desk lamp, yes he kept a desk lamp in his kitchen for his work there often wasn’t enough light. Upon further examination the letter was dated November 1897, the fuck john thought. How the hell did this bloody thing survive this long in the damned floorboards with a spoon which he guessed was from the same date? Again who the bloody hell hides a letter and a spoon in the damn floorboards?! Which if you asked john that was a question he never thought he’d have to ask muchless even think. To be honest it wasn’t something he ever thought would happen but here he is with a perfectly sealed letter from november 1897.
He grabbed a letter opener from the table and gently popped the seal on it.
It read as follows.
"Dear tennant or whomever stays or lives in this loft.
You may have noticed already that this loft is very very very weird. Odd occurrences keep happening here please take this letter as a warning, if you have anything of value or anything you value yourself keep it away from the fireplace and chimney. Things that fall down the chimney disappear without a trace once a chimney sweeper, kind fellow really fell down the damn chimeny and we never heard from him again. It caused our family much grief as people claimed we killed him we most certainly did not we even rushed down the stairs to help the fellow even searched the chimney see if the man got stuck inside as he did have a wide bottom. But alas he was gone truly no blood, just a yelp and poof.
As for the fireplace whenever you leave anything near it that too disappears and i have no doubt this letter will also be one of those things that mysteriously poof as well. I am going to do an experiment tonight with a spoon i will drop it down the chimney in hopes it finds wherever it is things go. This letter im leaving near the fireplace on our good sitting chair perhaps it will also land in the same place as my favorite silver teaspoon. I did so have it since i was a child if you do find it perhaps it is you that is stealing things and people. Either way do take care and if possible please return the chimney sweeper with the round bottom, and my spoon thank you."
....
John read the damned letter once then twice he blinked slowly, a laugh escaped him this had to be a fucking prank from some bloody teenager with an aptitude for creative writing. But still johns curiosity was peaked. And honestly it made him want to learn about whatever family lived here in 1897 and what the fuck was going on.
He couldn’t help it he found himself walking over to the old fireplace that the landlord said he hasn’t used in years mainly because the cost for upkeep and repairing it was too much. He pretty much told john that if he’s cold he’ll install some extra space heaters just dont touch the fireplace. Now john wondered if the landlord somehow knew? Or if something weird was really happening with the fireplace and chimney.
a/n: i'd just like some feedback on this so far this fic will probably be 1 chapter maybe 2 at most give me thoughts and feedback but be kind and respectful if you dont like this fic thats fine just scroll on
If you were torn between one thing or the other, which would you choose? Hmm, me? I think if I were to choose…
I’d want both.
Why choose between one or the other? If you feel so strongly about both..how far are you willing to go to have both? I think it’s a matter of effort. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with choosing just one--We all have those kinds of choices, and I think there’s a bit of strength in either choosing one or the other, or choosing both. There’s also choosing neither, as well, now that I think about it… I think, if you want to be able to have both, it’ll take lots and lots of effort...
How are you? It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you, so I thought I’d write you a letter. Yes, it’s old school, I know--but there’s a charm in writing letters, knowing that the other person will wait for it--the feelings received when you receive them--they’re incomparable, but...
These feelings, for you, will no longer reach.
Why am I writing this? I’ve had some regrets in our parting, and I’m going to let go of them, here, in this letter. It is always in the spur of the moment that I feel that actions could have been taken more seriously, or some other action could have led to a more...favorable outcome. I’m letting you go--that won’t change. It wouldn’t have worked out. There’s so many things I wanted to say to you--what I said when we parted--it wasn’t enough. I just wanted you to know…
That brief moment that we spent together, I discovered many things that I wouldn’t have, alone. You helped me do that--you, and only you. No matter what, you’ll always be special to me--that won’t change. Don’t belittle yourself. It pained me so much that you would do such a thing, I--well, let’s leave it at that. Here’s to wishing you felt the same about that period of time that we shared together.
I admit, there are times that I still think of you, and want to rush to your side...but we both know how that would end up. A friend told me, “We never know whether the actions we take are the right ones,” so here I am, questioning it. If only I could hear from you...but I won’t be able to anymore. I’ve no idea what you’re doing, but don’t you question yourself, either. I want you to be as happy as I was with you, without me. I’m sure you too, will find happiness--be it through something, or someone--I wish you nothing but the best. Be happy, through everything that you’ve been through, through everything that you’re going through, and through whatever else may come to be...
My friend told me how I tackle things is like putting things into a cloud, and what I feel like doing is a matter of reaching into that cloud, and pulling something out. It’s usually what’s closest to me. Thinking about it, people are kind of like that too, aren’t they? Everyone’s just being plopped into a cloud of relationships on their own, and when they want to hang out, they’ll just pull the closest one to them. When you reach out to your cloud, who do you go for? I mean, it isn’t fair playing favorites, but it happens sometimes, right? I’m okay with that, but…
...I want to be the one you reach out to the most.
