The Boss's Son | ✅

28

I considered the situation. I had read that, a couple of years ago, they had institutionalized the woman, I thought to be Henry's mother. A court order had been issued. Thoroughly plagued by delusions, she had turned into a threat to herself and others. It was to be assumed, given that people like her had no access to mental health care, that she had been mentally ill for a while already. Her reputation as a witch spoke volumes.

It was a reflection of the stigma, mentally ill people still had to live, and in this woman's case, die with. She hadn't been a witch. My belief in ghosts was also limited, bordering non-existent. But, I believed in people going lengths to disguise their wrongful actions, even amplifying their mother's bad reputation posthumously for their advantage.

Slowly, I walked around the house. Stopping every now and then, I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior through the encrusted and cracked windows. If people believed that others had been snatched from here, had anyone ever set a foot into the house to see, if bodies piled up inside? Had anyone taken a closer look at the surrounding grounds in search of graves? The unbroken police seal at the front door answered the questions. The idea that I might be walking on top of the missing street artists, made goose bumps the size of dove eggs appear on my arms.

I knew I should leave it at that and call Stan. On the other hand, I still didn't know if this was Henry's lair. There was still the chance that I was misled by a local fairy tale, because it fit into what I wanted to find. In that case, I would have accomplished nothing for my friends. If I could unearth just one tangible piece of proof, tying the Henry I knew to this place, leaving this to others would become so much easier.

I went back to the car to look for a torch that I knew, Alex had in her trunk together with a fire extinguisher and an assortment of unassuming looking devices, she knew how to use as defensive weapons. A minute later, I had the petty excuse for a lock at the front door picked with the help of two of the handful of paper clips, that I always carried around with me, and was inside. Miraculously, the police seal still stuck to the frame when I closed the door behind me.

While I wound the unbent-for-use paper clips like a ring around my finger, my eyes adjusted to the dim light. It found its way through the windows and then fell through doors into the tiny hall, I was standing in. Taking the torch from the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and switching it on, I tried to orientate myself, before deciding on my next steps.

A staircase wound its way up to a second level next to my left elbow. In front of me I looked through a curtain, made from with glass pearl garnished strings, and into a kitchen, while the door to my right lead into a tiny living room.

The close quarters on the ground floor made me guess that the upper level would hold not more than two bedrooms. The living room's one piece of seating furniture was a worn sofa bed. So maybe, there was just one bedroom upstairs that the child had used.

That left a third door in the hall under the staircase as a mystery. Cupboard or basement? With the soil as wet as it was around here, a basement would have been a huge investment for this tiny piece of real estate, what made this option rather improbable.

I decided to leave that question for last and turned first to the stairs. Three creaky steps up, I stopped. Halfway to the upper level, it looked like someone had broken through the wood, stripping about a meter of the construction of its boards. The hole had been simply covered by a horse blanket, creating a viable trap for nightly trespassers. I didn't need to see the upstairs bad enough to resort to free climbing. So, I turned around and headed the two steps to the kitchen.

On the table, I found the first signs that someone was squatting in the house or had been very recently. A dirty knife sat next to a butter dish and a Nutella jar. Henry had always had a weakness for the nutty spread. So did EL James and thousands of others, what made it a poor piece of evidence for Henry's presence.

Several full water bottles, still shrink-wrapped and with a bare-code of a supermarket on the plastic, stood on the floor. Next to them sat empty boxes of a grocery delivery service, which I used on recommendation by Mike. By now I wouldn't be surprised to also find the baskets that the local farmer used to deliver her fresh, organic goods to Mike's kitchen. Yet still, no irrefutable proof.

I went through the cupboards and found bread, tea bags and coffee, tooth brush and toothpaste next to the sink. The fridge worked and contained some take away, eggs, cheese and beer. Why did the house still have electricity? Who paid the bills? I tried the light switch. Nothing. Then I saw that there was a blank cable hanging from the ceiling. No light bulb, no light. But there were candles and matches.

I had seen all there was in the kitchen. So, I turned my attention to the living room. A blanket and pillow were piled in a corner. Then, I saw a familiar duffle bag. I peeked inside. These were Henry's clothes. I recognized a shirt, Mike had bought him in preparation of a vernissage. That was it, that was what I've been looking for.

On my way back out, my phone slowly coming to life after I had turned it off so I couldn't be tracked, I stopped at the door under the stairs. Curiosity won out. I turned the knob and stuck my head into the open door. Cool, moldy air gushed over me. It was the passage to a basement after all, not a cupboard. By the looks of it, the sturdiest part of the whole building with exceptionally thick walls.

"Welcome to my humble home. I've been waiting impatiently for you, ever since I sent you my invitation."