The Lord of Misrule

43 -- Basement Dweller

Godric could hardly believe he'd actually done it. That he searched the address he'd scribbled sideways in his journal was natural. That it was a real place and quite nearby was coincidence. After word he'd driven towards it, telling himself he'd just drive by. But then he'd driven up the empty driveway and stopped.

The place was two stories. Old. Built partially of wood and partially of stone at the top of a vague rise. Few other houses seemed to be near.

"Why this house?" he muttered to himself. "Who owns it? Remember the Rifleman? But he couldn't have lived here. It's not that old, surely..."

He patted his pocket for the finger bone. It was still there, stuffed inside an old pill bottle.

Despite transgressive qualms Godric reversed down the road and left his car out of sight down some dirt track maybe half a click away and then walked back, still in his blue work uniform. Pulled on old leather work gloves that had sat unused in the glovebox for five years.

Every gust of wind an against the car made him start. Every vague crunch became the houses owner creeping up in him with a rifle. He smiled at himself every time. There was nothing and it was a perfectly pleasant morning.

Godric cut through the bushes to the driveway without seeing anyone around and stood before the house, shifting his eyes from window to window. It looked empty—but shit—what did he know about it?

Godric looped around the exterior then, trying to peer into each window. First thing was a shadowed living room that was only sparsely furnished. Nothing visible but a couch.

Durst turned from this and almost kicked a piece of broken clay that skidded out before him—almost gave him a heart attack. But it was nothing, a bunch of broken, jagged pieces of some clay planter had been swept up against the wall along with dirt and twisted remains of dead thyme.

Godric moved on with a sigh. Found a backdoor next to a kitchen window, there were other doors within, leading deeper into the house. He wrapped the corner and then came to other side of the living room. There was the glint of what seemed to be a white chair through one of the windows. Maybe bookshelves next to it, and a couch across from it.

"Fuck me," he muttered. Pulled the notebook from his back pocket and double-checked the passage—it matched.

Godric wound back round to the front of the house. Should he knock and see if anyone comes? Or just try the door? He returned to the side of the house with the broken planters where the couch was visible. Peered through the dirty, flecked window again but still couldn't see the chair—yet it must be there. If only he could reach through the wall and snatch the book...

Godric cursed and walked to the front, took off the gloves, set them down on the step out of sight from the door, and knocked. No one answered after a minute, and he knocked again. Still nothing.

"No one's around..." Durst muttered. "Okay. Fuck this. We're doing it. Open a window and crawl in—grab the book—and crawl back out. Simple as."

Yet Godric only stared for minutes more.

"Maybe I ought only go in and find out who wrote the book? Look for my own copy online? Yes," the thought stuck, "I could do that... But I probably wouldn't get the copy for days, and today's the third night..."

He pulled the gloves back on.

Leather-clad fingers tried pressing the window up. It opened a fraction of an inch and there was no screen beyond. Durst exhaled—pushed with both hands and it slid until it was as high as it would go. Durst put his hands on the frame, and leaned, maybe the book might be in reach...