It was late afternoon before the plane had landed and Spencer exited the airport. He decided he should first try to find a hotel, which he succeeded in rather easily with his tourist's map from the airport gift shop. After he'd gotten a room and paid for the night ahead, he stopped at a nearby café and studied the photo.
It was a large house, almost barnlike, with barely visible white, chipped paint nearly covered in long, thick vines. The entire building was notably old yet seemingly strong, like it had aged a lot and aged well. He couldn't discern anything about the house's location by the picture (and largely more so as he knew next to nothing about Grenoble), so when the waitress came by he showed her the photo and asked if she knew where it was. She told him she didn't, so Spencer was left seeking help elsewhere. Namely the internet.
He did his best to find something on the abandoned shelter in the picture, but despite his best efforts he couldn't find anything useful, which meant it was probably not very well known at all, and unlike Atticus, he didn't know how to scan photos and search for them. So he decided to do some exploring to get a mental map of the city (as much as possible) before turning in for the night.
Five hours later, he was still wandering through the streets. He tried relentlessly, asking people for directions to the house in the photo, but to no avail. Very nearly exhausted, he started back towards the hotel, but just then a middle aged man came out of a small wooden shack on the street corner and asked to see my photo. Dazed, he lazily handed the man the picture.
The man studied it for a few seconds before exclaiming in intrigue,
“Oh! I know this place. I visited it once or twice in my childhood. I never knew the house's story, but I was sure nobody else knew about it. How on earth did you come across this?”
“It's a long story. Do you think you could lead me to it?”
“I don't know. These circumstances are rather strange to me.... meet me at Le Flint tomorrow at 2 PM. I'll tell you then my decision.”
“Thanks. By the way, I've noticed your English is quite fluent.”
“Thank you, my lad. I spent a few decades abroad in America. I picked up the language rather well, I must say.”
“Sounds cool. Well, goodnight to you then.”
“Goodnight, young lad.”
• • • • •
Spencer slept in the next day, awaking at about 10 AM. He quickly ate his breakfast and, finding he had some time to kill, decided to check out a few local attractions before heading to the bar known as Le Flint. He thought he'd check out the local park for a relaxing walk. As he was enjoying the sun and breeze, he noticed (something). Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something shimmering. He turned to look at it, and for a split second he thought he could see a figure sitting crosslegged on the ground. It disappeared before he could get a good look at it. Then some random French teen rammed right into Spencer on his skateboard.
“Donc désolé, monsieur.” (So sorry, sir.)
Spencer shakes his head in mild shock and confusion. “Ah,...that's alright.” He then walks away, in the direction of the bar.
• • • • •
After about an hour of wandering the streets of southern Grenoble, he came upon Le Flint, and entered it at precisely 2:00. He spotted the man from last night sitting in a booth in the far left corner. He went over and sat down. The man then asked him,
“What would you like?”
“The grand tour of one abandoned house.”
“Haha. Yes, yes, that too. I mean what would you like to drink?”
“I suppose some whiskey will do.”
“Sure thing. I'll be right back.”
Spencer took a moment to look around the bar. It had red wallpaper with green bordering. Pictures of various tourist attractions in Grenoble adorned the walls in frames. The tables lined all but the back wall, which held the bar itself. There was a short hallway to the left that led to the bathroom and the back of the bar. There was also a small sort of chandelier in the center of the sitting area.
As the man came back with Spencer's drink, he handed the glass to him, sat down, and said,
“I don't think I introduced myself before. My name is Marcellin Leandres, but imaginably, I go by Marcy.”
“Mine is Spencer Endicott. Not much any nickname that goes with that.”
“What about Spence?”
“That's horrible.”
“Haha. So, pardon my asking again, but might you be able to tell me how you got that photo? As I've said, it was an old childhood favorite destination of mine. It was also my secret hideaway place, so I didn't think anybody else knew about it. I imagine somebody lived there at one point, but now with it being abandoned and all, I'd thought it was forgotten.”
“Truth be told, I'm not sure how it came to me, but to tell a long story short, a friend of mine was kidnapped and I found the photo in a mailbox, assumedly it'd help me find him.”
“I see. Well Spencer, if what you say is indeed true, then I suppose I shall have to show you the house regardless of what I think. Anything for a friend, eh?”
“I agree. Thank you very much, Marcy.”
“Soyez le bienvenu, Spencer. You're welcome."