Beyond the Empty Sea

A Live-written RPG Story set in the world of Invisible Sun, by Monte Cook Games.
Narrated by Graylocke; Starring a stranger as Derric Hawkins;

Chapter 1: In which a To Whom becomes Concerned

The cold autumn evening settles into silence as the rumbling of the old delivery van comes to a halt. Each building in the suburban cul-de-sac huddles against its neighbours as if for warmth. To an outside observer, the row of almost identical houses could seem artificially arranged like the backdrop of a play.

The click of a door causes dull light to stream out from a van's cabin into the carport space of number 17. Derric Hawkins disentangles his jacket from his seatbelt, keys in hand, and wearily slips out into the calm night. As the door creaks closed, he catches a brief glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror. Though the image shows smooth features and an unruly mop of hair that make him seem younger than his years, it does little to disguise the deep bone-tiredness in his eyes after a long day of delivering packages.

Standing poised to unlock his front door, Derric suddenly stands stock-still, lanky form arrested mid-action. A feeling of wrongness jolts down his spine as he notices that the door to his house pushes open slightly to his touch, the key not yet in the lock.

I stop and stare blankly at the door. Had I left it unlocked? No… I distinctly remember cursing and juggling my hot coffee that morning and the key resisting my tugging to withdraw it. What should I do? Go in? The cold grip of my fear of the unknown wraps its hand around my throat. Should I call the property manager? What if there is a threat? The police? I might be overreacting, though. I still don't know anything for sure yet…

Finally, I make up my mind, quelling the voices of the what-ifs by forcing myself to make any kind of decision. I nudge the door to make it swing further inward. "Only one way to find out, I guess…" I mutter, steeling myself and craning my neck to peer inside, preparing for the worst.

Nothing. No sound. No movement. Derric's eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim interior, but he can see nothing out of place once they do. Instead, a potential shadowy figure becomes the coat he had forgotten this morning, hanging on the coat rack, his umbrella leaning against it.

Closer to the door, the hall table stands neatly tucked into the corner, its faux-antique carved legs splaying wooden claws against the pale grey tiles. The bowl of loose change and the pile of junk mail beside it look completely undisturbed on its slightly scuffed surface. All as it should be.

1.

Maybe it's all okay… I push down my nausea at the idea of someone having invaded my personal space, feeling somewhat emboldened by the lack of apparent disturbance.. I'll have to make sure there really is no one is here, I suppose. Better to be safe than… I quickly shut my imagination off, take a deep breath, and proceed cautiously, padding further into my home but leaving the door standing open behind me.

The small hallway is shabby but clean. A creaky staircase rises up at the far end, the faded runner of rose-adorned carpet patchy and worn down to the wood beneath. The old wrought-iron mirror that came with the house casts a reflection through a doorway into Derric's living room and kitchen, which look exactly as he remembered leaving them. The faintest smell of burned coffee pot lingers in the air, commemorating the morning's breakfast fiasco.

Nothing's missing… I am becoming more hopeful, and my unimagined terrors slowly fade. Still clutching my keys and moving as silently as possible, my sweeping glance catches my gaze in the mirror. I give myself a brief smile for reassurance, then head through the door.

Derric rounds into the main room, mentally taking a quick inventory of his meagre possessions as well as the furniture the house had come with. Then, his eyes abruptly come to rest on a brown paper package sitting on the small wooden table serving as the kitchen counter as well as his dining table. Small enough to fit in one hand and tied up with a long, flowing blue ribbon, the package sits there, waiting.

Not something missing at all. Something added. Something new.

What the..? Someone has been here! It's such a small thing, yet I can feel the dreamlike paralysis arresting my movement once more. There's no rationalising this. No explaining away this prominent item, out of order and out of the ordinary. I look around quickly as if I could catch the one that had placed the object there, but when they fail to materialise, I approach my table and extend my hand to the package.

As Derric heads toward the kitchen, he spies a second new item in the room, previously hidden by the first. A small jar of what looks like raspberry jam, the neatly crabbed writing on the label immediately conferring to Derric its contents and origin. Old Mrs Morrigan from number 4, the closest thing he has to a friendly neighbour and the holder of his emergency house-key. While it seems unlike her to let herself in just to leave her homemade gifts, it makes the whole experience immediately less inexplicable. Even forgetting to close the front door seems almost probable for an old woman who habitually talks to roses and birds.

I read the label and feel a wave of relief wash through me. My mind is not entirely willing to let go of other explanations, but the familiarity of handwriting goes a long way to soothe my doubts. At least, for now. It only really explains the jam… I peer at the jar and its reddish contents a moment before lifting the package for a more thorough examination. Unless this was perhaps sent to her by mistake..?

Upon lifting the box, the tag jiggles and flops to where Derric can read it. Unlike the plain brown of the wrapping, the label is made of a very fancy hand-made paper, a series of different shades of blue and green running through it, giving the appearance of flowing water. The lettering is a fine silver paint in an odd script, stating "To Whom, From Whence".

2.

Pretty fancy. I peer keenly at the parcel, turning and tilting it, letting the ribbon-water change colours. "To Whom, From Whence…" I murmur to myself, raising an eyebrow. What on earth could that mean? Was this from Mrs Morrigan after all? I lower the wrapped item, the jostle covering the ticking, and reach for the jar to scoop some out and take a sneaky taste.

The raspberry jam tastes both tart and sweet, the taste of real raspberries freshly picked from the old lady's garden with a hint of vanilla. It also has a strange aftertaste of… something undefinable. For some reason, it reminds Derric of brightly-coloured market stalls by an ever-changing sea; A whistling lilt of a tune he can't quite remember.

I stand thoughtfully, staring unseeingly at my kitchen cupboards. The long hours of my workday and the very recent minor scare of a mistaken invasion fall away at the taste. Fresh, rich, vibrant… for a lingering instant, that vision pulls at my memory, but I can't place it. Where was that..? When? Shaking my head, I try to focus on the matters at hand.

Right. I seal the jam back up again and place it in one of the few, almost bare cupboards, closing the door carefully to avoid it falling off its hinges like it did last week. No more distractions. I turn back to the wrapped item and lift it again, looking for folds or seams, not inclined to tear the delicate wrapping.

Touching the ribbon, the bow holding the wrapping slips loose, unknotting and pouring to the table as if made of liquid; Though a quick look at the table shows it to still be quite solid. While distracted by the ribbon, the paper somehow parts, unfolding to reveal a small, carved wooden box with an intricate symbol engraved into the lid.

Wow! I blink in modest surprise; the ribbon material must be very high quality to slip off that easily. How shiny and fluid that appeared to be. I examine the box slide my hand over the wooden top, feeling the smoothness and craftsmanship. Now, what might you hold? This symbol…

A sudden click from the wooden box in his hand interrupts Derric's thoughts. A catch has been released, and as his hand moves, the lid slides back and reveals an ornate pocket-watch lying in an indigo velvet inlay.

I almost gasp as the lid slips flawlessly out and the interior is revealed, stunned at the timepiece inside. Where did it come from? Old Mrs Morrigan? But why was she giving this to me? Carefully, I set the box on the table and gingerly lifts out the pocket watch, feeling its weight, the case cool to the touch and engraving masterfully detailed.

3.

The watch face is partially concealed by a half-cover made of filigree, the silhouette of an old man feeding swans on a lake. The dial itself shows a procession of symbols, or perhaps constellations, in the sky and the ticking gears of the watch below the water.

I study the face carefully, pondering why there are no numbers to tell the hour. It's undoubtedly pretty, if slightly useless without them. It occurs to me to see if there is a maker's mark and flip it in my palm to look at the back.

The back of the watch simply has two words etched into it in a similar script to the box tag: "Infinity Rune". Shifting it around causes a soft click, and flipping it back to the front shows that the half cover is actually two hinged panels that open. When fully visible, the clock's centre indeed shows the current time, almost 8pm, and a small cherubic face that appears asleep.

As great a gift this is, it dawns on me that I left the front door open. Replacing the watch in the box, I hasten to close it, giving me time to consider what I will do for an evening meal. Re-entering the kitchen, I am already preoccupied with everyday evening habits. I stare at the two freezer meals left, trying to decide on the right one to eat and eventually settle on Salisbury steak and mash. By the time I have finished getting frustrated at the outdated and temperamental microwave, the weariness has returned in full force. I can barely stay awake, and all thought of the watch and its mysterious provenance has dropped from my mind.

That night, however, his dreams were of a market made of many-coloured tents like a circus. The haunting melody of a flute drifts over an ever-changing sea.

4.

Chapter 2: In which we find a Mirror behind the Masque

The newspaper laying folded on the passenger seat of the delivery van has a cheap plastic pen laying across it, and a single classified ad on the top page that has been circled in blue ink.

In the rearview mirror is a perfect view of Number 4, but there seems to be no one in the front garden right now. The intricate filigree case of the pocket watch lies in the palm of Derric's hand and some potential paths lay before him. It's his day off, and his best chance of working out something about this mysterious gift.

Old Mrs Morrigan. She is definitely in the "crazy old lady" category. Would it be too forward to go talk to her face to face? Is it too early to visit? Old people have odd rules I don't know anything about. It's not like I'm doing anything today anyway. I finally make up my mind: Mrs Morrigan is close by, so I can probably see her later. She might even be out gardening. I start the van and pull away to track down Greyside Park.

Several frustrating hours later, Derric parks his van in what turns out to be a dead-end, the car park for an industrial complex. The drive had taken much longer than expected. Even using his road atlas for guidance, it had required a complex dance to navigate the one-way streets, the sudden roadworks, and a series of what felt like interlocking spirals to get him anywhere nearby. Staring at the map, he is unsure where he went wrong. Greyside Park always seems to be the next block over, beyond a one-way street, or the other side of an inconvenient motorway.

5.

I sigh in relief and mutter unkind, but probably undeserved, things at the road atlas. Then, shifting into 'park', I take out my keys and step from the van, walking across the grass towards Greyside Park. I make sure to have the cutout to check it regularly, but my other hand unconsciously holds the watch in my pocket. Where is 404?

The buildings are attached to small roads arranged in a series of meandering curves, each seemingly numbered in its own arcane order. Most of them seem to be wholesale stores, factory outlets or warehouses for storage rental. It is entirely unclear how anyone would be able to drive into the maze of twisty little streets, much less navigate them.

Solar Place turns out to be tucked between a warehouse covered in velvet drapes and potplants that has been converted into a rentable music studio and a store that seems to sell party gear and fancy dress costumes. Oddly, 404 is the only building on the short street, and it appears to be more like a tiny bungalow growing out the side of a large aeroplane hangar. It has a covered verandah packed to overflowing with antique furniture with faded tags attached to them that flutter in the breeze. A squeaking sign swings above the green glass door reads: "Masque's Exportium".

I pause and furrow my brow, a step beyond the porch. Well, I guess it appears precisely as I might have expected… If I'd taken the time to think about it. But this emporium… "Exportium"? What is an "exportium"? Well, isn't this just weird? This whole place is like a deserted mercantile village crossed with a funfair. And slightly creepy. Hand around my watch, I take a deep breath, straighten up and open the door.

There is a cacophonous clattering of metal as the door swings open, and a metal wind chime that looks vaguely reminiscent of a giant spider clatters against the glass. The store's interior is no less cluttered than its front, a maze of narrow paths between various imposing pieces of furniture, all of which are covered in a series of fantastic and unusual objects.

The back end of a goose has been mounted like a trophy on a plaque of wood and bronze, and it sits atop a chest of drawers painted to look like Van Gogh's The Starry Night. Two suits of armour stand at attention, protecting a bookcase full of snow-globes with pyramids in them, though their helmets have been replaced with plastic potted ferns. A small bronze tea tray sits on a wicker trolley, guarded by a trio of lawn flamingos and holding various wooden fruits and a bowl of glass eyes. The bewildering and confusing clutter of objects turns normal movement along the narrow paths into an intense gymnastic workout.

6.

I pause, yet again, and stare at the chaos. There has to be a way through this maze to get… somewhere? A register? Or a counter for the proprietor? I edge my way slowly through the… Well, I wouldn't exactly call it junk. It has a certain kind of charm, even if it is peculiar. It's less ominous than outside, except maybe for that door chime. The further I can get from that, the better!

Plunging in, Derric tries to follow the path of least resistance and, eventually, manages to reach what can only be described as a clearing in the back of the house. A wide glass counter has been spread across the centre, and there are comfortably worn leather armchairs on the near side facing it, presumably for whatever customers manage to make it this far.

The entire area is filled with clocks; tall grandfathers, small cuckoos, carriage clocks, clocks with thermometers and one clock embedded in a tank of tropical fish. Any space not occupied by a timepiece has glass jars of springs and screws and cogs.

Behind the counter is a woman whose face reminds Derric of an unfinished porcelain statue. She is smooth and pale and probably would have been considered beautiful if her features were more prominent. Her long dark hair is untidy and tangles in the neckline of a drab tan coloured dress that looks like it was borrowed from the late 1800s. If it weren't for the handful of brightly coloured ribbons woven through her braid, she might have stepped out of an old sepia photograph.

"Uhh… hi…" I say, from just inside the clearing. I don't want to appear rude, so I stop at a comfortable distance from the counter. "I umm… saw this ad in the paper..?" I reach forward to lay the clipping on the glass counter like I am presenting some kind of visa to verify my legitimacy inside this sanctum. "…and, well, you see, I just got this watch…" I take the -

"Yes..?" says the woman looking up at him with an impassive face. Her musical voice is strangely grating, as if she is putting on an accent that doesn't quite work. "We aren't normally open on Saturdays, but since you are here." She stares at the blank scrap of paper Derric just placed on her counter and then looks back up at him, one bone white finger tapping the glass and one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised.

7.

Realising the pause in the conversation, I drag my eyes back to the woman addressing me.
"… Sorry, so… Yeah… I happened to see the ad, and you seemed to be watch experts? So, I was wondering if maybe you could tell me anything about…" But then, my words dry up as my eyes are drawn to meet the woman's gaze and then lower them to her tapping finger on the paper. What the…

"We don't advertise in the newspaper", says the woman in her oddly sing-song voice, though it now has a suspicious tinge to it. "Why did you really come here? How did you find this place?" Her eyes stare intently into Derric's for a moment, like she is trying to probe into his mind to discern his intentions.

I break my gaze and look desperately at the paper, grabbing at it and flipping it over to where the ad should be printed, forgetting in my panic that a newspaper should have printing on both sides.
"N-no, the ad… I really did read it this morning… It was right here!" I stammer, picking up the clipping and staring at both sides in embarrassed confusion, stomach tying itself in knots.

The clipping remains stubbornly blank, and the woman begins to reach up a hand toward Derric when a sudden crashing sound comes from the open doorway with what sounds like a yowling cat. The woman breaks her gaze, the merest of scowls denting her smooth face.
"One moment, please… Do not go anywhere." she turns to push through the door and past the mirror; the weird angle doesn't reflect her passing.

I try to talk, but my mouth just opens slackly. What was happening? How did that happen? I was reading it as I arrived here, right before walking through the door even. Who is this woman? I thought I was a customer… But I couldn't come up with the words to protest against the sharp command lashed out at me.

And then the mirror… I swallow, trying to suppress my nausea. "There have to be reasonable explanations for the weirdness of these last 24 hours," I mutter under my breath, starting to regret coming here.
"Uhh- sorry to bother you! I could just er, come back later-?" I call out mildly, not having any intention of returning once I can escape this crazy woman.

The figure in the mirror is waving frantically, trying to catch Derric's attention. They push back their hood, and the face beneath is strangely recognisable, but he cannot think where or when they could have met. The familiar eyes lock on Derric's and mouth a word. Not being understood, the figure grows agitated. The second time is accompanied by a flare of blue and a fast flick of both hands towards Derric. "R U N !"

I frown, perplexed and incredulous, as I attempt to process what is happening in the mirror. I want to not understand, I want to dismiss the inexplicable appearance of this person, but my instinct is too powerful.
"Uhh, later!" I force out, quickly spinning on my heels and expeditiously making my way back the direction I came.

8.

As Derric bursts back into the cold Saturday afternoon outside, there is a cry of anger. It is immediately followed by a sudden unnerving silence, almost an absence of sound as if he had changed altitude suddenly. This lasts only a fraction of a second before it bursts into the crash and tinkle of shattered glass. As Derric hastens off the veranda, he hears the woman's voice shouting: "Infinity Rune!" but doesn't stick around to listen more.

I don't even break my stride, much less look back at the sound, for fear that something or someone might stop me and freeze me right here. So singular is my concentration on removing myself from the vicinity of that establishment that I barely notice how I leave the maze of twisty little roads. It's only when I slam the door shut, locked safely in my van, that I let my racing mind catch up.

I sit there, stunned for several minutes, letting his heart rate and panting subside. "Woah, that was freaky!" I say aloud to myself, suddenly realising that my hand is still tightly clenched around the watch in my pocket. I slowly withdraw it but keep my hands below the steering wheel. "What on earth is going on..?"

As the delivery man withdraws his hand from his pocket, a small piece of newspaper flutters down into the footwell; An advertisement for watches on one side, and on the other, a portion of a "Missing Persons" article with an accompanying photo: A young person in a hoodie.

9.

Chapter 3: In which Problems are not Addressed

The drive home is uneventful, despite the extra precautions Derric takes to avoid being followed. The delivery van feels skittish, as it always does when not laden with other people's deliveries, and its gears complain restlessly as it pulls into the carport again. Although it felt like an eternity at the "exportium", it's only just past noon, and the pale blue sky seems to make things feel calmer.

A movement in the rearview mirror catches Derric's eye. After a moment of mental confusion between windows and reflections, he realises that old Mrs Morrigan is in her garden across the road behind him. She stoops down periodically, pulling out great handfuls of weeds, and then turns, apparently to be talking over her shoulder to someone. Peering closely, Derric makes out a hunched dark figure on her front steps, barely visible behind her garden fence.

I freeze momentarily, still jumpy from the strange morning, and stare at the movement. Okay… Calm down! As my mind begins to register my familiar neighbour, I let out my unconsciously held breath and feel myself relax again. Hmm… But, who is that? I frown and stare at the figure, or at least where they were when I could see them.

The figure doesn't seem to rise, and they must be pretty small for the fence to be almost entirely obscuring them. However, Mrs Morrigan does seem to address her remarks to various points along her front porch, so the mostly hidden figure must be moving around a little. While this puzzle is being worked out, some kids run past, throwing a ball between themselves. The sudden crash of sound and bright colours of their hoodies make for a startling intrusion.

I jolt back out of staring at Mrs Morrigan, now a little embarrassed at having been spying on my neighbour. Not wanting to be caught sitting in the van for "too long", I haul myself out and lock it, considering whether I should take the opportunity to visit Mrs Morrison now or later. Of course, I could just ask her over the fence about the watch… thank her for the gift? I still don't even know if I can accept it!

Procrastination gets the better of me, and I turn and speedwalk to the door. The old lady does have company, after all, and I wouldn't want to intrude… I make a slight grimace at myself as my fingers fumble with my keys, hastily retreating into my private sanctum.

10.

A solitary US Mail brand cardboard box has now been kicked into Derric's home, hurting his foot slightly and, more importantly, invading his peace of mind.

Far out! What the..? As the short rush of pain and anxiety recedes, I quickly slip inside to close the door behind me, resting my back against it. I take a deep breath and stare at the package, regaining my composure with a slight weariness. Again? More unrequested deliveries? I grab the package and plod to the kitchenette, thunking the box down with my clacking keys. Then, taking a very 70's style secondhand greenish-brownish-orange cup, I fill it with water and take several big gulps. Refusing to be rushed by an inanimate object, I give myself a few seconds to calm down before tossing the half-full cup back into the sink and returning to my newest mystery.

The package itself is reasonably heavy and squarish. This time the box has a delivery address written on it; however, it was clearly written by someone who had trouble using a pen. The ink is smudged in places and very hard to read, but slowly Derric manages to piece together "M Mór Ríoghain, 4 Lugh Ciorcle". Deliveryman's hat on, a potential translation of this could be "Mrs Morrigan, 4 Luke Circle", which would make it belong to his neighbour. The sender's address seems to be smeared beyond even basic comprehension.

I sigh and give a mirthless chuckle. Is it possible that USPS can get two packages wrong on two consecutive days? And also smear the writing on this one so much that no one knows where it should go? I'd complain if I didn't just feel sorry for whoever would get in trouble for this. I shove some bread in the toaster while I consider my options.

The address on this item is almost certainly not mine, so what now? I could "return to sender" through USPS. But that's probably not productive; if I can't read the address, no postman could reasonably be expected to either. More than likely, it would just slowly make its way through distribution to simply circle back here again. I could leave it with the property manager, but they still wouldn't be back until after the weekend. Or…

Sighing, I slather my toast with butter and raspberry jam, inwardly giving in to what I know I am meant to do. I guess I will deliver it myself… I mean, I do want to ask about the pocket-watch anyway. "Alright, I will go visit old Mrs Morrigan!" I grumble at the box. "Just after her visitor has gone, and I've eaten!" Somewhat defiantly, I take my plate away to sit down in my armchair, intending to eat my meagre lunch and play Defender to clear my mind.

The battered console turns on slowly, so Derric lets it do its thing as he sits back and bites into his toast. The taste of the raspberry jam reminds him of… something… the pocket watch and Mrs Morrigan…

11.

No, I am not going to be bullied by my lunch! Frowning, I toss the plate and the half-eaten toast onto the table and grab the controller joystick. I'm going to play a stupid game and stop thinking for a while, lose myself in something predictable and not at all mysterious.

The game starts, and Derric begins to play and tries to get himself back into the rhythm of the game. However, no matter how often he restarts, the game seems more challenging and less satisfying than it usually does. Derric's mind keeps trying to nag at him about the last couple of days, and the aliens are moving in patterns that don't match his muscle memory. The screen flickers a murky grey or garish purple between enemies.

I curl my lip in an almost angry growl of frustration at the game, mashing the button on the controller joystick and trying to make it let me play it. Just… let me… not have to… ugh!

Suddenly, the console crashes, the screen black with a repeating series of symbols flashing up where the score is meant to be. Clearly, the contents of its limited memory are being spat out into the void.

Squinting, I try to make sense of the flickering numbers…

Memory… And forgetting… And the sea… Who told me that? I stop abruptly and blink at the realisation. The sea again? But I've never even been near the sea… So, what keeps reminding me of it? My hand slips into my pocket and clasps the watch again.

Beneath his fingertips, Derric feels the watch tick and pulse like a thing alive. Something about it triggers a secure, nostalgic feeling. He catches himself staring blankly at the numbers as they pulse by. 6… 0… The events of the morning replay like an overlay. A yell and the smashing of glass as he ran. The smashing of glass. That sound happened here. Just now. Looking out the window, Derric sees Mrs Morrigan waving a garden rake as children in brightly coloured hoodies run away, the window behind her broken in.

Jumping up from my seat, I move the old blinds apart and watch the aftermath of the crash that disrupted him. I feel a sudden pang of sympathy for poor old Mrs Morrigan and decide to go offer assistance. She's there all alone, after all… I turn to collect my keys, and the misdelivered package sits there, staring at me. Fine. Whatever. Let's get all this over with at once, I guess. I turn and head out for the second time today, trying not to feel stupid for being angry at a cardboard box.

12.

Chapter 4: In which Feathers are Ruffled

Mrs Morrigan's home is almost a carbon copy of Derric's, though her front porch and carport are filled with flowers. There always seem to be some blooming, in wildly vibrant colours, no matter the season. Their pots, too, are of various colours, shapes and sizes. Some are made of glass and some metal; some are covered in beads and others in mirrored tiles. The effect is far more astonishing up close in the driveway than as you pass it by in the street.

I take a deep breath, pausing after stepping in front of my neighbour's door. I jostle the mislabeled parcel in my weak hand, putting my keys in my pocket, delaying. As I do, my hand brushes against the watch, and I let out a held breath, suddenly aware of the scent from old Mrs Morrigan's garden and try to relax. "This is fine…" I murmur to myself. "I can do this." I straighten my back and reach for the knocker.

The door knocker is shaped like a crow, and it taps against the door with its pointed beak. Almost immediately, there is the sound of scuffling and cawing from inside. Then, with little time to react, the door swings open, revealing the old woman herself, standing brandishing a garden trowel like a weapon and waving it vaguely in the direction of Derric. Her hair is pulled back in a severe iron-grey braid, and her angular face points at Derric aggressively. Anachronistically, a pair of silver "pince-nez" glasses balance precariously on her nose, the lenses in them reflecting a rainbow of colours.

From behind her, a very animal-sounding noise can be heard. A mixture of a snicker and a squawk. "I suppose you had better come in, then." The old lady turns abruptly, leaving the door open, and shuffles back into her house.

Blinking slightly with confusion but not wanting to seem rude, I step inside to follow her, making sure to wipe my feet and close the door behind me. "You uh, weren’t expecting me, were you?" I try a lame joke as I look around the hall. "Umm, sorry about the kids..?"

The immediate impression on entering Mrs Morrigan's home is that somehow you walked back into the garden. Perhaps less of a garden and more of a forest crossed with an aviary. In many trivial ways, the hallway is very similar to Derric's own. There is a staircase directly ahead and a doorway leading into what will presumably turn out to be the open living space, the mirror reflection of Number 17.

13.

Unlike Derric's minimalistic style, the wallpaper is a scene of green leafy trees, oaks and ashes, rowans and willows, and birds sitting on almost every branch. To add to the general atmosphere, many plant pots crowd the space, large ones on the floor and small ones dangling vine-like creepers from a ledge above the picture rail.

"… Actually, the reason I knocked was I think I got your package? It was delivered to me, so I just wanted to let you know and bring it over for you." I hold the box in front of me, justifying my presence while awaiting her response.

"Come in and have some tea," she calls over her shoulder. "We can work out our troubles over a good strong brew."

Again I hesitate; I had every intention of making this as brief an excursion as possible. Deliver the package, express some polite sentiments about troubled youths, mention the watch, then depart. But even though Mrs Morrigan's home is exactly as I should have expected, I am now being asked to trek through a jungle for tea. Well, I suppose these understandable peculiarities aren't threatening, by any measure. I just sigh a little and slump my shoulders in submission. It would appear rude to refuse her. Tucking the parcel under my left arm, I skirt some ferns and follow after her.

The lounge area is as bedecked with natural furnishings as the hall, more plants and wooden furniture, and seemingly no television or radio. Instead, several tall bookcases are stacked with aged-looking books of the leather-bound variety, shoved in all higgledy-piggledy around carvings of animals made of wood and stone.

As Derric follows the old lady to the kitchen area, a bronze kettle on an old-fashioned stove begins to whistle. Mrs Morrigan hastens to take it off the flame and places it on a padded mat on the table to join teacups already laid out for two. "Sit down, sit down…" she says, flicking a black feather out of one of the cups and opening a flat biscuit tin. "Shortbread?"

I try not to react to the feather in the teacup. "Oh um, no thank you," I reply, sinking into an empty chair and somewhat pointedly placing the package on the table prominently where old Mrs Morrigan would not miss it. Then, to avoid an awkward and potentially rude period of silence, Derric offers a neutral compliment: "You have a lot more decor than me; it makes my place look pretty bare."

She chuckles slightly, looking up at Derric with a somewhat wry smile. "Sometimes you are given the opportunity to horde, and sometimes you are not," she says, somewhat cryptically. "Besides, I have had a good many years on you in this place! So, what seems to be the problem?" She pours the water into a dark green teapot, decorated with pictures of ravens and Celtic knots in gold leaf.

14.

"Ummm…" I stall, feeling as though this whole interaction is starting to get away from me. "Well, I got a package that was misdelivered to me. I think it might be yours..?" I gesture slightly awkwardly at the parcel on the table, trying to make sure I don't spill anything.

"Oh? A package?" she pulls the package toward her and peers at the label through her glasses. "Also Haen Dazah, no doubt. Never could keep up with spelling, much less what they were doing." She snorts and pulls the wrapping off the package revealing what appears to be a half-brick with a note attached to it with string. This seemingly incongruous object just causes Mrs Morrigan to sigh, and she sets it aside and pours the tea.

I stare at the contents slightly numbly, my brain not taking this in and jumping instead from the half-brick to the broken window. Belatedly, I then realise that perhaps the old lady is politely trying to bring the topic to her problems. So I stumble straight into questions: "Have you spoken to the property manager about the kids? Do you know their parents?"

"The kids..? Oh yes, the children." The old woman shakes her head. "Won't do any good, Master Hawkins… It won't do any good. Not until we sort things out, at any rate. Which reminds me, how are you doing, dear?" She sets the steaming teacup in front of Derric.

"Uh…" I mumble, unable to follow old Mrs Morrgian; It feels like we are in entirely separate conversations. Hesitantly, I try to formulate a response to her question. "Well… I guess it has been kinda weird these last couple of days. First, I got a mysterious watch in the mail, and then I went to a freaky antique store that creeped me out." I look up at her trying to gauge her reaction. "I don’t know; everything just seems… weird?" I shrug, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to continue unpacking the events of the last little while.

"Ah! Found your watch, did you?" the old lady smiles and pats Derric's hand. "That's encouraging, I'm sure. So you've been following Doctor Meerk's instructions, then?" Her tawny eyes peer from over her glasses, which fog over as she takes a sip of her tea.

I perk, eyes brightening. Finally, something that seems to make sense! “Oh, so it was you who sent it! Well, there’s one less mystery. So uh, what exactly is the deal with it?” I ask, taking the watch from my pocket and holding it out on the table, watching old Mrs Morrigan’s reaction. "Wait… Who’s Dr Meerk?"

"Oh dear," Mrs Morrigan looks immediately concerned. "You haven't been looking after yourself, have you?" She looks intently into Derric's eyes with concern, and her voice modulates into a grandmotherly tone. "It's your watch, Master Hawkins; it always has been. Did you forget again? Never mind, never mind… Have you been taking your pills?"

15.

I stare at her awkwardly, inwardly sighing. We were back to nonsense when we were so close before. I had politely overlooked her eccentricities in previous encounters, but this felt far beyond giving her rose bushes individual names. At least she isn't asking me to paint them red!

Tactfully, I try to back out of this case of obviously mistaken identity. “Mrs Morrigan, I don’t have any medications. I am taking care of myself… as best I can, you know. Anyway, thank you for the watch; it’s very nice.”

"As bad as that!" she exclaims, tutting to herself. "Well, my boy! You told me to tell you to go home and prove it yourself." She puts a wrinkly hand over her increasingly bewildered neighbour's, closing it around the pocket watch. "It will be okay, little hawk. It will be okay."

Before he can respond, she appears to have an idea and looks past Derric, calling out, "Bayab! Bring me the bottle from upstairs!" Then goes back to a soft smile and an encouraging nod to Derric. "You'll see, right as rain again soon!"

"Uh, okay. Yeah… Sure.” I stumble to answer, wanting to give her reassurance but desperately wanting to escape before a bottle marked "Drink Me" is pressed into my hand. I remember to take a small sip of tea and rise as if ready to depart, but then another idea hits me: "Oh, before I go… Have you ever heard of Masque's Exportium? Around Greyside Park?"

"Ah!" she looks up and past Derric, and behind him, in the doorway to the hall, is a dishevelled looking woman in all black.

The new woman, presumably Bayab, looks like she came straight from performing as a charwoman in a Charles Dickens play. Her hair is flowing and tangled, and her clothes are covered in dust and feathers. The only things shiny about her are her eyes, and they watch Derric with a glassy interest from beneath a brow smudged with dirt or soot.

"Your emergency bottle, dear…" says Mrs Morrigan to Derric, fussing a little. "Do give the bottle to Master Hawkins here, will you, Bayab?" And the other woman steps into the room, proffering a box that looks like it came from a pharmacy.

"… Are you sure it’s mine? I’m pretty sure my meds would be from my doctor."" I try to tactfully protest, standing in a manner that could be interpreted as either preparing to receive the item or to signify my departure. Then, using my watch as an excuse, I turn away from the offered box, putting the mysterious timepiece back in my pocket and doing my best to passively avoid old Mrs Morrigan’s unusual offer.

16.

"Very wise to be cautious, dear," the old woman smiles, but not happily. Briefly, she makes a shooing gesture toward Bayab, who moves to place the box on a bookcase before tidying the lounge part of the room with a ragged-looking feather duster. "Do check if you can find your prescription? You must look after yourself, Master Hawkins. You are looking decidedly grey."

I smile softly in relief, giving a respectful nod. “Of course! Some days, I do feel a little grey, heh.” I straighten up and prepare to stride for the door, making sure to look her in the eye and fixing my best polite expression. “Thank you, Mrs Morrigan. I’ll uh, see you around?” Then I move to escape before something else happens.

There is no effort to stop Derric, just a murmured "Farewell, Master Hawkins. Do be careful, dear…" and the watchful eyes of the strange cleaning woman on his back as he leaves to cross the cul-de-sac back to number 17.

17.

Chapter 5: In which we Take our Medicine

I walk out, feeling a bit lighter in my step, feeling accomplished. I helped out an elderly neighbour and… Well, I feel like I've done my good deed for the day.

My thoughts wander a little as I remember Mrs Morrigan’s eccentric behaviour, and I ponder talking to my doctor. Had I really been prescribed medicine recently? Is that why I have been overthinking things? Forgetting things? Going inside, I force myself to focus and mentally go over my to-do list for the evening, making sure to close and lock my front door.

These vague worries circle in Derric's mind as he goes through the motions of the evening: reheating his final ready-made dinner, staring blankly at some awful horse-themed sitcom, trudging upstairs to get ready for bed.

My brushstrokes slow as I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why… I have an instinct that something is just… peculiar. I stare at my reflection, scrutinizing it and examining the mirror for blemishes. Eventually, the mintiness of my toothpaste spurs me to finish brushing and rinse, glancing at the mirror again briefly before switching off the light on the way out of the tiny bathroom- but freezing in the doorway. I slowly turn the light back on and turn to check the cabinet for my… medicine.

The door swings open slowly, and there, in the middle of the middle shelf, sits a small cardboard box with a pharmacy label on it which is clearly legible as it sits there. The prescribing doctor appears to be a Doctor Meerk, and it has been made up for "D Hawkins: Vislapan - ONE (1) tablet to be taken DAILY with water".

I pause at first sight of the obvious hospital bottle. Slowly I reach and pick it up, reading the label, trying to remember the last time I took one. What was it even prescribed for…? I try to picture Doctor Meerk, but my tired brain feels foggy. Well, at least it doesn’t look like there's an expiration. I open the bottle and shake one capsule out in my palm, setting it on the counter, pouring a couple ounces of water in the sink cup and gulping the pill down as directed.

The tiny gel capsule is a strange greenish-blue, and it barely tastes like anything as Derric washes it down. His reflection in the cabinet gazes directly at him once more, daring the pill to have changed anything. Instead, all that happens is that the edges of Derric's vision blur for a moment, a minor passing of vertigo.

18.

I blink and shake my head slightly as I turn again to leave, shutting off the light once more and making my way to bed. I slide my hand lightly along the wall, partly for balance as the slight dizziness fades.

As soon as Derric sits on his bed, a series of loud clacking sounds come out of the darkness; A mechanical noise, like metal gears, coming in spurts that reverberate through the room. The shadows of the bedroom furniture lurch and move, dancing to reorganise themselves like they are scenery in a play.

I freeze! My whole body tenses in surprise, and I grip the covers as I try to figure out what the hell is going on. I pick my feet off the floor, crawling further onto my bed, away from the inexplicable events transpiring before me, deeply disconcerted.

The bed rocks slightly, and the shadows of bedposts shoot up toward the ceiling, where a covering of cloth appears to now be draped. This distraction apparently gives the old Venetian blinds enough time to fall into long pleated curtains that billow in semi-translucent gusts from the window.

”Aaaahhh!” It takes a moment to work out that this is the sound my mouth is making, butI lack any other reaction. This has to be a dream! But… I can’t remember falling asleep! Unable to summon my body to move, I half-lay in a crouch of shock, staring at my room transforming around me.

As the furniture stops moving, Derric's senses begin to shift focus. From outside, there comes the sounds of people talking and laughing, and chased by the scent of baking, spiced with something tangy and familiar. But before it becomes too distressing, what sounds like a guitar begins playing a jaunty ballad and a low cheer rises from what must be a crowd below the window.

This has to be a dream! I have to be dreaming! There is no other explanation. There is no other sane reason. Suddenly, even though I’m lying on top of the covers, I grab my blanket and pull it over my head, curling into the reassuring darkness. I force myself to take deep, slow breaths to slow my racing heart. I just need to relax and drift off to sleep. Fall asleep… in the dream… of me being in bed… No! I squash that thought.

Very clearly, cutting through all other senses, there is a loud knocking on a door below, followed by a long pause. Then a new swift set of slightly louder banging gets interrupted by what could be a voice and the clacking of locks. It sounds as though someone is opening the front door.

19.

I feel the fear grip me tighter. The safety of my blanket where I thought I might ride out this insanity is no security from an intruder. I crawl out from under it with tremendous loathing, crouching and creeping to my bedroom door. I look about me urgently, grasping at anything I could use as a weapon, peering apprehensively out of a crack in the door…

Creeping forward, Derric peers down between the railings. A figure at the open front doorway is wearing a patchwork suit and holding what appears to be an old-fashioned lantern. They stand with their back to Derric and seem to be talking to someone outside. The angle makes the visitor's face impossible to see, but Derric can see that they are wearing some kind of ruffled skirt that shimmers with twisting oil-slick colours in the dim light.

I squint, staring out into what should have been my modest hallway. I had to be dreaming… Either a dream or some other kind of hallucination. Despite everything besetting me right now, I take my right hand and pinch the skin on my left arm as hard as I can. I purse my lips tight and exhale through my nose to avoid crying out. The pain is sharp and vivid, so I guess this isn’t a dream…

“… not returned yet… We will, of course, notify you as soon as…” The man at the door has a stilted, unnatural tone to his voice but is speaking extremely deferentially. He also appears to be getting interrupted rather frequently, though no second voice can be heard. “Of course, Your Endlessness… As soon as we… Thank you, O Fathomless…”

I keep still and strain to gather anything I can. It sounds like some kind of austere religious title being used, and I assume the "not returned yet" and "notify you as soon as" must involve me in some way. I mean, it's my house! But then… Where am I if I'm not "returned"? For that matter, when am I? What the hell is going on?! I look around to see more of the surroundings outside of what at least used to be my bedroom.

As the shadowy man continues to make soothing murmurs and placations to whomever is at the door, Derric’s eyes light upon the clawed hall table. It is an exact replica of the one beside his own front door. Even the change bowl sits on it, though this one is filled with what appear to be coloured glass marbles instead of coins. Stepping forward to the railing, Derric peeks further into what can only be described as his own entrance hall but larger. Even his coat-rack stands, bereft of coats, by a larger wrought iron mirror hanging exactly where it should be. As he stares, however, Derric begins to register the sound of movement, and a door closes.

20.

I flinch and immediately back away from the rail, flattening myself as quickly and quietly as possible against the wall behind me, and looking around for which door that was.

The front door is now closed, but another doorway close to the top of the stairs has opened. A figure steps out onto the dark landing and calls out in a strangely familiar voice: “Thank you, Zihnandru. You may sleep now.” This new person walks down the staircase slowly, murmuring something in a vaguely worried tone. It isn’t until the light catches their face as they get near the hall that Derric realises that they have his face! Exactly as he saw it earlier this morning.

I had just inhaled to speak. If everything appeared to be my own domain… that would make me the master, dreaming or not! But just as I square my shoulders, preparing to command this person to depart from my home, I am stopped by myself?! My jaw drops slack for a second as I try to process his… my… words. The voice… Something breaks in me. After everything over these last few days, and now witnessing this person rob me of my chance to take a stand… I won't..! I can't..! My jaw clenches, and I rush this imposter! Flinging myself at him with careless abandon mixed with pent-up fear surging and exploding forth. Only seeking at this moment to reduce and negate him in an instinctual outburst that I couldn't rationalise if I'd tried!

The figure half turns as Derric dives down the staircase towards them but they start to seem blurry and indistinct. There is the feeling of grabbing at someone and falling with them… a hand clenching around his wrist… a surprised “Master Hawkins?!” in his own voice… Then, quite abruptly, Derric finds himself clutching his pillow and sitting on the floor beside his bed, the alarm clock blaring and showing 6:00am.

I start awake like I had been dozing, the feeling of gravity suddenly reasserting itself on me with a jolt bringing me instantly awake. My eyes are wide, my heart is racing, and I find that I have to catch my breath.

The bedroom is small again, the tangle of bedclothes around Derric's lower half making it clear he has fallen from the mattress to the floor. But, while the awareness of the situation settles around him, a newfound understanding tingles in the back of his mind; fiery words glow there, written in a flowing script.

A certainty slowly dawns on Derric as the light pushes its way between the dusty blinds: Someone has taken something from him, and tried to make him forget he had ever had it.

21.

Chapter 6: In which a little Light Reading is Necessary

Derric sits in his armchair, sipping his morning coffee and staring blankly into the middle distance, eyes unfocused on the white medicine bottle in the middle of the coffee table in front of him. The day is still; only the distant sound of traffic and the chatter of birds interrupt the silence.

The dream plays over and over in my mind, a kaleidoscope of confusing emotions that make me feel detached from the day. Sort of… numbed. I don’t know how long I have been sitting here, but finally, something stirs me to act. This… dream..? Vision..? Whatever it was, it occurred the night after I took those pills, so they must be related somehow. Grasping the bottle, I pick up the phone receiver to check the pharmacy's number to call. I'm still unsure what I'll ask, but I will have to start somewhere…

The pill bottle lists the pharmacy where the prescription was made up, with an address not too far away from here and an accompanying contact number. As Derric remembers from last night, it does mention the prescribing doctor, the mysterious "Doctor Meerk", but doesn’t give any contact details for them specifically.

I frown. This makes it much more challenging to get a simple answer. I furrowed my brow; this was highly unusual. One more concerning fact in the last two or three days. Well, I would have to try to look up “Doctor Meerk” somehow, or perhaps look at my bank records to find a payment mentioning them. I sigh. Why was all this so hard? What the hell was going on?

Derric picks up the small diary beside the landline phone and flicks through the pages looking for anything relevant. There are a handful of receipts for fuel wedged in as a bookmark, a subtle reminder to put in a claim for them. Very few entries aren't times of delivery shifts, interspersed with the scribbled addresses of special deliveries.

Flipping back a few pages, Derric spies an entry he apparently wrote two weeks ago: "Consult Meerk 7:20". Beside the note, little arrows have been drawn. They lead in a long line that runs around the border of the page and off the edge. A few moments of frustration follow, trying to find the rest of the arrows, and then they turn up again. Surprisingly, on this week's page. It comes up from the lower corner and circles the letters of some of the days: Sⓤnday… Saⓣurday… Fⓡiday… Ⓣhursday… Wedneⓢday… But then it ends, pointing at a note on today's date: "Under Defender".

22.

My face screws up in concentrating bewilderment. Okay, so apparently, I did meet a Meerk not long ago… or at least talked to him? But I don’t I remember it! I follow the line arrows feverishly, turning pages and scribbling down the circled letters. This cryptic peculiarity… Why would I do this? Did I do this? Only someone with rampant paranoia would go to this much trouble! Finally, I read the letters together. What did it mean? And "Under Defender"? Do I need a synonym? "Below Protector"? I must have left myself more of a clue than this! I twist the whole journal around, examining the binding and the cover.

A quick search of the rest of this week shows that yesterday’s entries were also quite startling: "M.E. Meeting 10:30" and "Lunch with M". But, more alarmingly, both entries have been scratched out and replaced with strangely familiar but different handwriting: "Get me out of here!"

I shiver as I reflexively scan the room for intruders… Does this mean someone else got to my journal? Even if they didn't, it's just more questions and fewer answers. “Lunch with M” must be old Mrs Morrigan… but hadn't that happened spontaneously? There have to be more specific details here! Phone numbers! Addresses! Places! Something that actually makes sense! I trace over the new writing and look for more clues.

All the new messages were on yesterday's date, the request being scrawled hastily up and at a diagonal to the other writing instead of the neat notes that Derric recognises as his own. Strangely, the different handwriting looks almost printed on the page, without indentation like his own writing below. Hastily checking the other pages, Derric finds that this is the case for most of the script except during the last couple of weeks. Even his own handwriting has that glossy texture to it. However, as Derric looks deeper at the page, he notices indentations that don't match the printed ink.

Narrowing my eyes, I squint critically at the discrepancy between the writings: the differences in strokes, comparing the backs of the pages for indentations that a pen tip could make in the paper. I pull a lamp closer to me to make it easier, putting the pages directly under the light and tilting it to check different angles.

Trying to trace the indentations is slightly tedious and takes tremendous focus. But, determined to get some kind of meaning out of the randomness of the last few days, Derric manages to piece out a few words and phrases.

"Concordance of the Endless", "Seek Evanescent Timepiece", and "5 MC inc. transfer" all appear earlier this month. On the page for last week, Derric manages to find "Contact Masque" and "Handassa everywhere", followed by "Soul subdual". All these scraps are in Derric's handwriting, but getting here has now taken most of the morning.

23.

Timepiece… watch. I pull it out and examine it again. I don’t know what I’m looking for; none of those bizarre phrases means anything to me… except maybe "Handassa everywhere". Was that about the creepy antique shop? Were Handassas there the other day? Are they around there now? Are they around here? What ARE they? I rub my eyes. I need help. Somehow, I think old Mrs Morrigan knows. I take a deep breath, stretch, and rise. Carrying the journal, I walk around the room.

The memories of any time before two days ago seem even vaguer than last night's dream. The pocket watch appears to have decided to show the face hiding from rain behind an umbrella, though it seems not to be raining outside. Meanwhile, the pages of his notebook stare vacantly at Derric, filled with answers that don't quite correspond to his questions. The small lounge room feels both familiar and vaguely disquieting. It takes mere moments to circumnavigate and have Derric standing before his chair again, staring vacantly at his Atari 2600, game cartridge still in it.

I sigh and go to the window, journal in hand. I look toward old Mrs Morrigan’s, searching for signs of life or occupation. She knew about the medicines… Some entries in my journal appeared like the handwriting on the box she left here… She must know something that I’m missing! Unable to connect anything on my own, taking my questions to her seems like an increasingly good consideration.

Derric looks out the window in time to see the scuttling form of the cleaning woman hurrying out of his driveway. She clambers straight into a vehicle of extraordinary appearance. At first glance, it appears to be a horse-drawn wagon, but after a moment's pause, it reveals itself to be a rusty-looking Chevy Greenbrier bus painted with a stylised mural. It appears that Mrs Morrigan is behind the wheel, but she starts off before the poor woman has fully boarded, and Bayab is still pulling the door closed as it turns the corner out of sight.

I watch with rapt and somewhat expectant attention… is that Bayab?! I unconsciously brace against the window as I blink and rub my eyes at the shifting appearance of the carriage. Even after my mind resolves it into a van, I can't help but feel as if it were somehow more than just a trick of the eyes. I almost gasp at the swiftness with which it drives off as Bayab is stepping in. Anxious and fearful for her, I hold my breath until she is safely swept away. Trying to gather myself, I narrow my eyes and try to remember the mural. Maybe I can burn the vision into my shattered memory and hold onto something.

While focusing hard to conjure that image back into the empty street, a fluttering movement catches Derric's attention. Something that looks like paper has been tucked under the wipers on his van.

Wait… Something on my windshield? I stare at it for a moment before quickly looking around the near vicinity, determining it safe to step out and investigate before doing so.

Taking advantage of the sudden emptiness of the street, Derric slips out of his front door and hastens to his van. The paper under the windshield seems to be tied closed with a piece of rough woollen string and a single raven feather through the knot.

24.

Frowning at the unusual accoutrements, I pluck the paper from under the wiper and, glancing around once more, return swiftly to my apartment. Ensuring the door is shut securely, I walk to the small kitchen table, pulling out the feather and peering at it for a moment before pulling the string to read the paper.

The feather has the black oil-slick of a raven feather, and as Derric removes it from the binding, there is a sense of something further opening in his mind. The mental vault that unlocked last night cracks a little more. The paper unfolds, a scrap of note-paper with some scrawled cryptic hieroglyphs in what looks like actual ink. Though rather than be puzzled by their meaning, Derric hears Mrs Morrigan's voice in his head, tersely translating the symbols as they dance before him.

"They are coming. We need to flee. Masque has been taken. Beware Venus. Remember your goals. Get Rune back. Reclaim your power. Find the Tear of Nodens. Wake up."

My jaw drops. Though perhaps the specifics don’t mean much to me right now, the inexplicable experience is rapidly destroying my incredulity. The seriousness of the note solidifies the feeling that something strange is going on, and I don’t think I’m returning to work. Mrs Morrigan clearly knows more than we spoke about. She could tell me what's happening… If only she hadn't just driven away.

25.