Long time ago, an organization was founded. Named Volunteer Fire Department, this organization always had the purpose to keep the world safe from villainy. But something happened. A schism, which divided V.F.D. into two groups, people that still wanted to keep the world safe from villainy and people that… well, were the villains.
My grandparents and my parents were volunteers of this organization, all of them from the "good side". When I was young, my parents died — I was so young that I don't even recall of them at all —, so a distant relative started to take care of me. He was a third cousin four times removed. His name was Lemony Snicket.
I've always considered him as a father to me, but I've always felt that he never considered me as his son. He was always leaving me in the care of others volunteers, because he had to fulfill a mission or make a research about the Baudelaires.
When I was fourteen — I'm fifteen now —, we finally moved from his apartment to a headquarter of V.F.D. that was located on the Mortmain Mountains. It was great to live with him, despite his absence. I learned a lot of things with the other volunteers. I learned to play piano, I learned how to speak German, I read good books and poems, and I was always using the typewriter. I was always typing something to the other volunteers, because I type faster. Even in the very few occasions Lemony was around, it was marvelous. We liked to sit all day in the library, we read our favorite books and quotes to each other and he taught me everything he knew and told me all of his stories.
But, unfortunately, as all the good things in the world, it ended. And it ended when the woman with hair but no beard and the man with beard but no hair arrived. They burned the headquarter down gradually. First, they burned down the kitchen. Lemony and I were having lunch when the fire began. So, I ran to the refrigerator, obviously to make the Verbal Fridge Dialogue. I was not paying much attention in what the others volunteers were doing, but when I heard the sound of breaking glass, I looked to the window. I'm not sure, but I think my guardian had thrown the sugar bowl against it, the window broke and the sugar bowl had fallen on the Stricken Stream. Despite the awkwardness of this moment, I had no time to waste thinking about it. I had to get out of there, quickly.
The headquarter was a chaos. All the volunteers were running for their lives. I had no other choice, had I? Every volunteer himself — or herself — knew a different secret passage to go out of there in case of an emergency.
My secret passage was a trapdoor that takes you right to the desert. I entered, but it was so dark I was afraid to proceed for some moments. Even so, in only a few seconds I found the courage I needed.
For a long time — maybe an hour or so —, it was just an immense staircase, that was taking me down the mountain. When it ended, I walked blindly by a huge corridor. I was terrified, of course, but what else could I do?
The corridor had some curves in which I was always going into the wall, but I did not desist. Then, when I was feeling tired and thirsty, I finally arrived to the end of it. There was nowhere to go, so I knew that was the end. I started trying to raise the trapdoor that was supposed to be above. The first attempt was useless, but in the second I opened the trapdoor.
The trapdoor was in the middle of a hallway, which had a wooden floor and photos on the wall. I started to look at the photos, which were black-and-white, almost hypnotized by them. The first one was a picture of a wedding. A woman and a man — that I did not have the minimum idea about who they were — were smiling at the person who took the picture, and were, obviously, dressed like groom and bride. The second one was the photo of a clown, and the third one was the photo of a woman reading a book — she was the same woman of the first picture. All of the pictures were covered of dust, what made me believe that nobody lived in that house for a good time.
I went to the end of the hallway, where were located the stairs. I climbed them, and opened the first door I saw. It revealed the dirtiest bedroom I'd ever seen in my life. The curtains were closed, what made the bedroom dark. The bed wasn't tidy; the nightstand was covered on plates with rests of food; the wardrobe was open and empty, and there were a good number of pieces of paper that had been thrown over the floor;
"Never knows", I thought, "One of these papers could actually be important."
I leaned down and grabbed one of those papers. I was greatly surprised to see that the paper was a photo of Lemony and I, waiting to the bus that would take us to the Mortmain Mountains. I started looking all those papers, and they were all about me or Lemony. One was the diary of what Lemony used to do on Saturdays; another was a list of my favorite foods. Somebody — the person that lived on this house — was stalking me for over a year!
I've always prepared myself for a day when I'd be either the stalker or the person being stalked — those are risks you take for being volunteer on a secret organization — but even a life of preparation would avoid such surprise and fear.
I heard a noise. Somebody was in the house, downstairs. Goodness, what could I do? I cleaned the rest of food off a plate of the nightstand. If I met the person, I'd break the plate on his — or her — head. It wasn't the best plan I could think of, but the fear did not allow me to think of anything else.
I started going down the stairs the quietest way I could. I went up and down the hallway, but the stalker wasn't there. I heard another noise, coming from the room down the hallway. So I stood right in the side of the door, waiting for that person to come. When the door opened, my heart raced, but I was ready to do this. I was just about to break the plate on the head of the person when I saw.
The person was a girl about my age. I couldn't do this to her.
"Who are you?" I asked, instead of breaking the plate on her head. "What are you doing here? Why are you following me for all this time?"
The girl turned face to face to me, to answer.
"Oh, thank goodness you are fine, Gregory!" she said.
Why was she happy for my well-being?
"I'm asking now, but I'm not going to ask a third time: why are you stalking me?"
"I'm not stalking you!" she said. "I don't live in this house!"
"So how do you know my name? I don't even know you!"
She sight. "Why don't we start from the beginning?" she said. "Don't you want a cup of tea?"
The last thing I wanted at that very moment was having a cup of tea with an unknown person.
"Oh," she said. "What can I do for you to trust me?" she started thinking about it. "The world is quiet here" she said.
And then she stopped, stood in the doorway that, believed I, led to the kitchen. But I was frozen. I didn't know if I could trust her, but what choice did I have?
"Come on", she said. "I will make a great cup of tea for you."
Trustable or not, I followed her to kitchen, hoping that she could answer all the questions I had in my mind.