I watched the young Henry when he was at the funeral. Devastated, but he didn't know the full brunt of what is to come. Not the burden that his father passed to him, the one always passed on from father to son. Mine is the burden of solitude, the burden of never knowing familial ties. His, his is the burden of an untimely demise- whether it be to soon or much too late. He will either meet an unfortunate, painful end at a young age, or watch his family be tortured by death's slow rot, generation after generation.
But now, he's in my house, doing something his mother used to do as well as his father's duties. He sat on that stool, so accustomed to James' weary form, doting over notes that I often got lost in. He stood at the stove I thought he would be frozen in fear by, cooking, cleaning. There was always something for young Will Henry to do.
Don't get me wrong, I never asked for this, I hardly wanted it at first. Then, all at once, I felt an attachment, fully realized at the scene of Erasmus Gray's demise. Yes, that must be it. There, given the choice of loosing the boy to the monster that was most definitely going to kill the old man. I had to choose him, I had to make Erasmus' grip loosen on the young boy. Indispensable. You are indispensable to me, Will Henry. How many times had I said that before truly knowing the full meaning? No, not 'your services' but 'you'.
How foolish had I been! A boy of age twelve, his family stolen from him much to young, his place in the world beside me- the cold monstrumologist, Pellinore Warthrop. The one who, unlike his father, didn't mask the grimness of his task with smiles and combed hair. Ours is a grim task, Will Henry. We have to be aware at all times there are things lurking in the dark that no one believes in past the age of seven. We have to make sure that stays that way.
And so, we must venture into the dark abyss, hoping to come out strong as ever. You and I, Will Henry, together down to the depths of hell, where Satan himself wouldn't dare tread. We know the truth, there are monsters. They may not be under a child's bed or in their closet, but they are most definitely there. Cunning, intelligent, adaptive, and beastly. They lurk. We know. We share this burden. Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.