Chapter 14.
Coughing. Coughing hard, racking breaths make your chest hurt and your head pound. Your brain is full of static, your lungs don't work properly and you cough ... and cough ... and cough ... You can hear Jack somewhere, talking to someone. How they came here, you have no idea.
It's been a few days since you last tried to escape and you and Jack have started to come to a speaking arrangement. While Jack would ask you questions about various things, mainly about how to cook specific foods, you'd answer to the best of your ability while trying to remain as distant as possible.
When doing the asking questions stuff, though, Jack would often retreat somewhere and not appear for a few hours. You don't mind though, you take those quiet times to read another book or write your adventures on the computer.
How bad you wish you could have a quiet time right now. The static in your brain is pressing in, drowning out the entire world. You can't even hear Jack anymore, who has showed up at the door with knowing eyes and a smile, as he holds you while the coughing takes a crescendo, growing and making you feel like your breath is being shaken out of your body.
Just as quick as it started, it stops.
Jack's hands are rubbing circles onto your back, holding your hair out of your face as you dry heave from the quantity of coughing you have done. Nothing comes out though, since it is early morning and you didn't have breakfast yet. Jack's cool hand on your skin feels like heaven.
"[Name]?"
You nod to indicate you are listening and press your overheated skin into his hand, trying to cool yourself down.
"I need to go. I'll be gone for a while, but you'll have enough food for the time I'll be gone. Just nod if you understand what I'm saying."
Your nod makes him take his hand away but you grab it again and press it to your cheek, the cool texture of the glove helping you relax again.
"Y-yeah, I'll be alright. What was that though?"
He pulls his hand out of your grasp, coughing once before readjusting his hoodie.
"My boss." is all he says before standing and leaving, throwing a quick look and wave back at you.
Shrugging to yourself, you cuddle into the pillows and go back to sleep, dreaming of tall men and white faces.
When Jack had said he wasn't returning for a while, you assumed he had meant a few hours or maybe a day or two.
The first two days, you decided to clean the entire house. You literally went on a rampage with bleach, dusters, window cleaners, mops and rags. Apart from Jack's fridge and Jack's room (which you don't dare to enter and is locked anyways), the house is now spotless.
During this time, you stumbled upon all the books, notes and diaries you had noticed on your first day here. You have piled them in the study and decided to go through them later.
On the third day, Jack not having returned yet, you got a bit worried about his whereabouts. What if he won't come back? What if he died and you are stuck here now? You quickly discarded these thoughts, however, trying to keep yourself from panicking, and wrote more in the diary you are now keeping on your computer. At this point, it has become therapeutic and you don't want to stop writing anyways. Although this kind of pastime takes your mind off Jack, it doesn't work out quite right. Remembering the large pile of papers, books and diaries in the study you went to inspect it.
On the fourth day, you finally managed to organize the documents, papers and books into various piles. There is the "Burn it" pile, consisting mainly of books and other things so damaged by the weather and the decay the house has been in that they aren't readable anymore. There is the pile of normal books, books you are going to gladly return to the shelves once you have organized those alphabetically. There is the interesting pile, books and other things you want to give a read, including, but not restricted to, a book on human anatomy and on human illnesses. You aren't sure if the organs in the fridge are human, but to be honest with yourself, you strongly believe it.
And then there is the "Very interesting" pile. This consists mainly of papers, books and diaries all signed. You have found quite a few more of those laying around, some signed with "Nadia", some with "F.N" and the ones which caught your attention the most with "Felicity".
You vaguely remember Jack calling you something very similar on that day he had taken you away to this place. Even before, he had said something about someone he had lost, hadn't he?
Although you try your best to put these pesky thoughts out of your mind, you aren't able to. Curiosity as to why he hasn't killed you yet, why he is keeping you here, what this place is in the first place keeps you nervous and antsy.
So, hoping to find answers to some questions, you grab one of the diaries Nadia has left behind, and settle into the lounger in the garden. You have to clean out here eventually as well, maybe weed out the garden a little, it looks chaotic. You have chosen the earliest diary you could find, the pages slightly damp and some of them just outright moldy, but still readable enough.
"Dear Diary,
Father was quite angry today. I think something went wrong at the factory and I don't think he liked seeing me cry when I broke the plate. It's unfair though, I didn't do it on purpose, why was he so angry?
He said that maybe, had sister not been allergic, she would have been more of a help, that this wouldn't happen! It's not fair."
"Dear Diary,
Today is a good day. Father has finally let me help at the factory. He said that I can work with him because now we're sure the silver isn't bad for me. It's been a few days since he's let me help out, but we do need the money. It's almost my birthday too, so dad said we could go to the river then. I'm excited, I haven't been to the river in a while. It's very peaceful there."
"Dear Diary,
Father keeps looking at me weird, like something's wrong. He got a letter from sister, or, from sister's parents, and I think he's upset of what was in it. I also think he knows I stole the neighbor's cake, but he hasn't said anything."
You stare at the pages, frowning. Have these two lived here before, Nadia and her father? And if so, where are they now? Looking at the date, you notice that this has been dated not even 7 years ago. The cabin itself looks like it had been deserted for a few years, so maybe you can start from the end and work yourself forwards ... Your curiosity, you tell yourself, has nothing to do with jumping to the end of the story. After all, even if every story has a beginning , sometimes it is OK to start with the end.
You lay the diary to the side, sighing, then retrieve the most recent one from the neat stack next to the computer.
A quick glance tells you that the newest one had been not even 3 years ago, and is, by far, the book that is in best shape out of the many diaries. You still have another one, dated in the same year as the one you are currently holding, but decide to leave that one for later. A quick peek at the last page has you laughing already, a picture scribbled on the bottom of the page, depicting two kids, one of them with his, because it was definitely a male, hair hanging down while the girl stood on his back trying to get to a box of cookies. Although more like a sketch, this girl has quite a bit of talent in her drawings, you have to give her that.
A bad smell makes itself present as you move across the kitchen to head to the spot you now deem yours. The foul odor, as if something is rotting, turns your stomach to a point where you think you won't be able to muster an appetite for dinner. Dejectedly lying the diary on the couch for future reading, you make your way to the kitchen. The thought of food really makes you want to throw up. Carefully opening the fridge, you stick your nose into it and sniff. Nothing. Apart from a wrinkly dried up tomato, it smells fine. You proceed to smell inside the cupboards. Although the scent is stronger here than in the fridge, it is only due to something in the vicinity being rotten. You dread the only other place you could think off with rotten ... well, not food, is it?
As you carefully approach the smaller fridge, you gag, the smell definitely growing stronger the closer you get. You grab your courage and throw the door open. The smell, which had been encased with the fridges door is powerful enough to make you stumble back. You almost laugh at the image created by your mind, of healthy flowers turning black and dead at the presence of the smell. A few of the jars containing the organs you suspect as human have a greenish tinge to it, the liquid inside of it thicker than usual. Even though the jars are screwed shut, you still smell the putrid gases ... or maybe you are imagining it, as one of the lids is apparently unscrewed.
Making up your mind, you quickly grab a bag that Jack has left behind and start rounding up the jars that are rotten, screwing the lid of the open one shut and dumping them inside the bag. You move the bag outside and wait a few minutes before returning to the kitchen. The smell has severely diminished, though you can still smell it like a bad after taste. Deeming that you have gotten all the rotten organs out of there, the next question poses itself to you.
Now what?
You're not really sure that these are human, though Markus' words are running through your brain, how Roberts had been hollowed out, how his organs had been missing ... Huh, with what has happened lately, you have completely forgot Jack had killed one of your colleagues. Your indifference scares you a little.
But still, what to do? Should you dump the organs in the river? It would make sure that they would be gone and you wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. But, what if these are human after all? Should you bury them and pretend to hold a speech? Scoffing, you grab the bag and make your way to the river, the anklets softly chiming as the cloth has fallen off and the bells are free to ring.
When you arrive at the cliffs you close your nose with a washing pin you found lying in the garden and unscrew the jars.
Even with the pin the smell almost makes you throw up. You dump the contents over the side of the small cliff and into the river, the thick slimy substance in the jar trickling out before the organ itself falls over the edge with a "thwop" sound, as it unglues itself from the bottom of the jar.
You pretend to be able to see the organs floating rapidly down the stream, but it's more the thought that somehow you should pay respects or at least remember the things that now were surely gone.
"Farewell my friends", you mutter, "see you on the other side."