I
Jefferson Eliot received the news of his father's death from a disinterested, businesslike voice on the other end of his office phone. His only responses were occasional acknowledgements when the voice on the phone seemed to require it. When the speaker paused briefly then said "I'm sorry for your loss", Jefferson's only thought was to doubt it: the caller, the attorney representing his father's estate, conveyed no interest in dialog beyond presenting the facts, and obviously had little experience of feigning sincerity when uttering phrases of condolence.
"Thank you, I will contact your office and let you know when I can be there." Jefferson hung up the phone and returned to his work. He was glad that the person conveying news of his father's death had not felt the need to prolong the conversation. His father was dead, and that was all the information he needed. A minute or so after returning to his work, he started to think with irritation of how much turmoil this would cause in his life.
He sat back in his chair and looked around his office, frowning at his glass, chromed steel, and faux wood surroundings. On the wall opposite his desk were examples of bland postmodern artwork that were supposed to give clients the impression that they were in the presence of a person with tastes that conformed to their own, but Jefferson saw nothing but the dull, uninspired work of artists who were out to make a quick buck from easy targets. He had always hated those paintings, but could not remove them as they were permanently fixed to the wall.
Getting up from his desk, he walked across the expensive marble floor to stand close to the ceiling to floor windows. He thrust his hands into his pockets and surveyed the Atlanta skyline surrounding him. He had lived in this city for more than half a decade now, but he didn't feel as though it was home, or that it ever would be. The concrete and glass monstrosities around him always reminded him of how different this city was from his native New England, and he thought of why he had come here in the first place.
As Jefferson entered his teens, his father had been pleased that he showed an interest in architecture, and hoped that he would follow in his footsteps and attend Miskatonic University. Jefferson had been drawn to the reputation of Xavier Winn, a professor at Miskatonic with an international reputation for being an expert in early American architecture. Unfortunately, Winn had left Mistatonic around the same time that Jefferson had first encountered his work, but he persuaded his father to allow him to attend the small, remote college on the outskirts of Atlanta where Winn had moved to after leaving his post at Miskatonic.
Winn had recognized a kindred spirit in Jefferson after a few post-lecture discussions, and within a month or so started to take him on many extracurricular excursions to study buildings in some of the older and more obscure communities of the South. He also encouraged Jefferson to question many of the assumptions and 'facts' that he would find in the standard texts used by other professors at the college.
After graduation, he had willingly taken employment with a large firm of architects in Atlanta as he did not want to lose his friendship with Winn. At first Jefferson had found the same enjoyment that he found in exploring the architecture of his home town, but as Winn aged and retired, and he saw the old buildings of the South razed to make way for new, faceless neighborhoods devoid of any character, he became more withdrawn and less likely to go looking for the old towns that Winn had previously introduced him to.
From a corporate perspective, he was viewed as a great asset to his employer, as he managed to consistently provide highly original designs for clients who marveled at his unconventional and elaborate drawings for their new homes. However, from the perspective of his own office, he was viewed as antisocial and unapproachable: he could easily go a week or more without uttering a single word to anyone else in the office.
Occasionally he would be asked to change certain aspects of his architectural designs as they were deemed too confusing and difficult to build, even for the progressive firm that he worked for. He would note with indifference the confused looks on people's faces after his designs were reviewed by his peers, but it did not concern him - he simply moved on to the next job that was given to him.
At times he would allow himself to wonder why he stayed here, and frown as he realized how long he had remained with a company that had done nothing but try to limit his imagination. Since the sudden death of Winn a year after he started at the company, he had become more and more withdrawn from the people in his office. All of them seemed to have gained employment from learning the bare minimum about architecture, and had no desire to do anything beyond rehashing the designs that could easily be found in the pages of magazines in any doctor or dentist's waiting room. He had looked for opportunities at other firms and in other cities, but would get the same polite declines in the mail after they had met him in person. The only benefit from being at this firm was that the rich, vulgar inhabitants of this city would pay to build his designs, no matter how extravagant they were. They were crude, unsophisticated people who swore and high-fived in delight when they saw Jefferson's extraordinary designs that builders dumped on the well-manicured lawns of their gated suburban communities.
The rest of the work day was like any other day. He allowed himself no more thought of his father until he had left the office, when he considered that he would have to travel to Arkham in person to deal with his father's affairs.
On the walk back to his apartment he thought about his father's house on the outskirts of Arkham, and assuming he would inherit it, realized that this was not something he could deal with in a day or two. He would have to go in tomorrow and tell his manager that he would need an extended time away from the office.
As usual, he arrived at the office an hour before anyone else drifted in, and immediately sent a brief email to his superior requesting time off. A few minutes after 10 am, his manager knocked at his door and entered.
Paul Hamby was not much older than Jefferson, but had risen quickly in the company by going to the right parties where he would sell his staid, cliched designs to the crude, drunken boors who were using their riches to buy the class and sophistication they were obviously lacking. As the regional manager, he was Jefferson's immediate superior, but he deliberately avoided any contact with him unless it was for something that he could find no good excuse to avoid.
"Jefferson, I got your email...is everything alright?" Hamby was doing his best to talk neutrally, but inside he was cursing at the fact that his best asset might not be available to make the firm money.
Not receiving an answer other than a slight puzzled look on Jefferson's face, Hamby held in his irritation and continued. "Do you know how much time you need off?"
"I don't know. My father died and I have to put his affairs in order. I don't know how long these things take."
He had been Jefferson's immediate superior at the office for two years now, and could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of conversations he had with Jefferson about anything that wasn't work-related. His immediate reaction to hearing this was to think of being sympathetic in the same way that he would to anyone else, but this was Jefferson Eliot, so he thought better of it. Clearing his throat nervously he continued: "I see. I'm sorry. Let me talk to HR and we'll work something out".
Jefferson returned his focus to work as if the conversation had come to a logical conclusion, not looking up at his manager again. He hoped that he would get a clear answer today and that he could work out the details of what he had to do quickly. Hamby, realizing that the conversation was over, quickly left to avoid having any further conversation with Jefferson.
The answer came much sooner than Jefferson expected: an email from HR arrived within the hour, asking for his acknowledgement of a temporary transfer request to the Arkham satellite office so that he could deal with his "family issues". He sat and digested this piece of information, and then typed his brief acknowledgement and hit send.
Later that evening Jefferson sat in his small apartment eating dinner while browsing his company's web site for information on what was to be his new office for the next couple of months. He hadn't previously been aware of how many offices they had along the Eastern Seaboard, and certainly wasn't aware of the office in Arkham. It appeared to be located in a small business park halfway between Arkham and Danvers. He had no recollection of it being there in his youth, and from the pictures on the website, it seemed to be a modern, characterless edifice, completely at odds with the architecture of Arkham and the surrounding area.
A small suitcase and two cardboard boxes sat near the door ready to be loaded into his car in the morning. Jefferson had paid the elderly landlord two months rent in advance with a promise to mail additional rent if he had not returned within those two months. He had hoped to retain the apartment in the old Queen Anne style house, as he would not be able to find something similar so easily; he hated the thought of living in one of the high rise condos that surrounded this beautiful old building. He hoped that this could be dealt with quickly, so planned to drive there non-stop.
Jefferson wished that there were not so many unknowns in all this upheaval, and went to bed unable to sleep. He started thinking about his upbringing in New England, and in particular of his family and the old house that they grew up in.
He remembered his childhood walks through the narrow streets of Arkham, where he grew up. At first he was limited in how far he could walk due to his young age, but as soon as his parents allowed him to walk beyond the end of their street he was always begging to be allowed to wander ever greater distances.
Those walks had at first been to explore the wonderful, old buildings that intrigued him, and sparked his interest in architecture, but as he got older they developed into extended visits to abandoned buildings, cemeteries and burial grounds in and around the town. These places held more and more interest for him, and sometimes he would spend all day in a single location.
As his eyes closed, Jefferson found himself wandering in one of the strange vistas that often haunted his dreams. The strange forms of buildings that did not exist in his waking hours passed him by as he wandered through the streets of cities much older than the town of his childhood.
Drifting into deeper sleep, he found himself on a walk that seemed to take paths he had followed before. After some time, he wandered into a building that looked familiar, where he could hear voices that were known to him. Things became less dreamlike and more focused when he stopped to listen to the words. He had encountered upon an argument between two men, one of whom was raising his voice, and another whose calm voice held his attention more strongly. This was a scene he had played out before: he realized that he was reliving the one occasion upon which he had met his paternal grandfather.
As a child he had come home one evening from exploring a particular tomb located in one of the town's oldest cemeteries that had drawn his interest, and heard raised voices in the kitchen. Not wanting to intrude, yet interested in why the argument was taking place, he crept quietly into the adjacent dining room.
"Of course the boy will be drawn to those places. It is his heritage, and thou knowest that." said a deep and resonant voice that was unknown to Jefferson.
"You have no right to be here! You were told before that you are not wanted here and that you will never have access to the child!" shouted his father, in a voice that trembled with both anger and fear.
"Thou wast not able to stop me entering his house tonight, and thou hast not the power to stop me any other night." replied the other voice.
The young Jefferson had let curiosity overwhelm him, and could not resist looking inside of the room to catch a glimpse of this stranger speaking in archaic phrases who had caused his father to be so angry and scared. His intention had been to simply look and then withdraw his face, but catching sight of the stranger, he found himself unable to take his eyes away from the man.
Dressed in what seemed to be the clothes of a hundred years prior to current times, was a powerfully built man in his sixties with black hair and thick black beard flecked with a few gray hairs. What prevented Jefferson from looking away from this man was the eyes – jet black pupils that seemed to be the source of a power that Jefferson felt drawn to – eyes that lacked a soul, but had something far more powerful and compelling in its place.
"Ah! This must be the child!"
"You keep away from him!" spat his father, who moved to a position between the man and Jefferson, pulling a meat cleaver from the knife rack on the counter next to Jefferson.
The stranger threw back his head and laughed a deep, hearty laugh, full of scorn and contempt. "Thou thinkest that will in any way deter me?"
"Dad, what is going on?"
"Quiet boy!"
"Thou wouldst deny the child access to his grandfather?"
"I would deny the child access to a creature like you! I have sent you money enough over the years to keep you away! What are you doing here? You want more? I can pay more! Just leave my family alone!"
The old man turned and clasped his hands behind his back. He walked slowly and deliberately to the other side of the kitchen and turned to face Jefferson and his father again. Jefferson's father guided his son as far as possible from the other man, and held him in place by clenching his right shoulder tightly. In his other hand he grasped the meat cleaver just as tightly.
"It has not gone unappreciated that thou hast deigned to support thine own father financially. Yet it is strange that thou hast chosen to do it as part of a contract to keep me from mine own."
Both men stared at each other from across the kitchen without a word being spoken until Jefferson's father averted his eyes from the man's gaze. Jefferson was digesting what he had just heard, and was still unable to take his eyes off the man who had just been identified as his grandfather: a person whom he had been told had walked out on the family when his father was very young.
"So be it!" said the old man. "I shall finding lodgings in the town, and we shall talk of this further on the morrow."
"I will have no part of what you intend!"
"Thou hast no choice" retorted the old man in a calm yet unresistingly assertive voice.
Jefferson's father recoiled as if physically struck, and dropped the cleaver that had been clenched tightly in his hand until now.
The old man walked towards Jefferson, ran his hand through his hair playfully, then turned and left through the back door without saying another word.
As soon as the old man had stepped completely out of sight, Jefferson's mother ran into the kitchen. She had obviously been waiting behind the door to the parlor, not being willing to enter the room while the old man was there. Quickly reaching her husband's side, she checked him over, continually asking if he was alright.
Nothing seemed to be physically wrong with Jefferson's father, but he stood motionless without uttering a word. Jefferson's mother turned to him and asked him to go immediately to bed, and when he refused on the basis of his concern for his father, she pleaded with him to go upstairs. Finally she shouted at him hysterically until he complied.
He had not tried to sleep upon reaching his room, and lay on the bed awake for some hours until he heard distant sounds of fire engines. Throwing open his window he could see the glow of a blazing inferno towards the downtown area, followed by the rushing lights and noises of emergency vehicles as they sped down the main road partly hidden by the trees behind the house.
Downstairs there was no one to be found, neither his mother nor his father. The stone tiles were cold on his feet, so he sat in the old rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen and waited until he fell asleep. As the sun was rising, his mother returned, looking tired and old beyond her years. She pulled up a small stool and sat next to him, taking his hand in hers.
Jefferson must have fallen asleep again, but when he awoke, his mother was gone. That was the last time he ever saw her.