The Silverchurch Mystery - Part 01
= Be John Egbert
You are now John Egbert. Which means that things aren't really going the way you had originally planned. That is to say: the once ridiculous notion that you would be able to pick up your entire life, travel cross-country for over two thousand miles, and settle down in a brand new town with no housing, no job, no friends or family, and very little money is starting to seem like a really shit idea.
What would your father say if he knew you were dragging your tattered suitcase through the muddy scum that passes for the main street in this ruddy little town? He'd probably give you a stern look of fatherly disapproval, followed by a firm pat on your shoulder as he guides you back whence you'd come, aboard the train once more, and all the way home.
Too bad the train you rode in on has already departed again. Also your dad is dead.
You pass a rowdy-looking pub, windows aglow with warmth, and debate for a second whether or not you should venture inside. It would be nice to dry off for a second, step out of the rain and shake the droplets from your hair like a sopping dog on the wooden floorboards. You don't have any money though, and you doubt whatever pub landlord that owns the place will let you stay long without buying at least drink.
That's how things worked in the big city anyways and besides, you already have a destination in mind, and you catch sight of it quickly as you near the very heart of the town.
"Silverchurch," You read the heading of the large message board aloud. "friendliest town around, home of the original silver church."
You peek around the board and see the titular church, nestled in the middle of a grassy park beyond, and frown. The church sucks. Its steeple is crooked, its doors and windows are barred with wooden planks, and the damn thing isn't even silver. Although, in the building's defense, the murky weather currently trying to dampen your mood might be working against whatever charisma earned the church its place as the town's namesake. Maybe, under the clear skies, the walls glisten like precious metal and choirs of angles greet all who step over the splintery threshold.
You doubt it, though. The place looks pretty crap.
Turning your attention back to the board, you scan it for advertisements. One of the many valuable lessons imparted on you by your late father was to always keep your priorities straight, and right now, in this new and unfamiliar place, the first thing you're going to need is a steady source of money.
To get money, you need a job.
You see several "Help Wanted" posters, most of which have been ripped to shreds by the elements or buried under a myriad of other crap. One poster, sporting an unpleasant drawing of some smug-looking prick, boasts that 'any event, social party, birthday party, office party, baby shower is going to suck major dong without some bodacious beats. If you want to pump up the jam, talk to Dave E. Strider, rhyme master extraordinaire, located near the east end between that one coffee shop and the creepy-ass library that no one goes into e-'
The rest of the advertisement is missing, having been torn away violently at some point in the past. You doubt you're be looking to acquire Mister Strider's services any time soon, at least not until you know enough people here to throw an actual party.
You scan the rest of the board, looking for something, anything that might fit your needs. Just when you think that you're screwed, you see it: a tiny note tucked away at the very bottom corner of the board. You struggle for a second, kneeling awkwardly so that you can read the note. It's horribly messy, nearly unintelligible, but you manage to get the gist of it.
'Assistant Wanted! $5 a week! No prior experience needed! See 413 Windyshade Ln!"
Whoever posted the notice was obviously short for space, as the small note barely fit the required information. Swiping the parchment from the board, you stuff it into your coat pocket and clamber upright again. The paper folds crisply, which is a good sign you suppose, since that means it probably wasn't posted too long ago.
You just hope that the job is still available.
Locating Windyshade Lane is easy, since there are only like six streets in the entire town of Silverchurch. Finding number four-thirteen, is a little bit more of a challenge. You eventually find it on your third pass up and down the street, squeezed like a nut in a vice between two drab-looking tenements. The first thing you notice, like most things you've seen in Silverchurch so far, is that four-thirteen looks as if it was picked up by some giant dog, chewed on for a bit, and then thrown away again, a gnarled-up mess.
You could go into detail describing how rundown the place looks, but you're much too tired for that, and you're already eagerly scampering up the front steps, impatient to finally get out of the rain. Your knuckles hover a few inches from the front door briefly, as you notice that the wooden surface has been stained a bright, cherry red. It seems to burn your eyes for a second, but you blink quickly and it passes soon after.
You knock.
Nothing happens for a several moments. You hold your breath and drum your fingers on the handle of your suitcase, the rain continues to settle in your hair, and the door glares at you, almost angrily. Then there is a furious barrage of footsteps, which cause you to jump, followed by a brief pause, then a series of rapid clicks.
You barely have time to register that the clicks must be about a dozen or so locks being unfastened before the door is flung wide open.
"Yeesss?" It's a woman, that much you recognize immediately. Her greeting stretches unnervingly, like taffy pulled too thin, and for not the first time in your life, you find yourself momentarily immobile at the sight of her.
She's… not unattractive, you've never been one to label someone like that, but she is certainly odd. Her limbs are rail-thin and spindly, despite her short stature, like that of a spider. Her hair, dark as coal, is cut short, with uneven scissors and her mouth- oh geez, her mouth. Lips as thin as paper, pulled back in a smile so wide it looks as if you might lose your footing and tumble between her teeth, which seem to be inhumanly numerous, like that of a shark's maw.
Her eyes are hidden behind red-tinted glass, perched atop a pointed nose, and instead of a dress or skirt, she's clothed in a pair of black trousers, matched in color by her loose cotton shirt. You find that your own eyes have strayed up and down her body several times, from her sharply curved eyebrows down to her bare feet, before she speaks again.
"Hello? You knocked, right?" Her shrill voice hits you like a blast of cold air and you shiver as you snap back to attention.
"Uh, yeah!" You respond louder than you intended, feeling slightly ashamed to have been staring. "I'm sorry, I'm new here. I found this on the board in the middle of town." You fish out the job listing and thrust it out proudly. "You live here, right? Are you the one looking for an assistant?"
She doesn't take the note from you or even acknowledge that you're offering it to her. You face burns uncomfortably, and you're starting to doubt if you're making a good impression or not.
"Who's asking?" She asks.
"John." You answer quickly. "John Egbert. I'm new-"
"New in town, yeah. You just said that." She interrupts, finishing your sentence and causing more heat to flush your face. "When did you get here?"
"Just under an hour ago." You're still holding the job note out like an idiot. "Are you the one that posted the message? What's your name?"
"You ask a lot of questions." She muses, tapping a long nail against a sharp chin. In all honesty, you've only asked a mere handful of questions thus far and so far she's neglected to answer most of them. "That's good, funny. Not many questioners out there nowadays, a lot of acceptors, but not many questioners. No sir. Hehe."
She chuckles, like she's thinking of a pleasant memory, and before you can respond awkwardly again, she reaches out, past your hand with the note, and seizes you by the lapel.
"Step into my office, Egbert." She purrs, and pulls you inside. The door closes with a hard snap and you can no longer hear the rain.
The inside of four-thirteen isn't much better than the outside, if a little more intriguing and bizarre. The narrow hallway beyond the door is cluttered with many boxes, filled to the brim with loose papers. The possible owner of the building/your possible new employer/your possible murderer tugs you down the hallway and to a fork in the corridor. You catch a glimpse of an equally cluttered living area and a set of rickety stairs before you're pulled in an opposite direction and through an entryway. A door had once separated the office from the hallway, but it's missing now, leaving only a set of bronze hinges mounted on the door frame. The stranger's office, easily recognizable for the large wooden desk, is also filed with many paper-filled boxes, but with the added addition of numerous, poorly built shelves.
You eyes dance over the room, and the aforementioned shelves, taking in the stranger's odd collection of trinkets and nik-naks. A large curved tusk, from some type of massive mammal, is pinned atop the far wall, a set of medieval swords rests by the door, a pair of golden boots is nestled amidst a row of books, and a half-eaten bowl of moldy cereal sits behind a glass case. Your new acquaintance releases you in the middle of the room and you spin lazily, taking it all in.
"What is all this stuff?" You ask, dimly aware that your companion is moving about the room. "Are you some kind of junk hoarder or something?"
"No, obviously, everything here holds immense value." You eye the cereal from a distance as she collects a cane from where it leans against her desk, turns a precise forty-five degrees, steps over a box of stethoscopes, and joins you in the middle of the room. "Don't touch anything, by the way, unless you want the pants to be cursed right off of you. Hehehe." She grasps the cane like a sword and prods you in the chest, causing you to wince. "You think you've got the chops for this job, Egbert?"
"I think so." You answer automatically, then add: "But er- maybe you should tell me what the job actually is, just to be sure."
"You're going to be my assistant, dummy."
"Well, yeah. I know that much, but what am I going to be assisting you in doing?" You're eyes sweep the room again. "Trash collecting?"
"No, idiot. I'm a private detective, of course! There's a fine line between the honest citizens of Silverchurch and the dastardly scum that prey off the innocent. I walk that line with a tight-walker's precision, keeping each side of the impasse under control, just the way they belong." She swipes her cane through the air and strikes you on the side of your leg, causing you to yelp in surprise. "Knee brace." She identifies quickly. "Iron and leather, custom-made, expensive, provides structural support to weakened joints. Were you a sickly child, Egbert?"
"Just John please, ma'am. And yeah." You admit. "When I was a kid I had chon-"
"Chondromalacia, yes, yes." She circles around you, still prodding with her cane. "I could tell from your stride that you had a brace and knew how to wear it. I suppose one could say that you're weak in the knees. HAHAHaha!" She cackles widely then, like she'd just tripped upon the funniest joke ever, of all time. She trails off quickly though. "Hehehe. Nothing gets past me, no sir."
"Uh-huh." You wonder if you can make it to the door before she has time to slice you up into little pieces of delicious, yet gullible, idiot for midnight snack or whatever her plan may be. You feel slightly uncomfortable at the thought of doing any kind of assisting for a lunatic. "You know, you still haven't told me your name yet. Some people would think that's rude."
"You think I care what some people think?" She steps close then, and you flinch as she perches on the tips of her toes, her face a mere inch away from your own. You can smell something strong and musky wafting off of her, count every freckle scattered across the bridge of her nose, and hear every short breath she takes, like the steady whistle of a steam engine. A long, thin finger travels up between the pair of you, and for a second you fear she's going to scratch you with a nail, but instead, she hooks the edge of her glasses and lifts them slightly, allowing you to see her eyes beneath. "If I were you, Egbert, I'd worry less about what some people thought, and more about what you-yourself thought, because in the end, you won't be left with anyone but yourself to judge."
You're entranced by the milky-white iris before you, lost in the unfocused pupils, horrified to discover that you've been behaving so irresponsibly in the presence of a lady for so long, let alone a blind one! You want to formulate an apology and offer some chivalrous courtesy, perhaps make her a cup of tea or help her climb the stairs. Instead you proclaim:
"What?"
Her glasses fall before her eyes again and you blink as you're faced once more by her red glare.
"We've got some work to do with you, oh yes indeed. Hehe." She chuckles, ignoring you once more. "That'll make sense to you one day. In the meantime, I only give my name to those I trust, keeps things much simpler. Let me walk you through the job requirements."
She tucks her cane under her arm and paces in front of you, like a drill sergeant. She strides the length of the room and back again, over and over, each time turning away from the wall or some other obstacle a split second before colliding with it. You have to resist calling out a warning as she narrowly dodges a comically large hookah.
"As my assistant, there are several responsibilities that you'll have to undertake." She begins. "Firstly, you're to shadow me on every case, record relevant data, and assist me in bringing unsavory wrongdoers to justice!" She swipes her cane through the air at the end of that sentence, creating a satisfying whoosh. "You'll deal with paperwork, handle our finances, and basically leave all the fun detective stuff to me. Also," She jabs a thumb over her shoulder towards a crowded shelf, where you see a large mason jar stuffed with dollar bills. "You'll be in charge of the collateral damage fund."
"What's the collateral damage fund?" You ask, curious.
"It's to pay for any..." She weighs her next word carefully. "Risks that may arise during the course of a case. I like to play things fast and loose, Egbert, and there's no time to waste compensating people for trivial things such as destruction of property and accidental kidnapping."
"Accidental kidnapping?"
"I have a spare room upstairs." She continues, as if she didn't hear you. "You can turn that into your office if you want, although I have to ask that you don't make any drastic changes to anything in this house. Everything is," She pauses to nudge a stray box a few inches to the left with her toes. "In it's proper place."
"I think I can manage that."And really, now that she's keeping her distance, you think that you can, at least for a little while. Now that you've heard what the job entails, you're starting to think that perhaps you can do the odd bit of paperwork for a while, until you get on your feet and find better employment, that is. "So what kind of crimes do you solve?"
"Oh nothing too major, some stolen property here or there, a missing person's case, the odd murder, and…" She pauses once more, you assume for dramatic effect. "The occasional anomaly. Hehe"
"What kind of anomaly?" You ask.
She folds her arms and regards you for a moment.
"Do you believe in magic, Egbert?" She questions eventually.
"Magic?" Your back straightens at that, and for the first time, you notice that your new friend is a good head shorter than you. "Well, of course I belive in magic! Who doesn't? In fact," Your suitcase, which has so far been sitting patiently by your side, gets flipped turn-aways and undressed on the hardwood floor. "I think I might have just the thing right here."
A little too eager to leave a good impression on this stranger, you fumble through your meager belongings as she picks at her nails and crooks her head towards you with feigned interest. Despite you being the only sighted individual in the room, you're quick to obscure your briefs under a bundle of other clothes as you retrieve your magician's kit from the bottom of your suitcase. Tired and flustered you may be, that's no excuse to not behave a gentleman.
"What the hell are you doing?" She asks, as you rise to your full height once more.
"Just bear with me for a second. Prepare to be amazed!" This is your realm now. For the first time since meeting this woman, you are the one holding all the cards, metaphorically and literally. "Pick a card, any card. Right here." You thrust a fanned selection of cards towards her and, after a moment of plain exaggeration, she reaches out and plucks one out of your hand.
"What am I supposed to do?" She asks, lip curving absurdly. "Look at it? Ha!"
"No! No. Just hold onto it for a second." You may be a little absent-minded sometimes, but you're not daft enough to forget her… condition so soon after finding it out. "Now, I want you to tear it in half and then tear it in half again. You know, into fours."
She does so quickly and you smile, happy that she's willing to participate.
"Alright!" You continue excitedly and stow away the rest of the cards. "Now give the pieces back to me. As you can tell, there's nothing else in my hands besides the torn up card pieces, right?"
"Mhmm." She hums in agreement as she runs her fingers over your palms. It's an innocent touch, one that you actually asked for yourself. However, that doesn't stop goosebumps from racing up your forearms from the point of contact.
"N-nothing up my sleeves?" You manage to keep your voice even.
"Nope." She checks.
"Alrighty then!" With a deafening slap, you press your palms together and execute a little sleight of hand. You quickly reach up, past your singular audience's cheek, and into her incredibly dry hair to the curve of her ear. One perfectly executed flourish later and you present her with her original card, whole once more and completely un-torn. You grin. "Is this the sort of magic you're talking about, milady?"
She takes the card.
"No." She answers with soul-crushing finality. "And this isn't my card at all. It's shorter width-wise and this corner here," She taps the edge of the card. "Is bent inwards from when you stashed it in your breast pocket. That was a cute show, Egbert, but if you're thinking of picking up this schlock as an actual profession, I'd suggest you work on your mendaciousness and, more than anything else, showmanship."
"Showmanship?" You're aghast. "I'm about as flamboyant as they come!"
"That's for sure. Hehe." She flicks the card away from her and drifts down to land back in your open suitcase. You frown down at it, a little upset that she'd caught on to the switch. She presses on despite your disappointment: "The magical aberrations that I investigate, Houdini, are less the type to leave your eyes rolling and more the type to leave you with no eyes whatsoever. To put it succinctly," She folds her arms, a smug grin contorting her mouth. "There are in fact things that go bump in the night, I just so happen to be the type of person that bumps back! Haha!"
"I see, interesting." You're pretty sure that's a quote from something, but you aren't entirely sure. Also, you aren't being all that attentive presently, too embarrassed to have been smacked down mid-trick and too busy hastening to stow away your magic kit once more. You search for a topic for which to shift the conversation. "Uh, the advertisement you posted said that you were offering five dollars per week. Is that going to be paid up front or bi-weekly, or cash or check, or… something else?"
She had begun to pace once more, but stops then and turns back towards you and, now that you notice, her aim is slightly off. She addresses a crooked painting of a pirate ship just over your shoulder.
"I'll be paying you three dollars a week." She states squarely.
"But the advertisement says five."
"No it doesn't."
"Yes it does!" You feel a pout coming on. Defiantly, you produce the note and hold it out for her again, without thinking: "See for yourself- or er, feel for yourself?... I'm going to be honest; I've never met a blind person before. Forgive me if I'm making a fool of myself."
"It's to be expected." She takes the note and runs her fingers lightly over the parchment for a few seconds, even bringing it up to her nose for a quick sniff. "Hmmmm." She hums.
"So." You shift nervously. "Five dollars…" You trail off as she shoves the paper into her mouth and swallows it after a few quick chews. "What the fuck?"
"The agreed upon amount is three dollars." She proclaims.
"But the note-"
"What note? I don't see a note?" She leans in close. "I'm blind remember? Hehehe."
You feel the air deflate from your lungs. In the past few minutes you've experienced a veritable smorgasbord of confusing emotions. You've felt melancholy, excited, confused, embarrassed, terrified, and a little aroused, all in the presence of this woman. What felt like a shaky job opportunity at best had transformed from impossible possibility, to slight chance, down to bad idea quicker than you could even process everything. You're ready to just say 'screw it' and step back into the rain before she speaks again, having sensed your misgivings.
"Alright, you wanna be a weenie about it? Four dollars, starting off, and I'm not going any higher until you prove that you're more than just a piece of walking talking hamburger meat with glasses." The analogy, no matter how nonsensical, brings a wide grin to her face. You wonder how she knew about your glasses too, but chalk it up to her dastardly detective expertise. "Let me show you to your office, Egbert."
Reaching out, she takes you by the coat again and pulls you from her office. Before you're whisked out the door again, you take one last look around the room, and spot for the first time a small diploma, framed and hung on the wall amidst a bunch of other crap behind the desk. Compared to the rest of the stuff in four-thirteen, it shines behind well-polished glass and you bet if you were to run your finger atop the wooden frame, it would come back completely dust-free.
It reads:
"University of Alternia
The Alternia Board of Regents,
by virtue of the authority vested in it by law and
on recommendation of the University Faculty does hereby confer on
Terezi Pyrope
who has satisfactorily completed the Studies prescribed therefor the degree of
Juris Doctor
with all Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining
Given at Lotaf, this thirteenth of April 1885"
So she is a lawyer too, or at least she was at some point in the past. Terezi Pyrope, you think, an interesting name for an interesting woman. You wonder what happened in the ten years between graduating and now that got her to where she is: a private detective instead of a lawyer in the small town of Silverchurch. Regardless, you feel more comfortable working for a private detective with a degree like that. It means that she knows what she's doing.
And as she leads you up the stairs with all the gumption and confidence of a lion tamer, you pray that you're right in that assumption.
So basically this is just an excuse for me to continue shipping precious child John Egbert with everyone and jump onto the JohnRezi train while it still has steam. Regardless, there are more chapters to come.
Thanks for reading.
- Mike