He got home by the time the sun was falling into the mountains behind the little farmhouse. For over thirteen years, Wilson Higgsbury had lived in solitude at this "hovel" as Wallace Avery had called it. Two stories plus the attic with no porch to speak, the farmhouse had little farm to speak of. The scientist passed along the dirt path through the trees, the scent of pines soaking into his jacket and hair. His attention fell to the private property sign he'd passed on the way in. It sat off-balance in the soft ground, set even more off-balance by a particularly large cardinal landing on it and abruptly taking off upon realizing Wilson's attention was on it.

Wilson had a grand total of two signs on his property- the one that warded off trespassers and the one that read genius at work that hung on the ramshackle fence he'd only loosely maintained over the years. He passed the sign, keeping his eyes on the front door instead of drifting to the abandoned garden patch to his right or the meticulously kept headstone to his left. It never did any good, though. Every time Wilson passed through to his front door, he'd look at her. Victoria Justine Higgsbury- she'd be gone fourteen years tomorrow. There were few things Wilson cared to maintain around this place; his priorities were elsewhere but that was one he did not abandon as he aged. His stomach turned and he turned away from the gravestone. You can tell her later, Wilson thought, just... not now.

When he entered, he threw his jacket onto the banister as he tromped up the stairs. Wilson's steps were deceptively heavy for a man of his stature. The sound reverberated through the stairs into the unused bedrooms- one for guests, one for a ghost, and one for a scientist who fell asleep in his lab more than his own bed. Wilson stretched his arms above his head and hopped to grab the rope to the trap door to the attic. His laboratory. It had been his lab for as long as he could remember because it was nearly impossible to keep him out, so his mother had finally relented when he was ten. Once upon a time in his formative years she believed that if he couldn't reach the means to get into the attic he would stop trying to play up there. The ladder slid down and he pulled down to let it come the rest of the way.

When the door opened, he found himself greeted by the sound of his radio playing. With the antennae on top of the roof, the scientist could reach radio stations halfway across the state. Not too long ago, the solitude started to feel more like isolation and he craved some sort of distraction from the sound of birds and Bunsen burners. He'd found it in the Original Dixieland Jazz Band- the first recording of its kind to be played on the air. Wilson promised himself he'd go to New Orleans someday and see some city full of superstition and jazz; he never considered himself a fan of the arts until he'd heard Livery Stable Blues. The false whinny of a horse played through the air. Wilson paused.

Did I leave the radio on last night? He thought.

Wilson climbed the ladder and pulled the trapdoor shut behind him. The scientist stood in the burgeoning darkness and closed his eyes. One window was boarded up and the other was cracked though still provided a pretty view of the trees outside. The lab itself was clean and organized; it was a place devoted to science save for a few creature comforts- namely the red tufted chair sitting next to the radio. His work bench was covered in supplies and notes- all things to remember before he went to the patent office.

Three months of work. Gone.

"Right," he took in a sharp breath, "back to work."

The sun slipped from the sky and a crescent moon turned to take its place. Wilson Higgsbury had no real concept of time when he was working in his laboratory, only the cues of sunrise and sunset. He was on the edge of recreating the formula he had worked on before; now that he wasn't having to find it, recreation of it should have been easy. The mixture bubbled in the beaker as the scientist smiled to himself.

It was going so well this time! There were none of the telltale signs of instability in the compound. Wilson turned from the beaker briefly, retrieving a test tube and inspecting it in the lamp light. The sodium sulfate had integrated into the water sample perfectly, now all he had to do was carefully-

BOOM.

Wilson wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but his head cracked the floor hard enough that his teeth hurt. While the concussive force hadn't been enough to cause structural damage, it had been enough to send the man sprawling and knock the wind out of him. The room was spinning; Wilson felt like he was going to be sick.

He pulled himself to his feet, stumbling towards the work bench and using it as a brace so he could push the window open. The place needed some air. The music had long since gone off on the radio and all that filled the room was the sound of static and Wilson's pained breathing. Not choosing to linger there long, he sought out the comfort of one comfortable piece of furniture in the lab.

The scientist collapsed backwards into the chair, shoulders drooping and chest aching for reasons more than the minor explosion in the lab. "I just want something to work," he said to no one in particular. Of course to no one in particular- there was no one else for miles.

A voice came through the static on the radio. It was smooth and deep but the static garbled it badly enough that it sounded like something was talking with him, something with a voice like shadows.

"Say pal, looks like you're having some trouble."