IV
They get there one hour later; at this point, Henry is already carrying Eleven in his arms, her small body unable to keep up with the grueling pace.
Eleven curiously watches the imposing manor that Henry had once, an eternity ago, called home. He takes note of the obvious question in her eyes, and again he gifts her a comforting smile.
"Are you scared, Eleven?" As she remains silent, he laughs under his breath. "It's alright, there's nothing to be afraid of."
It takes but a shake of his head for the door to burst open; the rusted hinges complain loudly at being treated with such violence after years of neglect.
Inside, Henry lays Eleven carefully on one of the living room couches, the moonlight flooding in through the windows and the now open door.
"Wait for me here, alright?" Eleven, always laconic, nods. "I'll return soon enough."
Posthaste—because he doubts the patience of an 8-year-old can last very long—Henry rushes through the stair's ramshackle steps. Without pausing to look around—after all, what could possibly be here for him to look at, other that the rotten memories of a life where he no longer belonged, not belonged for decades now, if ever?—he makes his way into his old room. There, with a causal movement of his hand he sends the washed-out carpet flying underneath the bed, laying bare the floor and that one particular board that had never quite fit; another flick of his hand, and it too snaps out and slams into a corner.
Maybe for sentimental reasons he chooses to do this last part the old-fashioned way: he kneels in front of the hole and begins searching. After a couple seconds he produces a linen bag.
He smiles. Once, the plan had been to steal and hide as much cash from his father and jewels from his mother as possible to make a run for it after the murders.
Who cares if it has taken him twenty years to get to this point?
He is certain that now, thanks to Eleven, all his plans are about to finally come to fruition.