Building 32 “I’ll Be Home”

“It has been living with me. That was my wish, when it offered up something I didn't have. And though it seems absurd to imagine such a thing curled up around a fire, having to double back on itself simply to keep its head facing the fireplace, or to imagine it helping around the house with chores and yard work, seems to be a joke.

It is comical to think about, but that is only because you do not think of it like that. Of all the things that linger about on Wellington Street, none are as enigmatic or as powerful as the Jingle.

And it is a being that is one of the few things of light along this dark and terrible stretch of road where monsters walk and people die and no one, and I mean no one can ever really leave.

So such things seem silly.

But if things were always the way they always have been, then things would simply stay in the dark and in the pain.

And such a life, isn't really worth anything if that is what is offered.

I want for so little, and it is strange, but it is the only true friend I have.

The only one I need.

No matter how many people call me, or who shows up at my door, or how many health and wellness check-ins I get from the local police, I will understand and know what few people can.

That this thing-

This monster...

It is all I have ever wanted, even when I have wanted something else.”

I went and talked to the woman above as soon as I finished reading the note that was left for me. She sent it directly to my office, and I must admit that I have been getting an increasing number of such accounts coming my way. It wasn't always like this, and there was a time when The Wellington Street Historical Society took a hands off approach to matters like these.

The goal, as it has been explained to me, is to keep a record of what creatures may be, and to keep watch for signs of changes in their behavior. To be fair, that wasn't what I was told at first. At first I was told what is often told to outsiders and those whom aren't in the know. I was told that our function was merely to collect together artifacts significant to the strange history of this place.

But such white lies can only really appease someone for so long, and so eventually a fuller truth must be revealed. And so it was when I became the curator for the museum.

When I visited the woman she looked absolutely glowing with joy, and willingly offered for me to come inside...She looked happy, but she also looked unkempt, her vision glassy with dark circles under her eyes, and her hands shaking. As she spoke to me, she stumbled over her words, and I consistently had to remind her where we were in the conversation.

Various versions of “White Christmas” were playing from some place, though I could never determine where. As I moved about the house I saw bunches of unopened mail, neatly stacked and organized but obviously never really looked over. There were plates of cookies above the mantel, along with a glass of milk.

She claims that it would have it later when the milk has warmed a little.

As we spoke, I saw the thing lurking in the dark at the top of the stairs.

It was sitting there, staring at me, though its eyes were hidden behind its long black hair.

I asked her what had caused her to make such a wish six months ago, though I had spoke with some of her neighbors just in case I caught her in a lie. She told the truth though, talking to me at lengths about long nights alone since her divorce, how the death of their child had drawn a wedge between them.

I couldn't help it.

I talked about my dad.

I never really gave it a lot of thought over the years, but the fact remains that the death of my mom in many ways gave the appearances that we were closer than before. And there was truth to that, but there were also parts of him that became locked off. My dad became more serious, our conversations lacking the playful manner I was used to when my mom was alive.

When my mom died, some of my dad died too, and I suspect that is the same way for the woman's partner. Part of me believed that this may upset the thing at the top of the stairs, but it wasn't like that. Instead it remained silent, eventually relieving itself from its crouched position, its head settled at the top of the stairs while its body was tucked away further down the hall. I could feel it watching me the entire time, waiting for it to say something awful or to make me some sort of offer of something I wasn't ready to face.

But it remained still, even when I got up and left.

I don't think I helped her, anymore than I was able to help me.

But that is the way of some things.

There were photos all around the home, but only of the child. Any information about their partner was left vague, and it seems that the only things in the house that seemed to be handled with any regularity were the pictures, which seemed to have been spared from the daily cleaning.

As I left, I noted that there was condensation on the windows, which still had the plastic wrap my dad always puts up in preparation for winter. As I left, I placed my hand against the window.

It was freezing.

I have begun to look into our unique situation, but so far nothing has born fruit. Besides my mom and I, none of us share any common heritage, nor do we seem to have similar genetic predispositions to insomnia and night terrors. All that seems to unite us is our connection to Wellington Street, save for you of course.

There is something scratching at the back of my mind that I am simply unable to locate, some reality or fact that I know I am overlooking.

I will find it out. I have to.

Since the officer spoke to me, I have yet to hear back from her. And the student has not been any better, and we have had a wellness check sent her way after the third day of her missing work without explanation.

I have to figure out what is happening.

I don't think my medicine is doing what it is supposed to anymore.