[smooth jazz music]

[spelleton]

It's always raining, here; not that he minds it. Water drowns out the noise of the city, pours off the gutters, gives him a moment of peace and respite.

Or it would, if the most prominent source of noise wasn't right here in his office.

"Mr van Neth, is there something I can help you with at all?" He looks over his glasses at the man currently making himself a nuisance on his desk.

Comments

[subconmodo]

Avery's mind runs blank.

That's a corpse. There's no doubt about it--a moving, speaking corpse. And Ekkehardt is talking to her. Or at least he thinks Ekkehardt is talking to her? He can't hardly hear it, or he hears it, but it filters in through one ear and out the other like grains of sand through a sieve.

He catches glimpses of glimmering light and wonders if he should interrupt the conversation to warn Ekkehardt about them. It could be something. It could be nothing.

He swallows, the threads of his skepticism slowly tangling and unraveling as he holds the umbrella with both hands, as though he could knock them away like he was holding a bat.

[spelleton]

The light gathers, here and there. Catching, like fish swarming to bait, birds flocking to scattered food. The way it moves in the darkness carries something wistful, strangely (artificially) nostalgic.

"--It will be done as you ask." Ekkehardt inclines his head; the woman smiles and closes her eyes, leaning back against the wall. He stands, finally, and glances over at Avery, and around the room, before stepping over the frames to get to the door.

(It's been propped open, not allowed to close fully. Ekkehardt had arranged that, too.)

"Come on," he says, beckoning to him. "Best not to linger. You might see things you don't like."

[subconmodo]

"Too late," Avery says, his voice cracking a little. This is almost too much to handle. Almost. Somehow, he manages to keep himself together. Not even he's sure how.

"What are you going to do? What the hell is going on here?" The questions are hissed for reasons even he's not sure of. Can the corpse woman even hear him? Is there a point in whispering?

[spelleton]

"She's a client." Said like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm fulfilling her request, even if it happens to be her last one." He snags Avery by the sleeve, insistently pulling him along back into the hall in the entirely likely possibility that he might have forgotten how to walk.

Things have changed; a not-insignificant amount of time has passed, for one. The sun has almost set, leaving only the faintest hint of light in the sky.

"And this house draws certain things to it, the way rain pulls debris to gather in gutters. It's a spot for finding lost things, especially ones that nobody else wants to be found. I usually check here, if all other avenues are exhausted, as my other client already did."

[subconmodo]

"You say that like it explains what's going on but it really, really doesn't," Avery says flatly, and lets out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes. "Allow me to enlighten you as to what I know right now: hauntings are real and I just saw a talking corpse. Anything beyond that and you're going to have to get a lot more specific, Mr. Gehring."

Although he has a feeling that he isn't about to get an explanation for some time. "But fine. Whatever. Just tell me what you need me to do."

[spelleton]

"I'm trying to keep my explanations short," Ekkehardt replies, with a shred of impatience creeping into his voice. "I can explain more later. Once we're out. Just follow me."

The darkened halls provide no challenge apart from those of nerves, at least at first. But as the last of the daylight slips away, flashes of mirrored light begin to shine from cracks and half-glimpsed rooms and decaying frames half-hanging off the walls.

They provide nothing so comforting as an ordinary reflection.

(Ekkehardt passes by a frame beginning to fill with what seems to be liquid mirror-light and it reflects, instead, the face of a stranger that's not him; but the same white hair, traces of the same smile remain. Sunlight, a strange countryside, more strangers dressed in clothing so unlike the stark reds and blacks he drapes himself in these days.

It's easy to get lost in mirrors, when they show you what you miss and what you desire.)

He switches his grip from Avery's sleeve to his wrist, continuing to tug him along.

[subconmodo]

Avery nearly stumbles at the tug, the movement just enough to distract him from a glimpse of woven sun within the mirrors that are not, but not enough to keep the image from taking root within his mind.

They're leaving he assumes (he hopes), and it doesn't take long for Avery to match Ekkehardt's pace, the only thing keeping him from rushing ahead being his unfamiliarity with the decrepit old house.

"I can hit whatever's in here with my umbrella, right?" he asks, voice quavering just a little bit.

It's easier to deal with all of this if violence is on the table.

[spelleton]

"You can try," comes the not-at-all comforting reply. He keeps hold of Avery's wrist as they enter the foyer - comfortingly still and dark and devoid of reflections.

The handle clicks as Ekkehardt tries the door, and then he simply kicks it open and almost stumbles out into fresh night air, pulling Avery along with him. Light and the sound of strange voices follow them out, briefly, before the door slams shut and leaves them both in silence.

(The house's empty windows are shining bright.)

Ekkehardt finally lets go of Avery's wrist, just to sink to the pavement and take a moment to recollect himself, breathing hard. Even in the scant light provided by a half-full moon, it's clear that he's ashen.