Page 9 - World of Darkness

“Fenway” wasn’t wearing the suit. Instead he was dressed in rumpled blue jeans and a faded button-
down shirt. He looked like someone’s out-of-work uncle. I glared at him for a minute, then said, “I’m waiting.”
He smirked. “You’ve got the job. It’s just not the job you thought it was.”
I unzipped my jacket and dropped the note to the floor. “Why do it, Mr. Mummer? Why pretend you’re
dead? Why lie to me about who you are? Why even put that ad in the paper? How many people have you
done this to?”
He walked across the room and leaned against the windowsill. “Dozens of people answered my ad,” he
said. “About half left the house after 15 minutes of waiting. Another quarter left before 30 minutes. But not
you. That showed me you had patience.” He gestured toward the black door. “And of the 39 people who
answered that advertisement, you were the only one who showed any interest in that door.” He shook his
head and chuckled. “My God, a black door in a bare room? And yet most of them just ignored it.”

*** THIS “MUMMER” ISN’T IN ANY OF MY FILES. RECORDS CHECK INDICATES IT IS HIS
REAL NAME. YET SOMEHOW HE’S STAYED UNDER MY RADAR UNTIL NOW, EVEN THOUGH
I MAKE DAMN SURE TO KNOW ALL THE PLAYERS IN THE AREA.
WHO WAS PROTECTING HIM? ***

He walked to the door and put a hand on the knob. “You see, most people are quite adept at closing their
eyes to even the most obvious things around them. They see only what they choose to see and block out
everything else. I knew you investigated my supposed death and found no record of it. So, I knew you’d be
intrigued enough to follow up on the notes I sent you. Would you like to see what’s behind the door now?”
I made fists to keep my hands from shaking.
He didn’t wait for an answer. The knob turned without a sound and the door opened smoothly. He
stepped through and I heard him say, “Pardon the chill air in this part of the house. It’s better for preservation.”
I followed him into a narrow room. It was dark, and then my eyes were blinded as he switched on a light.
“My life’s work,” he said. “Go ahead, take a look.” I crossed my arms against the cold and turned slowly to
take in the whole room. I wanted desperately to squeeze my eyes shut.
There were bookshelves on either side. The shelves sagged under the weight. Bundles of paper. Spiral
notebooks, three-ring binders, file folders. More of them piled on a small table. He walked to the far end of the
room and turned to look at me. I can’t describe the look on his face. Something like pride mixed with
nervousness and relief.
I picked up a notebook. It was filled with writing, neat, block lettering in black ink. The meticulous
paragraphs were in sections of some sort, each separated with a title and date. “THE MANIKIN IN THE
CLOSET,” “THE WHISPERS IN THE ALLEY,” “GRANDPA’S FAVORITE,” “THE LEG.” I started to read, but when
I got to the part about the tank of eels I had to stop.
“What — what are these?” I asked. I thought I knew, but my ears were ringing and I had to stall.
“True stories,” he answered softly. “True stories about the world. I’ve been collecting them all my life.
Some are traded, but mostly I interviewed the witnesses myself or saw them happen.”
“These things can’t be true,” I said, and even as the words left my mouth I could smell the urine in Clever
Tim’s cell.
“The world’s not what we think it is,” he said. “It’s not the way they tell us. What it all means, I don’t know.
I’m just a collector of stories. A recorder. A reporter. But I can’t do it for much longer. Someone else needs to
take over, to pick up the trail. You’re that someone.” He was talking fast now, spit flying from his mouth. “I can
tell you where to look, who to talk to. There are so many secrets—”
Without meaning to, I glanced down at the table where I’d left the notebook open.
There is a warehouse on Front Street where certain surgical procedures are performed…
“No!” I shouted, cutting off his enthusiasm. “God damn you, no! I won’t be a part of this!”
“But—”
“You’re insane! Do you think I want to end up like you? Living alone in a rundown house with only
fantasies and fiction for company?”
“This is not fiction,” he said coldly. “You’ve seen things.”
“You son of a bitch!” My shouting seemed to make him shrink. “Do you realize I lost my job yesterday
because I told my boss I wouldn’t go see the company shrink? I can’t sleep for more than three hours at a time
without waking up screaming!”

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Chapter 2- ATTRIBUTES