Post by Grimm on Feb 3, 2006 19:10:04 GMT -5
A two-story brick house sat alone, neglected on the coastal plain. The visitor walked with purpose up the tree-lined sandy lane. He stopped often, resting against the trunk of a wax myrtle or sitting on a mossy stump. It wasn’t that he was fatigued or sickly; he just seemed to be taking everything in, little by little. He squinted in the sunlight, wishing he hadn’t left his sunglasses in the jeep back by the gate, while surveying his surroundings as he moved closer to the front steps. What was once a majestic rose garden, now shriveled and choked with weeds, sat off to the right. The man ignored it. His pale blue eyes were fixed on the house looming in front of him. He closed them as a gust of wind whipped around the crumbling bricks. There was a hint of salt on the air. He had never seen this house before, but he knew it played a part in whatever the Brethren of the Coast had in store for him. Of course it did, they were the ones who sent him here. And, although later he couldn’t explain why the thought had come to him, it was the type of place where you could hide as many bodies as you wanted and no one would be the wiser.
The man, clad in faded jeans with threadbare knees, a plain gray thermal shirt, and worn black boots, brushed strands of red hair out of his face. Grimm stepped up to the front door. It hung loose on rusted hinges, faded by the sand and salt spray, stood with a gaping hole torn in the wood. He stuck his face through, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark and the dank and breathed in air that had hung heavy for decades. A slight grin crossed his face for the first time in weeks.
“Heeere’s Johnny!”
Phinehas pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. The door creaked as it swung back and forth, which it continued to do even as Grimm moved on farther into the house. Despite being the middle of the day the house stood dark with only a few spots of light streaming through gaps in the frame. He didn’t bother looking for a light switch and he didn’t have any means to light the half-melted candles that sat over much of the house. Wax long dried ran down mantles, spilled over candelabras, splattered the hardwood floor. Grimm’s eyes adjusted enough to pick his way among the ghostly sheet-covered furniture and the loose boards and litter that lay strewn throughout. He could tell, even through the mildewed wallpaper, that this was once a majestic home. A place he would have been proud to call home. He still hadn’t come across anything that explained what he was doing here when he should have been preparing for the biggest match of his short PCW career, but curiosity had gotten the best of him. His eyes narrowed as he walked into what appeared to have once been a library. Books still sat decaying on shelves lining the walls. Grimm suddenly felt uneasy as if a shadow had passed over the house. He wanted to leave, run the mile back to his jeep and head to South Carolina, where he could leave all this nonsense behind. He knew he couldn’t, though. There was something he had to do first. He checked the walls and furniture and scanned the floors. Where was it…
There, hanging alone on a far wall, was a picture frame. Faded with age and rot and covered in a spider web of broken glass, a group of sinister faces glared back at him. Grimm ran his fingers over the frame before tearing the backing off. He looked at the photograph one more time before gently folding it up and placing it in a pocket. His work here was done. He stepped outside and took one more look at the dilapidated house before walking back down the lane. Shuffling his feet through the sand, covered by the shade of the trees, out of the past and into the present…where there were still bodies to break and spirits to crush. Where a title was on the line, a title that he had no choice but to pry from the shattered fingers of Loki as he became the new PCW International champion.
Phinehas Grimm knew what he had to do.
The man, clad in faded jeans with threadbare knees, a plain gray thermal shirt, and worn black boots, brushed strands of red hair out of his face. Grimm stepped up to the front door. It hung loose on rusted hinges, faded by the sand and salt spray, stood with a gaping hole torn in the wood. He stuck his face through, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark and the dank and breathed in air that had hung heavy for decades. A slight grin crossed his face for the first time in weeks.
“Heeere’s Johnny!”
Phinehas pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. The door creaked as it swung back and forth, which it continued to do even as Grimm moved on farther into the house. Despite being the middle of the day the house stood dark with only a few spots of light streaming through gaps in the frame. He didn’t bother looking for a light switch and he didn’t have any means to light the half-melted candles that sat over much of the house. Wax long dried ran down mantles, spilled over candelabras, splattered the hardwood floor. Grimm’s eyes adjusted enough to pick his way among the ghostly sheet-covered furniture and the loose boards and litter that lay strewn throughout. He could tell, even through the mildewed wallpaper, that this was once a majestic home. A place he would have been proud to call home. He still hadn’t come across anything that explained what he was doing here when he should have been preparing for the biggest match of his short PCW career, but curiosity had gotten the best of him. His eyes narrowed as he walked into what appeared to have once been a library. Books still sat decaying on shelves lining the walls. Grimm suddenly felt uneasy as if a shadow had passed over the house. He wanted to leave, run the mile back to his jeep and head to South Carolina, where he could leave all this nonsense behind. He knew he couldn’t, though. There was something he had to do first. He checked the walls and furniture and scanned the floors. Where was it…
There, hanging alone on a far wall, was a picture frame. Faded with age and rot and covered in a spider web of broken glass, a group of sinister faces glared back at him. Grimm ran his fingers over the frame before tearing the backing off. He looked at the photograph one more time before gently folding it up and placing it in a pocket. His work here was done. He stepped outside and took one more look at the dilapidated house before walking back down the lane. Shuffling his feet through the sand, covered by the shade of the trees, out of the past and into the present…where there were still bodies to break and spirits to crush. Where a title was on the line, a title that he had no choice but to pry from the shattered fingers of Loki as he became the new PCW International champion.
Phinehas Grimm knew what he had to do.
