Fantasy Haughton Hollow

[sspky]

laceanddoodles && sspky

* * *​

Haughton Hollow was quaint. Yes. That was about the only word Warren Wood could think of to adequately describe the coastal town. He’d taken the train from Portsmouth at noon and arrived a little after 4 PM, hungry and bothered. The afternoon was overcast and muggy-sick with humidity. He’d loosened his tie, taken up his heavy leather valise, and strolled from the station, down a steep hill, to his lodgings at the Gunport Inn.

He’d rented a simple room for five days, with the assurance that he could easily extend his stay if required. It had a single bed, a desk, and a narrow window overlooking the lane. It seems he’d be sharing a communal washroom with the other guests on the floor, which caused his stomach to churn in disgust.

After hanging his clothing away neatly in the wardrobe and assembling his Remington Rand on the desk with all the care a mother might her young, Warren Wood finally gave into his hunger and set out to explore the town.

The gregarious old woman at the front desk had excitedly described the local attractions to him and recommended a few decent spots to grab dinner. Her demeanor noticeably soured when he mentioned the name ‘Edith Downing’.

“I can’t imagine what you would want with her,” the innkeep huffed, “But she works over at Louise’s Kitchen*, over on Banks Street.”

He pressed her for directions, offered her an easy smile, and then departed for the cafe.

By the time he arrived, his stomach was growling, and he wasted no time finding a table near the door. From his spot, he could see directly into the kitchen through an open side door.

“I”ll take a coffee, ma’am,” Warren said to the waitress, “And a slice of apple pie.”

Once left alone, he settled in. At only 5’9”, Warren Wood was by no means a tall man. He had narrow shoulders, lean muscles, and head full of curly auburn hair, cut short but unruly all the same. There was a fineness about his facial features that he detested - the bow of his lips, the darkness in lashes - which led to an almost chronic sense of self-consciousness.

Lighting a cigarette, Warren leaned over his leather bound notebook and began to write, his gaze constantly snapping up towards any sign of movements from the kitchen beyond.

((OOC: I’ll change the cafe's name to whatever if you had something else in mind. ))

 

[laceanddoodles]

((No, it’s perfect.))

Edith spent most of her time in the kitchens at Louise’s. Louise herself was an old family friend, which was most of the reason why Edith landed there job at all. It was a good job, she reckoned, and even though her parents acted like it was a shameful thing that she was tucked away washing dishes instead of out on the floor, waitressing, it suited her. She didn’t particularly like being seen, nowadays. She didn’t like the whispers and lingering glances. And she really, truly, hated when the feeling of being looked at shifted into the feeling of being observed. Monitored.

Besides. She had her grief to reckon with. Grieving was meant to be a private affair— between you and God —and she meant to keep it that way. And so she kept her head down, nowadays, and she was learning to keep quiet.

Edith Downing was a pretty young lady, or at least she had been. Her looks had withered quite suddenly, given the events of the past many months. Nobody would quite call her a beauty. She had all the essential ingredients to make one: soft dark curls, big brown eyes with lashes that seemed to bow down under their own weight, pretty little rosebud lips, pale skin. It was just that she had grown so gaunt. That she looked so haunted and tired. Those big, pretty, eyes looked like the eyes of somebody who’d seen the devil, or something worse. That pale skin looked like crepe paper, translucent and fragile. And her hair only worsened the effect, making her look nearly dead— even at the tender age of twenty.

She kept busy with the dish washing. Edith easily spent up to eight hours on her feet every day, not because Louise asked it of her, but just because the kitchen seemed safe. The sun was setting when she finally hung up her apron and gathered her things, slipping out of the little kitchen to say goodnight to Lou— fully ignoring the young gentleman near the door.

 

[sspky]

‘[Michael] Downing. Male, aged [26].’

Woods wrote in clear, blockish print on the page,

‘Born in 1897 to [father] Downing and [mothers full maiden name].’

He clicked the tip of his pain against his second cup of now cool coffee.

‘Edith Downing. Female, aged 20. Born 1902.’

‘The Haughton Hollow incident. Night of January 3rd, 1922.’

Another tap-tap on the porcelain mug.

‘It would have been snowing.’

His pen hesitated on the page. He’d read the weather report for that night, and had spoken over the phone to the secretary at the local PD. She’d been a gossip, certainly, and had told him all about how police chief Teddy Gundry's patrol call had been nearly wrapped around an elm tree after skidding out on an unexpected patch of black ice.

‘There would have been --’ his writing stopped suddenly when a shadow crossed over the fluorescent white light that pooled out of the kitchen door.

It was her.

He snapped his notebook shut and tucked it away in the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, left two dollar bills on the table, and sped out after the woman.

 

[laceanddoodles]

She pulled a hat onto her head and buttoned up her coat as she stepped out onto the grey and dreary streets. The evening mist hung low and heavy in the air around her, and the world seemed like it was lying in wait, ready to spring back into motion at the slightest movement, but also content to sit and watch.

She did feel watched. Edith could feel eyes upon her from doorways and alleys, observing her movements and making sure she had indeed learned her lesson, that she would be a good, quiet, little girl. And then there was that little feeling in the back of her mind that someone was behind her, following her. She walked faster, not yet daring to glance over her shoulder, and pulling her coat tighter around her frail body.

Haughton was small, even by New England village standards. She liked Louise’s because it gave her a hiding place. But it was really the only hiding place she had. Her parents’ house gave her no more privacy than the Sanatorium at the top of the hill, and the streets were wide and cobbled. She felt far too exposed.

It was only when Edith was practically jogging and still could swear she was being followed that she glanced over her shoulder. Part of her fully expected that nobody at all would be there. That there was, in fact, a young gentleman, sent a jolt of surprise and fear through her, and before she knew it, her foot had caught on a loose cobblestone and she was falling.

 

[sspky]

Woods hadn’t meant to tail her for so long. In fact, he’d been about to call out and announced himself when the young woman's pace started to increase. He cursed himself for spooking a witness, though he was admittedly bewildered that she’d been so jumpy in the first place.

‘Institutionalized,’ he reminded himself, ‘She’s been in the nuthouse.’

“Wait, miss --” he started, when the girl suddenly turned, tripped, and began to fall. He didn’t try to stop her fall or catch her in any way. Not out of cruelty. In fact, had he been less awkward in general, he'd likely have done the gentlemanly thing and broken her fall in a sort of smooth, suave movement right out of a pulpy romance novel. But by the time the idea even flashed in his mind, it was far too late.

He trotted forward, his hands raised in what he hopes was a placating gesture and started again “Are you alright, miss? I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He reached one hand forward, then hesitated uncomfortably, unsure if it would be proper to offer her a hand up.

 

[laceanddoodles]

She took his hand, nervously pulling herself to her feet. Her dark eyes flitted this way and that, before finally landing on him. Edith pulled her hand back, quickly, her movements odd and jerky.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m— I’m just fine. Thank you for— thank you for the hand up.” She have a small little smile, almost more a grimace than anything else, and took a step back, poised for just turn around and walk away. Edith has never seen this man before, which was peculiar, since she knew everyone in town and everyone knew her. There were never strangers— but here was one, and he’d been following her. Or maybe he was just walking back to the little hotel, or to the cinema, not knowing that the selection was awfully disappointing. Still.

“Were you— Uh— Were you following me?” She winced a little at her own words. “Sorry, I—“ Edith shook her head, giving another little grimace-smile and featured vaguely around them in a way she hoped might have some meaning to him.

The tight fitted cloche hat she wore and her haircut were the only truly modern things about her outfit. The rest of it was probably a good five or six years old— decently pretty, but a bit dowdy and more than a bit old-fashioned.

 

[sspky]

He helped her to her feet and then shoved both his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

“Er...actually, yes. I saw you at the diner and meant to talk to you but…” he squared his shoulders almost defensively, imagining he knew exactly how foolish he must look, “Look, ah... You’re Miss Edith Downing, right?”

This certainly wasn’t the worst way he’d ever introduced himself to a witness, of that he was sure. Not by much but… but one time in Boston he’d accidentally elbowed an older gentleman into a duck pond. He’d been attempting to fend off the man's yammering dog -- a white-furred, vicious little thing -- and had unceremoniously shoved them both into the two feet of muddy, shallow water.

He’d gotten the story, in the end, though he’d had to pay the man nearly $20 to replace his damaged suit; which had turned out to be almost half of what the Boston Journal had ended up paying him for the story when all was said and done.

He silently prayed this interview would go a little smoother.

 

[laceanddoodles]

Her eyes widened, and she looked quite terrified for a moment. She nodded nervously. She could only guess at which dark and terrible things he’d heard about her, and she didn’t want to be a curiosity to sate his morbid fascinations. Her expression shifted from that of fear to just general distrust as she regarded him.

“Talk to— You meant to talk to me? I can’t imagine why.” Part of her wanted to just leave, just walk away and get behind closed doors, lock herself in her bedroom and not come out until her next shift. But part of her was a little bit curious about the stranger, and that got the best of her.

“You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you, before. Who are you, and why me? What do you want with me?” Edith’s voice was high pitched and warbled, but soft, like it hadn’t properly been used in some time.

She shuddered. It had been hot, that day, but the mist and wind had cooled things off, and Edith’s body didn’t retain heat like it used to. The breeze seemed to blow right through her— like she really was a ghost.

 

[sspky]

He offered her a little half-smile and said, “Sorry for startling you. I don’t mean you any harm, ma’am.”


The journalist regarded her a moment, noting her frazzled and frail appearance. She looked near enough to the photographs he’d seen of her, but it was clear the trauma of the last few months had worn on her. He couldn’t blame her. Warren had known a man or two who’d gone through the sanitorium. He knew what that sort of place did to people.


”My name is Warren Woods, and I just want to ask you a few questions.” he said, then added quickly: “I’m a journalist.”

 

[laceanddoodles]

She took another step back, really considering running, at this point. A journalist was a worst case scenario. There was so much that wasn’t quite safe to say out loud. So much about Michael’s death was still shrouded in mystery, even to her, and her attempts to share the details she did know had landed her in the sanatorium. It wasn’t safe.

“I’m— I’m so sorry, I don’t— I don’t talk to journalists. There was a story on my brother in the local paper, and that’s— there won’t be any more. Can’t be any more. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing, but—“

She took yet another step back, and ducked her head, avoiding his gaze. All she could do was pray he’d respect her wishes and leave her alone. There was too much at stake, too much to be lost, and always too many eyes on her, waiting for her to slip up and say too much.

“There’s just— just too much I can’t say.”

 

[sspky]

“Oh, I disagree, Miss Downing,” Wood tried to reason, “It sounds to me like you have a story to tell, and I can provide you with a means to do so.”

It was a gamble. More often then not, folks who’d faced trauma were hardly interested in sharing their stories with the world. Wood could hardly blame them. He had his own closet full of disaster that he chose to lock away tightly and hide from the light of day.

Perhaps he could offer her money -- a percentage of the fee for selling the story to the Journal. No, no he didn’t think that would do the trick. The Downing family seem affluent enough, at least as far as he had been able to uncover.

His left hand fidgeted in his pocket, his thumb clicking softly against the faded tin of his cigarette case. He couldn’t have this girl run off on him. Not now. Though she was hardly his only lead. Perhaps it would be best to let her leave, after all. To approach her parents, instead. To speak with the police and the doctors over at that abysmal hospital.

No. He didn’t much like the thought of going around her like that. While his opinions of women were complicated at best, he certainly never liked how men seemed to trod them into the ground. The notion left bitter memories in the pit of his heart.

Finally, he said: “I promise, I’ll be entirely respectful of you and your family, Miss Downing, I...understand that you’ve been through an incredible ordeal.”

 

[laceanddoodles]

“I— I don’t think you quite understand, Sir. There are things I can’t say. It’s not— it’s not that I wouldn’t say them, or that I don’t want to, I— I just— It’s not safe. I can’t— I can’t really give you any details that weren’t already in the police report, unless you just want emotions and stories about his childhood and whatnot.”

The streets around them were dead silent, which made Edith ill at ease. Even now she was worried she’d said too much, implying that there was perhaps more to say than the police were willing to admit. She couldn’t afford to put herself back into harm’s way, or in position to be sent back to the sanatorium.

“Things are— things are complicated. And dangerous. I’m sorry.”

Edith wasn’t sure who all was involved in the dark business. The police had taken details out of her witness statement, her parents had signed off to send her to the sanatorium, and now allowed her practically no privacy at home. And they hadn’t complained when the investigation of Michael’s murder was put away as a cold case, within only a few months. There was practically nobody in town that Edith felt like she could trust, nobody that was absolutely safe.

 

[sspky]

Well, that certainly piqued his interest. His contact at the Journal had suspected there was more to the story, but hadn’t been able to elaborate beyond calling it ‘a hunch’. It seemed he might have been on to something, after all.

He could see the unease that seemed to radiate off the woman and knew it would be a mistake to push her. Instead, he pulled the tin case out of his pocket, clicked it open, and popped a fresh cigarette in his mouth.

“Look, Miss Downing, I really am sorry for upsetting you,” he held the case out to her; a silent offer, “That wasn’t my intention.”

He fished a matchbook from his pocket with his free hand and continued, “There’s nothing trivial about your childhood stories, Miss. If you want to talk about them, your memories with your brother, your experiences, why not come and find me? I’m staying at the Gunport Inn. Ask for me at the desk, why don’t you, and we can grab a coffee and have a talk?”