Peter Claude
He was standing at the window when I entered his study. I stopped, expecting him to turn or at least motion me forward but no, he stood sentinel, silhouetted among the blocks of dust made corporeal in what little sunlight breached the room. Awkwardly I crept forward, stopping every few paces that he might acknowledge me, but he continued this game of Grandmother's Footsteps until I reached his desk. Then, as though it had been long rehearsed, he began to speak.
"The noises came first. Indistinct sounds, just there in the background almost unnoticeable but sometimes distracting. Then there was the feeling of being watched, unpleasant but not wholly unnatural. I could have brushed it all off as paranoia. Then the walls began to scream and that was most unsettling. The hotel seemed to contort around me, there was a painting of a boy, and the noise, the noise was…
That's how it ends. And now you have brought it back to me. How very kind. Please, sit."
I placed the journal on his desk and paused. He shifted his weight slightly, he was getting restless and I wasn't playing along. So I sat down in the wingback chair that had been placed for this meeting, and waited for him to turn.
"I would like to begin with an apology. I'm sorry. I must admit that I feel uncomfortable stood before you with my face concealed. Not so much the being stood before you, more the concealing of my face, I am no stranger to an audience, and you are not so intimidating as you desire."
He was beginning to sound less rehearsed. Eventually he took his seat across the desk, positioning himself so the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face. It was not enough to hide that his head was heavily bandaged but did make it impossible to discern what might be underneath.
"I feel I must apologise for not being able to truly communicate the, gravity, of the story you have come to hear."
Without my permission, my palms began to sweat. I cautioned some humour in an attempt to stay detached from his theatrics "Yes, I feel I've been invited to an audience with The Invisible Man, Mr..." but my hands slipped from the arms of the chair before I could finish his name. Though I still could not see his face I felt his gaze concentrated on a single point between my chest and throat. He wasn't threatening, more curious, like a child focusing light with his glasses. I felt like a bug.
"Please, call me Peter. But yes, the bandages are an unfortunate necessity. How did Suzanne put it? "No eye that has seen horror lies, it speaks in saccades, the pupils dilate like the lips of a scream and you receive it in your blood." I liked that one, creative at least and she was right in the end, or should that be, she was right all along and I was wrong, in the end.
She also told me once, that I was the only man in the world to have no story to his face. Can you believe that? How did she describe me? Utterly unremarkable, yes, that someone so cold and dull as myself should have a scarring past, some great challenge or repressed ill-treatment, but no, there was nothing.
I digress. The journal you have returned to me is of no worth. I remember all the important entries and I have no desire to relive it. But it is returned nonetheless and at least no other will read it now. You have not shared this?"
I gave no answer.
"Good. I hear the ministry has quite the unusual cover set up for you. University? Something to do with beetles, yes? Please, Dr. Woods, you only reveal more in your stoic attempt to display nothing. Better to relax. Your scepticism will award you nothing more than a tired face.
I was a teacher myself. Secondary school. Can you believe they used to have me arrange class trips around my investigations? Of course, it was all quite harmless at first."
At some point in the conversation I had leaned forward. "Who is 'they'?" I asked too quickly. Somewhere in the shadow there was a smile.
"The ministry. The league, the higher ups, it doesn't matter what we call them they are just, they. I am a pawn same as you, I have no information outside of my own story and I only share that with you because I have been instructed.
As I told you, I was a teacher, newly appointed. Within a few weeks I received a letter headed 'Top Secret'. It caught my eye because I had enjoyed playing spy as a child, it reminded me of the folder I use to keep filled with detective techniques and so on. It was coded. Rudimentary stuff mind, no more difficult than a stiff crossword but still, it seemed a little deep for a staff room hazing. It said to tell no one, so I didn't. I assumed it was a game, someone's fantasy to play secret society, so I thought I would play along."
"The noises came first. Indistinct sounds, just there in the background almost unnoticeable but sometimes distracting. Then there was the feeling of being watched, unpleasant but not wholly unnatural. I could have brushed it all off as paranoia. Then the walls began to scream and that was most unsettling. The hotel seemed to contort around me, there was a painting of a boy, and the noise, the noise was…
That's how it ends. And now you have brought it back to me. How very kind. Please, sit."
I placed the journal on his desk and paused. He shifted his weight slightly, he was getting restless and I wasn't playing along. So I sat down in the wingback chair that had been placed for this meeting, and waited for him to turn.
"I would like to begin with an apology. I'm sorry. I must admit that I feel uncomfortable stood before you with my face concealed. Not so much the being stood before you, more the concealing of my face, I am no stranger to an audience, and you are not so intimidating as you desire."
He was beginning to sound less rehearsed. Eventually he took his seat across the desk, positioning himself so the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face. It was not enough to hide that his head was heavily bandaged but did make it impossible to discern what might be underneath.
"I feel I must apologise for not being able to truly communicate the, gravity, of the story you have come to hear."
Without my permission, my palms began to sweat. I cautioned some humour in an attempt to stay detached from his theatrics "Yes, I feel I've been invited to an audience with The Invisible Man, Mr..." but my hands slipped from the arms of the chair before I could finish his name. Though I still could not see his face I felt his gaze concentrated on a single point between my chest and throat. He wasn't threatening, more curious, like a child focusing light with his glasses. I felt like a bug.
"Please, call me Peter. But yes, the bandages are an unfortunate necessity. How did Suzanne put it? "No eye that has seen horror lies, it speaks in saccades, the pupils dilate like the lips of a scream and you receive it in your blood." I liked that one, creative at least and she was right in the end, or should that be, she was right all along and I was wrong, in the end.
She also told me once, that I was the only man in the world to have no story to his face. Can you believe that? How did she describe me? Utterly unremarkable, yes, that someone so cold and dull as myself should have a scarring past, some great challenge or repressed ill-treatment, but no, there was nothing.
I digress. The journal you have returned to me is of no worth. I remember all the important entries and I have no desire to relive it. But it is returned nonetheless and at least no other will read it now. You have not shared this?"
I gave no answer.
"Good. I hear the ministry has quite the unusual cover set up for you. University? Something to do with beetles, yes? Please, Dr. Woods, you only reveal more in your stoic attempt to display nothing. Better to relax. Your scepticism will award you nothing more than a tired face.
I was a teacher myself. Secondary school. Can you believe they used to have me arrange class trips around my investigations? Of course, it was all quite harmless at first."
At some point in the conversation I had leaned forward. "Who is 'they'?" I asked too quickly. Somewhere in the shadow there was a smile.
"The ministry. The league, the higher ups, it doesn't matter what we call them they are just, they. I am a pawn same as you, I have no information outside of my own story and I only share that with you because I have been instructed.
As I told you, I was a teacher, newly appointed. Within a few weeks I received a letter headed 'Top Secret'. It caught my eye because I had enjoyed playing spy as a child, it reminded me of the folder I use to keep filled with detective techniques and so on. It was coded. Rudimentary stuff mind, no more difficult than a stiff crossword but still, it seemed a little deep for a staff room hazing. It said to tell no one, so I didn't. I assumed it was a game, someone's fantasy to play secret society, so I thought I would play along."
