At the farm.

Note: Trigger warning. Next few chapter are somewhat violent and disturbing. If you have any difficulty while reading, please comment. I can only say this much without spoiling.

Although Valor had much to say about everyday magics for travelers, he might as well have said nothing. Four years I was in this limbo, where I stalked alone between supernatural powers and fought myself hard to keep it logical. That was not going so well.

Whatever I had learned about magical powers and the fantastical was solely by my own means. I was more wary than some hardened spook, and I would say it had kept me alive quite a few times. Also taught me that I could not and should not trust things that offered powers easily.

Most would call me a fool and a hypocrite for trusting dubious tomes found in dusty and dark childhood home.... And they would be right. But something told me it was safe. I still tried to convince myself that it was just years of combat and investigation experience culminating into instincts. My previous therapist would've approved of that.

Hence, my gripes with Valor. All of that, I still couldn't cast a spell to save my life and didn't know the reason. The three tomes were for those who were acquainted with use of magic. And the most I could do was craft talismans, ritual spells and wards.

Shaking my head, I followed in my Civic behind Raymond in his truck. We were driving towards outskirts of Bear's Creek town, which is just shy of foot of the Bluestone Mountain Range.

Driving down the road I spied many farms and houses. Each had a dirt road leading to their property off the asphalt road. I could also see fencing in between, some wooden, some wired and so on.

Nearing a typical farmer house, I parked my car and got out. Stepping out, the mid-day sun shone overhead, reminding me again of slipping habits and discipline in my daily life. I sighed to myself and followed Ray into his home.

It was... quaint. I know, it wasn't as if I disdained the setting of his house, au contráire, I liked it.

Front porch, suitable for enjoying the cool breeze with a cold drink, maybe barbeque with friends? Overlooking his farm, the scenery was beautiful. Inside the living room was filled with all sorts of bits and bobs. Clearly, it had a touch of a woman.

How? Couch absolutely laden with throw pillows, comfortable chairs, TV furniture and shelves decorated with little souvenirs, frames and books. Throw in a odd certificate for animal rescue NGO certificates. Or several, I noted.

Opposite wall adorned with frames and frames of family, pet and event photos. It was as though looking through a canvas of someone's life. Someone had poured love into this. Raymond was a lucky man, I thought somewhat enviously.

"It's a beauty, ain't it?" He asked quietly, fondness in his tone.

I made noise of agreement. Clearly, he appreciated this labor of love. Though I also noted the melancholy in his tone and the photos in the right showing a somewhat sickly yet bright woman.

"My wife used to spend hours and hours hanging those," he chuckled, "You'll find more empty holes behind those frames than hair on my head, I tell ya!"

"Childhood sweetheart, was she?" I said, nodding at the leftmost frames.

"Aye?" he started, "Ah yeah, she was. Just 3 houses over, Old Rick's house. That was her home." He grinned at my raised brow. "Aye, we were inseparable since those times." He looked at the frames.

Looking at the frames, it was practically his life story. Black and white photos of 2 little kids in muddy clothes, laughing. Then teens, their hands entertwined and smiling. Then apparently a highschool graduation photo, their eyes bright with happiness and I couldn't miss the glint of a ring on her hand. Then it was him with his father, working in fields, her again smiling and holding her college degree, their marriage, her swollen belly and her radiant expression, their farm animals, cattle... Raised as their own. Children. Festivals. Moments frozen in time. It was happiness. And contentment.

Again, it was hard not to be envious.

"We had a great life together," he said softly, "We wanted for nothing. It was us, our children, our pets, our farm."

His eyes a little red, he continued, "It was just so simple. And yet..." He shook his head. I politely waited until he gathered himself.

He tried to make small talk, offering drinks and food, but I could see it was half hearted and his mind elsewhere. He didn't look much better than last night. I would say he looked more weary today. Smell of cigarettes more prominent.

"I would like to see those photos you showed me yesterday. Can you get those?" I asked, wanting to get familiar with the scene and refresh the details.

He nodded and went inside through the dining room and kitchen.

Standing up, I idly surveyed the living room again. Ray's demeanor yesterday was more than of a frightened man and on top of the possible werewolf problem, I had to confirm whether there was some... lingering presence in the house, that I would need to deal with.

I slowly examined the shelf full of trophies and certificates. Most of them were of local highschool, likely his children's. Some though, included NGOs for animal rescue and welfare. The photos showed his wife and him standing with young calves, sometimes puppies. The photos showed their dedication and love for animals.

I was also struck with realisation that probably some portion of his cattle was rescue.

Each and every photo frame was spotless. Not a speck of dust on it. The trophies, laminated certificates or even the decorations? They were dusty. Strange.

When I had sat on the couch earlier, I had to resist sneezing through the dust. Hmm, very strange.

Walking towards the picture wall, I again carefully viewed it. And there it was, dust cleaned somewhat haphazardly, in specific places. Only his wife's photos or her face. Carefully, I looked for smallest details. And one stood out to me. If the flow of pictures, this canvas, was to be considered then a single picture in the rightmost place was missing. The hole for the frame was there along with the nail, half bent and barely hanging.

Exhaling softly, I tried to calm the sense of alarm rising in my mind. I'm sure it was nothing, just Raymond being a shit homemaker. His wife died recently, he wasn't adjusting well that's all. Simple. Logical.

The hanging nail fell to the floor.

My eye twitched. Who was I kidding? Little insignificant details added up and they were painting a grim picture.

I had to talk to Raymond. His mental health was likely deteriorating and it was helping whatever it was, that was here.

Walking through the kitchen door that was connected through the dining room, I peeked in. The dining table was messy. Stains of coffee cup, crumbs of bread, used paper plates and 2 coffee cups were on the table. The cups had some art and designs on them, looking closely I could read husband and wife written on both cups. The husband cup was empty, it was yellowed. Likely used daily. The wife cup, in contrast, was clearly cleaned and still had coffee in it. As though someone had put a offering here.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I walked further into kitchen. The countertop was absolutely messy. Boxes and boxes of cereal, greasy pizza boxes. Unwashed dishes and glasses. Turning, I saw half opened, empty cupboards, some even covered with spiderwebs.

Then abruptly the smell hit me. It was a stench of rot. One where you can just see the stiffening of limbs, the coldness spreading through the carcass, flies buzzing--but why was it mixed with mint? What--

I shook myself and slowly approached a barely open door beside the fridge. It was probably a little storage for the house. And maybe a side entrance.

The fridge was decorated with colorful magnets. Some old bills, recipes were stuck to it. At the top, I read a list that looked recent and was laminated.

--Clean house. I don't want a mess!

--Feed our babies.

--Call the children. They get busy in their lives, we ought to!

--Take your medicine, Ray.

--Eat healthy.

--Take care of yourself.

~Love, L. : ')

Oh so slightly, the door opened. I stepped through.

Inside, there was Raymond on his knees, hands in gloves, spraying something on the floor with a garden sprayer. In the other corner, I saw cans of pyrethroid insecticide of some brand. That explained the strong mint smell.

He hadn't heard me come in. Beside him lay the photos he had shown me yesterday. Along with bucketful of that insecticide solution in a metal bucket. More importantly, I was concerned with what he was doing next.

Very carefully, he removed a brown tarp that was covering what I assumed was some farm equipment.

It wasn't.

Along with the glaring stench of ****, I saw the rotting carcass of his old Bessie, skin festering, maggots burrowing in and out of her old, torn skin.

And I saw Raymond picking maggots one by one, dropping them into the bucket, a manic gleam in his eyes.