Old Man Smith, at the Nursing Home

It was a pin in the ass, getting into the Golden Years Retirement home, especially since you didn’t even know anyone old enough to be in a place like that. You were just lucky that one of the nurses on duty, a very tired looking Filipino man, was willing to take a bribe of fifty bucks to let you stroll on in. “Ten minutes,” the man warned, casually flicking through a paperback without looking up, “if you can’t get an inheritance out of whoever you’re looking for by then, I’m tossing your ass out into the street.”

You were completely unfamiliar with the layout of the place, but luckily each room had a name at the door. Though only problem was that there was so many old timers staying there, you had a lot of rooms to check off, and a lot of winding hallways to walk down. The existential thought came about where you might end up one day, but you dismissed it as soon as it came. Surely by the time you were eighty robots will have taken over the world.

Laughing at your own silly thought, you were caught off guard by the loud string of curse words coming from a room up to your right. Sure enough, the name SMITH was written in big, bold letters. The voices got louder as you approached, and that gave you pause.

One of them clearly belong to an old man, coarse and raspy. The other was softer, feminine. You paused just beside the doorway, and listened in.

“Please, just tell me where you put it.” The feminine voice said. “One word, one location. Gimme a hint, at the very least.”

The raspy croak came again, the words unfocused. “S’mine. They gave it to me,” there was an incoherent noise. “Angel fell from heaven, and gave me…gave…”

“What angel?” The first voice insisted. “Where did you meet the angel?”

“It’s MINE,” the old man shouted. “My key! My…my….”

What came next was a string of most incoherent whimpers and groans. The feminine voice sighed, muttered something, and then there was the dragging of a chair and the clicking of heels. You took a couple steps back and looked down at your phone, trying to seem inconspicuous as the woman walked on by. You glanced up only as she turning the corner up ahead, catching a glimpse at blonde hair dancing in the air before vanishing.

You stood in place and counted, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three, four. Convinced that the woman wasn’t coming back, you turned into Smith’s room.

The old man didn’t look great. He sat in a wheelchair, blanket covering his legs and with tubes going in his nose to provide oxygen. His head was bald and covered with liver spots, his mouth largely absent teeth, and one of his eyes had a rather large cataract. He might have been dozing, but he lifted his vulture-like head to frown at your approach.

“Whozzat?” He demanded, voice thick.

You tried to put on a smile as you approached. “Mr Smith? Mr Peter Smith?”

His eyes narrowed. “Eh? Yeah?”

You pulled up the recently displaced chair and sat down so you were eye level with the man. “I’m Mike Maywood,” you introduced, “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”

“Maywood?” That got something from the old man, a shine of recognition in a mind that was otherwise growing foggy. “I’ve a few Maywoods in my time. Old Jimmy Maywood, and then, George. Curious George we called him, then of course his younger brother Vic…”

“My grandfather,” you offered.

“Vic,” the man continued on, not hearing you. “Smart man. Lotsa books…good books, not the good book though…”he trailed off, looking ready to slip into a dose.

You reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “Sir, do you know about the founding families?”

“T-the founders, yes, my Pa, and my Grandpapy,” a crooked smile came across his wrinkled face. “They told me the secret. The big secret.”

“What secret is that, Sir?”

“The Ones on the Other Side!” His mouth stretched into a toothless grin. “They talk to us, sometimes…gave us things. Angels they are, beautiful angels…”

You weren’t sure exactly what to make of that, but you pressed on, gently. The old man’s lucidity was tenuous. “What did they give you, Sir.”

“The locket…” he breathed, licking his lips hungrily. “The precious locket of red and purple…”

“Do you still have it?”

His good eye sharpened. “They wanted to take it from me! They…bastards, bastards the lot of them! Children playing with masks! They won’t get it, they won’t! I hid it, where the angel fell!”

Your mind spun, and you leant forward. “And where was that, Sir? Where did the angel fall?”

The old man shook his head, and the focus left his gaze. A trail of drool came from his mouth and he slumped over, what was left of his lucidity having evaporated away. You weren’t going to get anymore out of him.

You looked about the tiny room for any clue or hint at what he was talking about. There were photos that lined the place, black and white things from the fifties showing a proud, smiling man that was surely Peter Smith as a youngster. There was a small painting of a sail boat, and another of a Native American woman. The artist had sketched her likeness incredibly, showing her beauty and her sadness. Finally there was a picture, more recent than the others, this one in colour. It showed off the observatory that sat just outside of town.

Where Angel fell…

You wondered, could he have been talking about the site where the meteorite hit hundreds of years ago? You supposed it was worth a shot.

By the time you made it back to the front desk, the nurse had changed and an old lady sat there, talking to a striking blonde woman. Her voice rang as familiar, and gave you a feeling of unease as you eavesdropped her conversation.

“Has Mr Smith had any guests in the last few days?” She demanded. “Any friends or distant relations showing up out of the blue?”

The old nurse looked uncomfortable. “Other than you, no.”

“Well, have any of your staff mentioned anything strange about his room,” the young blonde asked, her eyes narrowed as she watched the nurse for any hint of deception.

“N-no, I swear…Mr Smith is barely coherent half the time. No one really disturbs him.”

The blonde held her gaze for a moment longer. “That better be the case, or I promise I’ll make things very difficult for you.”

You’d heard enough and pushed your way out of the building. There was someone else on the trail of the locket, and you got the distinct feeling that hot or no, that woman was dangerous.