The Road To Success Is Always Under Construction
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It had been a few minutes since my last trip. The first time was the strangest, as it took place in a world of white noise: there were no sounds to indicate I was being sucked into another plane of existence.
It felt like I’d suddenly lost control over my own body, and that everything around me would vanish if I didn’t concentrate on what I needed to do with my hands and feet – all while having no idea where those things would be when I found them again.
But the more times you went, the easier it became until eventually, it was just something you did. You just had to keep moving your head and keep trying to get your eyes to focus on one spot or another, as your field of vision changed every few seconds.
I wasn’t sure which one this was – maybe “the sixth” or perhaps it would be better described as “the fourth”. There had already been five before; two of them in the same year. Each time I came back from these strange trips, there was always some new piece of information for me to digest.
And each time the pieces seemed bigger, more complex than they were before. It was a game of strategy against your brain’s ability to retain memory, but at least that gave me something to think about each time. Something besides how alone I was.
I kept walking down the dirt path, following its direction along a line of trees ahead of me and out of sight beyond their boughs. It wasn’t hard to guess that somewhere ahead lay a house. After all, you never see them in this place if you aren’t going inside one.
As for who might live here: well, that was a mystery for someone else to figure out. Not even I could tell you exactly why I chose this specific house out of all those nearby, or if it was because this one was closest to the forest. All I knew was that I wanted to get close to it. It was a compulsion like I was drawn towards it by the force of its existence.
A short while later, the path finally ended in front of an open window with curtains flapping in the breeze. Beyond, I caught a glimpse of the interior: it was much darker inside than it was outside. There were no lights on anywhere within this house.
In fact, nothing appeared to have been used or touched recently – except for a faint glow behind the curtains and some dust motes floating near the ceiling. The whole place still looked abandoned.
As I stepped through the doorway, I saw that the room was set up in a square shape. Three walls were lined with shelves holding jars filled with various objects such as rocks, leaves, and twigs. Some of the jars were empty, and others contained what looked like dried plants.
On the far wall, there was a door that led to the kitchen and bathroom, and a small desk with a chair sat off to the side. Everything seemed very clean and organized. If anything, it reminded me of something you might find in a museum. A home away from home, for someone who lives alone. Except for the lack of light and the dust motes drifting across the floor, I could almost imagine I was standing inside some sort of laboratory.
But then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Whoever they belonged to must have left without telling anyone where they were going. They paused right next to the entrance and I could see that whoever they belonged to was quite tall and wearing a long dark coat made out of some kind of cloth material.
When they turned around, I could see that this person was bald, although I couldn’t tell if he was old or young, male or female, or how big his or her nose was. But there was a look in their eyes: a glint of determination that told me they weren’t afraid of me. It only lasted for a moment before the stranger walked past me and headed deeper into the house.
That was when I noticed the other people. There were seven of them scattered throughout the upstairs hall, most of them dressed in black suits. They stood perfectly still with blank expressions. They were all taller than me and wore ties that reached all the way down to their knees.
They were silent and motionless, like statues frozen in time. One of them had a small book tucked under his arm, held in his hand like it was a sacred relic. Others carried bags or sat slumped over tables with their heads down as if they’d lost any will to live.
And there was another group of people – three women and two men – who were sitting at a table, eating breakfast together as if this house was just a temporary dwelling. They seemed very happy. It wasn’t clear if it was because they were sharing a meal or that they were so relaxed and comfortable there. Maybe there were many more people living here than I first thought.
The stranger in the dark coat had disappeared. He hadn’t said a thing since entering the house. I glanced down at my watch: it was ten past eleven. Where was everyone else? Was there a possibility that they were all asleep?
Or perhaps, as one of the strangers suggested, it had been only one of us all along. That’s when I noticed it – a faint red glow emanating from under the bed in one of the rooms at the end of the hallway.
It didn’t seem strong enough to be a candle, not when it was surrounded by a dozen other lamps and lights. Someone must have lit this lamp, though I couldn’t see who. The bulb flickered faintly. I wondered which room it belonged to.
“Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone else awake and about?”
When nobody answered, I went downstairs again. The dining table had already been cleared away; there were only six chairs remaining in front of it. They were spaced out evenly, each with its own cup and plate stacked neatly atop them.
There was a stack of toast on the sideboard, but no one was sitting there now. Instead, there were four plates set out with bowls of fruit salad on top and glasses full of water beside them. All of them looked untouched.
I took one down from the middle of the table and examined it closely. It was made of wood, with a thin layer of frosting on the surface. It seemed freshly baked. I took a bite: it tasted delicious. Fresh-cut apples, bananas, and oranges were arranged on it with some raisins sprinkled over the top.
This wasn’t bread, nor did it appear to be a dessert. It appeared to be just a normal slice of apple pie, only much better than I expected it to be. I decided to take a second piece for later and put it in the fridge, hoping it would still be edible by lunchtime.
I wandered back upstairs, wondering if anyone was watching me, and found the room with the books on the top shelf. They were neatly organized alphabetically, with everything from fiction to religion and philosophy sorted on each level.
Most of these books I knew by name: were Frankenstein, Dracula, The Odyssey, Pride, and Prejudice… There was even one about the history of the English language, although that one might’ve been interesting.
There were so many titles and authors to choose from, however, that it took me a while to find what I wanted. Eventually, I settled on The Brothers Karamazov, a novel by Ivan Turgenev. There was something strange about those words on the spine.
It was written in Old Russian, the language of the tsars, and the letters were so different that I had to hold it up against the light to read it properly.
“Excuse me,” I said as I stepped into the next room. “I need to borrow this.”
“No,” I heard a voice reply from within. “You’re not allowed to do that.”
I turned around quickly, expecting someone to walk out of a door behind me, but saw no one.
“Who are you?” I asked. “And where is everyone else? You said we wouldn’t be alone.”
There was silence for a moment, but then I felt an icy sensation brush past me. A chill ran down my neck as if someone was standing beside me, breathing down my ear and whispering in my ear, “We’ll never let you leave.”
***
In the last room, I opened the wardrobe and discovered a pair of leather trousers and a white shirt inside. I pulled them out and examined them carefully. When I tried them on, however, they were far too big for my narrow waist.
I searched through a pile of underwear on the bottom shelf but none of it fit either – even the socks were huge. I decided to return the clothing to the wardrobe and search for something smaller.
My hand paused above a black jacket with metal buttons, and my fingers hesitated, unsure of themselves. My mind told me to turn away but I ignored it and slipped it onto my shoulders, adjusting the sleeves to cover the tops of my hands.
Then I walked over to the mirror and stared into it for a few seconds. It was a very masculine design, with silver thread running around its edge. The collar was open so that I could see the skin underneath. It had a strange feeling about it, like the material itself had texture, yet was smooth at the same time.
I took a deep breath and turned away from the reflection, looking for something else. In the corner of the room stood a small black box that contained another book. The title “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” was printed on it in silver ink, along with a picture of a pipe-smoking gentleman who wore his dark-green coat like a uniform and held up his hat with both hands.
He had an elegant mustache and thick eyebrows, which seemed oddly familiar to me. It took me a moment to realize why. His face looked similar to a photograph I’d seen before, one of the two men whom Lizzie was hiding from.
These men were dressed exactly the same way, right down to their matching coats, so it seemed unlikely that they would all be wearing the exact same outfit, but then again, there were three of them in the photograph. I had to look twice to make sure it was the real thing, but there was no mistaking that image. This man was Sherlock Holmes; he was my enemy.
Sherlock Holmes…
The idea of a detective intrigued me more than anything else. I wanted to know more about him. As a child, I used to watch Inspector Clouseau’s movies on television. Those films had been full of bizarre characters, most of them with ridiculous names: “Groucho Marx”, “Rudy Vallee”, “Bosley Crowther”… But there was also the great Sherlock Holmes, whose name I now knew well.
It had been so long since I watched one of these stories, however. It had been years since I’d seen a film, or any kind of program, really. All the televisions we had in the house were broken anyway, so it wasn’t like I had much choice.
When I was younger, I loved reading, especially adventure books. They had always excited me more than anything else: “A Journey to the Centre of the Earth,” “Around the World in Eighty Days,” “Robinson Crusoe”.
I had devoured them all, and when those authors became popular with new generations of readers, I kept on going until I reached the end of their careers. I had been particularly fascinated by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though some of my favorites had been Rudyard Kipling, Jules Verne, and H G Wells. There had been others, of course, but their names escaped me for the moment.
As I sat in the middle of my cell trying to decide what to read first, there was a sound from outside the door. Someone was walking up to it slowly and quietly. I stood up and pressed myself against the wall, ready to run if needed.
When the door opened, however, I was surprised to find that it was not Lizzie herself but another person. She looked just as I remembered her from the photograph, but now she was older and dressed differently.
Her hair was still short and brown, but the style had changed. Where Lizzie’s hair was wild and untamed, this woman’s was neat and controlled. And although she wore her dark-green coat like a uniform, the buttons were silver instead of gold, and the lining was black. This was Mrs. Hudson.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. She was carrying a small wooden chest on top of her arm. It was made of wood stained with old yellow paint, and she carried it like a treasure between her thumb and forefinger as if it were precious indeed. “How nice to meet you again, John,” she said. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Are you ready?”
There was something different about the way she spoke to me: a sense of urgency. It reminded me that someone else was watching, waiting for me to speak. I glanced out into the corridor where Lizzie still stood. The woman nodded towards the wardrobe. I went over and placed my hands inside, pushing the doors closed behind me.
“Now remember, keep your head down, and don’t say anything. Whatever happens, don’t let them catch you talking.”
“Why?” I asked.
Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Just do it!”
She handed me the small box, then put her hands together at the front of my waist and pulled them back. I heard a loud click, like a switch being thrown. Then suddenly the world exploded around me.
My mind raced as I tried to figure out what was happening. Everything seemed to happen too quickly for me to think clearly. My eyes felt heavy as if there was something pressing them shut. At the same time, my limbs began to feel very numb.
It was difficult to move, yet somehow I could do it. Something seemed to push me forward, like a tide dragging me through a river. There was only one direction left to go now: the wardrobe door, which I opened wide and threw myself into. There was no point resisting; there was nowhere else to hide.
I found myself staring into space. It was pitch-black in there, completely silent save for the sound of rain falling outside. The raindrops sounded like knives hitting my skin. I had never seen such a thick curtain of rain, and I realized that even the air had become cold and wet, almost suffocating.
For a while I stood still, listening to the pattering noise outside. Rain! That explained why it hadn’t rained here before, because it would have drowned everyone in this building within hours. And the temperature would plummet once night fell, trapping us inside the room.
I turned on the lights, turning them up until I was sure that they were bright enough for me to see. As soon as the bulbs lit up, the water pouring down outside was revealed. A waterfall filled the glass windows so that the entire area was washed away beneath the torrent of water, flooding across the floor.
Rainwater poured off my jacket and dripped onto the carpet as I took a step toward the edge of the window. Below was a steep drop. If I jumped in now, I could probably reach the ground without breaking any bones – unless I hit rock or concrete, of course.
I knew nothing of this place, but surely someone had told me how far down the fall was? I looked over the side, but couldn’t tell anything by just looking at it. All I saw was misty rain and a distant tree, with more water pouring down the branches and pooling on the ground.
If only I had some idea of the distance! But if there was anyone nearby who had jumped down here before, I doubted I would ever find them; they’d be long gone, swept away in the rain and darkness. And besides, this was not a natural fall of water.
There would need to be an entrance somewhere nearby. I had only been given a clue in that strange message. Perhaps whoever was after me was trying to send me a warning: ‘Jump here.’
I went back and examined the walls. They were all painted in a dull green color with white trim around the edges. I ran my fingers over them carefully, hoping to find some sort of latch or lock, but the paint was smooth and unbroken. Nothing. I turned back towards the door and listened hard for sounds coming from behind me as if I might hear voices or footsteps on the other side.
There was silence. So I reached out for the handle, but as my hand touched the metal I noticed something strange. The door didn’t quite fit right: it had been forced inward and the hinges were bent and broken. Someone must have smashed it open to get inside.
Why? Was it because of the weather or did it have something to do with what happened in the room above? If there was a fire then maybe they had come to rescue me, but it would seem odd if there was a blaze and they came to help when I had no chance of escaping.
And why were they interested in me anyway? Did Mrs. Hudson know about me? Or was this someone else’s fault entirely?
The rain was falling faster now, like a drumbeat pounding at my skin. What else could I do? The rain had brought me closer to the waterfall outside; I could smell its damp earthiness, which reminded me of my mother.
She had been obsessed with gardening when I was young, growing vegetables and herbs wherever we lived. It wasn’t something I remembered well, though; she had died when I was just ten years old. I missed my parents very much sometimes.
Suddenly I remembered something else. When I was little, there was another man who visited us every week. His name was Mr. Jenkins, and he had always given me a present on his visits. He had been a good friend of my father, although he was older than my grandfather by several decades.
He was tall and broad, with a big red nose and deep brown skin. Now that I thought about it, that was exactly how Mr. Hudson appeared to me. And he also wore a hat like Mr. Jenkins used to.
But what did he want? I hadn’t been able to figure out anything since the moment I arrived. And now, as I sat alone in the dark, surrounded by water and rain, I was getting scared. I wanted to go home – where I belonged. And it seemed to me that my father would be waiting for me at the end of this corridor, with some new story to tell.
I turned around again, searching for the wall. I needed a distraction. Something I could use to think my way out of this mess. My mind began to wander through old memories: of the times when I had played hide-and-seek in my grandparents’ garden in the evenings.
There had been a great oak tree with low branches near the fence, with a perfect hiding place for me and my friends to play together.
It was one of my earliest recollections, perhaps even before I could walk. One of those precious moments I had forgotten until just recently. As the memories came back, so did the desire to go running towards the tree instead of sitting here in the cold and wet.
I had no fear of heights anymore. I closed my eyes and focused. I was there. In the middle of that oak tree. It felt wonderful being back among the leaves, smelling their scent and feeling the softness of their needles under my palms.
There were so many places for me to hide… And then suddenly, my body began to move on its own. A smile crossed my face as I moved up against the bark. This wasn’t my tree, but it gave me the same sense of excitement. And the longer I stayed there, the less I cared where I was.
I didn’t remember leaving. But I was standing beside the door once again, breathing in deeply the scent of wet leaves. I heard the voice of Mrs. Hudson calling through the doorway. “Are you okay?” she asked as soon as I opened it, looking concerned.
“Yes.” It was true enough.
Mrs. Hudson handed me a glass of water. I drank thirstily.
She stood with her hands behind her back as I took my time drinking. We weren’t talking. That was strange; usually, she would be chattering away nonstop, and never let me finish answering a question.
“You were gone a long time,” she said eventually. “Were you playing with your toys?” She held up the box.
I nodded absently. The idea that I could have left that box there was disturbing. Had I imagined it all? Perhaps I really had lost my mind after all these weeks.
“Do you think Mr. Hudson would take me too?” Mrs. Hudson asked next, as she picked up her bag from the floor.
“He doesn’t want to hurt you, does he? Because if not, I can ask him myself…”
My stomach clenched. “What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson?”
“I know why he sent me to this room.” She looked at me intently. “It’s because he wants me out of his way. He has a plan. But I don’t like that, Thomas, I don’t like it at all. And he knows that too.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Then: “So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” She put her hand on mine. “Don’t worry.”
That was easier said than done. I went over to her and took hold of the strap on her shoulder bag. “Where are you planning to stay tonight?”
The question surprised her for a moment, but then she shrugged casually and reached inside to pull out a small plastic case. “In my bed. Of course. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I guess I need the exercise after all.” I pulled open the lid of the case and lifted out one of those black suits that Mr. Hudson had told me was necessary for the experiment.
“Oh no!” She snatched it from me and tried to put it back in the case. “Please, Thomas, no! You know how hard it is for me to get up in the morning!”
“I’m sorry. But I don’t see much choice. We’re stuck here until tomorrow night, so we might as well make the best of it.” I had already checked the pockets of Mrs. Hudson’s suit several times. They were empty. I was hoping that Mr. Hudson had been wrong about the other thing; otherwise, I had to find another way.
“Thomas, I’ve never seen you like this before. Are you sure—”
“Of course I am.” I smiled at her reassuringly, though it did nothing for me. “I’ll come back and check on you later. Have some food or something if you feel hungry. And try not to get into any trouble.”
I made to leave without looking back but then stopped when Mrs. Hudson caught my arm. “There’s someone else here,” she whispered. “Someone who looks like Mr. Hudson.”
I frowned for a moment. “Who?” I asked quietly as if I hadn’t heard properly.
“I thought I saw him, standing by the kitchen door.”
I glanced through the window into the hall beyond. No one is there now. Probably just my imagination again.
“I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Hudson called after me, but I ignored her and headed straight for the kitchen. When I reached it, a tall figure was standing on the bottom stair of the basement, leaning against the wall beside Mrs. Hudson’s door. “Hello, Mr. Babbage.”
He turned to face me and smiled slowly. I stepped forward quickly and slammed the door shut between us. As it clicked, Mr. Babbage moved aside so he could look past me. His smile grew wider as he realized Mrs. Hudson wasn’t coming through after all.
I watched him carefully, but he seemed quite calm. “Well, Thomas, you are certainly quick off the mark today,” he said conversationally, his voice deep and smooth. “I didn’t expect you to have discovered the flaw in my experiment yet. Well played. Very well played indeed.”
“Flaw?” I shook my head incredulously. “What flaw?”
“You haven’t noticed anything odd about your wife?” He gestured behind him with an amused expression.
Mrs. Hudson sat at the bottom of the stairs, her shoulders slumped, staring vacantly down at her lap. Her fingers twitched slightly. I went toward her. “Is she all right?” I knelt down next to her. “She seems very quiet.”
“As soon as I found you, Mrs. Hudson was in my way,” Mr. Babbage explained. “And now it is time for me to go.” He took a step back up the stairs and raised his hands dramatically, letting them fall to his sides. The light glinted off his lenses. “Goodbye, Thomas.”
“Wait!” I ran to catch up with him and grabbed his sleeve to stop him from leaving. “Mr. Babbage, where did you come from? How long have you been hiding?”
He stopped, and for a moment I could see his reflection in his eyes. “You really must learn to read people more closely, Thomas. You seem to think that everyone can only speak in words of one syllable, and you jump to conclusions.”
His voice was gentle as always, but there was an undercurrent of anger. I hesitated for a moment before saying anything to defuse the situation. Finally, I sighed. “Look, Mr. Babbage, you were here when we came downstairs last night. That means you couldn’t have been here when we left last night!”
“Of course not.” He looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. Then his eyes widened. “No…” he murmured softly as he turned away. “I remember now… I was waiting for you outside the house.”
“But—”
Something suddenly struck me—that strange flash of emotion from a few days earlier. It had been too strong to be mistaken.
“Why are you wearing those things?” I asked, pointing at Mr. Babbage’s glasses. “Where did you get them?”
The light flickered on his face once more, and his features were momentarily visible. “I have a pair,” Mr. Babbage replied calmly, turning back to look at me. “I use them to help me read minds when necessary.”
I felt sick to my stomach. I had suspected it for a while, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it myself: My own father was responsible for my mother’s disappearance. He had killed her! He’d been lying to me since he first arrived in our home…
My mind reeled as I fought against panic, trying to piece together what Mr. Babbage’s real intentions could possibly be. “You’re going to steal my memories and replace them with yours?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. “That’s the only explanation for why you would do this to me.”
His laugh echoed throughout the room. “Don’t worry, Thomas; you won’t have any memory of what I take. And no harm will come to anyone else either. This is purely precautionary. I am simply taking precautions, and I hope you can understand that.”
I looked up sharply, my mind whirling through possibilities. If only I had a gun, I thought desperately. Then he might think twice before doing anything rash. But how on earth could I explain such a thing to my dad?
Mr. Babbage turned to walk slowly around the edge of the table, and suddenly his arm flashed out and caught me by the throat. I gasped loudly and struggled uselessly, but he held firm, crushing my windpipe and preventing me from speaking. The pressure built up until I couldn’t breathe. For a moment, he let me struggle, and then he leaned in close to whisper in my ear.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said softly. “I can’t risk telling you any more than that. You must trust me.”
Then he released his grip and backed away. “Come along, Thomas, I need to talk to your father alone.”
The End