Chapter Text
“Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”
― Oscar Wilde
Tinsley eyes the small farmhouse. It’s as rustic as one would expect it to be; old wooden paneling, worn-down-looking white fence, mud tracks seeped on the floorboards.
As he stands and stares, it sinks into him that this was going to be home for him now. It looks like it has seen better days; the paint is all but chipped and faded, some of the windows are smashed and broken, and it probably isn't equipped with electricity. But the expanse of land that surrounds the house, though it is not as vast as he would like, looks fertile and rich. Not that he’d know shit about farming. For a moment, he imagines himself growing little carrots and potatoes. He can’t decide if he likes it or not. It had cost him every penny he had in his bank account to purchase this spot of land in Virginia.
It's just the way he likes it. A patch of land disconnected from the main road. Nothing and no one to bother him. At least, not for ten miles away. The town is quiet. Undisturbed.
How wrong he was.
When Tinsley steps on the porch, the wood under his feet creaks dangerously. Up close, the house looks even shoddier but not completely uninhabitable.
He reaches for the keys in the back pocket of his denim jacket, balancing the box he's holding with his propped up leg. When he unlocks the door, the inside is almost bare and neat, but filthy.
It’s an open space; the kitchen has a sink and a counter, though caked with months worth of grime. There are also shelves, also barren. In front of the kitchen counter is a sturdy-looking wooden table, no chair. In the middle of the room is surprisingly, a brick fireplace. To Tinsley's left is the living room, which is void of anything except for dust and a water stain on the ceiling. There is a scant hallway next to him which, if he's guessing correctly, houses the bedroom and bathroom.
He dumps his ratty, old duffel bag on the floor near the doorway, holding a box filled with various books and files. He drops it on top of the counter.
Tinsley walks towards the bedroom, unlocks it, and is surprised that there's a bed. It’s considerably cleaner than the rest of the house. There’s also a closet. The bed is old and frayed, with a wooden frame and thin mattress. It is too short for his long limbs but it will have to do.
Gingerly, he lifts the mattress up, checking for any stains and sighs in relief when he finds out there are none. It’s just uncomfortably hard and thin. He sighs, knowing he won’t be sleeping well tonight.
He spends the entire afternoon cleaning. Thankfully, there’s a broom and a garbage can in the shed outside. He sweeps the floor, discarding any debris and brushing the walls clean off webs and dust. He finds scraps of tools lying around; a hammer and an almost empty box of nails. He tosses them at the small shed. The next thing he clears up is the bedroom, which is fairly easy since there’s not much to clean. He stuffs his clothes and some of his more personal belongings in the small closet. He moves on to the bathroom, scrunches his nose at the acrid smell, and decides that he would face it tomorrow (with some bleach, maybe.)
He lies on his too-small bed and tries to sleep. He stares at the water stain until the dawn has broken. Eventually his eyes start to get tired and he succumbs to a fitful sleep.
He doesn’t remember the nightmare but he wakes up, shivering. He shakes it off.
The next day, Tinsley drives to town. There is a stretch of street lined with various establishments; some parlors, a corner store, a couple of bars, and a diner. Some people and their children mill around, enjoying the early noon. Tinsley parks his car nearby and makes a beeline for the hardware store.
He buys a chest of tools and some farming equipment. He’s flying blind with this whole farming thing, and he can see from the looks that an employee is giving him that he’s as transparent as raindrops on a church window. But he avoids their eyes and keeps to himself. As he exits the hardware store, the muffled sounds of barks and scuffles catches his attention. There’s an animal shelter just across the street, which makes him pause. The memory of ginger fur zooming through the room, and echoes of laughter suddenly jolts through him.
Tinsley shakes his head and moves on, striding to the corner store next to it. Small, wooden blocks in cursive reads Weymouth’s Local Store, and the sight of penny candies by the window gives him a bout of nostalgia. When he opens the door, the man behind the counter immediately gives him a big smile, chirping “Morning!”
He tries not to grimace as he nods back to the other man. He’s thin and lanky, a good few inches shorter than him, with dark hair and even darker, tapered eyes.
Tinsley walks to the counter that carries cleaning supplies, picking up a bottled bleach, a mop, and some other essentials. Then, he picks up some food, a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread—ones that will last him until next week, at least. He eyes the row of whiskey bottles hungrily but remembers that he needs to mind his budget. He hangs his head humbly. He really needs a job soon. Satisfied with his selection, he goes to the counter and is greeted once again by the cheery cashier.
Tinsley purses his lips, waits for him to finish ringing up his grocery, opting to look at the window in the meanwhile. Nevertheless, the man is undeterred, “New to town?”
A flicker of annoyance runs through him, but he forces a smile. “Just moved.”
The man brightens, “Oh, where from?”
“How much?” He says instead, all politeness.
The man visibly deflates but still maintains a smile as he finishes. When finished, he bags them up. Tinsley takes his bag and turns around to leave, not saying a word even as the man meekly says goodbye. He feels a little bad. Just a little.
When Tinsley gets back to his little farmhouse, he finally gets the chance to stock up his mini-fridge, finally eating a real meal instead of coffee and crackers. After, he starts working on repairing the splintered windows and creaky furniture. The bathroom is a more arduous work, taking half of his day but at least he feels comfortable enough to take a shit in the toilet now.
He looks around and thinks to himself, this isn’t such a bad idea.
That night, he crashes his weary body to bed. It’s short-lived because he has a nightmare again.
It’s not so bad, at least not anymore. Or it’s as bad as the beginning and he’s just gotten used to it. He can’t decide. Since last year, he’s been plagued with blood-soaked night terrors. The first couple months were so bad that he had gotten complaints for waking up his neighbors with his screaming. Now, the nightmares became the new norm for Tinsley.
It’s the same one every time.
The nightmare starts out pleasantly at first; to her dancing slowly to soft music playing from the record player, her dark curls bouncing as her heels glide through the floor. Then, a deafening shot. She turns to Tinsley with her mouth parted and her green eyes, the light behind them slowly fading. Her soft hands are clutching the blood soaking her red dress. Tinsley tries to walk towards but his legs are frozen. He tries to run but his whole body solidifies.
In his nightmares, blood starts pouring from her mouth as she falls to the ground. It pools and pools, turning into an ocean of red, engulfing her completely. In his nightmares, she would always say one thing before she dies.
His name.
She says it so delicately, so reverently. It sounds almost like forgiveness. Almost.
In nights like these, he would wake up screaming himself hoarse, stare blankly at the ceiling, light up a cigarette, and lose all hope of going back to sleep again.
Clearly, fate has other plans.
He’s on his third cigarette, massaging his aching temple. It’s three in the morning but his eyes are wide, his senses alert. His body is showing no signs it needs sleep anytime soon. The book he’s planning to read is lying abandoned on the couch. All he can do is stare in the dark, not seeing.
He might as well be half-dead. He knows he should be thinking of his future, of what he’ll do years from now, but he’s just so… fucking bored. Listless. He once heard that an idle mind is a devil’s workshop. He’s never been a religious man and he doesn’t believe in the devil, but he feels as if there’s all kinds of devils dancing around in his head. Rage. Despair. Guilt. He feels all of them, at full throttle, all the time. It’s like he’s arrested in time, aimless and governed by these devils. At first glance, it might seem like he has his shit together, but at times like these, he’s a bit as lost as everyone else. He never thought he would be starting from scratch at his mid-thirties. He thinks of himself from ten years ago and feels envious of the bastard. He clearly had a vision of what he’d ought to be now. A wife. Children. White-picket fence.
At least he has one of those now. He inhales a long drag.
He starts when he hears a thump from outside. Tinsley sits up, all fight and no flight when he hears a significantly louder crash, followed by a string of expletives and a drawn out groan. He gets up from his couch, snuffing out his cigarette with his bare feet. Creeping to the kitchen, he snatches the wrench on top of the dining table.
He opens the door as silently as he could, thanking himself for fixing the once-creaky door and his wrench-turned-melee-weapon. Cautiously, he lowers the wrench when he sees what… or rather who is outside.
A man is sitting on his porch, clearly injured and trailing blood everywhere. His eyes are shut, groaning painfully as he clutches his bleeding side. He looks dangerously pale.
Tinsley feels strangely awkward just standing about. He says, as casual as one can be, “You know, you could have just knocked.”
The man startles. He blasphemes, tries to stand up, instantly falls over in one quick, impressive succession. He howls in pain. In normal circumstances, Tinsley would have found his skittering hilarious. He seems to momentarily forget he was bleeding to death. He winces sympathetically instead.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” The man looks up, blinking his dark brown eyes at him, “I thought you were a ghost.”
“Thanks.” Tinsley replies dryly. The man wheezes out pathetically as a response. “Come on, get up.”
He helps him get to his feet. He knows how idiotic this looks, letting a complete stranger into his home but Tinsley is far too tired to think straight.
He only hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.