Baker's Dozen (Transition)

Baker's Dozen (Transition)

“Weatherfield.”

	Benedict Baker muttered the name of the sign in front of him. It was an appropriate name for such a beaten town. The townsfolk shuffled about like zombies while the very air itself didn’t seem to want you to breathe it. A heavy oppression had set over the humble mining village, some unspoken force that turned travelers away. He knew that if it was this bad here, it would be even worse in the town called Weeks, his destination. He couldn’t wait.

	Benedict was a follower of the supernatural ever since he had an experience with a “spider-ghost” at the age of six. As he grew older, he quickly became a laughingstock among his peers in his science classes; his dreamcatchers dispelled any bad feelings he felt, though. While his partners may slander his choice of topic, Benedict was methodical and organized, his determination ensuring scientific integrity in his pursuit of ghosts and goblins. The world wanted to beat him down for his beliefs, but he never wavered. They made a mistake going for the rocketry field; that would never take off like this would. This town was going to be his payoff, a major step forward that will spur interest in the paranormal field once more. He just needed a lead.

	“Excuse me, do you happen to know the way to the library here?” He tried to inject some enthusiasm into the question, but the gray clad lad he was addressing would have none of it.

	Baggy eyes turned to the stranger. “Why do you ask?” The young man was stooped over like something was pressing against his back, driving him forward.

	“Well, I mean to investigate the strange happenings in the town of Weeks.” He tried smiling at his new acquaintance. “Unless you may be able to tell me some firsthand information?”

	“It’s past the bar.”

	Benedict thanked the boy and made his way in the direction of the watering hole. As he passed by the bar, he threw a glance at the windows. Since the prohibition ended two dozen years ago, bars ironically had a little less customers than before. This one, however, was bustling. Or rather, it wasn’t. Every single chair was filled, with six people surrounding every table like a revolver’s cylinder. All of them had their heads down in various positions, dozens of people weighing down the table with their foreheads and whatever memories they were trying to forget. One raised his head to meet the supernaturalist’s eyes, and he saw nothing but regret. Benedict was chasing whatever caused that. He made the right choice coming here. He hoped.

	The library’s wooden floor creaked, loudly announcing his arrival to dim light. It was a dank place, with the smell of mold complimenting the taste of humidity well. The books’ spines were cracked and frayed, the environment slowly destroying the knowledge the shelves held. By the looks of it, the pages would be unreadable by the next ten years. If a librarian was here, they might’ve had a heart attack.

	“Who are you?”

	The voice would have made Benedict jump if he wasn’t so acquainted with the startling and strange. A middle aged woman with dark oak hair and pointed glasses was at a corner, her back to the wall, with a simple brown book clutched in her hands. Her gaze was suspicious and piercing, but he could tell she was just as weary as the rest of the town.

	“Hello, ma’am. I’m here to investigate Weeks.” He awkwardly waved his hand around the room. “The books’ll do just fine, since it seems like no one wants to talk with me.”

	She snapped her book shut. “You’re right no one wants to talk about it. Horrible things shouldn’t be talked about.” She looked him up and down, as if she was memorizing him. “I wouldn’t recommend reading too deeply, either.”

	Secretly, Benedict was pleased. Every significant paranormal discovery started out like this. He wondered what he would discover. Ignoring the sad old lady, he began poring over the spines of the waterlogged tomes.

	He drew out a deep blue book with a cracked cover. Its pages were spotless and creaseless, and the front page was very simply titled.

	“The MacMillan Estate.”