Prologue
“Alastor Doyle, is it?” The barman looked over his spectacles at the English gentleman standing before him. A jacket cinched at the waist worn over a white vest with gold embroidery in the latest fashion. Three gold buttons set too far off to the side to be of any use except for decoration and the declaration of wealth. The barman, with his walrus mustache quivering, looked into Alastor Doyle’s youthful face. “Why’s a gentleman like you here of all places? An’ don’t tell me you’re here on a ‘vacation’. No one in his or her right mind will come to Lower Crestburg.”
The gentleman coughed lightly. “Firstly yes, I am Mister Doyle. Secondly, I’m here to meet my wife and our three children. My job does not allow me to settle down and so, rarely do I ever see my family.” With an elegant flourish, Doyle flicked out a silk handkerchief and polished his monocle. “Now, are you going to chat all night or may I have the key to my room?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but the last room was taken but an hour ago.”
Doyle’s handsome face screwed up in confusion. “But I booked a room for a week. You should have received a telegram.”
The barman snickered and said, “Telegram? Mister Doyle, a town such as Lower Crestburg has only one telegram office and at the current times, it is closed. We are isolated from the world, Mister Doyle. Any who live and remain in Lower Crestburg has no relations outside of town and we have no need of a telegram.”
Doyle frowned slightly. “Do you have anywhere else I can spend the night? Anywhere at all?”
“Certainly, but none too appropriate for your status, Mister Doyle,” the barman mumbled. “You could always take room 445 on the third floor. However, you may find it…not so appealing in more than one factor. There will be an open room tomorrow for you to lodge in. Until then, I bid you good night.” With an odd shuffle, the barman tossed the keys to room 445 to Mister Doyle and without another word, turned back to polishing the counter.
Doyle ruffled his sand and pepper hair, a look of confusion mixed with exhaustion lining his face. He did not question the barman’s strange behavior, nor did he wonder why such a small lodging house should have 445 and upwards of rooms. Instead, Alastor Doyle picked up his briefcase and treaded up the creaky wooden stairs.
The hallway was barely lit, most of the oil lamps already flickering out. The wooden floor was slightly burnt, the charred wood painted over hurriedly with flaking paint. A ghastly smell of urine, sweat and mold swirled in the thick air and clogged Doyle’s nostrils.
At the end of the hallway a lamp died suddenly and the darkness flowed over the walls and floor like black molasses. A momentary chill crept through the air, then the unmistakable sound of a child’s faint wail.
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