A Town, a Disappearance, and a Cat

Chapter 1My name is Shaun Marlow, an author by trade. I recently inherited my grandfather’s house and all his assets thanks to the living trust and POD, or Payable on Death, arrangements he set up for me. I wasn’t terribly surprised when my lawyer, Mr. Holmes, informed me about this. Grandpa left everything to me because he was estranged from my father and had no other living relatives except me. The fact I wasn’t on speaking terms with my father, and hadn’t been for several years, made my inheriting everything all the sweeter. We’d parted company when he and my mother realized the man I’d introduced them to was my boyfriend, not some guy from work as I’d first claimed. The folks had immediately disowned me. Unsurprising as they were devout churchgoers who never missed a Sunday service and took the minister’s preaching against homosexuality to heart. Soon after, the man and I broke up—the first of several break ups I’ve gone through. I meet someone and we start dating. I develop an interest in him beyond merely going out together, which seems to be reciprocated at first, and we usually end up sleeping together. Somehow, though, that’s as far as it goes and too soon he decides to move on. My fault? Probably. No, definitely, I suppose. Showing my true feelings is hard for me, it always has been. Perhaps someday the pattern will change—or I will. When I told Mr. Holmes about my plans to move into the house, he about had a cow. “You’re not going out there to look at it first? Honestly, Shaun, that’s rather foolish of you.” “When I visited him six months ago it was fine. It’s still in good condition, you said.” “Relatively good condition and I’m taking the word of a local Realtor I spoke with.” “Why would he lie?” “He’s a Realtor. They like to describe homes in the best possible light. It’s what they do.” “All right, point made, but even if it needs a lot of work, I’m going to move in. I want to get away from city life and find some peace and quiet. The house is a little over two miles from the town unless the town grew dramatically since I last visited him.” “One way to find out,” Mr. Holmes replied. He went to a map site, brought up the earth-view of the house, and turned the monitor to show me. I was relieved to see the house was still set off by itself on what, if I remember what Grandpa had told me correctly, was four acres of land. The nearest home was a quarter mile away, well hidden by the trees around the property. I was quite certain, even if the exterior needed work—and from what I could tell from the map site view it would—the inside would be in decent condition. After all, Grandpa had lived there up until the day he died and was as healthy and able-bodied as any man his age could be. Even his doctor couldn’t have predicted the brain aneurism that killed him. There hadn’t been a funeral as Grandpa Marlow had eschewed any formal religion after my grandmother’s death. Instead, he had been cremated and his ashes sent to me. “Because it was passed on to me through the trust he set up, there won’t be any probate, right?” I asked. “Exactly. It’s yours free and clear. You still have to pay any debts he owed and the estate tax, but the assets from the POD will be more than enough to take care of that.” Mr. Holmes smiled. “Before you start worrying, he had no debts. He owned everything, and given the value of same, the estate taxes won’t break you.” He talked me through the details and then asked if I had any more questions. I didn’t, so I thanked him for his time and help. As he always did, he reminded me he could bill me or I could pay him now. As I always did, I paid on the spot. All that was left at this point was his sending me the official documents I’d need to prove I owned the property and the house and then I could start packing for my move. The documents came via registered mail two weeks later. Because of what I do for a living, I didn’t have to quit a regular job with all the hassle it entails. I have very few friends, by choice, so there were no prolonged goodbyes. Friends expect you to spend time doing things with them, exchanging visits and what have you. I value my privacy; primarily because writing is a solitary profession and when I’m hard at it I do not like interruptions. That might make the fact I’ve had the occasional lover seem to be an oxymoron but as I’ve said, my relationships always end with the man leaving because I’m unable to give him the sort of emotional bond he wants. Add in my intense involvement with whatever book I’m writing, and any relationship is fated to end almost before it begins. If I could change who I am things might be different. So far it hasn’t happened. I wonder if it ever will. If it’s even possible. Probably not. I am who I am, thanks in no small part to my parents. Opening up about my feelings for someone, no matter how much I might care for them, doesn’t happen. The first thing I did was let my landlord know I’d be moving. He took the news with relative good grace, only saying, “You were one of my best tenants.” He chuckled. “I guess it means I’ll have to give back your security deposit.” “Thanks,” I replied. “Heaven only knows I could use it.” We talked a bit about where I was going, he wished me good travels, and promised to put a check for the deposit in the mail after I gave him my new address. That was it. My life in the city was over. I packed what I was taking with me before renting a U-Haul. First on my agenda were my computer and all the peripherals of course, my clothes, and personal items, and my collection of books. Then I broke down my two large bookcases, not an easy chore by myself but doable. I wouldn’t have brought them with me, but, unless Grandpa had changed in the six months since I’d last visited, which wasn’t likely, he had only two bookshelves. As he’d said more than once, he didn’t like holding onto books unless he thought they were worthy, so the library was his primary source for reading material. I wouldn’t need much from my kitchen other than the microwave and juicer, two items he didn’t have, being a believer in using his stove for cooking. I did pack all the non-perishable food in my cabinets. No sense in letting them go to waste, or onto the landlord’s shelves when he came to do clean-up before renting the apartment again. I decided I didn’t need to take much furniture, either, other than the bookshelves as I said and my desk and its chair. After all, I was getting the house just as it had been when Grandpa died, and I knew he had more than enough in the way of furnishings. When I was ready, I picked up the U-Haul and then spent half the day lugging everything down to it with the assistance of one of my neighbors. He volunteered to help when he saw me struggling as I tried to get the desk into the elevator. It is, as he put it, “One big motherfucker.” He was right. I had already let the utility companies know I was moving and paid what I owed through the end of the month. I considered myself lucky that my bank, a national one, had a branch in Winterdale. All I had to do was transfer my account rather than opening a new one at some other bank—a blessing because I paid all my bills online. I also sent my publisher and my agent my new address. All our business was done online, as well, and I had no intention of changing my cell phone number when I moved. On a cool, crisp Sunday morning in early September, I locked the door to the apartment, slid the keys under it as per the landlord’s request, and took off for my new life in Winterdale. That I was looking forward to it was a given. Otherwise I wouldn’t be making the move. Was I a bit wary of taking such a huge step? Not really. It wasn’t as if I was moving to someplace I’d never been before. Even if the town had changed in the last six months, it wouldn’t be anything major. A new shop, a few new people, probably. But nothing I couldn’t deal with—I hoped.