Messengers convened each day for their tasks at the depot, where they collected their order sheets within HQ. Being a highly regarded institution, the guild's HQ was one of the only non-recreational businesses in Hardrada Plaza. Ed once asked his superior why that was, to which their answer was that just as the Skyrail carries people all about the city, so must messengers with their packages and since Hardrada Plaza was home to Central Station, so was it to the Messenger Guild HQ.
When Ed arrived it was already busy with people coming back from lunch, the only people who remained at their station were the lowest in the pecking order, required to fill the void while their bosses enjoyed a nice meal. Although on the ground floor, HQ stood out among other establishments in the plaza. At times Ed thought the entrance was a little too conveniently placed, the white pillars on either side catching the light flooding through from the glass roof in just the right way to glisten, drawing the attention of everyone around. If deliberate, it was quite clever marketing, if not, it was an incredibly fortunate advertisement.
It was a curious place, the guild. A short corridor led to a marble reception desk, whose staff were busy writing up orders and, like the messengers, ferrying them to the snaking brass vacuum pipes hung from the ceiling, branching off toward various departments to be prepped for dispatch. On either side, a set of arched staircases connected to the offices on the next level. Some customers were fond of the flashy display, others thought it was tacky and entirely unnecessary. Ed liked it, it had an unashamed character.
As he was about to peel off up the stairs, Ed noticed Owen fidgeting on the bench in the foyer. His shirt was dishevelled, his tie mis-knotted, his hair which was usually parted neatly was stringing over his face.
"Ed, Ed!" He scrambled to his feet, desperately shouting for Ed's attention.
"Come to apologise? Finally realised you were a bit of a dick earlier?"
"What? Oh, yeah sorry about that. Been feeling a bit off recently and the Slayer thing got to me" he calmed himself for a moment and looked Ed dead in the eye. "Seriously, I was out of order, I apologise."
"Yes, yes you were and I guessed something was up so a forgive y--"
Ed was cut off before he could finish, "great, thanks. Look, I've got a bit of a problem and I need a favour."
"Well I can't right now, I've got money to earn, jobs to do," Ed gestured upstairs with.
"Well, that works then! I need help with a job" Owen dug into his satchel. "I accepted a job that I can't get to, I've pressing matters to attend to. Please, mate, I was hoping to see someone who'd help and as a blessing, there you were."
Ed clenched his jaw. It annoyed him a little that he was cut off. Sometimes hubris got the better of him, especially when making good on a misdeed.
"Please, Ed, no one else will help."
Ed debated internally for a moment, traces of which manifested physically in the form of grunts and sighs. He was reluctant. Up the stairs awaited a package to be delivered to the Bjornsson company, documents probably, light-weighted, fast to travel with to a rich company, for a decent commission no less. It was easy money and he'd be able to get back to the depot for more jobs if all went to plan. But Owen was erratic and insistent, so, he figured he'd be the better person and do a mate a favour.
He huffed, prodding Owen's chest, "fine. But I get the pay and you owe me one, okay?"
"Yes, of course, anytime, just let me know!" Owen handed him a wooden box, along with an order form. It didn't look like much, plain, cheap, probably pine or maple, nothing decorative on it, just a clasp. The job probably wouldn't pay very well.
Before he could ask any questions, Owen had already snuck off up the stairs before Ed could change his mind. He didn't peg Owen for a sneaky chap, but exiting like that without him noticing demonstrated skill and experience in it. Somewhat displeased, Ed looked down at the order form, the once neat handwriting spoiled by crimples and creases.
'Bishopthorpe?'
It wasn't too far out the way. If he got the package delivered quick enough, he'd probably have time to go straight to the Bjornsson company to deliver the next. Ed settled on the thought and collected the Bjornsson package from his pigeonhole, hastily leaving HQ.
It was a short trip, he could run it. Exiting the plaza at lunchtime was hectic though. Whistles, waves and whips as horse-drawn taxi carriages came and went. Droves of pedestrians filed through the streets to and from work, lunch or any other time consuming commitment. The paperboys were still at work though, rhythmically shouting the day's headlines, hoping to entice passers-by to purchase a paper.
All Ed had to do was follow the river road, past the old hilltop fort - Eric's Tower - cross the river at Skeldergate and walk down to Knavesmire Avenue. Bishopthorpe was a residential area mainly but Ed would have to pass through suburban high streets where beggars shook tins outside butchers and book stores and thieves prey on the inattentive in backstreets. Best to stay vigilant and avoid a skirmish, or worse, a pickpocket.
The area was once far less busy than nowadays. Bishopthorpe had more space than other areas around the city, most roads had enough room for at least 2 carriages to run through and most houses had private gardens. At one point it was its own village, but over 100 years, through the industrial expansion, it had been absorbed into greater Jorvik.
It was an area favoured by the wealthy to commute to Jorvik for work. 42, Knavesmire Avenue was the very last on the street, nothing about it was particularly striking. Three story townhouses were many throughout the area and this one was identical to all other 41 before it, grey-bricked, white windowed. For all intents and purposes, boring, it appealed to the upper-class, they mistook it for sensibility. Ed enjoyed the colour, in the literal and figurative sense, of more common folk housing.
The order form, which contained details of the delivery instructed the order to be taken to through the basement passageway to the back entrance, where upon arrival the bell should be rung.
Ed did as instructed, the passageway was lined with moss and water dripped from the ceiling. The only people who passed through here would be service folk, so there was no need to keep it as tidy as the front of the house and wasn't worth trying to maintain.
Back on ground level, the passageway led through to a patio area linking the house and the garden. Along the sides, chrysanthemum's and roses were in bloom, as a swing hung from a tree at the back. There was more character to the garden area, as if it in some way reflected the person who lived there. Hanging baskets of scarlet flowers Ed didn't know the name of, carved stone statues, horticulture tools, someone obviously loved their little pocket of nature in this industrial metropolis.
A stark contrast to what they presented from the front of the house, what their peers could see, this was more personal, clearly.
Ed could imagine the owner sitting at the garden table, enjoying a cup of tea and reading the morning papers. It was quaint.
Ed approached the back door, dinged the bell hanging to the right and admired the garden while he waited.
'Come on, hurry up,' he thought, eager to get on with his day.
No answer. "Messenger guild, I have a package for…" he looked down at the order form. "A Mrs. Nilsson."
Still no answer. Ed rang the bell again, a bit more aggressive this time. Still nothing.
The pleasant view the garden provided wasn't preventing him from feeling irritable. Ed hated it when this happened. He couldn't leave the package, there was a certain amount of accountability involved and if the client complained, his decision to leave it unattended for his own benefit would backfire.
Last resort. He banged the door, but rather than shudder before he hit it a second, third and fourth time, the door opened.
When the door opened, the floral scents of the garden were spoilt by the rancid stench of something wafting from the house.
"What is that smell?" said Ed as he pinched his nose. "Mrs. Nilsson, anyone in? Package from the messenger guild."
There was still no answer so, rather than wait for something to happen, he ventured inside. He wouldn't go too far, just enough to see if he could hear any activity, but he couldn't hear anything. Out of curiosity, he unpinched his nose, hoping to figure out what could create such a putrid smell. It was stronger the further he walked in, like a layer of fog, thicker the closer he got to the source.
He could hear something now too. A faint buzzing fluctuating, in and out, varying in volume.
Something about it didn't feel right, it was more than just the smell, something felt… off, the air felt dirty. When his face collided with a wall of insects, he realised something organic was producing the putridity and he began to react physically.
In reaction to discomfort, when the body simultaneously perspires, causing palms, pits and pores to sweat, but the mouth also dries out, becomes sticky and crusts, the psyche listens. When the mind feels fear, signals in the body go haywire and contradictions like this become a part of the warning.
Like the contradictions his body exhibited, Ed's mind toiled with itself. Turning around and leaving would be easy, no-hassle, return the package, do another delivery. But human nature wasn't that simple, Ed was bound by curiosity to investigate.
When he passed the stove, the sink and peered beyond the confines of the kitchen, in that moment, much like the cat that curiosity got the better of, he wished he'd played it safe and left.
Ed had never seen so much blood before. He tried to convince himself for a brief moment that it was an animal carcass, but the relief lasted only a second until, after tracing the exposed spine, a nose poked out from a knotted clump of hair, a human nose.
Splayed out on the floor, ribs punctured organs, Ed deduced the purple glob doused in a thick red was the liver. He didn't realise just how big the bowel system was until he saw it strung out along the floor either. A pile here, a pile there, a length of it still connected to the pelvis a metre away.
Something wet splatted Ed's face from above, it jolted him from his paralytic daze and when he looked up, his lip still trembling, his sense of unease grew stronger. Hanging from the chandelier by the foot, a leg had leaked blood onto his face, a pool of blood beneath his feet where the severed limb had been draining, like the trophy of a huntsman.
Ed stepped back, but fear had seeped into his legs and they crumbled and caved. He needed to run. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. What if the Slayer was still in the house? The body still looked fresh, even if the smell was far from it. But his limbs weren't his own right now and wouldn't respond to his orders, his mind raced while his body was sluggish.
When he crashed to the floor and he tumbled into the pool of blood, he noticed something on the wall behind the body. More blood. He didn't want to see anymore, he wanted to turn around, run away and forget, forget what he saw, forget what the insides of a human smelt like on a warm spring afternoon.
But the wall. The wall, like everything else in the room had been slathered in a crimson veil of gore. Unlike the other walls where blood had splattered in random arcs, the blood had been streaked, pushed and pulled by someone to form words.
Two lines, one sentence. It was short, but scared Ed more than the sight of a mangled corpse.
*EDWIN WARREN CIDREC*
*OPEN THE BOX*