Lucas hadn't slept all night. His swollen eye made reading difficult, but he still forced himself to keep going, the words blurring together as exhaustion gnawed at him. The old leather chair beneath him creaked whenever he shifted, a sound he barely registered anymore. The only noise that mattered was the occasional rustle of pages turning, filling the suffocating silence of the house.
His good eye flicked toward the window as the faint light of morning began to creep through the cracks in the curtains. He sighed, setting the book down on his lap, fingers tracing over the worn cover as he leaned back. There was a stiffness in his body that only came from nights like this—restless, haunted by too many thoughts and not enough peace.
The sharp sound of a car pulling up broke through the stillness. Lucas's heart thudded, his breath catching in his throat as he stood up, straining to listen. He knew that car. He knew it too well. Mr. Morton.
A knot tightened in his stomach as he made his way down the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The mere thought of seeing Mr. Morton made his skin crawl. The man was revolting in every way—his gaze, his smug tone, the way he always seemed to take up too much space. And worse, Mr. Morton didn't seem the least bit phased by his wife's death two days ago when he had called Lucas.
Mrs. Morton had fallen down the stairs. At least, that's what everyone believed. But Lucas—he had pushed her. A sudden impulse he couldn't contain. Her eyes had gone wide in shock before her body hit the ground with a sickening thud. And the worst part? No one knew. No one suspected a thing. It had been too easy.
But now, that same car was pulling up, as if nothing had changed. As if Mr. Morton hadn't just lost his wife.
When Lucas reached the bottom of the stairs, he froze. There, standing at the doorway, was Mr. Morton, casually stepping out of his car with a small, worn doctor's suitcase in his hand.
Lucas's mind immediately raced to the worst. What was in that bag? Something grotesque, something horrifying. It wouldn't surprise him if Mr. Morton brought back something twisted, some disturbing relic from his macabre interests. The man never made any sense. He was always too calm, too composed.
Mr. Morton walked briskly into the house, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of clinical detachment and barely masked curiosity. When his gaze fell upon Lucas, a sharp intake of breath escaped him.
"Good Lord, what happened to you?" Mr. Morton exclaimed, dropping the suitcase with a thud. His voice was loud, laced with concern that seemed exaggerated, even theatrical. He moved quickly to Lucas, his face hovering dangerously close to Lucas's.
Lucas stiffened, barely suppressing the urge to recoil. Mr. Morton's proximity was suffocating, and the man's gaze—intense, almost invasive—seemed to scrutinize every detail of Lucas's injuries.
"Who did this to you?" Mr. Morton demanded, his voice rising in a mix of outrage and panic. His hands, trembling slightly, reached out to touch Lucas's bruised face, as if he might somehow unravel the story of the injury by sheer force of his will.
Lucas pushed Mr. Morton away, taking a few steps back. The sudden movement seemed to jolt Mr. Morton from his frantic state. The man straightened, regaining his composure with a practiced ease.
"Forgive my outburst," Mr. Morton said, his tone shifting to one of controlled calm. "It's just—such injuries are deeply distressing to see, especially on my son .I hope whoever did this will be held accountable."
Lucas observed Mr. Morton's sudden shift in demeanor with a critical eye. The man's facade of concern had slipped, revealing a more calculating and controlled personality beneath. He wondered what Mr. Morton's true intentions were—whether his display of worry was genuine or merely another facet of his manipulative nature.
"I'm fine," Lucas said tersely, trying to mask the discomfort Mr. Morton's presence caused him. "I'll manage."
Mr. Morton nodded, though his eyes remained sharp, as if trying to gauge whether Lucas was hiding something. "Very well," he said, though his tone held a hint of skepticism. "I trust you'll let me know if there's anything I can do."
As Mr. Morton began to organize his belongings with precision, Lucas watched from a distance, wondering what dark secrets lay behind the man's calm exterior and whether his visit had any hidden agenda.
Lucas's gaze narrowed, and a thought struck him—a perfect opportunity to unsettle Mr. Morton further, to reveal the cracks.
"Mrs. Morton," Lucas said, his voice dripping with a cold, mocking tone. "Such a shame, really. A tragic accident, they say. But isn't it curious how bad things always seem to happen to the best of people? She was so kind, so innocent."
Mr. Morton stiffened, his hands pausing in mid-air as he glanced back at Lucas. The calm he wore seemed to waver, a fleeting shadow of something unreadable crossing his features. For a moment, he appeared to be grappling with a strong emotion before he turned his back to Lucas, visibly regaining his composure.
Lucas's smirk grew, sensing that his words had hit their mark. He took a step closer, his voice softer but laced with cruel satisfaction. "It's almost poetic, don't you think? That the people who deserve happiness the most are often the ones to suffer the most. And here you are, just as unshaken, as if nothing had ever happened. I suppose some things never change."
Mr. Morton's shoulders tensed imperceptibly, but he kept his back turned. Lucas could see him clenching his fists at his sides. The man's silence spoke volumes, a strained attempt to suppress whatever feelings were bubbling beneath his calm exterior.
Lucas took another step forward, his voice now barely above a whisper. "It must be tough, losing someone you were supposed to care about, and yet, somehow, you just keep going. I suppose it's easier to pretend it never mattered, isn't it?"
Mr. Morton's jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Lucas felt a twisted sense of triumph, knowing he had struck a nerve. The man's inability to face him directly only fueled Lucas's satisfaction.
As Mr. Morton continued to arrange his belongings, his movements were quick but controlled. Lucas could sense the effort it took for him to mask his discomfort. The confrontation had clearly shaken him, but he was determined not to show it.
"Is there anything else you need?" Mr. Morton's voice was icy, a stark contrast to his earlier display of concern. The change in tone was unmistakable—Lucas had achieved his goal, leaving Mr. Morton visibly unsettled.
"No," Lucas said, his voice cold and final.
Lucas's words hung in the air, a thick, unsettling silence settling over the room. He watched as Mr. Morton slowly turned to face him, his eyes steely and unreadable.
Without a word, Mr. Morton reached for the worn doctor's suitcase he had brought with him. He extended it toward Lucas. The suitcase was scuffed and weathered, a testament to its age and frequent use.
"I brought this for you," Mr. Morton said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "An acquaintance of mine thought you might find it useful. It's quite old, but I understand you have an interest in peculiar medical items."
Lucas guard was immediately raised not knowing how he knew that. He glanced at the suitcase, then back at Mr. Morton, who was watching him with an inscrutable expression.
"Mrs. Morton mentioned to me that you had a particular fascination with medical books and oddities," Mr. Morton continued, his tone barely masking a hint of disdain. "It seems she had been in your room, snooping around. She found your collection quite intriguing, though perhaps a bit disturbing."
Lucas's eyes narrowed, but he tried to maintain his composure.'That fucking bitch.'he thought to himself. The mention of Mrs. Morton's snooping was a subtle jab, a reminder that anyone could access his personal stuff at any time.
"I see," Lucas said, taking the suitcase from Mr. Morton's hand with a certain care that he didn't know he possessed. The weight of it felt solid and substantial.
Mr. Morton's face betrayed a flicker of something—perhaps a shadow of satisfaction or relief—as he watched Lucas handle the suitcase.
"Consider it a token," Mr. Morton said coolly, "from someone who understands your… peculiarities and an apology for how things was left between the two of us."
Lucas nodded, his smile tinged with a hint of amusement. "Thank you. I'm sure it will be an… interesting addition to my collection."
Mr. Morton gave a curt nod before turning away, his steps quick as he moved to gather his things. Lucas stood there for a moment, examining the suitcase with an almost reverent curiosity and a growing excitement but he didn't show it on his face.
Mr. Morton gathered his belongings with a finality that suggested he was done for the day. Just as he was about to leave, he paused and turned back to Lucas with a slightly unsettling smile.
"I'll be picking up the urn containing Mrs. Morton's ashes later," Mr. Morton said. "It's a rather private affair. I trust you understand."
Lucas frowned, his confusion evident. "A private affair? Why isn't there a funeral?"
Mr. Morton's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Would you have attended the funeral, Lucas?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Lucas's silence was answer enough. He didn't need to voice his disinterest; the lack of response spoke volumes.
Mr. Morton's eyes gleamed with a knowing light as he let the silence stretch. He didn't need to say more. The implication was clear—there was no need for a funeral, and Lucas's lack of enthusiasm was precisely what Mr. Morton had expected.
With a final nod, Mr. Morton turned and walked towards the door. His smile lingered for a moment before it faded into a cold, impassive expression. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the hallway as he left the house, leaving Lucas alone with his thoughts and the eerie gift of the suitcase.
Lucas stood still, staring at the closed door, the strange turn of events leaving a curious weight on his shoulders. The unsettling calm of the house seemed to close in around him, and at that moment he felt the dark urges he tried to contain bubble up again.