more greg the florist

Once again, part I have no idea...

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When he reached the kitchen the door banged closed in a breeze, making him jump out of his skin.

"Greg?" He called, pulling the door open and peering out into the darkness.

There was nothing there but silence and the rustling of the wind in the trees. 

John swallowed hard and called out again, louder. The darkness seemed to gain solidity around him with every unanswered cry. The second match singed his fingers, and he dropped it. Torch, he thought. There was one in the car.

The car was parked perhaps twenty yards away. That was nothing, he told himself. That was a short walk, even in the dark. And Greg would probably jump out at him along the way and scare him senseless. They'd have a laugh. Everything would be fine. 

He lit another match, fetched the car keys from the kitchen table, and stepped outside. 

The first thing he noticed was the cold. It had been chilly since they arrived, windy and wet, the normal sort of bone-chilling damp that you got this time of year. This was different. The air was so still. It hung around him, inside of him, a tangible weight in his lungs, like ice was forming in his throat with each breath. He ignored it and struck out for the car with a brisk step. 

Five feet out, he pressed the unlock button on the key fob. The locks whirred and clicked. The lights went on inside the car, and it was as if a spell was broken. Everything seemed lighter all at once, and John broke into a run. 

His hands shook with relief as he opened the door and found the torch, wedged under the passenger's seat. He flicked it on and shone it around, heart still beating far too fast. He saw the gravel drive, the house lit up a sickly yellow by the beam, the wet grass, the wood pile. 

The wood pile was sheltered under the eves of the house, pressed up against one stone wall. As he approached, he could see a deep scrape in the grave and then a foot print, as if someone had slipped and stomped down hard with the other foot to catch himself. He looked behind the wood pile, around the corner of the house, and flashed the torch down the short flight of stairs that led to the cellar. 

Something on the stairs caught his eye, and he moved closer. It was a long, jagged splinter of wood. A touch assured him it was dry. As if it had been stored, sheltered from the weather, with the little stack of kindling at the end of the wood pile. 

The obvious conclusion that Greg was in the cellar warred with the obvious question. He had no reason to go down there. John sure as hell didn't want to go down there, but he was moving already, thudding down the steps before he could change his mind. He shoved the door open. 

The space inside was completely dark. The torch beam caught Greg standing alone in the middle of the floor, arms at his sides, eyes open. 

"You scared the shit out of me!" John said, as he stepped in. 

Greg didn't respond. Didn't move. He was looking past John into empty space, eyes unfocused, pupils contracted to tiny black dots. 

"Greg?" John moved closer. Still no response. He caught Greg's shoulder and shook him once, gently. "Hey. Are you all right?" John tugged at his sleeve, and Greg stepped toward him. 

One step at a time, and without looking too hard into the shadows, John led him back up the stairs. The door was standing open as he had left it. The house lights were on again. 

Inside, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea steaming in front of him, Greg finally looked at John instead of through him. "What happened?" Greg asked quietly. "You look...worried." 

John held onto his hand as hard as he dared and tried to think what to say.