Tom

It couldn’t be right. Tom found the address; it was clearly marked, no mistake.

But it was not a house or an apartment…

It was a storage facility.

Rows and rows of rusty blue shipping containers, each marked with a bright white number.

A sign at the front said it was private property, “only storage renters with their dues paid allowed on site”. A guard was apparently on patrol…

Not a single soul was there. If there really was a guard, they were on break somewhere.

He strode down the path.

“21, 22, 23, 24…and”

There it was, just another unassuming container. In all honesty, it may have been on the nicer side. Many of the boxes had rubbish piled in front of them, or were sitting wide open with trash spilling out like the guts of some rotting animal.

25. It was clear of debris, and locked securely. It had a heavy metal padlock on it, black finish with a polished steel shackle. It had the same logo as the key he’d found in Rodney’s bag.

Tom looked around. He was still alone, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would know as soon as he opened it. That they would come and he wouldn’t have any answers for them.

Hell, I don’t even know why I’m here. What would I tell the guard?

Still, he’d come too far to back down now.

He considered knocking before realizing how silly that was and swinging Rodney’s backpack off his shoulder.

It was in there somewhere.

A moment of rummaging later, and he pulled out the key. He had assumed it was a key to Rodney’s home, and even in that moment he had no confirmation it wasn’t…yet as he held it out before him, it felt like a charge was building.

He reached out and with trembling hands, Tom slid it into the padlock and turned.

The lock popped open with a satisfying click.

He pulled the door open, creaking on its hinges as it swung, revealing its contents.

Wait…what is this?

Inside, he could see a desk set up with a single chair. There were lamps hooked up to extension cords, light sorted furniture: a chest of drawers, a small bookshelf full of well-loved books. Maps of the island and white sheets decorated the walls, and in the corner, a little cot.

It wasn’t his storage locker; it was his home.

He’d known Rodney was struggling, but…surly…

Stepping forward into the crate, Tom took in the strangeness of it all. He was expecting boxes piled from floor to ceiling. Not only did the space seem livable, it was tidy.

Even his bed is made.

The white and blue sheets were pulled up and folded nicely, not haphazardly slung to the side like Tom knew his were.

It also smelled good. No, not good, clean. The odor of disinfectant and bleach.

The container smelled sterile. Like a hospital room just after someone has died.

Moving into the container, Tom inspected the bookshelf.

The first shelf was mainly self-help books and basic guides to everyday skills, but past that point it got interesting. There was a clear focus on the paranormal. The newer volumes all seemed like the kinds of books Tom would find at his aunt’s house, new agey granola fare, crystals on the covers, titles that included the word energy like it meant something special. One still had the stickers indicating its place in the best-seller bargain bin. But there were others too, older, tattered, and far more eclectic.

There were books on ghosts, psychics, demons, unexplained disappearances, and government conspiracies. Many of which seemed like small print self-published books, and more concerning, most were locally focused.

As Tom pulled out a well-worn book titled “The Ghost of Highway 525”, he wondered if Rodney had found these books in the same place Lucy had taken him to. Had Rodney been crouched down in the same spot he had been, picking through dusty books?

Turning his flashlight to the little table sitting beside the cot, Tom spotted an apple, quietly rotting with one bite out of it.

He walked over and moved to pick it up before retracting his hand.

Yeah, no, I’m not touching that.

Strange impulses aside, it was an odd sight. Rodney was so tidy, and there was no other food around.

Tom stepped back, trying to take in the scene, when he stepped on a bit of cloth.

Turning to the wall, Tom realized the sheet wasn’t covering the wall; it was draped over something.

Glancing at the open crate door, Tom confirmed he was still alone, though the darkness outside could hide anything.

He sighed.

I’ve come too far now.

He grabbed the sheet with one hand and with one swift yank…

“oh… oh shit.”

The flashlight waved over the scene, a beam of light as frantic as the hand now scrambling over the surface of the phone.

A brilliant light illuminated the entire crate as Tom snapped a picture for Kat.

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