Roger and Amber left the house; she made him go in the trunk for a pile of newspapers. Still dripping, he squished into the front seat and they left.
Once back at the apartment, Roger ran for the shower before the stench made him throw up. Too late. He had his shower, leaving the mess for one of the Supremes to clean up.
Later that afternoon, he sat down and read the inheritance letter again. He decided to call the lawyer to clear up some questions.
"Hello, Hooke, Klein and Sinclair, may I help you?" The sweet voice comforted Roger, but he still felt like this was going to cost him fifty bucks.
"Yes, my name is Roger Harpell, and I was wondering if I could speak to someone about my inheritance?"
"I'll put you through to Dee Hooke, he handles these matters..."
"Uh, Thank you," Roger said meekly, wondering how this group got any business.
After a long pause, he hoped that the man who invented the hold button was rotting in hell, and Roger continued to wait.
A raspy voice broke the silence. "Dee Hooke, can I help you?"
"Yes, It's Roger Harpell, I just inherited the Smith house..." He hoped that Dee would remember.
"Oh yes, fine man. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I was wondering if there was any information about a funeral for my uncle?"
"Uh, well no, there isn't."
"Why not?!" Roger asked. "With all his money, you would think he could have a great funeral."
"Well, actually, we haven't been able to find him for four years, so we had to declare him dead. We've had missing person reports go out and everything, but we still don't know where exactly he is."
"Oh, I see. That's all for now then. I'll talk to you later."
"Thank you for calling."
Sitting back, Roger thought about the conversation. Where was his uncle? Was he really dead? Glancing at his fake Rolex, Roger decided it was time for bed.
Slowly, the hours ticked by and Roger lay awake. His mind was on two things: The fact that his uncle might still be alive, and that the ceiling had to be re-plastered.
By morning, Roger had decided to move into the old house. He rented a moving van after having breakfast at the Olde Towne Cafe across the street. All his things were packed by mid-afternoon; being a student, he didn't have much, but he wasn't looking forward to carrying them down the trellis.
Consumed in thought, the drive to the house went quickly. Roger just piled his stuff in the cathedral hall and left it. Sitting in the kitchen, stretching out his aching back muscles, he started to wonder about the house. He thought about the episode in the bathroom. `This will be a challenge if the rest of the house is the same,' he thought. `It might kill me. It might have killed Uncle Sturmgosse.'
`Ah, fuck it. I'll return the truck tomorrow, then start on my Medieval English essay.'
Drifting into a light sleep, he dreamt of his childhood on drugs - it looked like a fried chocolate egg. Some guy kept asking if he had any questions. He did, but he didn't want to seem like an idiot.
He awoke late the next morning, with the sun shining through the stained glass above and a major headache. On the plus side, at least it had been demoted - yesterday's had been a Colonel headache. Squinting, Roger sat up and rubbed his neck. Scattered patterns in the marble mesmerized him. He pushed himself up with a grunt, then walked into the kitchen and considered food as an interesting change of diet.
Opening the fridge door revealed a skull with bamboo stakes arranged in what looked to be a crown.
Stepping back in shock, Roger's eyes darted left to a seven foot tall African headhunter standing in the archway. His shoulders were wider than a Mack truck. He did not move, did not blink; he stood and stared at Roger.
"Lose your head?" Roger asked politely.
There was no reply.
Roger wished the window was less than brick. Some nice thin glass would be good, or even Saran Wrap™. Brick was just a little more solid than was necessary, thank you very much.
As the headhunter stepped into the room, his spear glinted in the light. Leaving the fridge door open, Roger ran behind the table. The headhunter took the skull platter and placed it on the floor. Sitting cross legged in front of it, he motioned for Roger to come over.
"Me?"
Evidently, the headhunter was referring to him. Tough luck, that. Roger obliged cautiously, and sat across from the headhunter, who was staring into the face of the skull.
"Me Mantu," said the headhunter.
"Me Roger."
Mantu promptly put his hands down on the floor, and Roger did the same - it seemed the polite thing to do. They stared at each other. After a time, Mantu broke the trance and started to chant and roll his eyes. The eye sockets on the skull emitted rainbow coloured lights over Mantu's face. Their hands were pushed off the floor by a mysterious force, and everything around them turned into a glistening, wavering curtain of fluid. It floated around them and encapsulated them. When the sphere thinned, Roger and Mantu were sitting in a desert.
Roger stood up and felt dizzy, unreal, almost as though he was in a different world. He followed Mantu to a mine shaft and down into darkness. Proceeding by touch only, they walked until a dim, flickering light was visible ahead. When they arrived, an old man sitting by a fire stood to greet them.
"Howdy, howdy, come in, siddown. Have a cup o' me homebrew. It's an old fambly recipe, been wi' us fer generations. Secret's th' grubs in th' soil. Makes th' oak I ages it in tha' much sweeter... So, wha' brings you lads 'bout?" asked the old man, sitting down on his rock.
"We seek knowledge, old one," grunted Mantu.
Roger was surprised; he had been certain Mantu was a semi-mute.
"Ye do, do ye? Waaayell, old Zeke sure has collected a powerful amount a' that. What thar d'ye want ta know?"
"Well," said Roger, "I'd like to know where my uncle is."
"Yep, I bets ya do. So'd he, I reckon. Letcha in on a li'l secret. Ye knows that a li'l knowledge be a dangerous thing?"
"Yeah, I heard something to that effect."
"There's more to it, boy. It's na' just whatcha knows, it's also when ya knows it."
Roger nodded. "Okay... so... what's yer point?"
"Cain't tells ya where ol' Sturmgosse is. Too early. But don'tchou worry 'bout that. He'll turn up somewheres. Always does."
"How will I know?"
"When ya find 'im, yi'll know. Tain't what's in th' house, but what's outside. It's not th' rooms but the worlds what holds th'key. The worlds won't harm ya, jest test ya. An' the rooms ain't half as important as the corridors. The spaces between ya gots ta keep yer eyes on."
"Sounds like my undergrad philosophy class."
"Don't be so flip, ya whippersnapper, les' ya wants ta be flipped over."
"Uh, yeah. Anyway, how do I get around in my house?"
"Don't be askin me. Its yer house."
"Oh. Okay."
"Time to go now," said Mantu.
"Y'all c'n use the door over there," instructed Zeke.
Mantu and Roger stood up, thanked Zeke for the drinks, and passed through a heavy iron door. On the other side was the Cathedral Hall. They walked out of what Roger thought was the closet.
"Is it just me, or does this house have an odd..."
Mantu was gone.
"... Floorplan." Roger looked into the kitchen. The skull was gone too. He turned around and opened the door again. It was a closet. "Oh boy."
