De-tourist Town
It was a clear- elephant in the room that mister Otis Holt couldn't tell whether to point out or not, on one hand- he could watch the detective fumble his pen with shaking hands, quivering fingers that thrummed against the plastic of the tubed ink- the awkward kind that you'd see in stones skipping the face of a still pond. On the other hand- he could cure himself of his itching curiosity that clawed behind his eyepatched eye.
Against the poorly lit yellowy-green lit office, and the creaky wooden seat that he was placed before a desk that decorated its static face of questionable gashes and splintering ends that- looks like an axe was gnawing against the leg of the poor desk? Datura Bow, Castoia: it spilled of tourists that stayed for no longer than a days worth of exhausting the curiosities that resided within this literal ghost town, haunted by whatever legends that built the pillars that now support the so called idea that this space was a fountain for paranormal activity. Otis could feel his skin crawling with nonexistent bugs, consumed fully by marching ants beneath his sleeves and picking at his cuff-ends with chipped, black painted nails... or maybe it was from how uncomfortable the air was in this room, the giant of this wimpy looking detective should probably open a window more often, god its terribly musty. It was like sitting in an attic, of which- they practically were. Maybe the crawling sensation was from the fact that his medication was changed, lessening the dosage since the last prescription affectively had coaxed the grueling symptoms of his peculiar eye- in return of feeling less of an appetite than he already had and often giving the chef bouts of nausea that made it harder to stand on two feet. As of now, he was fine, just uncomfortable, thankfully the eyepatch was fairing him well in not having to see any ghostly apparitions, he could very much feel their presence still- like they were the annoying, distant ringing in his ear that no matter how long you plug it- its still always there just lightly scratching against that peaceful silence you so longed for... but better not being more distracted than he already was. Breathing in the dust, breathing in the decay.
To be frank, with the margarine-thick atmosphere, the buzzing feeling that stabbed through his thin-layered turtle neck, the clatters and awkward struggles of the inspector, the whips of voices that turned and twisted around and about that the heterochromic male could feel- he honestly thought he was going to go crazy. Thank the goddess that this particular part of this nuisance of a tourist town wasn't as crowded, he'd've most likely found himself overwhelmed and on the bout of wanting to rip out some handfuls of hair if he had to get shoved in with gleefully ignorant visitors that paused gift shops and asked for directions, people that were too loud, that were too much. Guh, the boat ride over already made him nauseous... or was that the medication? It doesn't quite matter, what matters now is the mental battle that the client has with his detective. The case of Otis Holt's rather unnerving... stalker could be the word, more so- he had filed a case against a... someone that honest to the gods- makes him want to hurl himself into the sun if it meant never having to see him again. A person he is bitter about even having befriended, someone particular that he still beats himself over having looked up to at one point- and someone he's shed tears over; having believed that he himself was the problem and that the actions that that person made were reasonable.
Emmett Iverson.
Hydrangea County, one week post New Years; Otis Holt was found in a storage unit clawing for the last strands of his life. Officials are puzzled at how the oculus ended up there or how he went missing in the first place, but it was dubbed as a miracle how he survived. Miracle his ass, he was about 18 at the time and woke up after being comatose for- gods knows how long- and almost got himself killed again in hysteria. It was a whole trip, but he's 23 now, he isn't that paranoid college student anymore, now he's evolved into a wreck of a human and a father of twins that are just about to turn two years old. He's an adult, mostly- sorta- supposed to be one, now. As a stay at home father, he's supposed to watch over his kids and ensure their safety, but if occasionally seeing something that has been creeping around the neighborhood that definitely isn't a hallucination means safe? Yeah he has to take matters into his own hands. Hell, he didn't even bother mentioning it to anyone, just closing the curtains and calling it that, looking over his shoulder when grocery shopping and making sure he can easily access his wife's pepper spray when taking the twins out to the park. He only actually decided to do something about it after his niece brought up some tall white haired guy trying to give her a letter that was addressed to Otis himself, he had a pretty bad time that day but- that's besides the point. He could've tried registering a restraining order but- its like the guy never existed in the first place, there is no Emmett Iverson in the records. Like he died or something, but- the blondie knows that isn't right, he isn't any more crazy than the ghosts he sometimes watches on lazy days. And so, instead, he hired a private investigator. Rather, a friend recommended this guy to him.
Hopefully reputation precedes how he presented himself, which they had- thankfully, because he was really weak looking. And thats coming from Otis. But- he needed someone to look into his case, he sure did didn't need any more news coverage and being yelled at to be interviewed after some 5 years after his firework accident. He just needed someone- to investigate his wrongdoer. All he wants- is to feel a little more safe and try and get this guy behind bars... so here we are. Third meeting back in Datura Bow, in this stuffy attic of a dinky apartment complex that's probably about to topple over since its practically made of still drying clay and crafts popsicle sticks. And the Inspector has just barely shaken some ink out of his utensil to the paper... oh right.
"Are you alright? You're having a... uh some trouble."
"It-It's no-n-nnnothing." The gangly man waved off with his free hand, fingers bound in gauze and its padding making his digits just barely articulate.
"Yeah?"
And so the detective nods, the bandages make it hard to pinch the pen and write, scribbling a report. "Very fine. I-I mean I alr-already have a shhhhake so I'm u-used to this."
"I could just- write for you, saves yourself time." And he shrugs, and Otis squints as if he's starring at the sun with his leaky eye. "Th-Thissss doesn't q-qu-qui-... really mmmmatter, anywho. The r-report." With a near whine of a sigh, Inspector Grift allows the writing tool to fall and bounce off the desk, hitting the floor. And looking at his disappointment, he probably didn't mean for that to happen.
"...I did f-find more ab-about Iv-Iversssson."
"And?"
"He c-curren-currently works a-as a g-gov-go-g-- agent under the Ov-Oversssseer" The Detective's speech pattern was one of a scratched dvd, often stammering or a wavering quiver in his tone, the spaces and gaps were enough for his client to awkwardly shove his output between the stops between- he was rather startled by that newfound information but he didn't get a word in- surprisingly. "...I-I don't be-believe hhhhe took t-too kindly. Found me out wh-when I found him, hhhe b-broke all m-my fffingers...".... he what.
Leaned back in his seat with a creak, Otis looked at the hunched over man with bandaged hands as if he had just died in front of him.
He might throw up.