Well, I finally got my lazy ass out of bed. My efforts of the last week have succeeded, in that I am back on a mostly-daytime schedule. I’m still not up til noon or in bed til past 2, but I already feel a lot better. Still hearing that damned whispering, but at least I’m not sleep deprived. Think I might be able to get some painting done soon; you’ll see through this entry I’ve been doing some computer doodling.
Still no notes from our friend, but I haven’t seen him in the woods the last few days either. I suspect something might be up. Still waiting, I guess. Did go and check my mail at the post office though, so I owe my correspondent a letter. :) Also, I know I owe a bunch of people emails. Soon, I promise.
The big news is that I marched down to the ‘Grace Mission House’ or whatever the hell it is out in my woods yesterday. It was a short, but very fucking surreal experience, and that’s saying something.
The mission house turned out to be a little bit more than a mile up the main road, and then down its own dirt road back into the heart of the woods, like the windmill. There was a sign out front, but other than that, it seemed almost abandoned from the outside. There weren’t any windows
The Grace Mission House is a little, windowless cabin in the woods.
I was almost too intimidated to go inside. I figured there probably wasn’t anyone there anyway. For some reason in my head I’d been figuring that Mr. Grace lived there, but it didn’t look that way.
Anyway, I went up to the door and knocked. Nobody answered. I stood there for a minute feeling stupid, then I got daring. Tried the handle. Whaddaya know, it opened.
Then I felt really awkward. It opened in on this pretty normal looking reception area. There was a girl sitting at the desk, just kinda staring at me. The room was almost bare, there wasn’t a computer on the desk or anything.
No chairs, but a weird painting.
Before the girl could ask me what I was doing there, I sputtered out that I was here to see Mr. Grace. She shrugged, and told me he’d be out in a minute.
Well, I was almost wanted to just fucking leave, but I stood there in the lobby, or whatever, and looked around. Guess I was waiting for him. There weren’t any chairs either. There were a couple of paintings though. The one that caught my eye was behind the receptionists desk. It looked almost like a painted medieval woodcut- very flat and stilted. It was a painting of two men threatening each other with swords, over a woman, while a bunch of people looked on. I sketched the bare minimum out in the pic above- something about it seemed familiar,. Going to try to recreate the whole thing later, maybe, but it was taking too long and I’m impatient to get this up. You can get the basic idea though.
Anyway, like ten looong minutes later, the door at the back of the room opened. I couldn’t get a good look at the room beyond as 12 people filed out of the room. They were all men in business suits, and the first ten just walked right past me and out the door. God only knows where they were parked, because I didn’t see any other cars around. And yeah, I had a look at their hands, black rings, all of em. One on each thumb.
The last two, it was Mr. Grace and a kid. The receptionist told him I was here to see him, but he was already walking over to me, the kid right with him. Both of them had rings on too.
Father and Sons of Grace; these two made such an impression on me, I want to do a real painting. Fucking creepy pair.
I can tell you right now this pair made a really strong impression on me. The kid gave me the fucking chills. He just kept staring at me. Mr. Grace, he looked anxious and nervous the whole time. He was definitely eager to get rid of me.
Me: I hope this isn’t a bad time, Mr. Grace. Funeral?
Grace sr. : No, …just a meeting, I’m sorry Miss…? (I think he’s putting me on here, he definitely recognized me)
Me: Tom Pickman, SIR. I live up at the windmill? You came to talk to me about that vandal?
Grace sr. : Oh yes, forgive me Mr. Pickman. This is my Son, Edmund.
Me: Pleasure. Uh, Mr. Grace, I was wondering; have you had any contact from the vandal lately? I mean, uh, vandalism?
Grace sr: Its been quiet here- unless he’s moved on to your property?
Me: Well, sort of. He leave me….(deep breath) notes.
Grace Sr (definitely doesn’t like hearing this): I’m sorry Mr. Pickman, can we talk about this another time? I have to get my son home.
Me; Uh, yeah, that’s fine. Can I come back next week?
Grace sr: Certainly, certainly, during business hours, please.
Me: (realizing its like 7 oclock) Yeah, sorry out that. My time’s all out of whack.
Grace sr: Thank you. Until then. Come along- son.
Grace jr: (very quiet) I left my book inside.
Grace sr: (looks back at the door) You can see yourself out I trust?
Me; (nod) (handshake) See you next week.
I waited outside for a minute for them to come out, but they didn’t. I didn’t see any cars on the way back to the windmill either.
The whole encounter stinks. Grace seemed way far away from the gruff, composed man who talked to me at the windmill. I don’t know if he seemed more afraid of me or his own kid, but I am mighty fucking suspicious of the whole thing. Been chewing the encounter over in my head for a day, but I don’t have anything concrete. Guess all I resolved for sure is that yeah, the Sons of Grace DO wear black rings. Gonna go back on Monday.