PROLOGUE - III - Facing off the crossroad

Bertrand used to have strange dreams.

He was 34 years old and worked as a private investigator, while acting as a consultant to the town's police department.

The man had a slender, short complexion, sick-white skin, dark circles around his reddish-brown eyes, and red, medium hair.

And at that hour of the night, his body trembled in bed.

Because Bertrand used to have strange dreams. And in this particular dream, he was standing in the middle of a vast garden, in front of a tall, leafy tree.

He looked dazed, as if not knowing where or what that place was. Yet, he searched around with a glance, to see if it was one of his usual dreams.

The man knew when it was a dream or not, because of the subtle feeling of possibility.

In his dreams, he usually was able to do every and any single thing he ever wanted, and even things he didn't wat to, but simply found out to be possible.

And that dream felt exactly like it, only a bit stranger. Because the garden felt more natural than any garden that he had ever seen in real life. The life around it seemed livelier, and the atmosphere shimmered with energy, as if an invisible, yet powerful, indescribable permeating the whole vastness of that place. presence was.

Also, he was naked.

Only after noticing this detail, Bertrand got to pay attention to the tree in front of him. Its wrinkly trunk exposing a pale-brown bark, expanding in countless branches. Its leaves wore a milky tone of white, and each branch carried fruit.

It was a strange, inexplicable fruit. Round, the size of a grapefruit, and an indescribable colour in its peel.

Sometimes it seemed skin-rosy, or brownish, sometimes even white as Bertrand's skin.

He touched one of those fruits, and a chill crept down his spine.

The peel felt as human skin.

The feeling caused his fingers to twitch, and the hairs on his skin to ruffle as if touched by electricity.

And right after that, eyes started opening all around the fruit, but the man couldn't look away. He couldn't turn back and run.

All he was capable of doing, was to watch the shocking spectacle unfolding before his eyes.

However, as the grapefruit-seized thing opened its countless eyes and looked around, with pitch-black irises and pus-coloured scleras, everything around him screamed, making Bertrand wake up, also screaming, covered in cold sweat.

It was 2am, he woke up utterly scared, as if the world was about to end.

"It was... It was..." he tried to recollect his thoughts, speaking to himself in a way of trying to expel the fear that drenched his soul. "Oh shit, oh fuck, what the hell?" he exclaimed, after turning his lampshade on, to find out that there was a big fruit, almost the size of a grapefruit, with rosy skin, just like in that dream, in his bed.

His hand reached slowly towards the fruit, his mind running faster than light, making it harder and harder to think properly.

Bertrand not only worked as a private investigator. He lived as one, fearless, always on edge, with countless sleepless nights, yet his job never prepared him to the utmost scare that his phone caused him to feel.

The poor man's soul almost jumped out of his body, the phone ringing wildly, waiting for him to pick up.

"Uh... Hello?" was the only thing Bertrand could answer, panting hard, trying to regain his composure.

"Bert? What the fuck, man! I'm trying to call you for half an hour, straight." the voice on the other side replied, angrily.

Voice? Who was it? Half an hour? The PI thought to himself, looking at the strange fruit, over his bed, as if waiting for him, silent and still.

"Bert? You still there? Come on... You're coffee OD-ed again? I'll go straight to your place to wake you up and put you to sleep properly, unless..."

"No, it's okay. I'm fine." Bert finally answered, trying to buy time, to figure out to whom of his few friends that voice belonged. "What're you calling me for?"

"What else could it be, moron? Work!" the voice replied, in a dry tone, adding right after. "Brother, are you really okay? You on drugs or something?" and now the voice seemed concerned. Almost worried.

"No, really, I'm fine. I just..." Had a really terrible nightmare? Is that what he was going to answer? Yes, he gathered a bit of courage, and let it out all at once. "Had a really... Terrible nightmare... And it woke me up totally lost and all. Sorry, I'm still a bit off."

"Should've spilt the beans right after I asked the first time, you idiot! Alright, must've scared the shit out of you, for you to even take long to recognize the voice of your fucking partner, yeah?"

Oh well, It's Jake then... He thought at once, relief filling his heart, to an extent. "At least it wasn't someone actually important..."

"Imma beat the shit out of you tonight, Bert!" his partner said in a reproaching tone. "We have a case. I'm gonna send email you the details, and then you can meet me at the convenience store at West Park."

"... Sure." and then he heard Jake hanging up. Why the hell did I speak it out loud?

The thing with Bertrand, was that he was an excellent PI, and police consultant. But not by solving every single case that fell in his hands.

It was quite the opposite, actually.

Of course, his peculiarity didn't impact all of his cases. When it came to following people, taking pictures, helping with lost pets, and the other likes of it, all the detective had to do, was to use his hard-boiled skills.

It wasn’t the same when it came to disappearances, homicides, and the rest of the stuff usually dealt with by the police.

When it came to that, Bertrand could sense if there was something wrong.

To be more precise, Bertrand could sense death.

And not just by looking at a crime scene where someone had just died. The man could sense if it had already occurred, if it would still occur, if near or not. It wasn’t as if he was a psychic or anything.

He never thought much about it, but had always been kind of entangled with the supernatural. Even though people in the precinct always shivered when he got in to help with a case.

However, for the very first time in his life, Bertrand asked himself if it could’ve, somehow, led him throughout his life, to this weird night.

To that weird nightmare, and that strange fruit sitting on his bed.

He remembered the dream, the feeling of naturality that rained over him wherever he looked, and how despite the fear he felt as that thing opened its eyes, everything felt horribly natural. As if meant to happen in a way or another, and felt that maybe this sense he felt wasn’t naturality at all, but normality, which he always felt due to his closeness with death and the alike.

Even when his mom died, he felt it coming closer and closer. She was sick, but never told anyone. Didn’t want to worry him nor his dad. Yet he felt it, and didn’t ask a thing, because the boy knew that his mom would deny being in bad health even with her last breath. Which actually happened not long after.

Bertrand’s dad became an alcoholic, and one day, little Bert told him that he already knew his mom was going to die.

The young boy didn't know how to handle his guilt, knowing that he could've told his dad, and that they could've saved her. He didn't know if it was meant to be or not, and in his future, he still hadn't found the answer. Yet, he chose to tell his dad, hoping that somehow it would atone him for this sin, or at least, make him less heavy-hearted.

Bert's dad gave him the beating of his life, drunk, yelling, cursing at him that he should've never been born, and other spitful things, tears overflowing from his swollen eyes. He left his son half dead in his room, lying on the cold floor, with blood trickling from all his wounds, bruises, a swollen face, and a few dislocated fingers.

His dad then left home, leaving the boy to deal with his wounds and all of the guilt on his own.

After his mom’s death, and his dad’s leaving, something broke inside the boy, and work always went first in his life. Making the Bertrand that was dismissing all unnecessary thoughts, as he looked at his bed, recomposing himself to get ready to whatever came his way.

“Work first.” he said to himself, gathering enough courage to put that fruit away.

After that and a few series of long, deep breaths, he put on his pants, a black flannel shirt, lit a cigarette, turned his computer on.

The sick-looking man didn’t know how much time had passed until the email icon lit up, signalling that his partner sent the details of the case.

He expected it to be a simple one, yet to his fear, it wasn’t.

There was a dead body downtown, and its conditions were, to say the least, different from anything he had ever seen.

Bertrand wore his badge and got to his car. Cigarette still hanging between his lips he drove to the convenience store to meet with Jakob.

It was going to be one of those nights.