4 I have to do it all by myself

The morning after my arrival I woke up very early, at dawn, given the time when I fell asleep it was unlikely to even think of waking up late in the morning as I was used to in the city.

So, fresh from my long sleep, but still dazed by the alcohol I had drunk yesterday, I got dressed, put on my coat, took my pen and notebook ready to begin the search for a story to talk about in the newspaper. 

I went out and locked the door of my room, looked around, desperately looking for other strangers in the place but apparently I was the only "foreigner" in the hotel. 

I turned to the stairs and started walking towards them; after a few steps the tip of my foot got stuck in a cut on the carpet that seemed to be a burn, however, I regained my balance, and pouting at the sight of the inattentive care of the pension I continued towards the stairs. 

Arrived at the first step, you immediately begin to smell a warm smell of croissants and coffee: 

"The breakfast!" I thought to myself.

This did nothing but bring me even more desire to go down the stairs, first to get out of the hovel that was my room, then to eat and throw something other than the whiskey of the day before into my stomach. 

I hurried down the stairs and headed towards the smell that had conquered me, but it was not what I thought: the smell had deceived me, the croissants were disgusting already from the sight and the coffee was kept in a huge thermos to one side of the breakfast room. 

I didn't eat, I decided to go out and eat outside. I noticed on the wall a sheet with "Lunch and Dinner Reservations" written on it; I laughed to myself, without showing it outside. 

The eyes of the old owner were always there staring at me, I pretended to think about it, and I said out loud, as if I was thinking alone: 

"Better not to disturb, I don't know what time I can go back"

Trying to be as kind as possible and I walked towards the exit, always under the watchful eye of that old woman who seemed to knit without ever distracting herself from controlling my every movement.

I arrived at the door, turned to greet, out of pure kindness, the woman sitting behind the reception desk and to my greeting she always replied with her usual nod, lowering her glasses and raising her chin.

I lowered my head and nervous from that behavior I finally opened the door that held me inside that place and went out again to the city.

I was walking on those streets, which at first sight always seemed uninhabited to me, looking for someone who could help me in the search for an interesting story to write.

After twenty minutes that I walked empty I realized that probably at dawn I would not find anyone to talk to. So I decided to stay in a small park near the pension to think and scribble on my notebook waiting for a suitable hour. 

Between scribbles and thoughts, while I was observing the animals that lived their life, a few hours had passed and I decided to move, the sooner I would find something, the sooner I would go from that hateful room, from that hateful mattress and from that hateful old woman.

I went out into the street and looked around, trying to find an elderly man  perhaps, someone who lived through the period the bartender told me about. And I thought that going to the town square was an excellent idea: I would definitely find someone who could tell me something.

So I headed toward the center of the village, passing through some small streets that showed me only old shops that were now closed or that semmed to be.I passed a small print shop, approached the glass covered with dust trying to understand if it might still be open.

Looking inside I noticed something moving:

"They'll be mice" - I thought - "I don't think it's still running."

When suddenly, from the same crack between the crusty dust from which I was looking, I saw in front of my two pale eyes, I was frightened that made me fall backwards.

I fell on the stones that made up the sidewalk and an elderly man came out the door:

<< "Are you all right?" >> - Asked the man.

<< "Don't worry, I just got scared" >> - I said relieved but also slightly annoyed.

<< "What brings you to this old printing house?" >> - He kept asking the old man.

<< "I am a journalist, I work for a newspaper in the capital, I am here to look for some story to tell" >> - I always replied in an annoyed tone; every time I had to say these words I was pervaded by a sense of frustration.

<< "Oh, a journalist then eh? Well, see my dear, you are right now at an old newspaper office, the newspaper of this small village" >> - The old man continued, barely waiting for me to finish talking and then continued << "Come, come in, I want to show you my laboratory and offer you something to apologize for the fright" >>.

So, I got up, cleaned my trousers and followed the old man inside his laboratory:

The interior was dusty, old, with rusty machinery, I did not understand how he could continue to work in such a place, I noticed piles of newspapers piled up and went over to read what was written on it: "Nightmare over! Prison stops functioning!".

I read the date of June 17, 1967, I had something, was that what the bartender was talking about? What nightmare were you talking about?

<< "Excuse me, can I know what this prison nightmare is?" >> - I asked intrigued by the title of that old newspaper.

<< "But nothing, an old story that ran in the past, all nonsense, I never believed a single word about all this" >> - The old man replied making a laugh.

All this made me think, something had happened, or at least something was thought to have happened, something that could make me comfortable. I had to investigate what every person I spoke to didn't want to say a word, but I needed help that I couldn't have.

So I continued the tour among the dusty tools of that and the old newspapers of that typography, the man showed me everything, he spoke to me of the moment of glory of that typography while I, however, was only thinking about how to get information on this mysterious prison.

Then an idea: "The police! I can see them in their archives!" - I thought as the old man asked me:

<< "Excuse me young, but we haven't shown up yet, my name is William Douvon, and you?" >>

<< "I am Edward Witchwood, he isn't from here, is he?" >> - I answered and at the same time I asked in turn.

<< "Exactly, I come from another country, however I have lived here for half a century" >>

<< "I understand ... listen I would like to ask you for information if you don't mind" >> - I continued without paying much attention to the man's answer but continuing to look around.

<< "Of course, tell me, don't face too many problems" >>

<< "Could you tell me where I can find the police station in the town?" >> - I asked.

<< "Always on the lookout for news you journalists huh? It is not very far from here, it is located near the town square" >> - The man answered smiling.

Finally I had a point of reference to find useful information and to be able to return home as soon as possible.

I said goodbye to the old man, went to the door of the printing press, climbing over mountains of old newspapers, gathered two or three to understand what they were talking about and closed the door behind me.

<< "Take at least a glass of water before you go!" >> - I heard yelling behind me as I ran away.

I continued along that road to the main square where in the center stood a huge fountain which seemed to have little pressure, however, I approached and noticed hundreds of rusty coins on its bottom;

<< "You had to see the old fountain once, splashes of water two meters high, always clean, it was really a sight to come here and observe it" >> - Said a voice behind me; I turned and saw a man, perhaps in his forties, robust, with black and frizzy hair, cute eyes and a small hint of a beard.

<< "What happened excuse me?" >> - I asked curiously to the man behind me while I took the notebook with me.

<< "It's been years since this country was abandoned by God, after the closure of the prison this place has lost all that it earned us from the policemen or guards who stayed here while at work in the prison" >> - Explained the man and continued: << "I am Collin Headdon anyway, who are you?" >>

<< "Nice Edward Witchwood, I'm a journalist" >> - I replied.

<< "I understand, the pleasure is mine, he is hunting for news then? He won't find much" >> - He asked with a slight shrug, as if he wanted to apologize to me.

<<"Tell me about this prison, please.">> - And I started writing on my notebook.

<< "I don't know much of this whole story, I only know that the prison director seemed to be a violent fool, at least for what I heard around" >> - And he continued- << "Many things have not been leaked by the police , so many of us are in the dark about everything, then obviously there are those who don't want to believe these rumors, so they won't know much from us about the country ">> - And he finished talking.

I pinned everything on my notebook and in the meantime I thought about how I could get useful information from the police.

<< "Thank you, I'll see it alone then, thank you very much" >> - I said to the man, and then continue towards the police station.