What the fu...?!

Year 1889. 

Sylvester Crowley sometimes wondered how it felt to die. Perhaps he would soon discover the answer. It was because he believed he lived in the building with a psychopath.

Or was there more than one? He couldn't tell. 

Under the shower's steaming curtain, water traced down his body, a soothing contrast to the freezing weather outside. If he ceased to exist now, would it matter? Perhaps to his mother and maybe his colleagues for leaving them with work. Would his sister, Elizabeth, mourn his absence? As the years passed, his sister had distanced herself from him, and he didn't know why. 

Exiting the shower, Sylvester quickly dried himself with a towel before facing the mirror. As he wiped away the fog, he revealed a man in his late twenties with damp, tousled hair that clung to his forehead, which seemed to have grown in length. His face was slender and chiselled, and beneath his striking black eyes were obvious signs of his lack of sleep. 

"I should get some sleep tonight," Sylvester murmured, a daily promise he struggled to keep.

Thirty minutes later, Sylvester had dressed and prepared a simple breakfast—a comforting cup of coffee. He glanced around his furnished apartment, where it had been four years since he had moved into the neighbourhood of Hootenanny Avenue. When it was time, he made sure to lock the windows and clean the dishes before grabbing the house keys.

Stepping out, he pulled his door closed and inserted the key. At the same time, his next-door neighbour opened the door, which creaked because of the lack of grease. 

When Sylvester turned, he caught sight of his next-door neighbour staring at him through the gap in the door. The man's curly, shaggy hair covered his eyes, and given the darkness behind him, Sylvester could only assume that the curtains hadn't been drawn. This was Joe Parker, but Sylvester had taken to calling him "Grumpy." 

"I told you to lower the music before," came the raspy voice of Grumpy, low but fast. "You are loud."

"I didn't play it yesterday," Sylvester said, tilting his head in confusion. He had fallen asleep early last night after returning home. "The music must be coming from the next building or below—"

"It was you. Always making noises and banging doors," the man glared at Sylvester through the gap, his annoyance apparent.

Or it could all be in your head, Sylvester thought. 

No one knew what Grumpy did for a living, as he kept to himself. Now that he thought about it, Grumpy had peeked at him the same way the day he had first come by. 

Sylvester recalled the day, and it was summer. He had received a job at his current workplace and had come by looking for an apartment in the building. Instantly drawn to the place, he decided to take a look around, climbing up the stairs. At that time, a man in his early twenties at the top of the stairs appeared, wearing a polite smile and had asked, 

"May I help you? I am Edward Mitchel."

"Sylvester Crowley. I am looking for an apartment and saw the sign outside."

"I don't know how to tell you this, but the apartment below was occupied a few days ago. Mrs. Deck must have forgotten to take out the sign."

"Seems like I just missed it," Sylvester sighed, which was when he heard a door open, but he couldn't see who was in there because of the darkness. Tearing his eyes away, he said, "I will go take a look at the others after lunch."

"There's a place over Oakridge called Gourmet, and they serve free beer on Thursdays. It is one of the good eating houses in Riddleford," Edward offered.

The man was right. Gourmet became one of Sylvester's favourite dining spots over the last three years. While still searching for an apartment, a week later, he received an unexpected call from Mrs. Deck about a unit being vacant in her building. 

"Stop playing the damn music so loud, or you know…" Grumpy warned. The next second, the door shut loudly. 

"You are the only one who makes noise," Sylvester murmured, locking the door and pushing the wooden surface to double check it. 

He descended the staircase, passing through the building that held four separate units—two upstairs and two down below. The lanterns that once emitted a warm glow on the walls had now grown cold and dim. Just as he was nearing the exit, another fellow tenant, Margot Brooks, who resided on the ground floor, greeted him with the same enthusiasm she did almost every day. 

"Good morning, Vester! Off to work?" She was a woman in her early twenties. 

During the first week of Sylvester's move into the apartment, Margot knew exactly who he was and was infatuated by Sylvester while knowing about his famous mother. The woman had made her intentions clear, dropping subtle hints and even attempting to ask him out. However, he had courteously declined, having no romantic interest in her to the woman's dismay. 

"Yes. Have a good day, Miss Brooks," Sylvester kept it short and he stepped out of the building and through the door, he couldn't help but look back, noticing her standing there watching him. 

The ground was covered in snow, and so were the rooftops of the building. People walked on the streets, bulked up with coats and scarves, their breath forming clouds. Carriages moved on the roads. Sylvester took a quick look, before catching the local carriage to travel to his workplace.

Once the carriage arrived near his workplace, Sylvester climbed out of the carriage. Around the corner of the street, Frontier Hall stood tall and proud. The theatre was old and dull, built during the Georgian era. Though the paint on the walls appeared to be faded in the hours of the day, it was when the performers got on stage with glowing light that the place came alive, bringing in many respected patrons and those who sought entertainment in their dreary lives.

Stepping into the theatre, Sylvester walked through the halls. On the stage, he noticed the actors and actresses rehearsing, and he made his way to the back of the stage, where he worked on designing. As the son of a famous actress, he had toured around cities with his mother, watching her work and spending time backstage. At that time, his sister, Elizabeth, lived with their aunt, Abigail Crowley. Having had enough limelight for a lifetime, he had chosen to work on being in charge of the plays, to watch them come to life, and to stay away from attention.

As the clock inched closer to noon, Sylvester was on the stage overseeing the lighting adjustments when one of the workers approached and said, "Lady Delilah is here to meet with you."

"Let's finish up the rest after lunch," Sylvester instructed the two workers. Stepping off the stage, he made his way to the front hall and found his mother surrounded by a few of her admirers. Once they dispersed, his mother walked over to where he stood and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"You have lost weight since I last saw you, Vester," his mother said, whose lips were painted red. "You have been working too hard again."

"You know how it is when a show is approaching the dates," Sylvester replied, and he heard his mother hum. He said, "I thought we were meeting directly at the eating house."

"I arrived in Riddleford early today. These trains are much faster than the carriages," Lady Delilah explained with a note of surprise in her voice. "I decided to take a nap, and when I woke up, I was already here. I thought. Why not surprise you by coming here before we have lunch with your sister?"

The question was if his sister knew he was joining, Sylvester thought to himself. His question was answered when they arrived at the eating house, where his elder sister was already seated at the table. Like him, his sister had acquired their father's black hair. She was in her early thirties, three years older than him. Upon seeing him, she looked taken aback.

"It's wonderful to see you, Beth." Lady Delilah greeted her daughter with a kiss on the cheek. 

"I thought you were sick," Elizabeth said, giving a quiet look.

"I am! From not seeing my children for weeks now," Lady Delilah laughed in glee. "I'm delighted that we can all take some time to dine together."

"How have you been?" Sylvester inquired as they exchanged a somewhat distant hug. "It feels like it's been ages since we last met."

"It has." Elizabeth mustered a small smile before they both took their seats at the table. Some of the patrons in the restaurant noticed Lady Delilah, their reactions ranging from hushed murmurs to those attempting discreet glances.

"Did you see the newspaper today?" their mother asked in a lowered voice, while Sylvester aligned the spoon and fork beside the plate. 

"Are you referring to the article about the woman whose body was found murdered a few days ago?" Elizabeth asked, her expression showing mild concern. "The officers said it was the work of a devil." 

"The details about a murderer on the loose who targets women. I have heard about it. I don't understand why the person hasn't been caught yet," Lady Delilah pursed her lips. Sylvester picked up the glass of water that was just filled and took a sip from it. Lady Delilah then turned back to look at her son and asked, "When is the opening night again?" 

"It is next Thursday. Will you be able to make it?" Sylvester asked.

"Of course I will! I wouldn't miss it," Lady Delilah smiled. When Sylvester turned to look at his sister, she was quick to reply,

"Unfortunately, I am occupied. Henry has a big meeting coming up and will require me to be beside him." 

"Perhaps another time," Sylvester responded with a smile. He had come to learn that his sister's excuses were consistent in avoiding spending time with him. 

The waitress approached their table with a charming and polite smile. She took the orders, starting with Elizabeth, then Lady Delilah, and when it was Sylvester's turn, he ordered no more than a salad as he lacked an appetite. 

On his way back to the theatre, he sighed.

Since his father's death, Sylvester felt a growing distance in his family dynamics. His sister, Elizabeth, chose not to travel with their mother and him, opting to study instead, which led her to Aunt Abigail's home. Although she flourished there, Sylvester couldn't help but notice the gap that widened between them. He wondered if his sister went through something at Aunt Abigail's, but the thought lingered as a silent question.

Sylvester dropped by a store to get groceries before heading back home. When he arrived in the area of Hootenanny, his mind was occupied with his family and paying attention to the people around him or if anyone was looking at him. 

Entering the apartment building, he made his way up the stairs, wondering what to prepare for dinner. Pulling out the key, he went to push it through the keyhole when the door opened without it. 

What the… Someone had broken into his house! A sliver of dread ran down his spine as he stepped inside, his eyes quickly skimming through the living room and then the other rooms. He caught the window, which was left open. 

Sylvester walked to the telephone on the wall, picking up the earpiece and turning the dial, which recoiled with every number. As he waited for the receiver to pick up, his eyes wandered toward the kitchen sink, and the earpiece in his hand slowly lowered from his face.

"This is the parish watch house. How may I help you?" asked the voice on the other end.

Sylvester walked to the kitchen he had left this morning. His eyes fell on three broken eggshells, a messy counter with evidence of an onion cut for an omelette as the pan was left on the stove. 

Baffled, he questioned, "What kind of psychotic criminal am I dealing with here?"