You are Ruth Kelly, 23, unemployed, and recently given dear old Dad’s ultimatum:
“Get off your ass and make something of yourself, or I’m cutting you out of the will.”
So here you stand… in front of an old warehouse that used to be a laundromat (or launderette). No machines or clothes left, though — that was all stripped out years ago. All that’s left is the light switch and the bathroom… oh, and the physical bell that rings when you open the door.
You have to use it for something.
Something you’re passionate about.
Something with a gimmick or unique selling point.
You either think of something, or you start a factory job at Dad’s company on Monday. They make crisps — chips, for those who speak in freedom units.
You decide to finally engage with the property. See what needs fixing.
First thing you see is that damn bell.
You unlock and open the door to a ring bring — the bell still works.
Sadly.
You do a quick once-over of the property:
A back office.
A parking lot with space for, like, three dozen cars.
Sinks.
Running water — takes a second to stop being brown, but it’ll do.
Chipped tiled flooring and a world-weary sweeping brush that might get its final use tonight.
And in the back… a desktop.
An old beige tower that somehow hasn’t been stolen or stripped for parts in the decades it’s been here.
You press the power button…
Nothing.
Of course. It died a long time ago.
Still, would’ve been nice to see what Windows 95 looked like in person.
Behind the computer is a wall covered in faded photos — your dad’s in some of them.
He actually looks happy for once.
A lot of different people are with him. Probably all dead by now, considering how young he was when he bought this place.
You snap a photo and send it to your sister Riley.
While you were the disappointing dropout, Riley was the golden child. Straight A’s, and now works in the government — buried under a workload of renovations, planning, permissions, rezoning, and whatever else it takes to build or fix up the city.
You give her six months, tops.
You: “Riley, can you see this?”
Her: “Is that Dad?”
You: “Yeah. He had all his hair back then. He looks happy.”
Her: “Before he met Mum.”
You: “Exactly.”
Her: “I gotta go — pulled into a meeting.”
You: “Wait, who is he shaking hands with?”
You: [sends the other 8 photos — all in the young Michael Scott photo stance, but everyone looks happy]
After a minute, no response.
You sigh and finish your sweep.
All the bulbs work… somehow.
The only things left over are a few plastic storage crates, some bundles of clothes, and a few cardboard boxes.
…Wait a sec.
You realize behind the cardboard is a door — the one that would’ve led to the tiny, no-longer-up-to-code bathroom.
As you open it, you smell it.
Like an animal pooped and died in here.
You have to put a bit more pressure on the door to properly open it — and then you hear a clattering and a shriek.
You freeze.
Was a kid squatting in there?
You feel airflow — the window must’ve been broken in, you think.
This could be a whole legal mess…
Waiting a few moments, you steady yourself and peek past the door’s opening — about a third of the bathroom’s width.
You see a small brown-and-grey creature covering its eyes, hiding under the S-bend.
“Holy shit… is that a fluffy?”