Untitled chapter
I cannot deny that my chosen profession is one of great fascination and—truth be told—amusement for myself. I am sure the same does not always hold true for the clients I serve, but that is of no consequence of concern for yours truly. I am called upon to provide my services and I set about my work, and I do so with the utmost level of skill and profession. The comfort of my clients is of a much secondary precedence to me.
There are, however, some undeniably hard, cold and cruel facts about my line of business that I have come to accept, and I cannot say they delight me in the least. The unexplained remaining just as such, being the most woeful of all. Being in such a predicament as to abandon an ongoing inquiry is downright and utter failure in the eyes of someone much like myself. Though, I must offer you sincere apologies if you are led to believe I share this unusual occupation with others. I have a reasonable suspicion that I do, though I cannot say for certain where or when they exist.
The name is Darius Hobbs, born and bred of Baton Rouge, Louisiana in the year 1845. I am a chosen-to-be bachelor of thirty-seven years, residing with my dear lady friend and assistant, Miss Sadie Cartwell, thirty-two, within the apartment above the reputable “Office Of The Investigator Darius Hobbs,” along Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My father, a sometimes respected though oft disputed man of science of the southern states, left the office and residence to me upon his passing some ten years ago. Herein is one such account of which I cannot claim success in understanding nor in its solving. Mayhap those few supposed others with business dealings such as my own may chance upon this record and find it of some level of assistance, though I cannot claim it will be of aid in any explanation.
On the evening of June 13, 1881, after Sadie and I had long since retired, there became a racket of unrelenting knocks upon the office door of the floor below. Now, I must be sure to make you aware here that it is not within the normal course of my business dealings that I make allowances for such an intrusion. It would be within reason and expectation that I simply ignore the foolish commotion and hope to cause them to turn tail and return at a more appropriate time for appointment. There was, I dare say, something I sensed extraordinary in this caller’s purpose and insistence, and it allowed my unduly curious mind to overcome me.
Garbed in night clothes, I went about unlatching the door, to the unspoken though obvious protests of Sadie at my back.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said I. “This will take but a moment. I only mean to end this incessant noise so that we might have a blink of sleep this evening.”
Outside stood an unfamiliar man of approximately fifty years of age, built solidly though not heavily-set. Crowning the fellow’s head was a brown derby with yellow band, of a quality unlike the rest of his garments; though dressed dapperly, his other clothing did appear to be of some age and wear. He seemed at first surprised to see me. I spoke out angrily before he had the chance to make an introduction.
“What in damnation is the meaning of this? Do you have any inkling of the present hour? You, sir, have quite a nerve in paying the ‘closed’ sign no heed whatsoever, and in intruding upon my own domicile in this manner. This must indeed be of the utmost importance so, do please sir, enlighten me or be on your way.”
“Mister Hobbs? Mister Darius Hobbs? Oh, thank the lord!” His voice was not one from around those parts of the south, more than likely Carolina; Haywood, perhaps. He seemed to speak as though I had not. That further infuriated me.
“Get on with it!”
The gentleman removed his hat and said, “Mister Hobbs, I am sorry for disturbing you and the missus this evening, but if you would give an honest man like myself a brief moment of your time, I think we’ll come to an understanding.”
“See here, sir. If you are seeking to sell us some of your snake oil, not only will I throttle you with the adorned end of my walking stick, I will make certain the constable is made aware of your egregious solicitations.”
“Oh! No no, Mister Hobbs! I assure you, I am not here selling anything! I’m here about a … problem that I was told you were … the kind of man to be of a help with.”
Again I allowed my curious mind to best me, inviting the interloper through the door and into the office.
“You have one minute, sir. Out with it now.”
He nodded with understanding and set about with his story.
“Mister Hobbs, I have quite this problem with … you see, there is this hole.”
“A hole?”
“Well, more like a door, really.”
“A door, you say? Mister…”
“Beaton, Mister Hobbs. Chester Beaton.”
“…Beaton. I see. Well, Mister Beaton, have you somehow mistaken me to be a tradesman in the craft of carpentry?”
“Well no, I-”
“Then why is it, Mister Beaton, that I should be standing here in my bedclothes at this godforsaken hour to listen to a nuisance such as yourself carry on about doors? Or doors with holes in them. Hm?”
I must admit that it was quite unreasonable of me to have unloaded with such displeasure at the gentleman. The interruption in my nightly ritual had gotten the best of my manners, I am afraid to admit.
“This … hole, Mister Hobbs. It’s not on a door. It is the door. It … hangs in the air, above the ground.”
At that, I took a moment to comprehend. “If this is, as you say, a hole--and it floats about in the air on its own accord--then how is it that it can be seen?”
“Because when I peer through it, there is something. There is someplace. Someplace else.”
“Hm. Well, Mister Beaton, I will admit that you may have sought out an appropriate person to investigate such a phenomenon, but I do not see why it could not have waited to be brought to my attention at a more decent hour.”
“There is something sinister about that hole, Mister Hobbs. It is not merely some curiosity to ponder. There are … things … that come out of it, from time to time. I have not seen it for myself, but I’m very sure they do. But that is not why I’ve sought you out with such urgency, sir.”
The man then cast his eyes downward and began to weep.
“It’s my son, Mister Hobbs. My fool boy’s gone into the hole and hasn’t returned.”
