The Dark Stain

This story began many years ago, and its earliest moments were as quiet and ordinary as any unremarkable day.

My name is Jake Breen, and back then I had just finished high school. Those carefree years had rushed past like a single breath woven from shifting memories, changing faces, brief hopes, and lingering anxieties. With my long-awaited diploma in hand, I stood at the horizon of adult life and felt completely free.

My parents were kind people, a little old-fashioned in their habits. My father worked as a financial clerk and preferred silence and order; my mother taught literature and adored romance novels. I often found her reading either in the stillness of her room or in the small gazebo in our backyard, a book resting on her knees, her eyes glimmering with tears. She lived through every story as if it belonged to her.

Our house always carried the warm scent of old books mixed with the sharp aroma of freshly brewed coffee. My parents were perfectly happy to have me stay with them until college began, safe under their roof. But I was a stubborn teenager, restless and eager to break away.

I also had an older sister, Emily. We had always gotten along wonderfully, and despite the years between us I felt a bond with her that was uniquely our own. She had moved to a small town about a two-hour drive from us a few years earlier. She invited me to visit more than once – at first gently, almost cautiously, and in her most recent letter with a hint of insistence, as though she sensed something troubling on the horizon.

But the spirit of rebellion had already taken root in my mind. I wanted to find a job for the summer, even if it wasn’t the most pleasant one, rent a room even if it was barely larger than a closet, and try living on my own for the first time. Why remain under the protective shadow of my parents or my sister when I had a chance to step into the light of my own choices?

I was flipping through the local newspaper – yes, an old-fashioned printed one, just like my father preferred. Between ads for dance lessons, used refrigerators, and plumbing services, I found a short notice:

«Assistant wanted for painting and minor repairs in an old house. Lodging provided. Good pay. Contact number… Ask for Felton.»

I read the advertisement twice, and everything about it felt suspiciously simple. No details, no address, nothing concrete at all. Only promises and the faintest shadow of something quietly alluring. Naturally, I called at once. The man who answered had a polite, slightly muffled voice. We agreed to meet the following day in an old café downtown.

The café was called Bun & Bourbon. The name was amusing, and the interior was even more so. Everything inside seemed frozen somewhere in the early seventies: vinyl-covered seats, brass lampshades, coffee cups with heavy saucers worn thin along the rims. A man was sitting at a table by the window.

I recognized him at once, guided by nothing more than a feeling. He looked as though someone had cut him out of an old black-and-white photograph: solidly built, with a round face fixed in an expression of polite unease. His hair was neatly brushed back, his jacket was gray and heavy in texture, and his eyes – large, gray, and inexplicably troubled.