On a clear, sunny day the city of Little Hope, Maine reeked of the filth and grime of thousands of unwashed bodies living in quarters far too close for comfort. The thick, viscous smell offended the nostrils and clung to clothing so that even those who managed to flee the city for a few days still carried with them an unwanted olfactory souvenir. Even the frequent rains weren’t adequate to wash away the city’s stink. To the contrary, a hard rain could bring a miasma of sewage and sulfer belching and heaving from city’s bowels.

None of this troubled Mordecai Weathers as he pressed through cold night. He pushed on, unperturbed by the rain and the smell, unbothered by the rats swelling from the shadows to scrounge for scraps, and untroubled by the scoundrels and thieves forging their trades under the cover of darkness. The headlines shrieked murder and madness with such alarming regularity that crimes like burglary and arson no longer merited any press at all. Even the simplest of men knew that a walk through the Automation District was terrible during daylight hours. In the dead of night it was nothing less than a fool’s errand. Mordecai Weathers was no simple man, but he preferred this journey to its terrible alternative: a night at home with his wife Edna.

The evening started out pleasantly enough. Weathers came home to a pot of overseasoned beef stew and a stale crust of bread that he and Edna shared while making idle chatter about neighborhood gossip. Yet somehow between the time he finished the last of the rubbery meat and the moment he slipped into his threadbare pajamas he did something to set Edna off. She started out slowly with theatrical sighs and folded impatient arms, but she soon worked herself into a lather, expertly badgering him with the deftness and skill of a woman well-practiced in the art of the nag. Her first complaint was of a discarded sock out of place in their bedroom. Her next was a stack of papers he had brought home from work which sat untouched too long. When those trails grew cold, a tea stain on the table became his fault, never mind that hadn’t a sip of tea in the twenty-three years of their marriage. Nonsense, all of it, and he told her as much, but she had wound herself into such a furious storm of complaint that Weathers vowed to take no more. With hat in hand and scarf drawn around his neck he retreated through the dangerous streets of Little Hope back to the peace and quiet of his office. At this hour, no one would notice that he was still in his pajamas, or so he had convinced himself during the hour it took him to make his way to the H.R. Fowler Company.

Weathers stomped his feet on the ragged mat outside the H.R. Fowler Company's heavy oak door. An uncomfortable chill settled on the night, and what started as rain turned to a wet slushy mix that soaked into his boots and left his feet achy with cold. He replayed the evening’s events in his mind as he cursed himself for thinking of the best comebacks far too late, although he did allow himself a moment to relish the delicious silence that followed when he slammed the door on Edna mid-diatribe. Only their cat Frederic remained with her now, a captive audience with no ability to tell the woman to shut up. Poor Frederic.

Weathers wrinkled his nose and felt a crust of ice forming on his pushbroom of a mustache. He fumbled for his keys in his overcoat pocket as a gust of wind sent an angry blast of sleet that seared his face. With a grunt he tore his leather glove from his hand. His bare hand had an easier time finding his key ring in his overcoat, but the cold left his arthritic fingers stiff and angry. “Still warmer than Edna,” he muttered, pleased with himself for the fine jab. The ambient light from the street was just bright enough to allow him to find the keyhole without much of a struggle. When the key finally found its way, the tumbler turned with a heavy clunk, and Weathers stepped inside.

Despite the relative safety of the huge H.R. Fowler Company proper, Weathers was still on edge. There was something quite unsettling about absolute quiet and stillness in a place usually abuzz with life. He pushed the door wide open to let the light from the street provide the illumination he needed to locate the gas lantern he kept by the front door. His late night ventures to the office were becoming increasingly frequent, and the dented old lantern made the lonely midnight journey with him from the front door to his office more often than he would have liked. But to his surprise, instead of the near-complete darkness he usually encountered at this hour he saw the familiar amber glow of gaslight emanating from the back corner of the building. It was coming from the washroom, which could only mean one thing.

“Lenore," he sighed as his visions of sulking in quiet solitude slipped away. He cheeks flushed as he became quite aware of his rainsoaked pajamas.

He had been warmed by the thought of a nip from the flask resting quietly in his desk drawer before he turned in for a fitful sleep on the dirty floor of his office. But with Lenore here he’d be obligated to engage her, an endeavor he lacked energy to undertake. She was a strange woman, nice enough he supposed, but she knew nothing of married life. She couldn’t possibly understand what could compel a man to trek through foul weather and terrible danger just to be anywhere but the same room as his spouse. Weathers looked up at the big copper clock stationed above the machining floor and clucked his tongue. It was well after midnight. If Lenore had a family to go home to, she wouldn’t spend late nights like this at work. He always said there was something not quite right about a woman her age who showed no inclination toward marriage. And she had an infuriating habit of leaving the washroom lit like a house aflame.

"Hello, Lenore!" He called across the silent room, hiding his disdain for her company as best as he could. "Engrossed in your work, as always." His voice echoed through the building, unanswered. He paused. "Or, perhaps you simply forgot to extinguish the lamp before you left." A smile crept weakly onto Weathers’ lips as realized he just may be alone after all. He had enough of the fairer sex tonight and would be happy to not talk to another of their kind for quite some time.

Weathers brushed away the wet snow that had accumulated on his shapeless, weather-worn hat and overcoat and hung both on his customary hook near the door. The errant washroom lamp went forgotten as his thoughts turned to the ledgers and logbooks that waited on his desk. Weathers pushed the thought from his mind. The cheap whiskey in his flask was calling him, compelling him to make the long climb up the old, bowing staircase to his office. By the time he planted a boot on the top step he was fighting hard for breath and his heart drummed a frightful rhythm in his chest. Any thoughts of balancing the books had disappeared, replaced by the need for his flask’s sweet elixir. He leaned heavily on the narrow iron handrail as he made his way to his office.

He hung the tin lantern from an iron hook above his desk, its light illuminating the thick piles of documents and fat leather bound ledgers that blanketed his desk. His heart had returned to its usual cadence as though comforted by the chaos of his office. Weathers pulled out the ragged patchwork quilt that he stowed under his desk for his overnights at the office, but the long walk in the night air had stirred his mind. If he spent just a half an hour on the Carriage account tonight he could make some headway into his backlog of work.

Weathers settled into his well-worn chair, opened his desk drawer and retrieved his pen, ink, pad, ledger book and most importantly, his flask. He absently turned the stopper on the flask and wetted his index finger to page through the ledger. He shook the flask gently - it was lighter than it should be. He considered for a moment the possibility that someone had stolen a nip. His mood soured at the thought. If a man’s secret stash of whiskey wasn’t sacred, then what was?

His thoughts of whiskey thievery vanished when a loud click echoed through the empty building. He craned his neck to pinpoint the source of the noise. The grimy sidelight of his office door revealed little of the work floor, but the dim glow in the darkness reminded him that washroom lantern was still burning. He pushed himself away from his desk to address the offending lamp and investigate the source of the noise. His footfalls echoed through the silence as he descended the staircase. He weaved among the towering machines crowded together on the work floor, running a hand along a hulking brass cylinder as he passed. His palm went black with soot from the metal surface, and Weathers stopped just short of wiping it on his pajama shirt, thinking of the wrath he would surely face if he asked Edna to launder it for a second time that month. He rounded the engineering pit and turned the corner to the washroom, where he clapped his hand to his mouth, choking back a scream.

The body was contorted, back arched, arms splayed, her mouth twisted into a silent plea to the heavens. Blood matted her straw-colored hair and a dark crimson trail ran from her nostrils. A dark pool gathered under her torso and had spread along the floor. Weathers gagged and stumbled to the floor, grabbing her wrist to search for the pulse he knew he would not find.