Dumbstruck [ Imagery/atmosphere/tension/cliff hanger]

Silence. As soon as I'd kicked in the rotted, wood-worm riddled door-panel, silence greeted me from inside. Dead silence. Then a lung-filling smell of damp. The heaviness of decay. Old mortar and pigeon droppings littered the hallway.

This wasn't surprising at all, for the cottage lacked a roof. As I eased into the hall and looked up, I felt as though I'd stepped into a planetarium. Draped above what would have been thatch and roof timbers fifty years ago, were stars. Bright, clear stars. I don't know what else I expected to find. It being All Souls night, I guess I'd expected more than stars and rot.
Then I switched on the flashlight. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't met before, have we? I'm Conor. I know I shouldn't be kicking in old doors in rural Ireland but don't jump to the conclusion that I'm a teenage tearaway. I've found myself in this situation because I read a diary, not because I'm a delinquent.

I'm usually the golden-boy, never letting anyone down at school or at home. And even though I kicked in the front door, I didn't get any thrill. Just closer to my goal. What might that be? Stick around and find out.
My Grand-Uncle Robert was a funny man. Always did what he wanted. Lived hard and played hard. I know because I went up to the attic to get the Halloween decorations but found a shoe-box in a long-forgotten corner filled with photos and old diaries. His photos. His diaries. I'd been told he emigrated in '59 because there was no work to be had. The diary said different. He'd locked this cottage up and gone to England for one year to make money. Why? Because the love of his life, a man called Timothy, was waiting for him to come back. And he'd left the diary for him. The last entry had read;
"Tim my love, the key is in the usual place. The tin is in the fireplace. September of next year we'll be together again. A year is nothing when the rest of our lives can be spent together."

As with all good plans, they seldom work out. The Tim in question died a month after my Grand Uncle left. The only murder ever to happen in the Parish. Obviously some local decided homosexuals didn't belong in 1950s Catholic Ireland, did they? The priest wouldn't even give Tim last rites and as far as I heard, there wasn't even an investigation. And Robert never set foot in Ireland again.
Maybe that gives you an idea of what on earth I'm doing in a long forgotten shambles of a cottage in late October? I haven't slept since I went to fetch the Halloween decorations in the attic three days ago. My Mother has helped to fill in the blanks. Told me where this cottage was situated. Told me about Robert whom she well remembered, his shoulders being her favourite mode of transport as a four-year-old. I didn't tell her about the diary. Just pretending to be an inquisitive kid. That diary and the dusty box must have sat in the attic for half a century. And now I'm supposed to be at a friend's house but instead I'm searching for a tin on a fireplace. The key was nowhere to be found outside. Hence my boot opened the lock. And there is the fireplace. In a tiny front parlour. Nothing on top of it. Nothing but ancient soot and leaves in the grate.

What about inside the chimney? Bloody filth. Hold on. A loose brick. I'm on my knees trying to prise the fire brick in the chimney. It falls to the grate with a thud. A metal object falls after it. Jesus Christ. What's in it? I hold the flash light in my mouth like in the movies, fumble for the tin. An old cigar case by the look of it.

 But yet there's odd shadows.

 From outside. 

Slow shadows as if from a lantern. 

I switch off the torch. Boots on broken wood and mortar in the hall. My heart is racing. I hold my breath. An old man's voice.
"Is that you Robert Lanigan? I've waited a long time for your return..."