"Wait --" he calls after her, then curses under his breath, turning to follow because he's not sure what her abilities are, exactly, and he's not going to let her just run into a potentially dangerous situation alone. He is careful not to step in any of the blood on the floor because he has a pretty good idea of what will happen if he does. He stops just outside the doorway and that's close enough to see what's left of the man that used to be.
He has to wonder what happened to the bones, to get the body in a position like that.
Wolfgang stands there for a few long moments before he turns his head away. "I'm going to go see what happened here." His voice wavers, but he feels curiously calm as he steps carefully back downstairs to the defiled living room, then as near as he can find to the center of the house, where he can pull as much as he can.
Blood is memory's river. Someone told him that, once. He stares at those perfect shapes on the wall for a long time before he can bring himself to reach out and touch it, and with his mind, he pulls --
-- door slamming shut behind him and sighing, throwing his bag down. "I'm home, Dad, sorry I'm late. I got you a new clock, though --" An old-fashioned, spring-driven alarm clock with an interesting pattern on the face: a spiral.
-- "Are you all right?" waving his hand in front of his face, taking him gently by the shoulders to look into his eyes but they're not seeing anything anymore, just staring into space, refusing to come into focus, only looking dazedly around, left, down, right, up, left, down, right up, left, down, right...
-- "worried about him, he's stopped eating. I think he's depressed or something. Would you just call him, at least? I think that would cheer him up. I know, I love you too, sweetie, I'll call you tomorrow."
-- opening the door, frowning, staring at the back of his head, shaggy red hair, the hand holding the pencil wavering and creating the slightest wobble in an otherwise perfect spiral. Eyes widening, then -- "You broke it." Saying, "Adam, you're scaring me, what's wrong?" but there's nothing there, just a hollow voice: "You broke it."
-- screaming broken glass knife in his lung blood in his throat and it feels like drowning. Gurgling: "Adam." Knife slamming into him over and over, cutting the flesh and pulling out the muscle and twisting into rope, tying him over the basin. Still conscious. The last thing he sees are his son's pupils: twin spirals, empty.
-- he jerks his hand away and stumbles back, his back hitting the opposite wall. It's several seconds after he sees the present again before he realises the vision has released him, but he can still feel it burned into the back of his mind.
"Clock," he says, his voice a hoarse croak so low it's nearly inaudible. Then, louder, so she can hear him: "The clock."
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He has to wonder what happened to the bones, to get the body in a position like that.
Wolfgang stands there for a few long moments before he turns his head away. "I'm going to go see what happened here." His voice wavers, but he feels curiously calm as he steps carefully back downstairs to the defiled living room, then as near as he can find to the center of the house, where he can pull as much as he can.
Blood is memory's river. Someone told him that, once. He stares at those perfect shapes on the wall for a long time before he can bring himself to reach out and touch it, and with his mind, he pulls --
-- door slamming shut behind him and sighing, throwing his bag down. "I'm home, Dad, sorry I'm late. I got you a new clock, though --" An old-fashioned, spring-driven alarm clock with an interesting pattern on the face: a spiral.
-- "Are you all right?" waving his hand in front of his face, taking him gently by the shoulders to look into his eyes but they're not seeing anything anymore, just staring into space, refusing to come into focus, only looking dazedly around, left, down, right, up, left, down, right up, left, down, right...
-- "worried about him, he's stopped eating. I think he's depressed or something. Would you just call him, at least? I think that would cheer him up. I know, I love you too, sweetie, I'll call you tomorrow."
-- opening the door, frowning, staring at the back of his head, shaggy red hair, the hand holding the pencil wavering and creating the slightest wobble in an otherwise perfect spiral. Eyes widening, then -- "You broke it." Saying, "Adam, you're scaring me, what's wrong?" but there's nothing there, just a hollow voice: "You broke it."
-- screaming broken glass knife in his lung blood in his throat and it feels like drowning. Gurgling: "Adam." Knife slamming into him over and over, cutting the flesh and pulling out the muscle and twisting into rope, tying him over the basin. Still conscious. The last thing he sees are his son's pupils: twin spirals, empty.
-- he jerks his hand away and stumbles back, his back hitting the opposite wall. It's several seconds after he sees the present again before he realises the vision has released him, but he can still feel it burned into the back of his mind.
"Clock," he says, his voice a hoarse croak so low it's nearly inaudible. Then, louder, so she can hear him: "The clock."