Preface

Home Invasion was the second Legendarium entry to be written, being completed over the course of one day in June 2019, barely two months into the game’s run. Like most of the Legendarium entries, it was a collaboration between Ben and myself and resulted from an idea of Ben’s.

It was written 10 days after the completion of The Story so Far’s first volume. Narratively, it serves as a contextualization for Seth Branson’s disappearance between the two volumes. Originally, the role of Teague was portrayed by his creator, Ben, while I played the role of Branson.

Like every other pre-hiatus Legendarium entry, however, I rewrote Home Invasion in 2020 to clean up syntax and tighten continuity. The version below is a slightly edited version of that text.

Home Invasion

Now must be the time. It was the only time. He’d waited long enough and this was the first chance he’d gotten to slip back into town unnoticed.

But they would still be looking for him, so he must be quick. And then…

On to a new life, perhaps. He’d started over once before; he could again. Couldn’t he?

His house was a tiny one, not far from the school. It was a decent enough place to live. Better than the dive he’d had to put up with before. In his last life.

He wouldn’t be so lucky again.

He stopped at the back door, wincing at the soreness in his side, where the knife had dug in. He’d had to mend the wound himself, an experience he didn’t like to think about.

He turned the latch in the door and came home.

“Hello, Mr. Branson.”

He froze, petrified by the familiar voice coming from the shadows. With a click, the reading lamp on the end table was switched on, revealing the intruder.

“You’re out of beer,” Edward Teague told him smoothly.

“What…” Seth blinked, “…are you doing in my house?”

“What were you doing with a shitload of coke and Gemma O’Neil?”

Seth bit back the first several things that came to his lips, “It had nothing to do with these murders, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Oh, please, tell me more. I’ve been camping out here every night for a week. I’ve got time.”

Seth decided not to ponder the implications of that phrase too long, “We knew each other in New Hampshire.”

“This was before or after you were implicated in that girl’s death?”

“I was cleared of any connection.”

“So you were. And you did a fine job keeping it off your record.”

“Clearly not fine enough.”

“People like the O’Neil woman love keeping records. If you ask me, it was her who filmed your little snowball fight. That kind of person loves having something in the barrel, just in case. I suppose she taught you a few neat tricks to make the red in the ledger look black as a tack.”

“What if she did?”

“Where is she?”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, “I thought she was dead.”

“That’s what Eliza Taylor says. And yet there’s no body.”

“And you think I’d know?”

“You were accomplices…for a time.”

“I never saw her while she was in Lakewood.”

“Not even when she dropped by the school to pull her brother out for the last time?”

“Not even then.”

“Ah well,” Teague heaved a sigh, “That’s unfortunate.”

“Is that what this is? You’ve been squatting in my house so you could lecture me for lying on my resumè? I’m sorry to disappoint you. Join the fucking club.”

“It’s not an entirely fruitless errand,” Teague stood, “I’ve a message to deliver too.”

“A message?”

“You’re fired.”

Seth looked at him askance, “I’m also a wanted man.”

“So you are.”

“You’re not gonna call the cops?”

“Why should I? You’re young and no cleverer than a cornered gerbil from all I’ve observed. They’ll trap you eventually. Or more likely,” he added with some relish, “You’ll trap yourself. I’ve seen it enough times. But rest assured, if our paths ever cross again…”

“They won’t,” Seth assured him darkly, “You can sleep easy.”

“I was planning to.”

Seth took a few careful steps toward the bedroom and his suitcase. There was a phone jack in there he could disable, but that wouldn’t stop Teague from using his phone to call the cops…

But the principal was perfectly stationary: no intention of going anywhere or doing anything but watch him like the cornered gerbil he apparently was.

“Just what exactly are you anyway?” Seth asked at length, “Because ‘high school principal’ isn’t the very best descriptor.”

“And yet, Mr. Branson,” Teague gave a rare smile, “That is just what I am.”

“There’s gin in the cupboard over the fridge,” Seth turned around, “Help yourself.”

“More of a bourbon man myself.”

He packed his bag in short order, alert the entire time for incoming sirens that never came.

He returned to the living room and found the light off, the front door open, and a drained tumbler on the end table, no coaster.

“Goodbye, Principal,” he said softly, heading out the door and out of his old life.