The Plot Calls #6 : "Side Theories part 1 of 2"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Marcus A. Serling never liked unanswered questions. But unanswered questions seemed to run in his family—especially now that his grandfather, Robert Serling, had disappeared.

He sat at the small, cluttered table in his grandparents' living room, thumbing through a worn cardboard box of old cassette tapes. Grandma Gemma hovered nearby, arms folded tight across her chest, her eyes drifting from the box to Marcus and back again. The tension in her face aged her—more than grief, more than years. It was fear. The quiet, settled kind that never fully leaves.

“They’re all your grandfather's,” Grandma Gemma said finally. Her voice was soft, strained. “I haven’t touched them since he… since he vanished.”

Marcus kept his expression still. “That’s not like Grandpa Serling. No cryptic, mildly sarcastic goodbyes. Just… gone. You sure you want me to go through these, Grandma Gemma?”

Grandma Gemma hesitated. Her hand drifted to the edge of the box, hovered there like she might take it back, then fell to her side.

“I know things I don’t want to know, Marcus,” she admitted. “But I think you have to.”

Marcus nodded once, understanding more than she probably intended him to. His thumb brushed the first tape. No label. Just faint marker lines, smudged with time.

Grandma Gemma lingered a moment longer, then slipped into the hallway, leaving Marcus alone with the box and his questions.

Marcus sat in Sam's base of operations. A simple yet comfortable apartment overlooking the city. The hum of the cassette player was low and steady. The old recordings crackled with age, the audio warping under the strain of time. But Robert Serling’s voice was clear.

“Test log—Encrypt Corp field observation… anomaly recorded at Site Nine…”

Marcus sat forward, eyes narrowing.

Across the small apartment, Sam Erriden pulled his chair closer to the table, squinting at the portable player. “Your grandfather had a nice voice. A little ‘haunted detective’ for my taste, but I get it.”

“Alright, Sam, enough,” Marcus murmured.

The tape continued. References to the Sideways. Observations on metaphysical fractures. A vague, unnerving mention of something called The Bone Lantern.

Sam tilted his head. “The Bone Lantern?”

Marcus rewound the tape, replayed that segment.

“Robert Serling. 1978. Gloamhaven, New Jersey. Encrypt Corp Log. 221. The Bone Lantern. I went to Cyril Harrow's home… Theophilus Grane's old house in Gloamhaven. Cyril Harrow’s son, Glenn… wife, Sandra… built the Bone Lantern nearly 80 years after Theophilus… Approximately two years after Cyril… No sign of the Compendium… The eldest child gave me permission to open a door… Entering the Sideways through the Room with No Corners… Going to…”

The tape fizzled into static.

“…The Whispering Librarian…”

More static.

Marcus stopped the tape. “I think I need you to review these without me, Sam,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Sounds like Grandpa Serling was following up on a lead… and turned sideways in a civilian’s house.”

Sam leaned back, folding his arms. “Well, it’s sufficiently vague and ominous to pique my interest, Marcus. I can’t say no, seeing as how I’m only human because of your family heirloom… But, I wonder who, or what, The Whispering Librarian is?”

“Thanks,” Marcus replied, distracted, concern creeping into his expression. “The Whisp—”

Before he could finish, a knock rattled the apartment door. Not the kind of knock you expect at 10 p.m. The kind that arrived with paperwork… or questions. The kind that came with badges, notepads, and suspicion.

The knock came again.

Sam’s expression flattened. “Multiple knocks. That’s never good.”

Marcus stood, crossing to the door, aware Sam had a specific fear of multiple knocks—rightfully so. The hallway outside was quiet, dimly lit by the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. He opened the door a crack.

Two figures waited. Officers. Alvarez and Gunn.

“Officers?” Marcus asked, feigning surprise.

Detective Gunn offered a weary nod. Alvarez’s eyes shifted, taking in the room behind Marcus with the tired scrutiny of someone who’d seen too many things that didn’t fit clean reports. Alvarez seemed to capture a mental snapshot of the eerily simple, tidy space… and the laptops on the table.

“We need to talk,” Officer Gunn said simply.

Marcus didn’t move. “About what?”

“You’re Marcus Serling, right? And that’s Sam Erriden, correct?” Officer Alvarez asked, cutting to the chase.

Sam nodded. Marcus stayed quiet.

“Valerie Cho,” Gunn replied. “Ramona Quinn.”

Sam tilted his head. “Who?”

Marcus didn’t smile. But for the first time all night, something settled into place. Unease, inevitability… the gnawing feeling that this wasn’t the start of something—but instead, they were being sought out toward the middle.

Gunn noticed a flicker in Marcus’ eyes. Recognition. Awareness. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“You guys are the ones behind the Sideways content, right?” Gunn pressed. “Your site says to contact you if we encounter a pale man in robes… or rooms that can’t be explained. Porcelain hands.”

Sam pumped his fist. “More content. More out there. We can spread the word.”

Marcus sighed. “There’s that, I suppose, Sam… but it also means…” He paused.

“Means what, son?” Officer Alvarez asked.

Marcus crossed his arms, glanced at both officers, and said:

“The Plot Thickens.”

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