The Scrapyard Dungeon WIP (Patreon)

This is prep work for something down the line. Too much work right now keeping up with the two stories, but I want to have a place to organize some thoughts when something odd bounces out of my head. I'm not sure when I'll get to more parts of this. It will be a stub on RR with just the first chapter, but if I write more, I'll toss it up here.

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In dark, abandoned places, strange events are happening, and things not from our world are creeping out to take a look around and grab a bite to eat. Homeless people living in old buildings have disappeared, and no one misses them or investigates. It's as if they never lived. In Colorado, a small town near an abandoned mine is gone, but no one remembers it was ever there. 

Physicists have noticed that something is different. The numbers are off, and things don't quite work the same way. The more they look, the less they know.

The only people who have a clue are the ones on the outside of society. They notice things no one else does and hear the music that lures the lost to odd doorways. Most are never seen again, completely forgotten, but not all of them.
Living on the bottom can make you tough.
Being a loner means only relying on yourself.
Surviving can make you stronger and change you.

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"I don't need anyone stealing my stuff! Get out of here, or I'll call the cops. I've got a friend at the station. They'll toss you in the hoosegow for your thieving ways."

Lurch sighed, trying to look as non-thieving as he could. "Sorry, Mrs. Henessy, just trying to help. My uncle sent me over. He says the fire department is doing inspections in our neighborhood next. They're only supposed to look in the basements, but they can make you clean out your whole house."

"That's a load of crap. Who the hell is letting them do that?" But she glanced back at a hallway, stairs, and dining room filled to the ceiling with boxes of treasures and barely room to walk.

He shrugged. "Dunno, who's the head of the Fire Department? The Mayor? Uncle Al made me clean out the whole basement of our place. The old carpet was moldy, and he put all of Aung Ginny's stuff down there when she died. Boxes of clothes and tons and tons of stuff. I could barely get to the furnace."

The old woman looked vindicated for some reason. "Your aunt was a woman who knew the value of things! She and I used to go to yard sales together and fight over the good stuff. Lord, I miss that woman. Even if she did get to those brass flower pots, the Smiths were selling off before I did. She never planted a flower in her life, but she wouldn't let me have them!"

Brass pots? Lurch was pretty sure he knew where the ugly things were in his house. "About a foot tall, with pictures of daisies painted on them? Yep, I still have those. I found them when I cleaned out the basement. They'll give me some money for them at the recycle place out on Elm Street."

Brook Henessy looked like she was going to have a heart attack. "Dear Lord, child! Why would you do that? Those are antiques, I'm sure of it. I'll give you ten dollars for them. Bring them right over and put them in my basement."

Another shrug. "Don't know. But Aunt Ginny made me promise to never-ever sell her stuff, but she didn't say anything about recycling it for money."

"Then I'll trade you for them!"

Lurch scratched his head, then nodded. "Your son, Joe, he had a weight bench down there, in the back. The iron weights are probably all rusty, but I could clean them up. I'm starting to work out a little bit and could use them. How about this? I'll bring over the pots and find a spot upstairs for them, then start rearranging your basement to fit more stuff in and clear back to the weights. If I straighten stuff up and get rid of just the old newspapers, you'll pass inspection. I'll even take the paper to Elm Street and bring you the money from the recycler."

She grimaced at the thought of letting anything go, but that seemed like a fair trade, and she had seen on the news that the Fire Department was all over town, checking for invisible gases and fire hazards. One family had been forced to pack up and live in a hotel for a month.

"Well, seeing as how recycling isn't selling, that sounds good. You can even keep a dollar for yourself and get a cream soda on the corner."

Lurch smiled at her. "That's a swell idea. Thanks, Mrs. Hennessy. I'll bring back my uncle's truck and get started this afternoon." The old woman tried to smile at him, failed, and just said. "You do that, Justin. Thank your Uncle for me, and say hi to your Aunt." The door shut in his face.

Turning to leave, the boy chuckled. When was the last time she was out of that house? That soda fountain at the drugstore had closed before he was born. There was a dry cleaner there for the last twenty years. And his Aunt had been living in the Heavenly Hills Cemetery for the last six years. He'd pass on the message the next time he visited her. Right now, he had to get home, grab a sandwich, check his own basement, and then get back here with a truck to start the work. Mrs. Hennessy was notoriously deaf and watched her TV programs in the evenings with the sound turned to ten, annoying her neighbors. It would cover up any inconvenient sounds that might happen.

That's what had made it hard to follow the trail. The noise around her house in the evening was too loud with her TV turned up loud, and the neighbors to either side retaliated with music or TVs. The trail got drowned out, and he kept losing it. He should have known it would be in the old hoarder's basement, but the Lairs were tricky things. He'd finally snuck around the neighborhood at four in the morning and heard the music. Soft and low, building inside your head as you got closer. This one sounded like a piano or organ, and as he had put his ear against her basement window, he'd heard horns as well. They were calling to him, offering him something.

He didn't know if anyone else in the city knew about the Lairs or was trying to clean them out, but he wasn't taking any chances. He was looting this one tonight. After he got the truck, and checked his basement for the Boggle and found those brass pots. He should eat first, too, but there was nothing in the house to eat. But he had money for a change. Tucked inside a hole in the lining of his jacket were a crisp ten-dollar bill and three ones. He needed to save the ten, but he could splurge tonight, preparing for a hard day's work and cleaning out a lair.  Two burrito supreme at Taco Bell sounded good.