Ten Huize Pistoni: Prologue

“The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS

I wouldn't let me know. They had challenged me and I would not leave that unanswered. At that moment, my pride was just a little stronger than the anxious feeling that gnawed at me inside. There was so much talk and gossip among the people. That's why I didn't have to believe it all. It is not for nothing that my name was Thomas and it would not be the first time that people referred to that unbeliever of yesteryear in connection with my words.

In front of me, a tall mansion towered over me. It was certainly very old, but there were still houses in the vicinity. The wood factory in Oostkant, the village where I lived, had gone bankrupt after a few difficult years. Many had settled here when Timber Trade, one of the established names in the woodworking industry, flourished in our region. However, a lot of people had also left Oostkant when the company's doors were closed by the curators. For example, many houses were empty and decaying here due to the disinterest in building a future in the East Side.

The house was once occupied by Armand Pistoni and his family. Armand Pistoni was an Albanian who arrived here in Oostkant with his parents at a very young age. A family with a very controversial history, but known as diligent workers in our neighborhood here. They had to flee their country due to a blood feud with another family. In Albania, at that time, they were not close to retaliation and the law. After all, the police were as corrupt as hell and a settlement was swept under the carpet for convenience and a few million leaks*.