"If he weren't so helpful, I'd be more scared."
Back to the Present
The Johnsons' living room looked like it always did; caught between order and mess.
Toys sprawled near the TV, newspapers slumped half-read on the armchair, and a basket of clean clothes sat on the couch, a half-forgotten mountain Clara had been nagging about for three days.
Blackwood's tall, heavy frame sat before it. Shoulders squared, posture rigid, hands pale against the dark shirt he wore.
He drew out a white bedsheet and snapped it once, the sound slicing through the silence. Then he lowered it onto the coffee table and began folding. His fingers worked slow, and precise, every crease pressed flat with the side of his hand.
It didn't look like laundry, it looked like a ritual.
Clara entered from the kitchen, wiping her palms on the sides of her trousers. She stopped, and lowered her eyes. "Blackwood, what… exactly are you doing to my sheets?"
He didn't look up. "Folding."
"That's not folding," Clara shot back, walking closer. "That's…" she pointed at the table, her voice sharp. "that's how you'd wrap a body. Like in a morgue."
His gaze never rose, he spread another sheet across the coffee table, smoothed the creases with the side of his hand, giving it a shroud-maker's touch.
Liam clattered in, holding an empty rice bowl. He stopped mid-step, his eyes sleepy. He frowned at the sight, and said flatly, "Mom… Did dad die?"
Clara moved closer to him. "Don't say that honey."
"Then why is he tucking it in like he's laying someone out for a funeral. Like—like on crime shows."
Nora popped her head in from the hall, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She tilted her head, lips twitching into a grin. "He's good at it though. Bet if you handed him a real body he'd have it wrapped before Mom finished yelling."
"Nora!" Clara's voice cracked sharp.
"Cool. Can you show me how to do that one?" Nora pointed out.
Clara spun toward her. "Don't you dare encourage him."
Blackwood's pale fingers moved to tuck the last corner with surgical care. His voice came out low, and detached. "She's not wrong."
Liam's shoulders hunched. "Uh… is he joking?"
Clara pressed her palm to her forehead. "No… Yes, he's joking. He just… says things like that."
Peter wandered in at that moment, on a call, and with a lopsided smile fixed on his face. He glanced at the table, then at blackwood, and let out a cheerful whistle. "Now that's clean work. Look at those corners. You could put that in a hotel."
Clara turned, aghast. "Peter! You think this is hotel work? He's folding like he's running a funeral home!"
Peter chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying…he's helping, isn't he? You complain nobody folds laundry. Now someone folds laundry and—"
"Not like that!" Clara snapped, pointing at blackwood, whose hands now moved to a pillowcase. He pinched the corners together, slow, reverent, as if he were sealing someone's eyes shut.
Nora laughed, nudging Liam. "Next time we prank Mrs. Keller, we're using him."
Liam muttered, uneasy, "Yeah, and then Mom will kill us both."
"Okay, what about Halloween parties? Imagine the screams."
Liam shook his head. "Or the lawsuits."
Clara threw her hands up. "I swear, I am surrounded by lunatics."
Blackwood finally lifted his eyes. His gaze swept across them, and his voice was chilling. "Folding is folding. Sheets. Shrouds. The only difference is who's watching."
The room went still.
Clara's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat.
Peter chuckled, though it sounded forced now. "See? That's… that's deep. He's got a way of looking at things."
Clara turned on him, incredulous.
Blackwood pressed the final crease flat with his palm. His fingers lingered on the fabric like closing a lid. Then he dropped a few coins from his pocket onto the folded sheet, the clink echoed in the space.
He stood, and walked out of the room without looking back.
Peter gave a small, nervous chuckle, trying to smooth over the silence. "Well… at least the laundry's done."
Clara spun on him furiously.
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