Episode 38 - Lurch Makes the Rounds

The elevator dinged at 3:17 p.m. No one had called it.

Charles looked up from the confetti catalog. Miss LaDonna glanced over her teacup. Bernard didn’t turn—he already knew.

The doors opened, slow and deliberate.

And Lurch stepped out.

He was tall enough to duck slightly in every doorway.

Wore the same charcoal-grey coveralls he always had, never dirty, never new. Boots that made no sound. Eyes like burnt-out halogen bulbs that had learned regret and moved on.

He said only one word:

“Farm.”

Bernard floated toward him.

“The feed’s been quiet,” he said. “Mostly ambient. No interruptions.”

Lurch nodded. One slow motion. Reached into his coat and pulled out a long, thin slip of reel—frayed at one end, spliced with red thread.

He handed it to Charles.

“Ready.”

Charles didn’t ask how he knew. Just nodded.

“What’s being retired?” he asked.

Lurch pulled a yellowed post-it from inside his collar.

Written in perfect handwriting: “The Beast of Yucca Flats (1961)”

Everyone winced.

“Fair,” said Miss LaDonna.

They didn’t ask what else he’d be doing up there.

Lurch always checked the grounds.

Cleared the paths.

Talked to the scarecrows. (They liked him.)

Sometimes he left things in the soil. Sometimes he brought things back.

And when asked how he knew where to go, Lurch only said:

“Tracks.”

Before he left, he paused by the front desk.

Looked at the mug Olivia left behind.

Set a small envelope next to it.

Not sealed.

Just folded.

Inside: a Polaroid.

Not of Olivia.

But of her chair.

Empty.

Still warm.