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The university has given refunds and apologies for Valentine Teegarden's classes.
His unexplained absence was met mostly with irritation, at first — it wasn't the first time. Previously, he had always come back with a sympathetic excuse and abject apologies, and his excuse and his tenure had both been indisputable. After a week and change, the discussions about relieving him of his position were ended by the police knocking on his coworkers' doors.
He has been absent from work for 108 days, now, and registered as a missing person for 96. They've held his post for months, but now they've started interviewing new faculty. Very few of them believe he's coming back.
His case was the first — not the first recorded, but the first in fact — of a rash of missing persons, freak accidents, animal attacks, first offenses from people you'd never expect. His sons are trained well, and they work hard, but he had been guarding this rift for decades, and they've never had the whole town to protect on their own.
The hidden wards on his house expire, slowly, without him there to refresh them. His books and weapons sit untouched, except when his desperate children come up against a demon they can't face alone, and dig them out looking for something they can use. They pore over his volumes of notes, enlist friends he would have urged them not to tell, get into scrapes they barely escape from. They learn.
The night of the 108th day of his absence, Valentine Teegarden reappears a foot above his living room rug, and his body falls with a thud onto the floor.
