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[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day Two - Evening

    The boy finishes his job without further incident. A generous bowl of goulash is served, as promised. The boy gives his thanks for the food. The barmaid gives her thanks for his help. It's the closest thing to grace this meal will have. The boy plops down at the counter to chow down. Hard silver jabs between his ribs when he does.

    “Ow.” He didn't mean to say it. He swears it came out of his mouth on its own.

    Now the barmaid's hot and bothered and asking more questions. “Are you alright?” She asks.

    He's flattered she's concerned, but this isn't a good time.

    “Yeah, I'm fine, great actually. It's a splinter is all,” he lies.

    “From wiping the tables?”

    The boy nods. Another lie. He’s got splinters, that part’s true, but they're from that stupid window. Though he cursed them then, he blesses them enough for a benediction now. They fortify his deception into something substantial enough to believe. The barmaid certainly begins to when he shows his pierced palms.

    “Jesus, kid,” she oaths, “how hard did you rub?” She turns to the kitchen and shouts, “Hey, Gerry! Get your pa in tomorrow to sand down the tables this week. Kid’s got splinters like a pincushion’s got needles.”

    “Awright!” Chirps Gerry.

    The barmaid faces the boy again. “Gimme your hand,” she insists, “I'll take them out for you.”

    The boy looks longingly at his steaming bowl, loath to leave it cooling.

    The barmaid gets the hint. “You only need the one hand to use a spoon, silly,” she smirks. “You eat, I'll tend to your hand.”

    The boy agrees. One hand goes to the lady, to his goulash goes the other.

    The barmaid chatters as he's dining. “You know,” she starts, “I don't think I ever got your name. It's John, right?”

    The boy freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth. God does he hate that name. “I'm not John,” he snaps as he looks up for the briefest of moments. He spots her rattled expression right before he returns to his soup.

    The barmaid is quiet for a time. Neither her hands nor her mouth move an inch. Gerry clatters in the kitchen as he sets out dinnerware. The boy slurps his goulash. Nothing else makes a sound.

    Eventually, the barmaid recovers. Finally thinks of something else to say, something witty to recover from the silence. “Well then… what is your name, 'not-John’?”

    The boy pauses once more, but it's a contemplative pause, not a prickly one. What indeed… “Jus’ ‘boy’ is fine,” he decides. It's what he's been called for most his life. “But you can call me anythin’ so long it ain't late for dinner. Or John.” He looks up again, cracks a small grin this time.

    The barmaid cocks her head and dons a baffled smile. “You must be the strangest boy I've ever met ‘Boy.’”

    The boy shrugs. Resumes making dents in the contents of his bowl. The barmaid goes back to picking wood out of his palm.

    “Well, nice to meet you Boy. My name is Alicia.”

    The boy sets aside his spoon, the bowl before him empty. He studies the naked bottom for some inkling about what to say. Vaguely recalls the manners the sisters tried to drill into him. He squares his shoulders, meets the barmaid’s gaze, and recites, “Hullo Alicia. Nice to meet you.” He'd even give her his hand to shake if she didn't already have it.

    Alicia grins wide. Shakes the boy’s hand as much as she's able without pressing on his piercings.

    With that, the boy makes his first friend in Glenholm.

    Alicia looks back to his hand. (She's still beaming.) “I think that's as many as I can get out of this one,” she says. “Give me your other hand.”

    The boy obliges without hesitation. A full belly puts him in a trusting mood. Since Alicia went out of her way to give him a hot meal, the boy will trust her as long as she'll have him around.

    He pivots on his stool so he faces her, otherwise he'd have to be a contortionist to lend her his palm. This exposes the lumps in his pockets under no skein of uncertainty, not at this proximity. Alicia's gaze flicks over the boy’s hand and fixes on those same conspicuous places.

    The boy has been anticipating the question long before she asks it. He rapidly calculates and recalculates exactly how much he trusts this young woman.

    “What’s that in your pockets?” She asks.

    A moment of truth? Or more lies? Perhaps he needn't do either.

    “'S a long story,” he deflects.

    “Okay… Can I see what you’ve got?”

    “It's nothing,” the boy insists.

    “... Fine. Suit yourself.”

    She pinches him harder than need be in plucking his palm. He pretends not to notice.

    The deception is for her sake too. Wherever dubious goods are concerned, the less people in the know, the safer it is for everyone involved. The boy doesn't want her involved. She's too nice. He'd rather bear her grievances quietly like a good boy than bring her trouble, even if that is what she asks for.

    When she's tired of failing to get a reaction out of him, to spur some confessional, she lets him go. Shoos him out of the building in fact, announcing that the early birds will come in soon. She did say he had to be out before opening, so the boy doesn’t ask to stay longer. He’d rather not push his luck. Goodness knows he’s used enough of the stuff for one day. There is, however, one thing he’d like to try before he leaves.

    “Can I come again tomorrow?” He asks.

    The barmaid gives him a look. He knows the kind. It’s the ‘what are you trying to pull this time’ look. “You planning on becoming a regular or something?” She ventures.

    “I’d like to work again sometime…” The boy holds his breath, anticipating what she’ll say. He doesn’t know how Alicia will react. That worries him.

    Her brows shoot halfway to her hairline, her expression reminiscent of when she went all quiet after she called him John. After the boy snapped at her.

    The boy figures she looks like this when she’s confused. The clever deduction gives him satisfaction, but his anxiety smothers it.

    He’s waiting for Alicia to say something.

    She eventually does. “Why do you need a job? Your a little young to need pay. Shouldn’t you be helping your ma and…” She stops there.

    “I don’t have a ma or pa,” the boy gently reminds her.

    “But you’ve got an uncle… Right?”

    The boy’s eyes shift to the side. He doesn’t want to say a word about him, so he doesn’t. Only shrugs, leaving Alicia’s imagination to fill in the blanks.

    She’s quiet again, chewing on her lip while she decides how to continue. “If you want pay,” she mulls, “I’m gonna have to speak with my pa about a job...”

    “Just soup’s fine,” the boy interrupts. To be honest, the soup was more than fine, it was the best thing he’s ever eaten. So good. But he keeps that bit to himself, lest the lady decide to haggle working hours. “I don’t ask for much. Something to eat now and again will do.”

    Alicia eyes him the same way she did when he came in this afternoon. “Are you needing board too?” Her voice is soft when she asks it.

    The boy considers. As unpleasant as living with his uncle is, it’s not unbearable. He’ll be okay so long as he avoids the other residents in the gloomy, old house. Shouldn’t be too hard. Didn’t see either of them this morning. They certainly won’t see him, given he keeps his wits about himself.

    Plus, it’s really cool living in a big, old mansion.

    “I got a roof over my head,” he says a touch proud.

    “Just a hot meal then?”

    With those few words, the boy is humble again. A beggar in a big house is still a beggar. He still needs charity to eat, so he nods.

    “Okay… Okay,” Alicia repeats. Her eyes flicker between fixed spots in empty space, probably wondering how far her generosity can go. “I can do that,” she decides, addressing the boy again, “come and talk to me when you need a bit of bread and we’ll work something out, you and me.”

    The boy starts salivating at the thought of bread. Sure he just ate, but it’s never enough. He’s always hungry. Already impatient for tomorrow, he rapidly nods his noggin and promises he’ll be here at midday sharp.

    Alicia shakes her head, part amused, part grieved. Says that won’t be necessary. Afternoon is fine.

    Thus, the boy has a career, a proper one too. No more thieving (if he can help it). No more getting prodded by silver contraband. Ain’t life grand?

    The boy skips his way to the hill, to the place he reluctantly calls home. Alicia watches him go from the pub. Her brows are creased. She isn’t smiling.

<== Day Two - Afternoon     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Two - Night ==>

#writing #story #stories #the demon boy #day two #evening #horror #thriller #fantasy #fantasy elements #fiction #historical fiction #self-published #mystery #mystery elements #almostcaught #got a job now #someone's suspicious #boy who ya foolin?

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The Demon Boy: Day Two - Afternoon

    It took several hours before the boy stumbled into town. He’d have arrived sooner if he hadn’t gotten the hair-brained notion to trail blaze a shortcut through the underbrush. He got lost instead. Twice. Had an unwelcome run into a bush too.

    The boy cannot understand why everyone says greenery is good for the body and soul. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can’t stand any of it.

    Then there’s a warbling in the air. The boy swings his gaze over in its direction. Perching on a branch not too far into the trees is yet another bird. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.

    The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. Recalls this morning.

    Maybe the green isn’t all bad, he decides as he strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town.

    It’s quiet today. He can’t hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There’s nobody here!

    The boy approaches the town square. There’s the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside the first building he passes. Not a hide or hair of anyone else.

    Stranger and stranger.

    The boy gingerly sidles up to the building. Tries to hear a few words through the door. Discovers yet another one of Glenholm’s trademark damn thick doors. At least the kook inside is hollering loud enough for him to make out some disjointed words.

    Let’s see… “Father.” ... “Blood.” ... “Sacrifice.” ...

    The boy backs away immediately. Doesn’t know what he heard. Doesn’t want to know. Half-sprints down a block before curiosity gets the better of him and drags him back. This time he decides the door is too risky. Anyone could open it and find him snooping. Plus the door swinging out will give him a good whack. Instead, he moseys to the shaded side of the building. Crouches beneath the sill of one of the narrow, stained glass windows. With utmost caution, he peers inside.

    It takes some awkward maneuvering to find a section that’s clear enough for a decent look through. In the meantime, the warped panels stretch the building’s occupants into leering fiends, the coloured ones dye them into tableaus of ghastly red. Such visions make the boy uneasy. He hopes it’s the glass casting illusions on an otherwise ordinary and benign scene.

    Finally he finds a piece of glass crammed in by the right edge that doesn’t act as a grisly funhouse mirror. Through it he sees people (not fiends) sitting in rows upon rows of long benches (not drenched in red). Moreover, these are people he recognises in passing from yesterday.

    What in blazes is going on?

    He notices the people’s stares fixated on a singular point toward the back of the building. His gaze follows theirs.

    There’s a broad, raised platform spanning the entire back wall. On it is placed a speaker’s podium. Behind that podium is a balding, middle aged fellow in long black robes swinging his arms in sweeping gestures. It’s that fellow’s voice the boy is hearing.

    The boy studies the madman at the podium. What’s he doing? More importantly, why is anyone listening to him? And with a great deal of respect too. What gives?

    Then he spots the large, wooden emblem hanging on the wall above the stage. It’s a simple construction. Two pieces of wood centered at eachother and joined at right angles. It’s a cross.

    Ah. Now things make sense.

    The boy eases immediately. There’s no stealth as he walks from the window. Why bother? Nobody was ever arrested for loitering around a church.

    The boy strolls back to the tree line and finds himself a nice oak to sit against for a quick nap. The thought of joining the sermon doesn't cross his mind. The priest was in full swing and it’d be embarrassing to interrupt him. Like the sisters said, either you come on time to congregation or you don’t come at all. There was one little catch if you decided to play hooky. The sisters took attendance. Deserters would be flogged when they got caught.

    The boy grimaces as he remembers how he got those particular scars. A few among many.

    He shifts on his seat of earth. He’s not comfortable anymore. Some of the marks on his back have a habit of pricking when he remembers how he got them.

    He curls up on his side against the foot of the trunk. Shifts a few times to dislodge the edge of a spoon that's stabbing his stomach. Closes his eyes. Thinks of other things.

    Thinks of bird songs and the graveyard calls of crows. Thinks of rolling green, blue skies, and fiends through red windows. Thinks of bright country lanes and long, dark corridors. Thinks of new beginnings.

    Eyes spring open.

    If he falls asleep now, he’ll have naught but nightmares.

    He stills his nerves and tries to resettle himself. Compromises and attempts a light doze instead. Eyes close again.

    This time he thinks of nothing. Lets the sounds of the world soothe him. The rhythmic drone of the sermon. The flutings of birds. The spring breeze as it breathes through him.

    But it’s still so quiet compared to the city. There’s no steady chug and clank of industry, a thousand iron arms strong. There’s no work whistle shrieking. There’s no gasp of steam through pipes. What was once an annoyance leaves a sense of loss in its absence.

    The boy lies there, listening to the sounds of his new world spinning around him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there in the dirt when the chapel doors finally burst open.

    He springs at the sound. The town floods back to life in a steady pulse of people flowing out the door and into the streets. The boy staggers up, pats himself off, and follows.

    The first place he goes is, of course, the general store. He didn’t need to pay last time. Maybe he’ll get lucky again. Or he could work for his food. That’s all he ever did in the workhouse, so he figures he’s good at it. There’s no machines to work here, but he could sweep the floors. He could wash windows. Or he could do... whatever else needs doing. He’ll figure something out when he gets there.

    When he does get there, the door is closed. Locked tight too. There’s a sign left out, but the boy doesn’t know what it says. May as well be Greek. Can’t make out heads or tails of it, try as he might. Squinting at it this hard gives him a headache. He gives up and tries the pub instead.

    This door’s not closed and locked. One good shove and it screeches open. The barmaid peers curiously at him. Her face lights up once she recognizes him.

    “Hullo again,” she beams. “Fancy meeting you here.”

    The boy shyly hullos back.

    The barmaid leaves her cleaning rag on the bar counter and approaches the boy for a quick chat. “And why have you come this time? Still looking for that uncle of yours?”

    The boy freezes. The less people know of his uncle, the better, he decides.

    “I- I found him,” the boy says, “but I don’t think he’ll be coming anytime soon.”

    “Is that so? A pity. I’d like to meet this mysterious uncle. Never did hear of any Myrs before. You’ll have to introduce me sometime,” she winks.

    The boy laughs. He hopes to god he keeps the tension out of his voice. If not, it’s going to prompt more questions he doesn’t want asked.

    The barmaid, in fact, does not catch on. She continues as cheery as before. “Anyhow. We’re not ready to open yet. And,” she adds, playfully pointing a scolding finger at him, “like I said before, we don’t let minors around here. Isn’t that right Gerry?” She yells to the kitchen doorway behind her.

    “What?” Gerry answers.

    “S’alright Gerry. You’re doing a great job back there. Keep at it!”

    “Err. Awright.”

    The boy giggles at the exchange. Mirth smooths his frayed nerves.

    The barmaid smiles back at him. “In all seriousness, what did you come here for?”

    Oh. Right. “I’m wonderin’ if I could get a bite to eat,” he replies.

    “Uh huh. And why here? Don’t your uncle feed you at home?”

    Questions, questions, questions. The lady is full of them. The boy came here for a meal, not an interrogation. Why can’t she have the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy his buyers did? Life would be so much simpler if she did. Moreover, he’d be served and digging in by now.

    He wracks his brains for some excuse, any excuse. The pause stretches into stiff silence. The barmaid’s searching him for an answer he doesn’t have, doesn’t want to give.

    She gives him a final once over. Sighs. Shrugs as she says, “Suit yourself kid, but if you get chewed out for ruining your appetite at supper, it’s your own fault.” Strolls up to the counter, then turns back to him. “I’ll get Gerry to serve you a little something, but, in return, you gotta help me set up shop and you gotta be outta here before we open up. Do we have an agreement?”

    The boy nods so fast his head near falls off his shoulders. The barmaid is surprised by his enthusiasm. She sets him straight to work wiping the countertop and tables while she calls in his order.

    The boy, for his part, works well and works fast. He's a blur streaking from table to table to counter. Stretches himself thin to reach the far corners of the bar. Something writhes free from his pockets mid-stretch. It shines bright as a falling star. It rings sweet bell chimes when it hits the flagstone floor. The small sound reverberates strong as a gong in the building. Of course someone's going to notice.

    “What was that?” The barmaid asks. She was talking to Gerry through the kitchen doorway at the time and doesn't see the shimmering object laying on the floor. Not yet.

    “Nuthin’,” the boy reacts. He places his foot lightly on top of the silver spoon, hiding it from view. He acts nonchalant. “I didn't hear nuthin’,” he repeats.

    “Uh huh.” The barmaid gives the boy and the room a quick inspection. Sees nothing out of place. Shrugs off her suspicion and goes back to chatting with Gerry.

    The boy slowly lets out the breath he’s holding. That was close. The second he's certain the barmaid isn't keeping a corner of her eye on him, he dips down in one fluid motion, snatching up the spoon. Looks back to the kitchen. Barmaid’s still laughing at Gerry’s stories. Good. He returns the spoon to where it came from. Gets back to work, though now he moves carefully. He doesn't like to repeat past mistakes.

<== Day Two - Morning     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Two - Evening ==>

#the demon boy #day two #afternoon #writing #story #stories #historical fiction #fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #mystery elements #mystery #horror #thriller #curiouserandcuriouser #bad memories #liar liar

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day Two - Morning

    The boy wakes to a strange sound, the likes of which he's never heard. It's an odd squeaking. It's coming from above his head.

    He swears loudly and jerks away. It's only after he presses himself against the footboard that he looks back. He sees the window and its sill, both of which are empty.

    He blinks. Rubs his bleary eyes. Looks again.

    Still nothing. Not a mouse to be found.

    It belatedly dawns on him through his half-asleep daze that the squeaking is coming from outside the window. He sticks his head out, not touching the blasted frame as much as possible. Cranes his head this way and that. Finally looks up and spots movement high in tree branches a short distance away.

    What in blazes are those?

    One of them shoots off from the green and arks into sky blue. It twitters and squeaks in litting song.

    “Bird,” the boy says aloud. “It's a bird.”

    He can't believe any such thing could make so strange and wondrous a sound. He has trouble connecting the rough noise the city crows barked with the light melodies he's hearing now. They're both birds, but why are they so different?

    The boy stays there, mouth agape, until his neck aches. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away. There's other things that need doing.

    The boy looks about his room. He was too rattled and the room too dark for proper scrutiny last night. The morning rays are keen enough to see by, though it's filtered through the fringe of the forest. By it he spies three beds. There's the one he's sitting on, settled beneath the window in the middle of the room. The other two lay pressed against the walls to either side of his bed. He couldn't see them in last night’s shadows.

    The boy frowns. What else did he miss?

    He swings his legs to the side and slips off the bed. Wanders about the room. Inspects the crumbling walls. Opens each chest of drawers at the foot of each bed. Holds up some moth eaten pantyhose within, dropping it like a dead rat once he recognizes what it is. Doesn't look at the chest as he nudges it closed with his foot.

    With that revelation, the room has been sufficiently explored. Onto the rest of the house. The kitchen seems a good next step.

    The boy slips into his shoes. Licks his lips as he shifts into the corridor a second later, closing the door behind him. He isn't greeted by the sweet smell of breakfast like he imagined. Pokes his head into the kitchen, just to be sure, but what he sees isn't what he hopes. The counters and tables are covered in layers of grey as thick as the stuff in his room.

    Nobody has cooked breakfast in here for ages.

    The boy’s stomach growls. He reconsiders how he might get a bite to eat. Asking anyone who lives here is out of the question. He doesn't know his uncle well enough to speak to him. Could get boxed for looking at him wrong. Doesn't trust the foreigner more than he does his uncle.

    It's up to him to get a meal, so into the kitchen he goes to find some edible crumb.

    It's nostalgic really, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, searching for useful odds and ends. Sometimes it was shining baubles and trinkets to pawn off later. Otherwise, he was searching for crusts of bread and other leftovers like now.

    The boy finds plenty of shining things in the form of blackening silverware, but scarcely more than that. Nothing he's yet found could be edible. A homemade breakfast does not appear to be in today’s plans.

    The boy gives a frustrated huff and pockets several small, sparkly spoons from a drawer close at hand. If worse comes to worse, he can barter for enough coins to buy a meal in town. And that is exactly what he plans to do.

    He pokes his head into the hall, on the watch for any who might take offence at the hard forms of silver bulging in his pockets. He sees none. Not a soul in sight. Hears none. If he strains his ears, he hears the echoes of rumbling snores. There’s too many echoes in the house to tell where they’re coming from. No matter. They come from afar and that’s good enough. It’s footsteps that worry him. His own and not his. Especially not his. Those are the ones that herald the most trouble. But there’s nothing around, save that faint snoring.

    The coast is clear. Time to disappear. Time to make a profit.

    The boy steps lightly. He sticks close to the walls where the old floor won’t dip and squawk at him, where the gloom hides him like an oyster does a pearl.

    He knows the routine so well it’s carved into his young bones for all he knows. Comfort comes from such familiarity. His body is taut, pressed close to the walls as a shadow. His heart, however, is at ease.

    A calm seeps into him. Thoughts slow and grow quiet. He forgets whose house this is, forgets he lives here. He’s back in the city, burgling some fancy mansion on a job.

    He recalls a Chinaman he knows who deals in antiques. His English is broken, but knows how to bargain like the devil. Better still, he knows quality goods when he sees them and offers better prices than the boy will get from most. The boy plans to visit him shortly.

    He slinks round the other corner and freezes. The exit’s right there, but he doesn’t relax. He eyes the main hall and peers up the stairs to the balcony above. So many places to be spotted from. This is the most dangerous section of any grand house. Foot traffic is inevitably centered around this area. A servant could walk in and find him at any second. Worse still, there’s no conveniently placed pieces of furniture that could hide him. It’s a bee line between here and the door, no stops are allowed. Time yourself well.

    The boy breaths. Checks one last time in all places for hidden eyes. Finds none. Pricks his ears for footfalls. Hears none. Tenses. Flows towards the exit as silent and fluid as a fleeting shade. Fumbles with the bolt on the door for a second before slipping through the smallest gap levered between door and frame. And then it’s gone without sight or sound, treasure and boy shadow both. Nobody was wiser, not until long after the unseen thief was gone.

    The boy turns away from the door, already tracing a route to his Chinaman through twisted alleyways in his head. Freezes again when he sees green, not the sootstained stone he was half-expecting.

    Realization crashes over him, leaving him damp in cold sweat. He’s in Glenholm again, for better or worse. And he’s just stolen quite a pretty penny’s worth in silver from his uncle. The boy will be dead or worse once his uncle notices the theft. Hopefully the toff will have gotten him out of here by then.

    The boy doesn’t count on it. He’ll feign ignorance when reckoning comes and hope for the best when it does. Today, breakfast awaits.

<== Day One - Night     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Two - Afternoon ==>

#the demon boy #day two #morning #story #stories #writing #self-published #fiction #historical fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #mystery #mystery elements #horror #thriller #the silver spoon fiasco #the house #flashback #birds #what's a bird? #how's your reality testing?

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The Demon Boy: Day One - Night

    The smell that rolls out hits the pair, boy and toff both, with a force that rivals, if not surpasses, the scent of the pub’s stew in all the wrong ways. The reek of stale sweat, mildew, and old booze. The boy tries not to breathe, not to retch. He swears he's gonna be sick. He bites the feeling back, bites his tongue for good measure.

    If a whiff is enough to make the boy retch, he doesn't dare look at what's hunched in the doorway. Just a peep will kill him dead of fright. So he bores holes in the shreds of what was once a doormat that are lying at his feet, pretending there is nothing more fascinating than this in the whole, wide world.

    Who’s he kidding? He’s so jumpy he almost leaps over the manor and onto the roof when the thing at the door speaks.

    He didn't think it could speak.

    “What… What the 'ell do you want?” The voice slurs on a breath marinated for days in sour ale.

    It's not a pleasant experience for the ears, or the nose, but it's no different from listening to your average drunkard. This fact surprises the boy. He’s shocked enough to forget he wasn't supposed to look at the awful thing in the doorway. More shocking still is that 'the awful thing’ isn't so awful after all. No more than any other mean drunk he's seen, and he's seen plenty.

    As the toff goes off on his tangent about ‘CODY this’, 'suitable lodgings that’, and 'nurturing environment whatevers’, the boy remains quite fixed on this man. Yes, this man, whom he's never met and has been terribly mistaken about in all assumptions made so far. The boy is not sure what to think of him.

    This man is a drunk, yes. He smells bad, however most drunks do. Yet, most importantly, he is a man.

    The boy blinks at the thought, not understanding it, unable to process it for several minutes. He was not expecting this… his uncle to be a man. Or such a common sort of man.

    He blinks again. The gears in his addled head finish spinning, the recent fact finally registering with a resounding, internal 'PING’ as the world resumes turning.

    His uncle is a man. Moreover, he is not a particularly remarkable man. The thought is as disappointing and underwhelming as it is mildly disturbing. More disturbing still is that said man is currently giving him, actually both of them on the doorstep, a glassy stink eye.

    The boy flinches a beat before his uncle slurs “Piss off!” at them and slams the door on their toes. More precisely, it was the toff’s toes that were slammed upon. Who else would be stupid enough to stick their foot in a doorway with a heavy oak door rapidly swinging shut?

    “Did I mention the generous monthly stipend?” The toff hisses loudly through his teeth, hoping the mention of it would entreat some mercy on his fractured foot.

    “I dun care wha’ever stipen’ yer sellin’,” was the response.

    “Money,” the toff blurts out, “Free money. Every month!”

    The press of the door eases immediately. The toff snatches his battered shoe from peril. Hisses again at the movement, but hides his grimace. Seeing the uncle eyeing him warily, with more interest, from around the crack in the doorway, the toff rapidly presses on.

    “You’ll get money, lots of money, free in what’s called a ‘stipend’ at the end of every month. It’s a charity thing. No strings attached. All you need to do is take care of the boy,” here he nudges said boy forward, however dead set the boy may be against being nudged, forward or otherwise.

    Especially not forward. Not while his uncle is eyeing him like a… a… a peddy-phil.

    It should be noted the boy does not actually know what a ‘peddy-phil’ is, thanks to the sisters’ talent at diverting attention away from taboo topics. He only knows it’s some very awful thing he should keep very clear of.

    He decides his uncle is very much like a peddy-phil. He should stay far, far away. Too bad the toff thinks differently. Even his uncle is warming up to having the boy around, going so far as to invite them (the toff really, the boy’s just an extension) inside to further discuss that ‘stipen’’.

    The boy, the only sensible one around here, takes not one step forward. The toff lags behind to convince him with rushed whispers. The uncle doesn’t notice, too busy prompting someone inside to prepare for guests and to do it quick like.

    “Listen to me John,” the toff mutters over the boy’s quiet protests, “listen to me!” The boy pauses, out of breath. The toff assumes he’s allowed to continue and chooses not to think beyond that. “I have a plan,” he stresses. The boy doesn’t care, but the toff goes on. “He won’t hurt you. He won’t touch you, I promise. I’ll make him promise. As soon as I can, I will come back for you. You won’t stay here a day longer than necessary.”

    “But I can’t, I can’t,” the boy chants, terrified his feeble voice will finally fail if he says more.

    “You can, and you will,” the toff reassures. “You’re a tough boy, John. You- you’re smart and- and clever and you can do this.”

    They’re kind words, the kindest the boy’s heard in a long time. They’re words he wants to believe. So he nods. He foolishly places his faith in a man he has no confidence in whatsoever.

    “Okay,” he barely breaths.

    “Good boy, John.”

    The name is all wrong, but it doesn't matter. The praise gives him bravery he doesn’t have.

    “I can do this,” the boy parrots.

    “Yes, yes you can,” the toff mirrors back. “Ah. Here,” the toff pulls a piece of paper the size of a playing card from his breast pocket. “If you’ve any trouble, send a telegram to his address here,” he points as he hands over the card, “and help will be on its way.”

    The boy frowns at the card. He looks up at the toff. “But I can’t-”

    “Oy! Where’d you lot go?” A voice echoes from inside.

    “Later,” the toff hushes. He leads the boy inside, card stuffed in his pocket. Any further disputes are conveniently forgotten.

    The first thing the boy sees upon entry are not the shriveled stems of long dead house plants, nor is it the multitude of cracks running through the yellowing wall plaster. None of these things stick out due to the overwhelming presence of the foreigner standing to the side of the doorway, dully inquiring if he may hang their coats.

    The boy's seen foreigners before. He saw loads of them crowding the walkways and piers the day he visited the waterfront, tempted by tales of ships filled with faraway riches. Didn't stay more than one day though. Pickings were risky and slim, plus the ships weren't interested in enlisting boys so young, so small as him. That was years ago. He's grown since, but never did see many foreigners after, especially once he was thrown to the homes.

    Yes, the boy has seen foreigners, but it's been awhile. Hasn't ever been so close to one, near enough to touch if he wanted. Which he doesn't.

    The tall, dark man dressed in a butler’s livery intimidates the boy. Half of it is his colour and size, half is his uniform, the last half is his voice rumbling deep as thunder. In short, he's another unknown element.

    In this great house filled with dark corners the wax weeping sconces fail to touch, everything is unknown. Therefore, the boy is scared of everything. He's led further through long halls, the foreigner guiding in front, the toff limping behind. The ceilings are high and the corridors wide, but somehow the foreigner makes the innards of the house look tiny in comparison. It's claustrophobic. Trapped in a tiny big place with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Keep walking forward, deeper and farther inside closed walls.

    The boy now knows what it's like to be swallowed whole and alive.

    It's warmer inside than it was out.

    The boy is shivering again. Nobody comments on it. Either nobody notices or nobody cares.

    Round a corner they go and around again. They’ve arrived at a large seating room. It's as dim as the halls. The large curtains eclipse all light from outside. Elaborate candelabras dance shadows across every surface. Portraits on the walls. Dusty furniture. The stuffed bear in the corner. The uncle leering at them from where he sits on the sofa across from them.

    It's a scene out of a penny dreadful. You just know something bad will happen.

    “Now,” the uncle barks, “le's talk 'bout tha’ stipen’.”

    The boy can feel the toff stiffen at his side, likely rankled at not being offered a seat.

    “Very well,” the toff starts.

    The boy expects a terse, though polite smile to be splayed across the toff’s face. To his horror, the boy sees no features at all. The light’s too feeble, the shadows too strong.

    “But first, I must insist that John here is shown to bed,” says the toff.

    He gives the boy what was supposed to be an affectionate pat. The boy would be screaming if he could lever open his mouth. An inaudible whimper comes from between clenched teeth instead.

    There's a flutter of movement in the room. It's the uncle’s hand waving. It's the boy's dismissal. Following it are the words: “Yeah. Sure. Wha’ever.”

    The boy can't make out what's being said afterwards. The throbbing in his chest is too loud. It drowns out all sound. He knows he's supposed to follow the foreigner purely due to the toff’s insistent nudge.

    So off he goes. Again swallowed through dim corridors, again following a dark stranger.

    The thudding is getting louder. Is the sound really coming from his chest or is it coming from the walls? The boy can't tell. It could be either.

    Once more they go down and around turns and bends. They stop in a corridor lined with plain doors. The foreigner motions to the doors on the left. He says something. The boy listens without hearing a word, shuddering at the foreigner's voice vibrating along his ribs.

    The vibrations stop. The boy takes it as his cue to nod furiously and look submissive. Finds himself staring hard at his feet anew. By the time he risks lifting his head, the foreigner is gone. This leaves the boy alone with many doors to choose from.

    He turns the knob nearest him. Enters a vast room with a stone floor and a long counter lining the far wall. Hasn't the foggiest idea where this is until he spies the oven and stoves crammed in the corner. This isn't a bedroom. This is the kitchen. A fine place to visit, though not a good place to spend the night. Too much draft blowing down the stove pipes and too many mice.

    The boy wrinkles his nose at that particular recollection. He hates mice.

    He backtracks. Shuts the door behind him before opening the second closest one. Door number two is among the collection arrayed along the left wall of the hall.

    The boy stands transfixed at the doorway. The thumping that's haunted him quiets and finally stills. Dustmotes dance in the moonlight cast by the uncovered window. They spin and twirl in frenzied waltz spurred by the door's movement. Covered in dust and cool, white moonlight, the room glows silver. It feels like the boy's trespassing, like he shouldn't be there. Should or shouldn't, he’s here anyways. May as well go inside.

    Footfalls send tides of shining grey rippling from the floor. They lead a trail from the door to the unkempt bed upon which the boy kneels. He’s surveying the window hanging above the headboard.

    The glass is stained in cobwebs, like the high corners of the room. The painted frame peels and splinters at a touch. It shrieks and stabs the boy's fingers as the window’s pulled open, but the change of stagnant air to fresh is worth it.

    At least now the boy won't be smothered to death by dust bunnies in his sleep. He muses such things as he contemplates what his new life will be like in this large, eerie house. He idly carves a notch into the fragile sill with his thumb nail. Gets himself yet another splinter. Nothing pleasant will ever occur while he's living here, he decides.

    On that cheery note, the boy throws his shoes to the floor and shakes out the covers he's crouched on top of. Sneezes several times at the billowing, grey cloud his actions kick up. Thankfully, the breeze from outside clears the air quickly. The boy settles under the sheets. His eyes close. He is soon asleep under the moonbeams.

    The open door eases closed as he slumbers.

    END OF DAY ONE.

<== Day One - Evening     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Two - Morning ==>

#the demon boy #day one #night #story #stories #writing #self-published #fiction #historical fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #mystery #mystery elements #horror #thriller #welcome to Glenholm #welcome home #is this place haunted or what? #worst day ever

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day One - Evening

    Perfect silence. There’s the steady thrum of a panicked heart, but the boy doesn’t know if it’s his own or one of the adult’s.

    “What do you have to do with Myr?” The banker repeats, louder this time. The volume betrays the tremor in his voice. It’s too slight for the toff to notice, twat that he is. The boy knows too well what to look for. He grew off the mean filth of the slums; he, like all the other boys and girls born and raised there, can smell fear like a bloodhound tracks a dead man.

    The question is, why is he afraid?

    “He… he’s me uncle,” the boy tries. His answer is soft, unconfident. Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t believe a word of it.

    The banker, however, does. He chases them out of the building for it, howling at their backs to keep the hell away from him, for the love of God! Whoever this Myr guy is, it’s enough to scare him stupid. And that terrifies the boy more than anything could. Rich, posh guys like this have too much money to be afraid, to need fear. Plus, they like other rich, posh guys, or at least they aren’t spooked like they saw the boogie man.

    The boy mulls things over. The toff is predictably guileless.

    “I dare say that fellow has been sampling the post office’s wares,” the toff mumbles.

    The boy doesn’t respond. The toff doesn’t speak. It’s the carriage all over again.

    The toff tries again, clears his throat. Then again more pointedly.

    That did the trick. The boy starts at last from his thoughts, looks up warily at the toff as if he took him by the shoulders and shook him. No doubt the toff would do so if needed.

    The toff tells him to move along. The boy follows, still glaring.

    Exactly what has the toff gotten him into?

    Suddenly the boy isn’t so keen on seeing that long lost uncle of his. Screw the inheritance. Screw Glenholm. Screw home. He wants out of here and he wants out now. But how?

    The boy, formerly dragging his feet, stops... One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four min-

    The toff notices something’s missing. About time. He scowls at the boy too stubborn to move a full block behind him. Marches back within distance enough to talk instead of yelling from afar. Thank goodness for small miracles.

    “Just what do you think-” the toff starts, but he does not finish. The boy doesn’t let him.

    “Me uncle isn’t a good person.”

    The toff blinks back at the boy’s measured stare. He stops a few feet away.

    He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens again. Sighs. Tries again. Starts with the obvious. “So, you’ve met him then?”

    “No.” The word is sure. Firm.

    “Then how would you know what he is and isn’t like, silly boy? Come to think of it, didn’t you ask me-”

    “The bank fellow was scared enough to piss when I said his name.”

    The lingering word ‘carriage’ dies on the toff’s lips. At first he made to talk over the boy, ignoring him and, thus, the problem. Typical toff. Too blind, too stupid to see the pistol waving in his face. But why’d he have to stop when he heard ‘piss’ of all things?

    The boy waves the thought away. That’s not important. He’s got the toff’s attention. Make use of it while you can.

    “Then there’s the grocer lady. Said she knows every bloke in the whole bleedin’ town! So why’s it the banker knows ol’ Myr, but she don’t know scraps?”

    The toff doesn’t answer, can’t answer. Sure, he responds, a few words of empty assurance he doesn’t believe: new beginning and all that rubbish. But a response isn’t the same as an answer. But since the toff’s still resisting, the boy must carry on.

    “What if he’s a,” he pauses, searching for the worst word he can find. Recalls one he heard spoken in worried tones back at the homes, one only said when the sisters thought none of the boys were around. “What if he's a peddy-phil or somefink?”

    That got the toff to shut his gob.

    “You gonna leave me with a freak the likes o’ that? All by meself?”

    “I…” the toff tries.

    The boy matches his meek look with dark, desperate eyes that could petrify a basilisk.

    “Well…” the toff tries again.

    The boy doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. He can’t afford to.

    “John, boy, listen to me-”

    “I'm not John.”

    The boy’s eyes still bore into him.

    “It’s out of my hands!” The toff shrilly exclaims. “I was supposed to- to do paperwork and- and organize committee meetings and the like. Not things like, well, like this.” Like ending a young boy’s life himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, as if saying it again would make it mean something more.

    And the boy’s eyes still bore into him through all that. Through blood and bone to the soul. Or maybe it was guilt?

    No, the boy reminds himself, he’s a toff, remember? Toffs don’t feel guilt. If they did, the world would be a very different place than it is today. And he wouldn’t be standing here, staring at a broken man, just as frail and helpless as he is.

    The boy finally breaks his gaze, opting instead for the packed earth at his feet. He doesn’t see the toff’s relief at being freed from the pins in his eyes. Doesn’t see the toff break again when he walks towards, then straight past him without a sound.

    ‘And I'm quite sure that so long as you behave yourself and are a good boy, you will have absolutely nothing to worry about.’ The memory rings round his head, laughing.

    Typical, typical toff. He doesn’t know jack about the real world, does he? He doesn’t know a damn thing, the boy seethes. Doesn’t say a word though. What’s the point? The toff said it himself, ‘It’s out of my hands’. He’s done for. The boy’s fate is sealed.

    The unusual pair plod back to the market square. The boy leads this time. He’s impassive. The toff follows pensively behind. He’s remorseful. The sun sets to the side of both of them. It’s indifferent them, as it is to all things on Earth. It’s merely the end of another day.

    The last hours of light drench the earth and the buildings that rest upon it, painting Glenholm golden. It's surreal. Like none of it's really there, being merely an illusion that will inevitably fade when the sun finishes it's plummet over the horizon and disappears.

   Please let this all disappear. The town. The people. The beginning.     Me.

    Gold deepens to amber. Amber dyes itself an unrelenting red. The colours bleed from one to the other to the next, much like the following hours pass for the boy. He's numb to it all, the hues of twilight, the hours of dusk, the drone of the toff as he finally gets those directions he no longer wants. Not for him. Especially not for the boy.

    Please let this be a bad dream. Please let me wake up.

    The boy doesn't know how or when the toff took the lead through town and up and around the hill, all the way to the seigneur’s manor hidden behind the forested crest. Doesn't matter anyways.

    It's black now. The sun's gone. Its last traces of light have faded.

    There's nothing left.

    Nothing left to do but face the music. Do try to appear somewhat brave. Do try to not wet yourself in the face of this man who could be a monster, who could be your uncle.

    Please don't be there.

    The toff raps on the door. The weighty metal knocker detonates noise in the still spring air.

    The boy shivers. His clothes are thin and he's cold, but he's used to the perpetual chill of old, stone buildings. He does not shiver because he is cold.

    Please don't be home.

    There's someone there. The walls of the manor are robust, but you can hear the crack of the ancient boards beneath the weight of whatever is inside. And it's coming to the door.

    No. No no no.

    It thuds against the door. Something shifts against it on the other side, dragging itself across. It clunks and rattles with the deadbolt far longer than it should take a person.

    The door swings open.

<== Day One - Afternoon     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day One - Night ==>

#the demon boy #day one #evening #story #stories #fiction #writing #self-published #historical fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #mystery #mystery elements #horror #thriller #cliffhanger #and so it begins #what's behind the door? #somebody was lying

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day One - Afternoon

    The group from before isn't here anymore. The boy has no clue where they went. He'd like to know. He'd like to find out. Sadly, the toff’s not going to let him go anywhere until this uncle thing is sorted out. The boy considers ditching him... but it's more trouble than it's worth. Plus, looking for this uncle he's never known is rather exciting.

    The toff yells at the boy over his shoulder. Tells him to hurry up. Again. Don't dawdle and all that. The toff’s the only person in a hurry in all of Glenholm. The boy harumphs and jogs to catch up. What's the rush anyhow? If his uncle lives in the village or anywhere nearby, then chances are he won't be leaving anytime soon. There's better chances of finding him dead than out of town. Then he'll have not just a family but an inheritance as well and maybe he'll be as rich as any toff. Maybe richer still.

    The boy smirks and daydreams on.

    Maybe he's the long lost nephew of a lord. He could be nobility. Heck, he could have estates for leagues around. He could own Glenholm.

    Maybe that bit’s less likely than the rest of his hopes. Maybe. But he can dream, can't he? That's what boyhood is for: dreaming impossible dreams and hoping impossible hopes.

    A new beginning. He believes those words now, except they’re no longer just words.

    It's reality.

    It's what he's always hoped for without knowing it.

    It's home.

    The toff storms through streets. The boy skips, not far behind. He spins like a top, looking round and around, taking in everything there is to find. He knows he will, in time, come to know and love these streets well (as if he didn't like them already). Doesn't mean he can't get a headstart.

    The second stop on the toff’s inquisition is the local ale house. It's a squat building, built of sagging beams and plastered brick walls sunk low to the ground. It's old too. Must be a hundred years at least. Likely older than that. That said, it's in damn good shape for its age. The door fits well in its frame despite how the building’s settled over the years. Opens with a creak you can hear clear to the other side of town, but it readily obliges.

    The savoury aroma of tonight's supper through the doorway hits like a heavyweight's right hook. The boy reels. Takes him a full minute to come back to his senses.

    He's drooling on the doorstep and the barmaid behind the counter is telling him to get out. They don't let minors in here. Not since the shenanigans two summers ago. Not unless he has a father to drag home.

    “Not a father, an uncle,” the boy corrects.

    The barmaid cocks a brow. “And who might that be? I don't think I've seen you around.”

    “Good day miss!” The toff interrupts. “I am Henry M. Peddleson of the Charitable Organization for Destitute Youths (or CODY, if you prefer). Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

    He's making doe eyes at the barmaid. The toff is making doe eyes. The boy mimes a gag. The toff doesn't see, thank goodness. The barmaid notices too well. Tries to swallow back that smile as best she can (not very well). Refocuses on the toff. Does it too late. The toff remembers why he's there, remembers the boy. He turns to him, scowls at first, then smiles like a weasel, sticky with fake kindness and sickeningly sweet.

    “How about you wait outside John while the adults talk,” he croons.

    Behind him, the barmaid pulls a face.

    The boy is reluctant to leave the heavenly smell of the cook's pot behind. Drags his feet. When the hard look in the toff's eyes doesn't spur him on fast enough, he shows him to the door himself. Slams it on his heels for good measure.

    “It's not John,” the boy mutters belatedly towards the door.

    The door doesn't respond. Can't hear anything through it even with an ear pressed against the thing. They don't make doors this thick anymore. It's probably as ancient as the rest of the pub. Either way, eavesdropping is off today's menu, like anything else that’s cooking in the pub. Damn.

    The boy looks around for other means of amusing himself. Kicking stones. Trying to read the pub sign. Failing to read the pub sign. Throwing stones at the pub sign, trying to make it swing. Swearing at his crumby aim with words the toff wouldn't recognize. Eventually seats himself on the ground by the door. Resigns himself to watching people on the street, mostly the gypsies a few buildings away and other passers by.

    The bulge in his pocket sticks in his side. It's the package from the grocer lady. What did she give him? He takes it out. Fiddles with the paper, trying to work out the many folds without tearing it. Gives up. Rips it to shreds regardless. Nearly tears apart what’s inside. Stops himself just in time.

    He smiles at what he's holding. Sinks his teeth in immediately after, praising that lovely lady all the while.

    A bread roll. That’s what she’d smuggled him while the toff's back was turned. ‘For the road.’ The dough is no longer warm, but it's still soft and tender and oh so delicious. It's got nuts and raisins and everything. And this was on the house! Glenholm’s getting better by the second.

    The boy leans back onto the wall, belly full, idly kicking up dust, silly grin plastered all over his face. Life doesn't get any better than this, no sir. He happily watches the clouds go by… And he's bored again.

    What in blazes is taking the toff so long?

    The boy gets up to peer through the pub’s windows. They're as big as the ones on the carriage. So small. That's not unusual on ye olde places like this. Why is it that the older a building is, the tinier the windows are? Do the windows disappear altogether if the place is old enough? If so, how do people see inside? They'd have to have a lot of candles. It's a waste of good tallow when one little window can give you good, strong sunlight to see by. Ah, but first, the window needs to let the light go through it; that also means you have to be able to see through the damn thing.

    The boy squints at the pane. Presses his nose up against it for good measure. Still can't see a thing. The sun is behind him, which isn't doing him any favours. The toff and the barmaid probably see him making faces just fine; how quickly the toff storms out afterwards proves it.

    His face is red and his hat is crooked. Points straight at the boy and utters a single word: “You…” He takes a deep breath. Tries again. “Get up you. We're going somewhere else.”

    The boy picks himself up and dusts himself off before he runs after the toff. The whole process only takes a few seconds, but the toff gets real good mileage when he's fuming. What's put a bee in his bonnet anyhow?

    Oh. Maybe it was that?

    Doe eyes, the boy recalls. Yuck.

    “Did you get rejected?” He puffs once he's caught up.

    The toff near falls on his face. Stands dead on the spot after he catches his balance. Turns redder than he was when he came out of the pub as he stutters this and that. The boy can't make out a syllable of it, not that it matters. He has his answer, loud and clear.

    Seeing the toff so out of his element must have made him bold, recklessly so. What else could make him say “She definitely rejected you”?

    He gets a boxing to his ears for his “sheer cheek”, as the toff puts it. Should’ve seen it coming. Should've known better. Should've kept his mouth shut.

    It's one of the first rules, if not the first, that he learned in life: you're always too poor to afford cheek. Unless you have someone big to back you up, then you can go nuts.

    The boy isn't home yet. Won't be either until he finds his uncle, but find him he will. You can be assured of that. Then he'll give the toff a piece of his mind.

    The boy rubs his sore ear, glares at the toff for good measure. Oh, he'll give him a piece of his mind alright, but for now he has to put up with him and his wild goose chase around town.

    Their third stop is what passes for the Glenholm post office, an establishment whose primary business is as a tobacco shop. Apparently Glenholm needs more snuff than it needs letters sent. The dazed mail clerk come tobacco cutter (or is it the other way around?) is at a complete loss about what exactly a post office does.

    There's a sweet smog hanging heavy around the roof beams. It stings the boy's eyes and makes his head swim. He vaguely recognises the smell from what occasionally seeps out the seams of cellar windows in the city's seedier slums. There's no way in hell there isn't stuff stronger than tobacco hidden in the shop’s backroom. Chances are the fellow at the front desk has been sampling his stock. The bugger barely stands.

    The toff is not amused. He's outright disgusted. Turns his nose up at the place and the druggie staggering at the register and the smell and the everything. Leaves as soon as he sets foot inside. Dutifully pulls the boy along.

    Fourth stop: the bank across the road from the post office. The clerk manning the desk here is the mirror opposite of the one from the “tobacco” shop. He's well trimmed and the suit he's wearing is new, fits like custom made too. How strange. Haven't yet seen a tailor’s shop. Is there one in Glenholm?

    The toff warms up to this clerk immediately; “Finally, civilization,” the boy hears him mutter. Must be the common fashion sense that appeals to him.

    The clerk, on the other hand, isn't fond of the toff. Looks disappointed to see him, but that's ridiculous. Since when is a banker unhappy to see a toff?

    “Good day, sir. I am-” The toff goes on the same spiel he did back in the bar, minus the doe eyes and the “pleasure to meet you” bit.

    The banker isn't impressed. Continues to look surly and bored without a twitch of interest. What kind of banker doesn't like toffs? This one, apparently.

    “Are you sure you're a banker?” The boy asks, out of the blue.

    The toff is appalled at his behaviour. The only thing keeping him from doling out a good smack for such impudence is the present company (he'll make up for it later, no doubt).

    The banker gives him a stare too hard, too wary. “And just what are you implying?” he drawls out carefully. The subtext comes through loud and clear: ‘How dare you accuse me.’ He’s not denying squat though.

    The toff rapid fires apologies, simultaneously scorning the boy while he tries to salvage the situation. It’s a critical moment. This is likely the only civilized company he’ll see in a backwater ditch like Glenholm. The banker, on the other hand, remains thoroughly unmoved.

    In the face of this immovable object, the toff is quickly running out of steam. The pauses in between words get longer, actual words become fewer. The toff is red in the face again, not only because he's run out of breath.

    The boy stares at his crimson face. He didn't think the toff could run out of breath. Doesn’t think of his suffering otherwise.

    The toff, noticing his smaller, more vulnerable audience, addresses the boy instead. “What are you looking at?” He snivels.

    The boy blinks. He’s as underwhelmed by the toff as the banker is by now. “...Nuthin’,” he decides.

    “As amusing as the present drama has been,” the banker intones, “I’m not one for theater. Furthermore, I don’t have all day to tarry away with the likes of you folk while paying customers are kept waiting,” he loudly proclaims to a building without a single soul in it except the three stooges in that very room.

    Yes, in a clearly prosperous bank like this, during a weekday no less, there are only those three in the entire establishment. The boy would know. He counted (not that it was hard to).

    Not one for theater my ass. Clearly someone's playing a scene here, and he's sitting mighty comfy, cozy in that velvet chair of his. Well, if that's the way he wants it, let's show him he's not the only decent actor in Glenholm anymore.

    “Actually, we do have business here, good sir,” the boy pipes up sweetly. He brings out all the bells and whistles for this role he's chosen: the sweet, naïeve boy with puppy dog eyes.

    Quite coincidentally, the boy picks up the slack left hanging in the conversation by the toff. You’re welcome, he subtly glares in the toff’s direction.

    The banker, mildly intrigued by the boy’s sudden performance, leans back in his plush chair and nods slightly to him to continue. Looks like you're interested after all, so long as the play and actors are to your liking, you fat, pompous jerk.

    “We’re here in Glenholm to look for a relative of mine,” the boy resumes, dully rehearsing the lines in the sugary, ‘good boy’s’ manner of speech that did him well during his stint as a beggar. “Perhaps you might have heard of him?” He continues, doing the little head tilt and pout that bewitched the the old ladies of the Christian Volunteer’s Association. Even the banker isn't as stony as he was moments ago.

    The boy still has his old charm, he grins to himself. Now that the target is buttered up like a roast ham, it’s time to get to what matters.

    “Do you know a Mister Ezekiel Myr?”

    The banker immediately shuts down before the boy’s eyes. He’s worse now than when the toff was blathering. If he was stony then, he’s a mountain now. Worse still, the boy doesn’t understand why. Why now? It should’ve been a cinch. He had him, goddamnit!

    The banker’s look is sharp and impenetrable. He speaks slowly. “What do the likes of you have to do with Myr?”

<== Day One - Midday     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day One - Evening ==>

#the demon boy #day one #afternoon #you like a good story? #stories #writing #self-published #fiction #historical fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #mystery #mystery elements #horror #thriller #the other shoe drops #who is Ezekiel Myr? #welcome to Glenholm? #toff can't flirt #very awkward #totally legit establishment

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day One - Midday

    The driver hoarsely half-yells they've arrived at their destination. He interrupts the toff mid-sentence. That shuts him up. Sort of. He grumbles complaints of riffraff this and that under his breath, as if the old man weren't deaf after all and was merely pretending the whole time.

    They get out, toff stumbling through the entryway first. The boy follows swiftly after. He takes a big stretch, working the many kinks from a half day’s worth of travel out of his stiff back. Looks around and sees what a new beginning means.

    It means curious faces, smiling ones. People here are friendly. They don't have the ‘shove off’ attitude of city dwellers.

    A group of country boys crowds him. They're bigger than him, all of them. Grown fat on the cream of the country as opposed to the crumbs of the city gutters no doubt. They're here to mug him for his shoes; they're the only thing of value he's got. What else could they be here for? But the big boys have no interest in what he's got on his feet. They're interested in him of all things.

    It's a cacophony of “Hey there!” and “Hallo!” The boy struggles to keep up with too many voices and far too many questions in too short a time.

    “What’s your name?”

    “Where'd you come from?”

    “Are you new here?”

    *Smack.*

    “Oww! What was that for?”

    “For being an idiot is what it was. Course he's new here, we never seen him before.”

    “Who’s the toff?”

    “‘The toff’, as you boys so politely put it, is here to escort this young man to his uncle,” replies a voice from behind. Said voice doesn't wait a moment to let the boy socialize as he pulls him away by the arm. “Come along. Don't you dally. The road back is long and the sooner I get you home, the sooner I depart.”

    The boy looks back at the group. They're still waving to him.

    “We’ll see you around, alright?”

    “Bye now!”

    The boy waves back, or tries to. It's hard to do with the toff pulling him. Can't squeak a word out before the toff drags him into the nearest shop. As it turns out, the nearest shop is a general goods store managed by a pleasantly smiling housewife.

    Everyone smiles out here. More importantly, those smiles are heartfelt. Honest. Nobody smiles like that back home.

    The boy blinks.

    No, nobody smiles like that back in the city. This is home now. It'll take some getting used to, calling this place home, but it'll be worth it.

    The lady smiles at the strange duo. The boy smiles back. The toff doesn't waste his breath on niceties.

    “I'm looking for this boy’s uncle,” he says, yanking the boy upward by the arm, as if he’d be invisible otherwise.

    The lady frowns at the toff. “Well, I might be able to help, but you'll have to tell me a name first.” There's the barest edge of chiding in her voice. It's like she's scolding the toff for being a twat, which he is.

    The boy likes her. Hopefully she's family. An aunt perhaps? There must be some relation.

    “Ah, right, that,” The toff starts and stops as he digs around in the many pockets that line his fancy coat. “I- ahem- if you’ll be so kind as to give me a moment, I know I, ah (no, not there either), I have the name on my person. Somewhere…”

    The lady waits on the toff for a minute or two, plenty of time to realize he shan't be finding that name anytime soon.

    “I am so sorry Madam, this will only take a moment.”

    The lie is so obvious, it's painful.

    The lady’s smile stretches a fraction more. “It's no trouble at all. You take all the time you need, sir.”

    The toff distractedly mutters a reply. A vague word of thanks, perhaps? Whatever it was, he doesn't stop his rummaging to say it.

    The boy rolls his eyes when he's sure the toff’s too occupied to notice.

    “Do you know your uncle’s name?” The lady asks.

    The boy looks up. Hasn’t the foggiest idea what to say.

    When adults talk it's with other adults or at boys like him. Surely she should be talking to the toff and not him. Surely not him.

    “Are you alright?” She asks. That lovely smile's faded under the confusion.

    “Of course he's alright,” the toff answers, “he's tired is all. A day’s travel will do that.” He still hasn't found what he's looking for. He's given up searching the cavernous insides of his coat and is fiddling with the lock on his suitcase instead.

    “He's been on the road all day? Like a gypsy? Oh! You poor thing, it's no wonder you're tired.”

    “I'm okay,” the boy protests. “I mean, I'm not tired. I didn't realize you were talking to me.”

    The lady scrutinizes at him with brows knit. The smile's gone. “Who else would I be talking to?”

    The boy looks down at his feet. Shrugs.

    The toff interrupts. “Here it is. I got it. I got the name right here!” He’s so proud of himself, waving that little scrap of paper aloft.

    The lady ignores him. “Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?”

    The boy doesn't understand why she's asking, much less why she cares. He answers regardless. “Not since this morning ma’am.”

    She tutts and gives the toff a hard stare. “It's no wonder you're all skin and bones. How shameful.”

    “Excuse me!” The toff prickles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

    “What it means is it'd be a darn shame if the child didn't get something for lunch.”

    The boy perks up at 'lunch’. Lunch sounds excellent. He’s never been one to turn down what he's offered. Especially not food.

    The toff, however, has other ideas.

    “Oh no you don't you little…” He bites back that last word. Barely. “I’m sorry Madam, but I did not come to your establishment to buy something. And I assure you this… young man has no money to speak of. Thus, sadly, we will not be buying anything. Now can you tell me where I might find a Mister…” he squints at the paper, “Ezekiel... Myr?” Squints again. Nods to himself. “Yes, I am looking for Mister Ezekiel Myr. Do you perchance know where to find him?”

    “Oh.” She frowns. “Ezekiel you said? I… hmmm…” She pouts. “That name, I…” And now she looks the other way and sighs. “No,” she decides, “I might've known that name a long time ago, but not anymore. I can’t say who he is much less where you might find him.” She looks to the boy. “I'm sorry I can't help.” She means that last part. The sorrow in her eyes is proof.

    The toff huffs and resigns himself to sorting the contents of his case back into some semblance of order. Murmurs under his breath nothing the boy can make out.

    Meanwhile, movement from the counter catches the boy’s eye. It's the lady. She beckons him with a finger. He hesitates. Slowly, cautiously he approaches. When he's near, she slips something round, wrapped in paper, and fist sized over the counter top and into his hands.

    “For the road,” she mouths. “On the house.” She smiles. Gives him a wink and a shush.

    He smiles back. Shoves the package into a trouser pocket. Mouths a word of thanks before the toff turns back to the company at hand.

    “Ahem,” the toff resumes. “Are you aware of anyone who might know who Ezekiel Myr is?”

    “Hooo… I doubt that. Just about everyone comes here once in a while, whether it's to buy or to chat. There's not a name or face I don't know.”

    The boy’s brows shoot up. He can't remember the names of half the boys at any of the homes he's been to, much less an entire town’s worth of them.

    The toff looks like he's swallowed his own foot. He clears his throat. Turns a bright shade of pink while he's at it. As far as toffs go, this one does not look dignified. Not. At. All.

    The boy laughs this time. Couldn't hold it back. The toff glares at him. Worth it. Looks down at his feet and appears apologetic. Still worth it.

    The toff decides not to give up. Still feels like he has a point he can press somehow. “Well, ah, is this or is this not,” squints at the paper again, “Glenholm village?” He looks up expectant.

    Nobody responds.

    Is he asking himself about the name?

    “...Well? Is this not Glenholm?” He repeats to definitely not himself.

    “Yeah, no, this is Glenholm, you're not wrong about that,” the lady affirms.

    “And you are positive there's no Ezekiel living here?”

    “Can’t say there is. Hasn’t been in ages.”

    The toff harrumphs. Doesn't take kindly to being shown up. Quickly moves to get out and make inquiries elsewhere, hopefully where people are more obliging.

    “You take care now. Have a lovely day!” The lady chirps as they make for the door. She's not speaking to the toff.

    “Good bye,” the boy waves back.

    “What did I say about dallying? Keep up!” the toff barks. The door slams behind him.

    The boy follows grinning. He likes this place. He likes the people who live here. Even the buildings feel friendly, seated next to each other, side by side like old chums. It already feels like how home should feel. A new beginning, he hums.

<== Day One - Morning     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day One - Afternoon ==>

#the demon boy #story #stories #writing #self-published #day one #midday #no people skills #rude #nice lady #meeting Glenholm #welcome to Glenholm #fiction #historical fiction #fantasy #fantasy elements #horror #thriller #mystery #mystery elements

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day One - Morning

    A carriage clatters onwards to ‘a new beginning’. That's what the toff calls it, keeps saying it throughout the ride. He said it when he and his “ass-so-see-ates” came to the workhouse to sort the children out. He said it when the boys got carted off to the boy's home, Saint Markus. When the home got too full, he said it at Saint Barthelemy. And again at Saint Andrews.

    People call them “homes”, but they weren't. Not really. They were another place to stay until you got shipped off again.

    And some boys did get shipped off. Girls too. Off to unheard-of distant relatives. Off to the countryside. Off to the colonies. Off to places where nobody cared. Places where you were out of people's hair. Places where you were forgotten.

    Everytime the boys were dumped off at Saint this and Saint that, they numbered fewer and fewer. Some taken away, hopefully to that promised new beginning. Others died. Sickness. Accident. Crime.

    A few became men during their stay. They found work and left or were kicked into the streets to bum on street corners. These are the lucky ones.

    As for this boy in the carriage with the toff intoning promises he can't possibly keep… Well, he's alive and lived this long to be sure. Now he too is being carted off to that ‘new beginning’ that keeps getting talked about.

    This is the fate of the former workhouse children.

    ‘A new beginning.'

    The boy's heard that one so many times, he's not sure what it means anymore. It's just words at this point. Most things toffs say are. Toffs like to say stuff. They like to say lots of stuff. It keeps them happy, talking. It keeps them from feeling too guilty about the beggars dying of hunger right across the street from their big, old dinner tables in their big, old houses.

    As far as the boy is concerned, this toff can talk all he wants. It's not like there's much else to do but listen, and talk, and look out the tiny carriage windows. Watching the world go by.

    But the toff doesn't talk. Not anymore. He ran out of words a little past half way through the early morning train ride. He might have more if the boy spoke, but the boy didn't. So the toff doesn't.

    It's not the boy's place to speak. Not with adults, and certainly not with toffs. It's his place to listen, but never speak. The streets taught him that. Then the workhouse. Then the homes that weren't homes. And before the all that, before the long hours, empty bellies, and cold, crowded rooms, maybe there was family. Maybe.

    The memory is vague and shapeless. Trying to grasp it is like clutching smoke. It slips between desperate fingers and disappears.

    The boy sighs.

    The toff takes it as an opportunity (an excuse) to reassure the boy (himself) with the sound of his voice. His mouth opens easily. The problem is nothing comes out. Nothing new anyway. It's the same old stuff. Weather. Lovely morning. Country air.

    New beginnings...

    Guess how many times he's said that. It's more than ten, the boy can tell you. He doesn't speak though. Not a peep. Not now. Not yet. It’s not his place and he knows it, so he lets the toff speak. And he watches the world outside clatter past a tiny window.

    The toff doesn't do quiet. A city gent like him? Give him silence, real silence, not the muffled din that passes for peace and quiet in the city, and he will fall apart. He's been fidgeting the entire time he's been in the carriage. At least on the train he could talk to the other gents. Here there’s only the boy.

    To be sure, there’s also the carriage driver; horses don’t drive themselves you know. But that would be talking below his station. More relevantly, the driver is an old, deaf man who hasn’t heard a thing in five years. Not much for conversation. Never hears the toff when he bangs on the wall behind him to ask how much longer the ride is going to take. (That’s the third time he’s asked, counts the boy.)

    With nothing else to do, the toff coughs and fidgets. Fidgets with his little suitcase. With his little hat. In his seat. Tries not to look at the boy. A guilty conscience perhaps? Like with the beggars out on the streets? The boy certainly looks beggared. Such a scrawny thing. Dressed in the best clothes the home had to give him, but still looks beggared. The clothes don’t fit. The shoes are too big. The shirt is too small. Mice nearly ate through the trouser straps. Beggared.

    Then again, everyone looks beggared next to a toff in his shiny, pressed suit.

    Beggared or not, these are the only clothes the boy has. They’re good clothes, despite the wear and the size. He’s done with less. He’s done with rags and less than rags back at the workhouse. What he’s wearing have no holes in them and are well mended, which makes them good clothes. The boy will stop wearing them only when he can’t wear them any longer, whether it be the size that doesn’t fit anymore or because there’s nothing left to wear. Worn away to rags and less than rags until there’s nothing left.

    The carriage stumbles over another lump or dip or something in the road. Whatever it is, it jolts the carriage badly. The toff braces himself in his seat, feet on the floor, one hand on the ceiling, the other still clamped onto his suitcase. The boy is too small to reach any anchorage and is practically thrown adrift from where he sits. Almost winds up on the floor.

    “BANG, BANG, BANG,” goes the toff’s fist on the carriage wall.

    “Is it too much to ask for you to keep your eyes on the bloody road you old fart? Or are you blind as well as deaf?” Goes the toff’s mouth a second later. Following that comes a fair bit of muttered swearing until the toff remembers the company he’s in. He clears his throat. Has the decency to look embarrassed. Looks away again.

    The boy doesn’t care. He knows worse curses, used many himself. Still doesn’t say anything though.

    The toff has heard more words coming from the driver than he has from the boy at this point. The quiet is getting to him. His fidgeting is getting to the boy. This is getting ridiculous. Out of turn or not, keeping silence isn't worth this awkwardness.

    And so he finally speaks.

    “Do you know what he’s like?”

    The words don’t register right away. Or at all. The toff is too busy burning holes in the wall between him and the driver to notice that the boy is looking at him now.

    It’s funny. After six hours of struggling with the boy’s presence, the toff finally forgets he’s there. Until he looks back, that is. Now it’s the toff’s turn to nearly fall out of his seat; he starts so badly at the gaze suddenly trained on him. He clears his throat and pretends it never happened. Tries to look especially dignified for the occasion. Ruins the effect with the few words that follow.

    “What are you looking at?” he grumbles.

    The boy bites down a laugh and a smile. His face stays carefully blank. He doesn’t want trouble.

    “My uncle,” the boy starts again. “What’s he like, my uncle?”

    “Oh. That.” The question is unexpected. “Well, I don’t know. I never met him.”

    He’s a typical toff. He's good at looking good and absolutely nothing else.

    The toff simpers. “Come now, I'm sure your uncle is a perfectly nice man. He agreed to take you on, did he not?”

    “He did?” Hadn't heard that before. Given how the toff reacts, neither did he.

    He sputters and sniffs and eventually comes up with something along the the lines of “Of course he’ll take you on, he’s your uncle for crying out loud.”

    But he's not finished yet. Oh no. He's a toff, remember? And toffs love to talk.

    “And I'm quite sure,” he continues, “that so long as you behave yourself and are a good boy, you will have absolutely nothing to worry about. Furthermore-”

    The boy stops listening. The smudges of distant windmills on the horizon are so much more interesting. And more relevant. Where there's windmills there'll be other buildings close by. Sure enough, grain stores and barns begin to sprout along the roadsides, scattered homesteads hiding just behind. Then those houses aren't so scattered as the carriage passes the farmlands. The buildings stretch up and crowd together the further they go on. The windmills that became farms became a small town.

    Nothing could possibly compare with the crowds and cries of the city, but the gypsy hawkers in the market square certainly try. Looking at the shop fronts and people passing by, the boy becomes nostalgic for home. Not the boy's home at Saint Whichever-it-is, but the city he'd known in one form or another all his life. But this is where the carriage stops. This is home now.

     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day One - Midday ==>

#the demon boy #day one #morning #start here #are we there yet? #story #stories #writing #self-published #awkward #longest road trip ever #new beginnings #fiction #historical fiction #horror #fantasy #fantasy elements #thriller #mystery #mystery elements

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Table of Contents

Day One - Morning   <== Start here.

               - Midday   

               - Afternoon 

               - Evening 

               - Night   

Day Two - Morning

               - Afternoon  

               - Evening   <== Most recent part.

               - Night

Day Three - Morning

#the demon boy #story #stories #table of contents #organizational stuff #directory #get your links here folks #writing

[immawritestuff-blog]

May as well try.

Right. So. Imma try posting my story here too instead of being lazy and copy pasting links here. That said, it’s going to take time for what’s here to catch up to what I’ve already got on the Blogger thing I’m posting the story on. (Here’s the table of contents for that place ==>   https://demonboystory.blogspot.com/2018/10/table-of-contents.html  )

I’ll start with posting a table of contents here on tumblr, where I’ll link all the parts I’ll be posting on the tumblr site. That’ll give me a nice, organized back bone to build off of so things don’t degrade into a tangled mess.

#organizational stuff #gonna start posting now

[immawritestuff-blog]

A Table of Contents

Hiya. Still ranting about that story I’m writing here. In case you’re wondering, yes, The Demon Boy is likely going to be the only thing I’ll be talking about with this account here. If the repetition gets dull and tedious, well, I’m sorry about that, but it’s either that or I start talking about my cat. Do you want me to talk about my cat?

DO YOU?

... Why am I talking about my cat? I did NOT come here to talk about my cat.

 - TAKE TWO:

Right. So. Table of contents. My story has reached that milestone where it REALLY needs some kind of organizational system, hence, the table of contents. If you’d like to start reading the story I’ve got in the works, the table of contents is an excellent place to get yourself oriented. 

You can find it right here: https://demonboystory.blogspot.com/2018/10/table-of-contents.html

And that’s about it for announcements. Thank you for your time. Have a nice day.

#the demon boy #story #stories #self-published #table of contents #organizational stuff #gotta love having structure #tangents #writing

[immawritestuff-blog]

How about I just post the teaser here?

Dummy that I am, it hadn’t occurred to me that it’d be better to post the teaser here in full text rather than a lazy link to my main blog for my story (which is called The Demon Boy, in case you didn’t already know). So here’s the teaser in all its 248 words of glory.

    A carriage clatters onwards to ‘a new beginning’. That's what the toff calls it, keeps saying it throughout the ride. He said it when he and his “ass-so-see-ates” came to the workhouse to sort the children out. He said it when the boys got carted off to the boy's home, Saint Markus. When the home got too full, he said it at Saint Barthelemy. And again at Saint Andrews.

    People call them “homes”, but they weren't. Not really. They were another place to stay until you got shipped off again.

    And some boys did get shipped off. Girls too. Off to unheard-of distant relatives. Off to the countryside. Off to the colonies. Off to places where nobody cared. Places where you were out of people's hair. Places where you were forgotten.

    Everytime the boys were dumped off at Saint this and Saint that, they numbered fewer and fewer. Some taken away, hopefully to that promised new beginning. Others died. Sickness. Accident. Crime.

    A few became men during their stay. They found work and left or were kicked into the streets to bum on street corners. These are the lucky ones.

    As for this boy in the carriage with the toff intoning promises he can't possibly keep… Well, he's alive and lived this long to be sure. Now he too is being carted off to that ‘new beginning’ that keeps getting talked about.

    This is the fate of the former workhouse children.

    ‘A new beginning.’

And that was the teaser in all 248 words of glory. Hope you enjoyed. It should give you a good idea of the story’s setting as well as my own writing style. If you’d like to read on, here’s where you should start:

https://demonboystory.blogspot.com/2018/09/day-one-morning-carriage-clatters.html

Keep in mind that the teaser is literally the first little bit of this part up here ^. Everything after “’A new beginning’” is new though.

Thank you for reading and have a lovely day!

#writing #self-published #story #the demon boy #sorry for the long post #reading #exerpt #stories #fiction #horror #historical fiction #thriller #mystery elements #fantasy elements #do enjoy yes?

[immawritestuff-blog]

If you’d like something to read, I’m writing a story.

My story is called The Demon Boy. It’s set in the 1800′s in England. Genres are historical fiction, horror/thriller, with fantasy and mystery elements. Things get dark very quickly (about part 4).

Here’s a description:

“A poor, innocent orphan boy is forced into the care of his long lost uncle who lives in the sleepy, little village of Glenholm. Except the boy isn't as innocent as he pretends to be. And the little village is very much awake and stirring beneath its dopey appearance. Come to think of it, is this guy REALLY his uncle? (The boy doesn't think he is.)

“Well, whatever it is that's actually happening in Glenholm, it isn't going well. Especially where the boy is involved. Let's see if he survives the week, shall we?”

Here’s a link to the teaser (a mere 249 words):

https://demonboystory.blogspot.com/2018/09/a-teaser.html

Not looking for publishing, just want to put something out there that people might enjoy. :P

If you’ve any questions or anything you wanna say in general, feel free to comment here or on the link.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. I hope you have a lovely day!

#writing #story #stories #you like a good story? #reading #self-published #fiction #historical fiction #horror #thriller #fantasy #mystery #link included #writing not included #so how you doing? #you like reading tags dontcha? #just read the damn thing already #dont read if allergic to reading #wait how are you reading this if youre allergic to reading?