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immawritestuff-blog · 6 years

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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

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