Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-4893169-20160105003601

Please read this work first to understand what's going>The Last Day of October--Short Hogger

'''Ch. 7--The Waif'''

“So what would you call this Thing exactly?” asked Kes. “It...She must have some scarifying thing-that-go-bump-in-the-night name.”

The buxom pirate wrench pursed her thin lips. “Around here, they called her ‘Th' Waif.’”

Kes raised a hairless eyebrow. “The Waif?”

“The Waif,” repeated the elvish captain as he led the way down the flagged, unlighted corridor, past a row of storerooms all crammed tight as a ship’s hold, until they got to a double wooden doors with wrought-iron hinges and a bisected ship wheel for handles.

Stationed in front as sentries were a pair of immense, sphinx-like beasts. One of them approached Kes, reached out a taloned paw for her gun.

“No,” she choked out as she clutched it closer. “I’d rather hang on to it.”

The beast leaned its face in close and gave a low, rumbling growl. Both the captain and his lead assistant looked at her expectantly.

“Oh, alright!” Kes grumbled. She thrust the weapon into the waiting beast’s paws. “And it’s antique,” she added as the second beast went to open the door. “So treat it with great respect.”

The first beast snorted indignantly before cracking open the rifle and emptying out the ammunition.

“But he shouldn’t do that!” Kes protested. “What if that Waif-Thing shows up here?”

“She won’t,” the redhead patted Kes’s shoulder reassuringly. “She won’t come anywhere nigh this here town ‘n now that Cap’n Jarvis Sievers be in charge.”

“And where is here then?” Kes asked as they were ushered across the threshold.

“In th’ sanctuary n’ safe harbor o’ Port Bognar,” returned the redhead, “on th’ northwest coast o’ Toria, n’ ye happen t’ be standin’ in th’ oldest standin’ structure in town--Th’ Admiral Kolchak Inn.” She then looked at Kes with a slight smile. “‘n ye happen t’ be natterin’ t’ Cap’n Jarvis Sievers’s second-in-command ‘n co-owner o’ this here establishment--Martina Cavendish.”

“Oh, my gods,” Kes swayed on her feet, her thin cheeks ash-gray, staring down at the carpeted floor. “Five-thousand, five-hundred and eighty-four point eight-hundred and eight-four miles,” she muttered. “I’ve not only gone back through time, I’ve gone across the blooming Hyperborean Sea and Sereadaland Continent.” She seemed about ready to collapse, and her hosts led her to a bench near a blazing hearth, and Martina thrust a drink into Kes’s hand which she barely noticed until she took a sip.

“What this?” Kes’s eyes bulged in shock the moment the hot, spicy drink doused her tongue. “Whisky? Port? Rice Wine?”

“Oriim ginger-ale,” Captain Jarvis replied, seating himself down in an armchair. “From a Gerdin merchant vessel we took three summers ago.”

Kes looked at him, stunned. “You took a Gerdin merchant vessel?”

“Aye,” affirmed the captain, pouring himself a drink from a crystal decatur.

“A huge, nano-steel-hulled, high-speed airship, several millenniums more advanced than your elfin technology...guided by computers and armed with sonic-pulse cannons and lightning guns?”

“Aye,” replied Captain Jarvis, swirling the orange-colored liquid in the glass. At his feet, Miss Tabitha chased after the watery light patterns on the floor.

“It was carrying a cargo of spices, liquor and art objects bound for Europe, and had stopped for supplies in the port of Libertallia. We managed to replace some of the crew and soon after these saboteurs managed to disable the navigation and communication systems.” The wood elf delicately sipped his ginger-ale and scratched his pointed chin. “Never stood a chance that ship, it was dead and drifting neat the Laputan Straits. Just needed a haul back to the nearest salvage port for a further re-fitting and redesign.”

“And the rest of the crew?” Kes asked warily.

“All swore an oath of piratical allegiance, even the captain was happy to oblige.”

Kes looked at him inquiringly. “Didn’t they even try to fight back?”

“Ye got t’ remember, dearie,” said Martina as she plunked herself down in a crocotta-hide arm chair. “When some freebooter’s wavin’ a plasma gun in yer face ‘n tellin’ ye wha’ t’ do, ye do it wha’ he says without riddle.”

“Riddle?” Kes asked.

“Back talk.”

“Oh, okay,” Kes nodded as she glanced around the magnificent well lit room. Crystal chandeliers rather than candles and oil lamps bathed the room in a warm rosy glow. The diamond lattice windows were well-polished as well as the wall paneling and exquisite furniture. Lining the walls were priceless paintings, statues of various gods and mystical creatures, every niche and crannie was filled with every conceivable artifact collected all across the high seas and sky-ways. As she cast her glance along a far wall full of tribal masks and ceremonial talismans, something strange caught her attentions.

Kes stared at the object for a moment, unable to quite believe what she was seeing. It looked so out of place among the treasure trove of trinkets and trophied mementoes.

In a small, narrow, glass-sealed cubbyhole in the center of the wall stood a short, stout dress-maker’s dummy. Covering it was a full-length gown of fur-lined velvet and silk embroidered with shimmering gilt. A set of golden slippers fashioned from silk glistened at the base of the dummy.

“Where did you get these from?” muttered the perplexed Kes. “A museum?”

This costume resembled something found in either a museum or an expensive theater production, perhaps it was even a family heirloom. It looked very old. She guessed somewhere around the 14th-15th Century.

Its previous owners must have been doing some tailoring on it since there were a lot of silver pins sticking out of the front.

“Not from a museum,” Captain Jarvis replied, sipping contentedly more of his ginger-ale. “It’s part of a family fortune taken from the Eastern Nye Alps, the Kingdom of Valarien to be exact.”

“Your fortune?” Kes asked.

Captain Jarvis grinned as he slowly shook his curly-haired head. “Oh no, someone else’s, of course,” he replied. “The family needed help getting rid of it...and they hired me to do it.”

“Oh, ‘family’ as in fellow pirates?” Kes guessed. Or maybe even burglars.

“No, a Highborn family that had fallen under a cloud of bad luck ever since they recently acquired the Bisharne manor estate of their great-aunt--Dowager Countess Elizabeth Van Devereux.

Kes leaned forward in her seat, her interest piqued by that familiar-sounding last name.

Martina nodded. “Aye, th' whole mess seemed t' 'ave started when th' workmen discovered a hidden attic crammed wit' chests 'n crates filled t' o'erflowin' wit' loot.” She took a sip from her glass and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Those Highborn thought they had found a hidden loot, somethin' that miserly ole crone had walled up shortly afore she kicked th' bucket. But that secret cabin soon proved t' be a tomb that concealed somethin' far worse than any black spotted mummified pharaoh.”

Kes’s brow furrowed. “A vampire?” Having read a lot of Gothic horror stories, she wasn’t at all surprised. If there was an old manor house involved, there were most certainly a lot of ghost as well as a half a dozen room bricked up in the place containing hidden treasure as well as dark, dismal secrets...some of them not quite dead.

Captain Jarvis shrugged. “Perhaps. For centuries, there have been rumors of ‘not quite normal’ or fully monstrous progeny periodically appearing in the Van Devereux line. What those workmen actually witnessed in that chamber, we may never know for sure.”

“And why is that?” Kes asked. “Did they all die of shock or meet their end at the hands of whatever was imprisoned in that room?”

“Neither,” Martina replied as she downed half her drink. “Accordin' t' wha' I heard, th' new Earl 'n his bottom feeder had all work on that attic stopped 'n interrogated th' workers. Eventually, th' workers were all paid off 'n ‘persuaded' t' immigrate t' th' Outer Faerie Territories. But even several hundred thousand pounds o' hush doubloons 'n threats o' exile ain't goin' t' keep some folks from natterin'...ore keep hidden a dark 'n dreadful secret such as Th' Waif.”

“But just who is this Waif?” Kes demanded impatiently, “and what’s she doing hassling me in my century?”

“Patience, my young friend,” Captain Jarvis waved his hand and rang a small golden bell with the other. “Before we begin, I’d like you to first sample this more excellent local Stilton.”

The door promptly opened as one of the guard beasts came padding in, carrying a great wedge of greenish-yellow cheese.

Kes wasn’t much of a cheese enthusiast, but one bite from her garlic and herb-flavored slice drew an appreciative comment and a dismissal of her griping about time-consuming elfin etiquette.

Her eccentric hosts seemed to relax as soon as she sampled her first slice, and soon everyone was munching away contentedly.

“Yes, Green Moon Stilton,” said Captain Jarvis, helping himself to his eighth piece, “reminds me of something very peculiar that had happened to my father back when he was a young lad.”

“Was he a pirate too?”

“No, no. He was the son of a wealthy farmer and landowner. Originally, he was from the Kingdom of Valarien--and grew up in the village near Bisharne Manor. Eventually, his family was forced to emigrate due to the Red Death epidemic of 1690.”

“So he probably knew the Van Devereuxes?” said Kes, feeling warm and cosy with the tabby now on her lap, and the guard beast lounging at her feet.

“Oh, yes,” Captain Jarvis replied, nodding, “and he was quite popular with the Van Devereuxes, being from one of the country’s most prosperous families. He even was an ardent suitor to the youngest daughter of the family, Clarissa.” He refilled his glass, this time with port. “He was quite the town rowdy in his youth, always ready to fight or play, and share a mug of beer with his riotous gang of loyal followers. Quite the practical joker too, always playing pranks, particularly on his best friend and rival--Arthur Gerhardt, the son of a well-to-do cheesemaker. Even though Victor’s burly physique and bullying behavior was able to scare off rivals for Clarissa’s hand, he finally met his match with Arthur’s wit, lightning speed, and chivalrous civility.

“Clarissa being the shameless flirt that she was, played the two lads off each other, resulting in Victor becoming more jealous of Arthur.”

“So when did this peculiar Stilton thing happened?” Kes asked as she took the last savory greenish-yellow fragment.

“It was at the Van Devereux’s annual All Hallows’ Eve Celebration, and as usual, Victor was quietly fuming as he watched Arthur and Clarissa dance merrily in the Earl’s grand hall.

“What about Clarissa’s older sisters?”

“They were dancing too,” Captain Jarvis answered. “Seems like every young lad was paired up and dancing, and those ladies that were still unaccompanied were either infirm or invalid or painfully plain or homely, possessed with high-pitched voices reminisced of parrots and starlings. Much to his alarm, a lady by the name of Jessy Tamron was making a beeline in his direction. Now although Jessy was an honest enough girl with a sweet disposition, Victor was rather appalled by her awkwardness as well as her most irritating habit of talking way too much.

“Backing into the buffet room, Victor quickly shut the door behind her. Looking about him, he noted the various tables loaded with artistic displays of hors d’oeuves for the up-coming feast. His attention was attracted in particular by a colorful fruit and cheese display with flowers and bird decorations. As he reached out a hand to steal a small wheel of cheese, he heard muffled giggling coming in the direction of the corridor. Just as he ducked underneath the cheese and fruit table, the rear door suddenly burst open and Clarissa rushed into the room.

“But that was impossible, for he had just seen Clarissa in the grand hall, and as flighty as she was, it wasn’t like her at all to suddenly run off right in the middle of an important dance with her parents and neighbors watching.

“But was it really her?” Kes inquired.

“At that very moment, he thought it was,” Captain Jarvis told her, “for the girl had Clarissa’s slender build with the pale aquiline features typical among young Highborn elfin ladies. She had a great quantity of silky, red-gold hair which she wore loose to go with her white and gold, medieval princess gown. It was supposed to be a replica of a similar dress that had been worn by one of the former inhabitants of the estate--a Cinderella-type ancestor who married some duke’s son and moved overseas to Waldalchia.”

Kes sat up straighter in her seat, her eyes darting to the gown in the far corner.

“She even displayed Clarissa’s typical vanity as she stood before the mirror and inspected her image carefully as she preened and posed, Victor munched on his stolen Stilton thoughtfully, wondering whether if he should come out of hiding and go speak to her.

“Suddenly, something small and hard jammed against his rear molar. Victor cursed under his breath as he extracted something that resembled a flattened glass eye. As he stared in astonishment, the gem began to flicker and flame, its eerie green glow resembling that of a firefly. But it wasn’t the eye itself that made Victor’s blood run cold, but what he saw when he looked back at Clarissa again.

“Although the mirror still reflected that of a golden maiden, what he saw standing before it was a grotesque travesty.

“It resembled something you would see in a freak show or a marionette puppet theater--a human-sized doll with bloated, cupid face with a wide frog-like grin. The loose, hanging flaps of skin was pale as a toad's belly without any blush, resembling raw bread dough in texture. The hair, instead of silky gold, was dark, matted with greasy tangles. The gold and white dress now strained at the seams, although the eyes were the same almond shape were the same light blue color as Clarissa’s, they were over-sized, nearly taking up half the face.

“Huddled under the table, Victor could only stare. So numbed with icy horror was he that he couldn’t utter a sound let alone twitch a muscle. Then he became aware of voices and approaching footsteps, and then the front door of the buffet suddenly swung open.

“Then he remembered sudden gasps and then a chorus of screams, the loudest of which was coming from Clarissa (the real one), and then running footsteps and an un-ladylike weeping, just gusty, squally sobs, followed shortly by the metallic crash of falling pastry trays. He must of fainted at some point for the next thing he knew he was on the drawing room divan. Clarissa, meanwhile lay on a nearby sofa, being attended to by her mother and several maid-servants. As soon as Victor was on his feet, and with Clarissa still unconscious, the Earl took him aside and explained what it was he had actually witnessed in the buffet room.

“No, it wasn’t a doppelganger nor a demon young Victor had seen, but a young scullery maid with dreamy ambitions and a abysmal lack of sense. A rather pitiful unfortunate, actually--besides being an orphan and a hualau/outcast human, she was possessed of a very weak understanding as well as a very uncomely appearance which the family had hidden under a veil of glamour so not to offend and frighten the other servants. Somehow the girl learned how to transform herself into the mirror image of Clarissa, perhaps even using it to her advantage.”

“So this Waif was a shape-shifter then?” said Kes, stealing a wary glance at the dress in its case.

“No, not a shape-shifter,” Captain Jarvis retorted with a shake of his coppery-bronze curls. “Being a hualau, she lacked any hereditary magic to physically transform and reshape herself nor can she decipher the archarne knowledge in books. But what she lacked in natural magic and letter smarts, she made up for in hypnotic deceit and cunning, and by sheer, stubborn will alone able to manipulate the glamour spell that had been imposed upon her.”

“But she wasn't cunnin' enough,” Martina chimed in, “fer she was caught when she blundered into a servant comin' through aft entrance.”

“And after that?” Kes began.

“And shortly after that, she wasn’t seen again,” said Captain Jarvis with a shrug, “not in the village nor in the halls of Bisharne Manor. Normally, the abrupt dismissal of so lowly a servant wouldn’t have caused such a stir, but Anne Milton, despite all her obvious faults, was such a hard worker and a cheerful girl always willing to lend a helpful hand without a single complaint. Now that she was gone, the other housemaids’ days of drudgery grew even longer as they tried to pick up the slack.

“‘Perhaps someone upstairs convinced Anne to disguise herself as Clarissa,’ suggested one disgruntled maid. ‘Perhaps even Clarissa herself to trick one of her hopeful, foolish suitors in some cruel jest’

“‘Or maybe she caught Anne trying on one of her dresses,’ suggested another. ‘And couldn’t even stomach the thought of a scullery maid looking handsomer in it than herself.’

“The other servants nodded silently, for they knew Clarissa could be cruel and spiteful at times. Unlike the two older sisters Catherine and Lorraine, who were charitable enough to throw coins from their coach or pass on an old dress or two to a maid, ficklish Clarissa would rather hoard all her accessories in chests and tightly locked wardrobes for the mice and moths to nest in and nibble on. However, out of fear of losing their jobs and facing life on the streets or in a work house, they kept their hushed gossip to themselves.

“Meanwhile upstairs, the Countess Elizabeth complained loudly and openly at the deceitfulness of Anne, to have run off in the middle of the night like a common criminal rather than face honorable exile as a maid of all work for an elderly widow. The Earl fully agreed with his wife, concluding that the girl had run away to avoid the inevitable scandal and had fled to a place where she could practice her hypnotic mind trickery in secret.

“Most of the villagers thought this was unfair judgment, for it was the Van Devereuxes that gave this poor simpleton the gift of glamour in the first place. Had they left her ugly instead, this whole misfortune wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, why didn’t the family just used a magical cure for her ‘facial deformities?’” Kes stared at him, baffled. “If she was so unhappy about her looks, then why not just give her a total make-over to make her more ‘normal’ then?”

The captain frowned. “Officially, the word was that Anne had committed the ultimate offense, ‘getting above yourself’ or ‘putting on airs and graces,’ a crime not just in Faerie, but also in the Mortal Territories of Midgard. And just for that she was fired and sent back to the Mortal Realm.”

“Which Mortal Realm?” Kes asked. “Midgard or Hualau Urth?”

“Midgard, of course,” Captain Jarvis replied, “since only the most heinous of criminals are cast into Hualau Urth.”

“But didn’t she come from Hualau Urth?”

“Aye, but a Hualau scallywag already here can't be forcibly scuttled from this world 'n sent back t' thar native realm without first bein' tried by a proper judge 'n jury,” Martina explained. “Even among th' courts o' Faerie thar are strict laws 'n regulations...especially when th' defendant in riddle be a simple-minded innocent whose only crime was t' imitate a 'blue-blood’ Th' powers that be tend t' be extremely patient 'n forgivin' in such cases..”

“And what did young Victor think?” Kes asked Captain Jarvis, her voice subdued. “Did your father believe that the Van Devereuxes were extremely patient and forgiving in their judgment of Anne?”

The captain shrugged. “He did...although he did feel some sympathy for the poor girl, but he was of the Highborn and disgrace and ruin would only follow if he had courted a scullion, especially a mere mortal one from a barbaric alien world.

“Neither he or Arthur or any one else for that matter ever brought up the subject again. And as the weeks came and went, and no word was heard of Anne, things eventually got back to normal...although it was now only Arthur Gerhardt who accompanied Clarissa on daily strolls throughout the village. Victor, much to his father’s relief, was seeing Madeline Sievers, the daughter of the village’s most prosperous apothecary and a far better-sense girl than Clarissa. He would eventually marry her.”

"But what made him change his mind about Clarissa?" muttered the perplexed Kes. "Was it because she was spoiled rotten and shallow as well as being a bit of a floozy?"

"Well that, of course," Captain Jarvis shrugged, "but it was mainly because of something she said--something about what happened to Anne."

Kes stared at him. "Well, what was it? What did she say?"

Captain Jarvis frowned as he finished his port. "What she told my father on the fifth night of the Floating Lantern Festival with all the gods on holiday was this--she absolutely detested Anne from the start even though the girl was tolerated even welcomed by the rest of the Van Devereux household. In her opinion, the hualau was no more than a mooncalf, lower than even a street cur or a goblin slave. But she knew people like Anne were protected not only by rules of hospitality which granted charity to any stranger, no matter how lowly in rank, but also by the gods who protected both children and people of low intellect.

“The only time of the year when the gods weren’t watching was during the first two weeks of November when they all take a holiday and tread the earth as men or beasts.”

Kes suddenly thought about all those visiting gods who suddenly swamped her Saffrasian island home. Really nice chaps, they were...except for that Coyote bloke who made off with the cappuccino maker as well as most of her summer wardrobe.

“The crime rate must be really high during those first two weeks,” Kes muttered, leaning back in her chair.

Martina shook her head. “Nah really, 'cause thar's others watchin'.”

Kes frowned. “What? You mean like local constables or helper gods?”

“No, I mean th' Jurisdiction Down Below ” Martina replied, jabbing a spidery forefinger at the floor. “Ye know th' pirate's sayin--'Davy Jones' locker doesn't loot a holiday?’”

Kes shook her head, peering over the still-sprawled out guard beast at the pointing digit.

“Well, it’s true,” Martina smiled grimly. “Davy Jones' locker doesn't loot a holiday. Sooner or later, th' blokes downstairs are goin' t' find out about any crime committed on th' first two weeks o' th' eleventh month, 'n they’re nah always th' patient sort when it comes t' waitin' around fer yer mortal coil t' shed.”

“New there were a lot of strange and unearthly legends connected to Bisharne Manor, tales of bloody family feuds and clan battles, of ghosts and grim hounds, the sort of tales you would expect with a place that started out in life as a fortified Sidhe stronghold. Some of these legends were pure rubbish, of course, celebrated and embroidered by countless Gothic writers and storytellers throughout the centuries. But a few were utterly true and one such tale stood out in its strangeness and macabreness.

“It concerns a secret attic room somewhere in the south-east corner of the manor.

“A careful examination by telescope and by looking at the ancient plans for the house, Clarissa was able to discover that one of the chimney was a dummy, and that it concealed a door that clearly constructed from the same kind of cemented building stone as the chimney. There was no knob nor lock for this was a very special door that could only be unlocked by a certain pattern of knocks.”

“Knocks?” Again, Kes sat up in her seat.

“The same two signals of knocks you heard earlier,” Captain Jarvis went on, “fourteen raps in two combinations that I dare not reproduce.”

“And this was the very same room those workmen discovered years later?” she asked. “The same place where they found that dress along with the treasure trove?”

Captain Jarvis’s frown deepened as he nodded. “The very same, although Clarissa just saw the front entrance way when the door slowly swung inward--a narrow tunnel-like space with an ascending spiral of stone steps nearby. Lifting her lantern, she stared up the long upward spiral. According to the stories she had heard as a child, stories that her parents now forbade her to even discuss or ask any questions about, there were fifty steps that led to an attic that must remain locked, lest anyone entering meet with a curse causing either death or madness or complete vanishing. Who it was that first laid this curse upon this particular room was not known or why, but the family took the curse so seriously that the secret room remained locked, and the key hidden...until Clarissa found it behind a secret panel while searching her father’s desk.”

“I declare!” Kes exclaimed in disgust. “These Van Deveureux people are so bloody stupid! A desk is one of the worse places to hide stuff in, even one with secret compartments. All the hidden drawers in the Nine Worlds wouldn’t protect your precious valuables and documents from a very determined burglar or a stubborn spoiled brat!” Frowning, she stared into the crackling fire. “It’s like what happened to me when I was living in Saffrasia,” she angrily muttered. “A spoiled, snot-nosed brat hellbent on being a horse’s patoot as well as a trashy creepoid clown character stole nearly all the stuff me and my roommates put in a secure area.”

“But did this spoiled brat ever take a life?” Captain Jarvis asked pointedly.

“No, but we felt like taking hers,” was Kes’s immediate answer, “even though we managed to get most of our stuff back...and she wound up getting sent to some reform school in Medford, Massachusetts. “Sure, she was a creep, a moocher as well as a thieving rat turd, but at least she wasn’t a serial killer.”

Captain Jarvis was silent for a whole minute. Then he said, “What Clarissa Van Devereux did was far more worse than mere burglary. She took a mortal life, a life of a poor hapless innocent who caused no harm to anybody. What was even worse her diabolical deed created a ravenous monster.”

“How exactly?” Kes wanted to know.

“According to my father, Clarissa claimed that after she had climbed that after she had climbed the staircase and had slipped the key into the attic lock, an indescribably hollow, sepulchral-sounding voice told her to ‘come in.’” he explained. “Not wanting to be smited by the curse herself or by whatever other malevolence that was lurking inside, Clarissa hurried downstairs shutting the first door behind her.

“If this plan was to ever succeed, she would have to convince Anne to open those two doors herself.

“So what does this monstrous girl do next? Well, she then goes and cleverly disguised herself with glamour and scullery clothes as Flora Heidigen--one of Anne’s few friends at Bisharne. The real Flora happened to be out in the main gardens, lighting the Wish Lanterns with the rest of the household staff. Only Anne was left, confined to her small room, forbidden to attend the festival by the furious housekeeper.

“What she thought was her friend handed her a clean handkerchief then gently brushed her hair as the girl poured out her heart. In a flurry of tears and uncontrollably sobs, Anne confessed of having on more than one occasion disguised herself as the youngest Van Devereux daughter, and slipping out when the family left to go visit friends or relatives or when the other servants weren’t looking. In those brief moments of freedom, she felt genuine love and affection. People seemed happy to be around her; men were constantly approaching her just to chat or to shower her with gifts; and sometimes she was told by random strangers how pretty she was or questioning whether she was some sort of a nymph or goddess in disguise. When she was a kitchen maid, even with her 'Plain Jane’ glamour mask, the village folk still viewed her with contempt bordering on superstitious dread. But most the people here at Bisharne completely ignored her, just like the people back in her universe, including her very own family who focused all their attention on her more gifted, better-looking siblings.

“Had she been born an elf or even an enhanced human instead of an ugly, base-born hualau, people would at least treat her as something perfect and beautiful.

“Now that she had been found out, she was going to be set away for sure. Maybe to a penal colony somewhere or worse, back home where uglies were typically treated worse than even animals.

“Geez, that poor kid!” Kes suddenly exclaimed.

Both Martina and the guard beast solemnly nod in agreement.

“I’m afraid that it only gets worse,” Captain Jarvis sighed. “Clarissa pretended to listen with a sympathetic ear then she made a suggestion. What if there was a way for Anne to get her wish answered, to be a belle of the ball instead of a lowly drudge scuttling up and down the backstairs? What if this involved walking up a hidden flight of stairs and going up into a magical attic room and releasing a Wish Lantern from one of the turret windows? Surely one of the gods might take notice and grant you the wish of beauty, but you must hurry. You mustn't dilly-dally any longer, you know; tonight you must make up your mind, because the doorway only remained visible for the first three nights of the Floating Lantern Festival before it fading back into invisibility. Then beaming a bright smile, she gave Anne the stolen key, a sky lantern and careful instructions on where to go and how to open the first door. Anne agreed to this plan, but only if Flora accompanied her on the quest to the south-east corner.

“Anne was nervous because that small portion of the house was off-limits to everyone, including the Upstairs staff, plus she hadn’t been altogether well recently. Scuttling up and down the back way was made even harder by the lethargic heavy feeling dogging her footsteps and dragging her down, and then there were the dizzy spells and bouts of nausea. But Anne reassured her she was much better now, and could make the journey to the attic space.

“‘Well, I really hope it’s nothing serious then,’ said Clarissa through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps we should call a doctor just to make sure you’re not coming down with cholera...or even halfway with child.’

“‘No, I’m not in a bad way!’ Anne stammered as she stumbled off her bed. ‘Just a slight cold...and no doctors!’ She had a real terror of them ever since she heard the bellowing screams and howls of one unfortunate patient in town who didn’t swig enough anesthetic ( brandy). ‘I won’t have one of those loony butchers bleeding me with them knifes and gross slimy leeches! I’ll wish these ills away instead when I get a whole better body.”

“”Then we must make haste then,’ said Clarissa quickly, tugging impatiently at Anne’s sleeve. ‘The sooner you get that lantern into the air, the more likely your wishes will be answered.’

“To avoid detection by either the housekeeper or butler, they decided to use the back stairs. Clarissa leading the way while Anne, nervously alert for the dreaded jingling of the housekeeper’s keys, slowly following along like a frightened mouse.

“Finally they climbed the last set of creaking stairs till they were standing in front of the false chimney.

“‘Now remember what I told you about the knocks,' Clarissa whispered.

Anne nodded slowly before timidly knocking the signal, but midway through she hesitated.

“‘I don’t know, Flora,’ she looked pleadingly at the impostor. ‘I don’t think I can manage this all by myself. Supposing I meet something up there in the dark?’

“‘Anne, this is no time for any of your wild fancies,’ said Clarissa firmly. ‘There's nothing up there except for some mice and cobwebs and some old furniture. We’ve discuss this already, the wish can only work if there’s one person at a time--not two or three or more.’

“‘Anne’s brow furrowed worriedly. “You’ll be right here at this door keeping watch...and if I need any help?’

“Smiling, Clarissa patted the girl’s arm gently. ‘I’ll stay right,’ she assured Anne. ‘Now hurry and finish those knocks.’

“And when the stone door swung inward again, and when Anne, shaking with fright and holding the flickering paper lantern high, crept into the dust-filled space and up the stairs, Clarissa waited.

“When she no longer saw the glow of the lantern, she tapped the code in reverse on the door and it immediately sealed shut. Then hurrying down the stairs and out the back entrance, she emerged into the rear courtyard. Then turning to look at the south-east corner, she soon saw a ball of yellow-orange light slowly working its way from one small garret window to another as if the lantern bearer was searching for a loose-enough latch. Then the light disappeared abruptly as though its owner had been suddenly jerked away. Then came what sounded like a faint scream followed by utter silence.

“Clarissa waited ten minutes, fifteen, and then twenty, but there was no sign of further moment from the sixth floor. It was all quiet and dark as a grave up in that small corner of the house. Finally, she came back inside and changed out of her Flora disguise before rejoining her family out on the lawn. Nothing in her carefree and frivolous demeanor to suggest that she was guilty of perpetrating a most perfect and horrendous crime.

“Well, it would have been a perfect crime if that murderous witch hadn’t told your father about it,” Kes muttered, fidgeting around in her seat. “Exactly why would she do that anyway? Was she furious at him for mistaking Anne for her? Did she also suspect him of...Uh.” Blushing, she faltered for a moment. “Well, you know...doing something more than just strolling about and holding hands.”

“Even though my father was a rowdy and boisterous troublemaker, never once did he behaved dishonorably toward a woman. He knew any caddish behavior would reflect rather badly on his family and would be a very difficult time for him socially. "Captain Jarvis picked up a long-stemmed pipe from the table next to him. With a snap of his fingers, a small flame suddenly danced on his fingertip. “

Wow, that’s really convenient, Kes thought, staring as he lit the pipe and puffed out clouds of blue-gray smoke.

“My father lived in a strait-laced, staunchly conservative town where everyone made a habit of knowing everyone else’s business and any rumor spread like wildfire.” Captain Jarvis shook his hand to put out the flame. “It was the practice of the village elders to keep a close watch on the younger members of the community, especially any courting couples.”

Kes frowned. “Kind of like the morality patrols back in my homeland.”

The captain nodded as he puffed on his pipe. “Exactly. Whenever he, Arthur and Clarissa appeared in public together, there was always some old neighbor striving to keep up with their long strides. My father was always under intense since he was an openly rebellious young man and not of the High Aristocratic station that Clarissa and Arthur belonged to.”

Kes looked confused. “Wait, his friend was an aristocrat... as well as a cheese-maker?”

Captain Jarvis blew out a stream of smoke. “Not all the rich lead idle and luxurious lives, some would rather work hard rather then waste their time going to gaudy balls and tedious social functions.”

“But unlike Arthur whose head was full of pompous, self-absorbed daydreams and esoteric lore, Victor was a down-to-earth realist who wasn’t blinded by lust nor greedy ambition. So it must have come to a total shock to my father when the object of his passion suddenly confessed to a heinous crime. All his heartfelt yearning to beseech her hand in marriage was suddenly turned to cold ash.” Captain Jarvis blew out another stream of smoke. “What Clarissa’s exact motives behind her confession...we can only speculate. Perhaps out of boastful pride and sheer boredom. Most certainly not out of guilt or remorse for that girl felt not one ounce of sympathy nor sadness for what she did to poor Anne Milton.”

Kes’s eyes narrowed as a hot flush of anger clenched her jaw. “Did your father ever tell anyone else about this...like to a local constable or a priest or maybe even to his friend Arthur?”

The elf looked up at the ceiling. “My father only told one other person about this; his father (my grandfather). The senior Boisvert’s face was set hard and stiff as he listened to every word. He had always suspected there was something a little off with Clarissa, way before Anne Milton ever made an appearance. Her was also well aware of the rumors floating around about the taint of insanity in the Van Devereux bloodline, as well as a cruel and frightening curse that sometimes affected outsiders marrying into the family. Not wanting a terrible fate to befell his only son and surviving heir, he forbade Victor from having any more contact with Clarissa.

“At any other time, Victor would have fought his father’s decision, his ego pushing him to stay with Clarissa despite knowing she wasn’t capable of even taking responsibility for her own actions or of even truly loving anyone. Instead, he took heed of his father’s advice and promptly broke off the engagement, leaving Clarissa in a huff and a lot of people scratching their heads in bafflement. Perhaps Victor got tried of waiting for her to propose to him, they thought, perhaps he even got tired of trying to satisfy her every whim, trying to outdo the lavish worship of his more sly and spindly rival Arthur Gerhardt.

“Victor, meanwhile, remained stoic and silent through it all, neither he nor his father made any mention of Clarissa’s stunning confession.”

“But why keep silent?” Kes exclaimed. as she absentmindedly stroked the tabby resting on her lap. “That vicious tart just fed some poor defenseless girl to some ghost monster!”

“Fer fear,” Martina muttered, shifting in her seat and drawing on a large cigar.

Kes looked over at her. “Fear of what? The monster in the attic?”

Captain Jarvis shook his head as he tapped his pipe on a crab ashtray. “No, of Clarissa herself...for this coquettish temptress was an incredible manipulator and was capable of turning people against the Boisverts, since there was never a shortage of allies and champions ready to defend a pretty girl’s perceived honor.”

“Hmm...” Kes thoughtfully tapped the chair arm with her claws. “That lil’ minx’s was definitely a witch or else a succubus. Whatever happened to her...did she die of the Red Death or get eaten by the same thing that got Anne?”

“That’s where the story takes a more bizarre turn,” Captain Jarvis replied gravely, “although it had started out ordinarily enough.

Weeks passed then months. Another scullery maid scrubbed Bisharne’s passageway and kitchen floors. Victor took up with Adeline Siever while Arthur continued to pursue Clarissa although he now had to compete with a crowd of new suitors. Life continued as before, it was as though Anne Milton had never existed, as though an iron door had slammed shut on that memory in Victor’s mind. And then on the first anniversary of Anne’s disappearance, the nightmares began.”

''' Ch. 8-- Oubliette'''

“Nightmares?” Kes asked. “About Anne’s ghost coming to haunt him?”

“Anne’s ghost?” Captain Jarvis gave a nervous chuckle. “My father wished it was.”

“Wished it was?” Kes repeated in confusion.

“Because a ghost is still a person, even though it is dead and without a body. It still possesses human thought and emotion. What my father saw was a demon.

“Victor began having a sequence of disturbing dreams. In the first dream, he entered Bisharne Manor and then proceeded up the six flight of stairs where he finally entered the strange attic room, alone--”

“What did he find up there?” asked Kes, interrupting.

“I was just coming to that. He found nothing--no footprints, no scuff marks or even a bloodstain. Not even a deflated paper lantern. Just what you expect to find in a rich family’s attic--old furniture, stacks of books, wardrobes and trunks full of musty, assorted clothes, miscellaneous bric-a-brac. However, something was off about the entire room in general. Aside from it being too large for such a small garret space...there was also door in back of that space, which he soon discovered the next night led to yet another new room--or yet another door. As he moved from one heavily decorated and spacious room to another, Victor noticed the initial V embellished on every visible objects within these interiors--including that of the wallpaper. After three more nights of exploring, he finally understood where he was. He was in the Lost Rooms of the Van Devereuxes.”

Kes stared. “Lost Rooms?”

“The Lost Rooms of Bisharne Manor,” Captain Jarvis went on. “It’s a well-known Valarian legend. The original building used to have been a massive castle, passing through several great dynasties before it came to be held by the Van Devereuxes. Used to contain about 1,000 rooms until someone fooled around with some black magic, and teleported 754 of those rooms all around the multiverse. It also brought about a curse that corrupted their bloodline, leading to various kind of physical or mental aberrations.

“Well, that explains why that Clarissa girl’s so weird,” Kes muttered. “Of course, it could have also been the result of a few missing vital genetic components due to a shallow gene pool.”

“It might also jus' be 'cause she was th' youngest o' three sisters, 'n th' spoiled rotten apple o' th' lot,” Martina broke in. “A few o' th' Highborn families are like that, devoid o' most moral restraints, favorin' th' pretty o'er th' plain. At least th' two older ones showed enough sense t' elope wit' foreigners even though they were disowned fer doin' so.”

“But Victor would only learn about those defections years later,” Captain Jarvis paused as he puffed on his pipe some more. “That, however is a whole different story...Well, as I was saying, my father soon realized he was traversing through the famous Lost Rooms. Eventually, he started keeping a journal on his nightly travels. It would be impossible to describe every door and room he passed through in such a short time, but he had little to fear in the beginning.

“Because there was life within those rooms,” he replied. “Life that despite all its foreignness, was somehow very familiar to him--elderly club members reading newspapers and being served by dapper waiters, people having tea-with-gossip sessions, college students studying or raising hell, dragons and other hoarding creatures lounging on various furniture, surrounded by the Van Devereuxes 'misplaced’ wealth. None of these folk seemed to be aware of the passages between their worlds nor were they aware of my father’s presence. He moved noiselessly like a ghost, watching as the various inhabitants casually went about their daily lives.

“As he moved further and further into the ‘House,’ he began to grow uneasy. The rooms were changing, growing more decrepit and disused. What people he saw acted skittish like frightened birds or mice. He knew somehow that he was in a haunted possibly even cursed territory and something bad was going to happen to him should he reach his final destination. Each night, he would awake in a heavy sweat, heart pounding, limbs shaking. Each time, he managed to get through several rooms, but always woke just before reaching the basement door. He knew something horrible was lurking down in that place. The door was not only nailed and padlocked shut. It was surrounded by a circle of salt and quicklime."

“And did he ever open that door?” Kes asked, now sitting rigid and straight.

“No,” the captain replied, shaking his head. “He dared not go near it, although he feared he would pass through it like he did all the other doors previously. It was a plague door, marked with an ominous red X with an inscription scrawled across it--DO NOT ENTER...NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY WILL CRY, NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY WILL BEG...NEVER, EVER OPEN THIS DOOR!

It wasn't until the the third night of his discovery that ‘THEY’ finally made their appearance known.

As Victor stared at the door, it began to rapidly shake as a scratching sound suddenly erupted from beyond the barrier. An icy chill slowly prickled its way down his back as he listened as the scratching rose higher than any dog could possibly reach. The scratching stepped as he shrank backwards and flattened himself against the walls.

An animal, Victor thought, then he discarded the idea the moment he heard the footsteps. They moved to the center of the door and then the scratching began anew. The door started shaking violently as Victor scanned the wall behind him for an exit. Then a pleading voice cut into his frantic thoughts, startling him and making him look again in the direction of the door.

“‘Psssssst...hey, mister. Psssssst, mister.’

The whispering came from a widened crack running down center of the door, which now proved to be two doors. Pallid stubby fingers protruded beseechingly between the padlocked chains and stout nailed beams. Their nails were ragged and broken, caked with blackened grime and smears of dried blood.

‭“‘Pssssss...hey, mister. Pssssss, mister!’ Movement stirred within the inky blackness of the narrow crack as a thin reedy voice spoke. ‘Please, I need your help.’

‭“‘Help’ Victor asked, startled to hear his own voice echo hollowly within this strange dream world of cluttered storerooms, inhabited only by broken puppets and hybrid mannequins.

‭“‘Help getting free,’ the soft voice was barely audible over the wind blowing through the corridors of the abandoned warehouse, but it was clearly that of a child, maybe a young girl. ‘You’re the only one who can help me now.’

‭“‘Why me?’

‭“‘This is a magic door,’ the voice told him. ‘It can only be open by someone with magic. It can’t be opened by an ordinary human. That’s what the Witches told us before they slammed the door in our faces.’

‭“‘What Witches?’

‭“There was a high-pitched whimpering that reminded Victor more of a whipped dog than a crying child.

‭“‘The ones who built this Gate,’ the voice stammered out. ‘The mutants, the ones calling themselves the Ainsel, the Esk, the Nye-Am and all the other Espers, Psykes and Wild Tallants.’

‭“Victor gave a start.

‭“The names mentioned were of the various abhuman and magic-wielding tribes scattered in colonies throughout the Nine Worlds. Now he realized which particular world stood outside the door he was now facing--the Old Mother Earth or Terra where all the mutants and magic-users had originated, and from where they had fled centuries ago to escape oppression and annihilation from the ‘normal’ majority government.

‭“The voice went on bitterly, but now Victor was really afraid. He just wanted to leave. He didn’t want to listen anymore, he just wanted this dream to stop so could go back to his comfortably familiar bed to his comfortably familiar life,

‭“but the voice kept going on and on:

‭“‘They called us Hiiet and Hualau, creatures of absolute chaos and disorder; vile, disgusting beasts that ruin everything we touch. They said that we’re a walking virus factory, that the merest touch or breath from us could cancel out the most powerful spells and wipe out a nonhuman community in an instant. That even our shadows are deadly weapons, able to siphon away at the mind and soul. But we’re not monsters and inborn killers. We are simply normal people wanting just a safe place to live, like you Magic Folk...a place where we can live out lives in security and peace.’

‭“It was suddenly all very quiet except for the soft sobbing beyond the door. Victor felt his eyes filled with tears, he thought of poor Anne forced to disguise herself in glamour to hide her hideous hualau form. Where was she now? he wondered. Dead or going through even more lost suffering like this poor wretch.

‭“‘What can I do?’ Victor cried out. ‘I don’t know anything about galdrar magic!’

‭“‘Break the sigils on the locks,’ the voice answered.

"‭He growled slightly as his gaze flickered over the padlocks and nailed beams. Then he saw patterns slowly emerging from the wood and metal surfaces, ranging from simple lines to squiggles to elaborate runes and wheel patterns. They glowed with a faint silver-white light, resembling dew covered cobwebs glistening in early morning light.

‭“‘Break them how?’ His brow knitted as he clenched his fists. It somehow felt wrong to demolish an old magical relic built by an ancient people. If he was violating sacred ground, he might definitely incur the wrath of whatever powers might still lurk here...but if there was a life at stake, an innocent life unjustly punished with exile for the crimes committed by a few.

"There was moment and a dry scraping noise at the entrance, and then an object whirled from the opening and clattered to the ground in front of him. ‭ Cautiously, he picked up the glinting steel thing, and examined it closely. It appeared to be a folding knife of some kind, but no amount of flicking or prying could induce a blade to appear...until he happened to press down on a polished bolt jutting from one side. Immediately, a thin stiletto blade sprang into being, flecked with rust and what looked like black mold.

‭“The voice spoke again, more clearly now, ‘With blood. Break them with your blood.’

‭“Victor stood silent for a moment. Then a cold chill settled over him as he realized what he was expected to do.

‭“‘This blade just won’t do, it’s much too blunt,’ he finally said in a choked whisper. ‘But I might have a whetstone with me.’

‭“Trembling, Victor thrust his hand into the pocket of his nightshirt and pretending to make a search for said stone. That was when his fingers felt something small and round, and with a look of surprise, pulled it out.

‭“Peering back at him was the emerald and silver ‘monocle'--the very same one he had discovered inside some cheese at last year’s ‬All Hallows’ Eve party.

“‘Weeeell?’ said the voice, impatiently. ‘Have you found that wet stone yet?’

“It didn’t sound like a little girl now nor anything with a human-shaped mouth or throat or lungs.

“‘Have you?’ it rasped again.

“Shoving the gem back into his pocket, Victor turned slowly to face the doorway and then froze rigid and still, terror clutching icily at his throat.

"The double doors and the various barricades had suddenly became as transparent as window glass. Fronting them was a vast iron gate flanked by massive granite pillars. A tall scrawny figure was leaning up against the ironwork, its long stick-like arms gripping the doors standing just a few inches away. What skin that wasn’t covered with filthy, black-stained rags was slate-gray and leprous. The scraggly hair that mercifully covered its face hung in clumpy tangled strands, greenish-black with a hint of pale red.

“‘Well, have you found it or haven’t you?’ it gargled dryly.

“Victor swallowed several times before replying with a stammered, ‘Y-yes, but...the stone is dry...and....and I must go and wet it.’

“As he turned away, his gaze happened to fall upon one of the mannequins sprawled out on the wooden floor, a small pathetic figure clad in the tattered, dusty remnants of a serving maid’s outfit. Looking closer, he was suddenly grateful that the figure was lying facedown with its head mostly obscured by a ruffled cap. He had seen one of the thin, bony arms splayed out clutching in its dried withered hand the broken wooden frame of an oiled paper lantern.

“‘Great Dagda!’ Victor breathed hoarsely, as his skin crawled with rising gooseflesh. Was this dried, dead thing all that remained of poor Anne Milton?

“As he stared down, his face contorting with astonishment and horror, there was a sudden sliding, scraping noise and then the leathery brown arm lunged forward, its bony, claw-like hand encircling his ankle in a vise-like grip.”

“‘You know,’ the voice behind him said grimly, ‘I don't like when people lie to me.’ '''

Ch. 9--''' 