Other People's Houses

Author's Note: This is an updating and re-working of one of my earlier works>The Last Day of October--The Unquiet Past and Present

Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

From the Journal Entry of Kes Allyntahl

''Note: Dear Leonard, if you're reading this, it means I'm either dead or have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, or you've gone through my stuff. If I'm either the first two things then please show this to Mom and Dad so it might offer them a clue to what really happened to me; if not, then please keep away from my stuff. Seriously, keep away from my stuff! I don’t want you snitching my agate and fancy marbles to give to your obnoxious friends at school; those are not for trading, Buster! They’re to be retained as antique keepsakes. Also keep away from my antique bead and button collection! I don’t care if your friends have a lot cool stuff, you’re not using my knickknacks are currency!''

The house my family recently moved into was one of the oldest in town, and despite new ownership, the locals still referred to the place after the original occupants--the Aigrettes. The word aigrette was used to describe several things from the egret, or lesser white heron, to a type of deep-fried fritter made of batter in an elongated shape.

Maison de Aigrette, as it was called, looked more like a frog than an egret. It had none of the angular grace and spiky dignity of an egret. It was a low and rounded gite farmhouse with white plaster walls and a roof of thatched reed, plopped on a low hill above a marshy stream. Whoever had built the house had not liked straight lines; the corners were rounded as were the windows and a South facing bay window. It was a humorous house, with a certain frog-like charm. The sort of house inhabited by harmless amiable bumpkins, whose conversations were full of fish caught and balls hit.

It was a happy house. Surely, I thought, nothing could possibly go wrong in such a picturesque, bucolic locale.

I was so wrong.

Year of the Red Fire Chicken

Maison de Aigrette, Brittany

15th of July 2017

I was curled up beneath my embroidered down covers. Its quilted layers were supposed to offer me a comfy warm space to creep under and shut out the outside world. Yet my dreams were far from comforting.

In this dream, I was running down a well-worn path in the meadow near where I now lived. It was a sunny afternoon and the tall grass brushed lightly against my legs and shoulders as I flew by. Insects buzzed and clicked along the trail. Scattered flocks of swallows swerved and swooped, snatching up small grasshoppers and butterflies. Lizards and ground birds scurried out of my way, disappearing into the surrounding meadowland.

Frantically, I ran because just a few feet away a steady stream of skunks was pursuing me. They were gamboling merrily along—a rippling stream of black and white fur, while I shrieked and clawed my way desperately through air as thick as molasses.

Despite my frantic efforts, I only achieved the top speed of ten-mile per hour--the same speed of an ordinary skunk waddling along in its usual flat-footed gait. Suddenly I was covered with them, hundreds, perhaps thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. I could feel their pudgy-clawed feet digging hard into my backside. At the same time there came an unmentionable odor that made my gorge rise.

Slowly and blearily, I opened my eyes. Reluctantly, I glanced up at the window at the foot of the bed. The advancing dawn made the bedroom shutters a luminous pattern. To me, it was a blurred smear of light that hung in the semi-darkness like a faint reflection in a dark pool.

I tried to pull the covers over my head, but they were caught under something. Working one hand loose from underneath the sheet, I fumbled around and felt something heavy and furry lounging between my shoulder blades.

Purring loudly, Miss Tabitha (Tabs, for short) began kneading her claws into my back as if it was a soft plush cushion. There were more leaden weights lying across my twitching legs and feet. A red and black Siberian fox named Siegfried, Félix the black and white tomcat, and the designer pet ramidreju, Dre, a long, green ferret-like creature with beady yellow eyes and a whuffling hog-like nose.

Tabs scratched even harder as if dreaming of goldfish and other bite-sized edibles.

"Ow," I said, rolling the tabby off.

Tabs gave a little mew of disapproval and then jumped back onto my shoulder.

“Hey, quit that!" I rolled her aside again.

The cat went back to her favorite sleeping spot.

"Okay," I muttered, giving up. "You can stay there. Just don't claw me again."

With an exasperated sigh I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep. A faint noxious odor made me think otherwise.

Of course, I thought, with that smell and the animals sleeping on me, it's no wonder I dreamed of skunks chasing me.

I wondered why of all places in the forest did Pepé Le Pew had to let loose a barrage near the front door…and what on earth was a skunk doing in France? Hopefully, the smell didn't seep through enough to permeate my clothes and carpeting. Also I hoped that our landlady Madame Nismer wouldn't get the idea that I had recently adopted a pet skunk. Although, she seemed tolerant of my newly acquired menagerie, although I was quite sure she would draw the line at skunks.

Careful not to wake the other animals, I rolled Tabs to one side and slid out of bed. After doing some stretches, I slipped on my buckskins and moccasins. From my bureau I got two large bath towels and my hairbrush, which I stuffed into my shirt pocket. Then I walked outside, and down a narrow path through the forest.

I tried to make it my daily devotion to go down to the river and bathe before everyone else woke up. I made extra sure I wasn’t seen or heard. My mom and dad would have hit the roof if they knew about me sneaking out to use the river, especially Mom since she worried about me catching Giardia or Lyme disease or rabies. ‬However, ‭ if someone was already up before me, ‬I just used the bathroom… unless my sister commandeered it already (which was often) for her personal beauty salon. Although there were hot springs in the Yggdrasil Wood, I no longer used them when I was informed of the Rules. New residents of the Brittany Area were always told of the Rules, and usually, they obeyed them after they heard the numerous terrifying stories of people who had dared explored this dense wooded area after sunset.‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

“If you should ever venture into the Yggdrasil Wood, keep to the Long Trail and don’t go too far in and avoid going into the Woods at night.”

The Rule Informer happened to be an old woman who went by the name of Madame Mosley. Although grotesquely ugly with a red face, a droopy nose like a bulbous, wart-covered squash and crooked yellowed teeth protruding over her wide lips, I listened with grave courtesy and did not flinch as she tore greedily at the food with long claw-like nails and slurped her tea noisily.

It was only a week ago when I was first made aware of the rules. We were in the living room of Maison de Aigrette. Many interesting Orrim folk art adorned the room --beautifully made clothing of sewn pelts and embroidery hung from the walls as well as the rafters, along with all kinds of ornamented objects. There were also numerous shelves filled with old books on plants and animal identification, carpentry and home improvement, woodcraft, bush-lore and trapping.

My family wasn’t home at the time, having gone to a flea market in the nearby city of Vox. Despite the fact that I was a teenager with an independent streak a mile long, my parents thought it was best that I had a babysitter. So they hired Madame Mosley, who bore a somewhat striking resemblance to a Baba Yaga I saw in a recent horror movie. In case you didn’t know who Baba Yaga was, she was this iron-toothed witch in Slavic folklore who flew around in a giant mortar and pestle, kidnapping (and presumably devouring) small children and other people stupid enough to get lost in her woods. Oh, and she also lived in a yurt hut, which stood on chicken legs and was surrounded by bone fences adorned with skulls with glowing eyes. Pretty metal, huh?

Turned out Madame Mosley was quite nice in spite of her messy table manners and crone-like appearance and quite helpful when it came to answering my numerous questions about the French language and the cultural difference between Northern France and Southern France, and if the mysterious Nye-Am People were related to the Basque. Also she told me why I should think twice about going into the Yggdrasil Forest across the meadow from Maison de Aigrette.

I took a sip of my decaf tea and then heaved a deep sigh of disappointment.

“I guess going to those hot springs is out then,” I said gloomily, “since they’re way off that path.”

It was too bad since those hot springs were a good place to relax and to think without the outside world intruding in.

Madame Mosley shrugged her massive shoulders. “Well, there’s always the town pool, although it tends to get a little crowded during the summer.”

I frowned as I began filling my own lunch plate with some modest portions of roasted boar and stir-fried vegetables.

I always hated the town pool with its harsh chlorine smell, the crowded locker room with so little privacy, the scrum of noisy kids running about (some with very little bladder control), and the nosey people (tourists mostly) who constantly badgered me with probing questions--

''“Is Kes Allyntahl nearly your real name? It sounds more like an alias to me.”''

''“Are you related to Beyoncé? You kind of have similar-looking facial features.”''

''“Wait…You were living on your own in Australia and England? You seemed rather young to be off on your own.”''

“Aren’t you afraid of living near a haunted location?”

''“Did you have ear pointing surgery? One of my cousins had that and now she has to endure Lord of the Rings and Vulcan jokes. Also her parents were peeved at her for spending much of her college fund for that fad.”''

''“Why Aigrette Manor? Aren’t you afraid of wild animals or ghosts or the Ankou paying you a visit?”''

“So...are you seeing anyone, right now?”

“Why don’t you like dogs?”

I sat myself back down in my chair. “You said there were two more rules?”

“Uh-huh,” said the old woman, mopping the grease from her mouth. “You know that clearing where the trees bend completely away from the center...as if shrinking in fear of something unspeakable?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, feeling a slight chill.

“You know those big piles of stones around the center of the clearing, connected together with bolts and anchor chains?”

“The ones where the chains seemed brand new and the rocks never had anything growing on them?”

“Yes, these things,” intoned Madame Mosley. “Don’t ever step between the chained cairns...you know that big metal gate at the center of those stones?”

“Yeah, I always wonder about that,” I muttered, perplexed. “Why build a big gate without a big fancy mansion to go with it?”

“According to some of the local legends that Gate sits at the entryway to a deserted manor house way back in those very woods,” replied Madame Mosley darkly. “Back in the days of the decadent court of King Louis XVI, there was a Gentry family of minor aristocrats who used to own all this land here. A lot of banquets and gathering went on at the place, with a lot of guests from the royal court in Versailles.”

I took a forkful of stir-fried mushrooms.

“What was the family’s name?” I asked between chews.

“I believe they were called Chanterelle...”

“Oh, like the mushroom?” I said, nodding as I concentrated on my lunch.

“Yes, but these folk were more like the deadly, poisonous variety,” replied Madam Mosley darkly. “They were a haughty ruthless lot. All the Common Folk hated them; the peasants most all. They had so little to eat, and they were not even allowed to hunt. As if that wasn't bad enough, the Chanterelles regarded them as nothing more than servile beasts, lower than even a dog or a slave.

“Well, the French Revolution came, and like so many noble families, the Chanterelles were ruined by it. Most, fearing for their safety, fled to neighboring countries, and the few that remained kept to themselves in that old dilapidated house, too proud and ashamed to accept any charity. The only sign of their existence was a few old servants coming to town for supplies.

“This went on till the spring of 1888 when an old groundskeeper and his wife came into town and said that the remaining Chanterelles weren’t there any more, that they all left one stormy night without giving any parting word or explanation. The couple didn’t know where the family had gone, but they were afraid to stay on the property themselves. Said even though the house was supposed to be empty, they were constantly plagued by the maddening feeling that someone was constantly looking over their shoulder or waiting just around the corner of the hallway. At night as soon as the sun set, they would often hear someone prowling outside their locked door, fumbling and tugging at the latch.

“The old couple might have known who or what was roaming about, but fear and maybe family loyalty had sealed their lips. People had said that their remaining years were spent in a crowded boarding house and they always kept a lamp burning all night long with the doors locked and blocked by heavy furniture.

“As for the house, nobody ever bought it, and it stood just as the last caretakers had left it--full of dust with cobwebs laying thick in the high ceilings and shadowy corners...and according to Google Earth satellite imagery and drone footage, it still stands with all its furnishing in place because folks around here are much too scared to steal everything out of it...even the Rom and tinkers give it wide berth. I reckon it was either one of those people who raised those cairns around the Gate, to act as both warning beacons and a protective barrier.”

Madam Mosley sipped her tea thoughtfully while I watched her. “Folk around here don’t like to talk about it, and most visitors to these parts don’t even know about the Chanterelle Place, which is a good thing because not only does keeping mum on this legend keep us from being invaded by hundreds of noisy, obnoxious explorers and thrill seekers, it also keeps visitors from falling victim to the Curse.

“Curse?” I said, pausing in mid-chew.

“Yeah,” said Madam Mosley gravely. “It’s widely believed that anyone who dares to venture past the cairns to stand in front of that Gate will be stricken with bad luck, illness and even death under mysterious circumstances. Supposedly that place claimed an untold number of lives over the last 300 years.”

I blinked anxiously as I gulped down my food, “Oh, so no rain of frogs and fish then?”

“‘Fraid not,” Madam Mosley replied, setting down her now empty tea cup. She then delicately picked her teeth with her personal silver toothpick. “It’s a vicious curse spawned by long-ago cruelty and heartlessness, and I hope it doesn’t come true, for your sake.”

“Uh, yeah, that would really depressing if it did,” I mumbled as I stared nervously at my plate.

Madam Mosley pursed her lips and furrowed her enormous brow. “Oh?” she said, staring hard at me. “You didn’t go up to that Gate, did you? Perhaps you thought you could just go and pick at the lock?”

I set down her fork. “No,” I said. “I didn’t do that. I went around the clearing instead.”

Madam Mosley looked startled. The toothpick slid from her droopy lips with a clatter. “But you didn’t step between those chained stones...?”

I rapidly shook my head. “No, Madam,” I said. “I knew something was very fishy with that place, got that creepy feeling people get when something bad was going to happen. Well, I soon found these pathways in back and tried to walk up them--”

“And you never seemed to move forward?” said Madam Mosley, cutting me off. “No matter how hard you try and no matter whichever path you take, you never seem to get any closer to the House itself. You’re not the first to experience this odd phenomenon. Since I’m no wise woman, I don’t rightfully know if it’s part of the curse or if there are further barriers which prevent you from getting any closer, but promise me you will keep well away from those Stones and Gate. The place isn’t for the likes of living folk like us, but a place for the dead...and not the good honorable dead, but the dark twisted souls that don’t deserve a return to life and rebirth.”

Madam Mosley then held out a huge, clawed hand with the pinkie stuck out. “Promise me you’ll pay heed to those most important rules: if you should ever venture into the Yggdrasil Wood, keep to the Long Trail and don’t go further in.

“Don’t ever go between those chained Cairns and don’t stand in front of the Gate.

“Don’t ever go into the Yggdrasil Wood after sundown.”

Biting my lip, I wrapped my tiny pinkie around Madam Mosley’s salami-sized digit. “I promise to obey all the rules,” I managed to stammer out.

“Good,” Madam Mosley nodded approvingly as she released her firm grip. “Oh, by the way...there’s also a fourth rule.”

“Oh?” I pricked up my ears. “What rule is that?”

“Don’t ever open the door to anyone late at night, especially after the clock strikes twelve. No matter how much they knock and beg, don’t ever open the door.”

“But what if it’s someone in serious trouble?” I protested, rather annoyed. “What if it’s a starving or injured animal--a stray kitten even? Am I supposed to turn my back on that?”

“Sometimes a closed door as well as your instincts is the best defense against things of the Dark World, especially the Things like the Chanterelles.”

“The Chanterelles?” I looked startled. “Aren’t they all dead or gone away... unless these Chanterelles hid themselves underground like those Dark Elves from my lil’ brother’s Dungeons & Dragons fantasy roleplaying game.”

“Well, those D&D nerds got the legends wrong,” Madam Mosley explained. “Dark Elves are actually dwarves and those Fantasy Folk are not such a bad lot when compared to those all-too-real Chanterelles bunch. Them Highborn were just as bad as those extremists, fiercely nationalistic and violent. Savage to a degree that made even the most decadent of aristocrats shake their heads in dismay. And that’s not the worst of it.”

I nodded as I refilled Madam Mosley’s tea. Not the worst of it? I wondered. What could be worse than a bunch of nationalistic in-bred, Gentry snobs? Still I bit my tongue and waited patiently while the crone sipped her tea slowly.

“Extreme wealth tends to breed arrogance. Sure, you can do almost anything with it--partake in the court, be invited to a masked costume ball, have many slaves and servants do your menial housework and prepare your lavish meals, but that kind of power can quickly go to your head. Not only do you become spoiled and lazy, but you also become stupid. And when you start wallowing in corruption and callousness of the extreme, there’s no turning back. Nobles, like those Chanterelles, are the end results of centuries of living in an elitist, entitled society over-reliant on antiquated feudal titles and corrupt privilege. And when that gilded world starts to go away and when you been knocked down a peg or two, you get a little desperate and crazy. You start allying yourself to demons and things worse than demons. You got power and magic alright, but you pay such a high price in the end.

“Those that practice the dark art surrender their humanity as well as their soul, and they’re just as dangerous dead as alive for they can come back.

“The Chanterelles were like that. With each generation, they got crazier and more greedier for power, wealth and immortality until after centuries of isolation they were only hinted at in rumors, and there were a lot of rumors about that place although none were ever proven because people either didn’t take it serious or else, they were too scared to have a look.

“But believe me...” Madam Mosley added before I could skeptically ask, “the Chanterelles are real and are no longer of the living...and yet they walk. While some did manage to escape the guillotine, they would still face the living death of the Curse tainting their bloodline.

“My family lived in the Surrey village of Mirabelle which was a postcard-perfect sort of place--tidy village greens, quaint thatched cottages bedecked with begonias and geraniums, plenty of neighborly folks and noisy kids. Nothing to disturb the peace there apart from an off-course fox hunt or garden-raiding herds of livestock. Then WWII came and with it came the frequent nighttime air-raid and gas mask drills, the whole town blackouts and evacuees streaming in droves from London.

“Well, we kids had strict nightly curfews due to the blackouts and listening to the radio was one of the only few things there to do until our bedtime. Since Dad had taped newspaper over the back of the radio to hide the glowing tubes we could listen to it during the blackout.

“It was a cold October night, and Halloween was two weeks away. My sister Emily (who was 11) and my brother Danny (who was 7) had snuck downstairs to listen to the radio. They brought me along too on the promise that I would keep quiet and not tattle on them.

“Well, nothing strange happened for a while. We sat while the various radio shows entertained us with horror and crime noir drama, science fiction, and even a bit of black humor. By the time Lights Out rolled around, I was already conked out, right there in the middle of the den. Then the Hermit’s Cave started...

“Emily and Danny heard the town clock toll twelve chimes and as they were deciding whether they had listened enough and to go straight to bed, the dogs a couple blocks away started to bark and howl.

“At first, no one took notice since they thought it was part of the intro which featured baying wolves, but then the commotion never stopped. Instead it kept growing louder and closer as each of the nearby neighbors’ dogs added their voices to the hysterical and incessant chorus.

“Then there came some new sounds--a dry rustle at the door and then a sudden light tapping.

“Emily suddenly switched off the radio, she and Danny looked at one another, and then at the door. Neither one couldn’t bring themselves to get up and peer out the window to see who it was that was waiting for a reply. At the same time, they felt this inexplicable urge to lift up the latch to open the door. Once more they heard the slow tap, tap, tap of fingertips just barely brushing against the oak paneling; once more dry rustling was heard as if starchy linen was snapping and flapping in the wind. While fear and common sense kept Emily rooted to the spot, Danny was already rushing to the door with his hand reaching out for the latch. She tried to scream and tried to yell his name but fear froze her tongue solid. She could only watch in hopeless terror as the fool boy lifted up the latch, and the door slowly began creaking open, sounding a lot like that long drawn-out squeak on that basement door on the Inner Sanctum show. A chill ran up her shoulders, not entirely from the cold air seeping through the widening crack, but from the long, gray, bony fingers slowly creeping like spider legs around the edge of the door.

“Shut that goddamn door before that Thing gets in!” somebody bellowed.

“It was Mum rushing in with a fire poker and Dad not far behind with a rowan oak club.

“While Mum yanked Danny away by his arm, Dad ran forward and kicked the door shut. The hand ducked back, but it wasn’t quite enough for the heavy oak door slammed shut, snapping off the tip of the fingers. This prompted a hair-raising squeal from whatever it was that stood outside, while the fingertips writhed and squirmed around like maggots over the carpet.”

I rubbed my arms, feeling suddenly itchy.

“While Dad bashed those things to paste and powder, I woke up on account of the noise and started to bawl at the top of my lungs. Then Mum picked me up and held me close, before glowering down at cringing, shame-faced Danny.

“‘Never ever answer the blooming door at this hour!’ she told him sternly. ‘Especially when those mad, Gentry deaders are walking about!’

“It was the Chanterelle dead... my sister told me when I was a little older, the ones that were said to prowl the nearby Heath and Woods, and they’re especially dangerous during the autumn and winter months. My sister also said that for about two weeks afterwards, she and Danny were plagued by nightmares of being hunted down by rail-thin figures in fluttering drapery like linen bandages with only their long teeth showing and one of them was lacking fingertips on its right hand. This only stopped on Halloween when three British evacuees’ kids went missing at the annual picnic/fun fair at Mirabelle Rock. To this very day, both my siblings always check their peepholes before answering their door and always keep a large dog and stout club close by.”

Early the next morning, as soon as I finished my river bath, I sat by the hearth, pondering the story Mrs. Mosley told me. I even went as far as to record it down in my journal.

It happened to be my third journal, newly purchased shortly after I arrived in France. The first one was currently in the possession of my parents, and is right now being “illustrated" by my kid brother Leonard and some of his pals, while the second one got stolen during my stay on the island of Saffrasia by a crazy otaku/hikikomori girl.

While I wrote, Tabs watched from her perch on the back of the armchair. So far, the feline offered no comment.

I nibbled the end of my pencil for a few minutes and then wrote some more:

''Well, that was certainly a weird, harrowing tale even though I’m rather kind of skeptical about it. Mrs. Mosley doesn’t strike me as the sort of person that would tell crazy tall tales, but being a really young, impressionable kid at the time, she was naturally gullible enough to believe something like that. Her siblings, being both young, imaginable kids themselves, probably mistook some poor wandering vagrant as one of the infamous Chanterelle ghosts. Fear and quite possibly guilt caused their nightmares, and as far as the severed fingers still twitching around...well that could account for the nerves still firing away and sending signals to the various joint muscles...rather similar to what happens in a detached lizard’s tail or a just-guillotined head.''

As for those three Brit kids disappearing...well, a lot of things could have happened--none of it supernatural-related. They could have fallen down a sinkhole (I know, I nearly did while in Saffrasia), or gotten lost and eventually died of exposure, perhaps while taking shelter in one of the many isolated caves in that rock formation. Or else, they all became the unfortunate meal of a local predatory—a large feral dog or wild boar.

Maybe when I get the time, I could go down to the local library and Google up that incident on those missing evacuee kids, and maybe even try to find something about Mirabelle’s late-night visitor that gave even tough ladies like Madame Mosley nightmares--you would think something like that would have gotten into the newspapers. On the Internet, not everyone is bound by some age-old oath to keep silent about it like they did about those wretched Stones and Gate. I’d use the Internet at home, but it has connection or computer issues largely caused by my sister constantly yakking to her friends on video chat and constantly running limewire and downloading Justin Timberlake and Taylor Swift songs. Why download those two? No idea. Rather poor taste if you ask me! My parents are thinking about staging an intervention…hopefully very soon!

I’m just about ready to move into Leonard’s tree house.

I closed my journal and laid it aside. Then I sat back in my armchair and gazed ruminatively into the fire. I thought about what lurked beyond those ancient Cairns and Gate, imaging the old house with its high turret walls looming shadowy and stark amidst a wilderness of briars and wind-twisted trees. I thought what walked through the shadowed courtyards and darkened halls, occasionally passing into the realm of the commonplace to cast its dismal pall over everything.

“Why didn’t the local folk just burn that Chanterelle Manor down if they feared it so much?” I grumbled to myself. “That would certainly take care of the ghosts or whatever’s haunting that old place...or else, build a big blooming fence around it to keep people away. Don’t just put up a bunch of so-called magical standing stones around the front gate with a list of rules to follow!”

“Mrr?” said Tabs reflectively.

“No, I don’t think hippies were responsible for putting up those stones there,” I murmured. “Got to be either the Rom or some of the tinkers like Mrs. Mosley had said, maybe even some wannabe druids.

“Anyway, hippies just don’t strike me as the enterprising types to go tramping through some haunted woods and piling up stones into some mini Stonehenge. They’d much rather let someone else do all the hard work while they stay at home gathered around the table, sipping wine spiced with cinnamon, getting stoned out of their minds, telling bawdy jokes, and thinking up long-winded folk ballads.”

Unlike the Humes (non-Gerdin), my people and felines could easily understand one another. It all had to do with us Gerdin possessing a similar wavelength as well as having your human lineage spiced with traces of a feline species. I could also go on and on about cat girls and furry fanatics as well as ethical and moral issues dealing with a Gattaca-type scenario, but that would take much too long and would open up a whole can of worms.

“Mrraw,” Tabs insisted.

“Alright, not all hippies are decadent pot-smoking homebodies,” I acknowledged. Then I added with a frown, “But that still doesn’t mean they got plenty of Old Magical Flower Power to put up some arcanely powerful barricade against evil.

“The only real magic they use nowadays is mainly the domestic, less dramatic sort such as enhancing the flavor of their goat cheese and making their glass and crystal ornaments more sparkly and less prone to breakage.”

“Mmew?” Tabs sighed.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t believe that load of codswallop?’ I think that was a pretty good for a spur of the moment hippie anthropology lesson.”

“Rowrr,” Miss Tabitha firmly.

“Okay, okay, it was all Orrim propaganda!” I said irritably. “I’m sorry I said that thing about the hippies being wusses and all that. Still, that doesn’t mean that they’re high, noble and superior to the non-mellow Folk! The Chanterelles proved to be corrupt and hollow underneath their regalness; if there really was such a Gentry family.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well, I know for one thing,” I said finally. “I sure in hell won’t be going into those woods anymore to find out for myself if there really is such a place as the Chanterelle Manor.” I tapped the armrest of my chair thoughtfully. “I already have enough excitement in my life without some wretched legendary curse and undead monsters hanging over my head.”

I tried to resist sleep for half an hour, but eventually my eyes closed and I slumped back into my seat.

I was awakened hours later by a very faint sound, not unlike the sighing of the wind, but since when did the wind learn to pronounce my name? Sitting up, I found Tabs was not there. Apparently, the cat had gone back to sleep on my bed.

The gray light of dawn was streaming into the window. I looked at the fire; it was still burning. I frowned, very perplexed. It should have gone out by now—had I been adding more wood in my sleep?

As I pondered this, a shape seemed to emerge from the center of the fire. It was definitely a face—a wedge-shaped face with large glowing eyes and long writhing hair underneath a tricorne hat. I blinked and shook my head. There was no face now, just a jagged mass of blazing wood. The two eyes I saw were almost certainly a couple of drifting sparks.

I got unsteadily to my feet and stretched my stiff muscles. As I headed for the bathroom I thought how easily a person could be fooled by things like shadows and firelight.

“My paranoia and my overactive imagination were running overtime!" I muttered. "I'm going to start taking it easy today. Maybe do some meditating."

I wound doing laundry instead. If there was one thing I couldn't do, it was sit still for several hours trying to think about nothing. There was a quite a bit of dirty laundry as well as sprinkles of ferret poo. Worse, one of Mom’s best tablecloths was one big, scat-covered canvas. Tiny poopy footprints were scattered haphazardly from one end to the other.

"Oh, no…" I moaned. "No, no, nooo!" I blushed furiously as I grabbed the nearest broom and began tackling the mess. ''Dammit Dre! You got a litter box! Why’d you have to use Mom’s Quaker Lace tablecloth as toilet paper?''

I grumbled as I stormed about, shaking and sweeping out poop and dumping the more durable items into the washer, before soaking the delicate lace and linen in a basin full of detergent. One of these days, Mom’s going to turn you into a stole, I thought.

Suddenly, I paused and listened hard. A sound came to my ears that made me think of steady rain and wind rippling through the trees. Pricking my ears, I took a look out the only window. There was nothing there; just churning foggy grayness. A blanket of cold silence descended over the room. I felt goose bumps on my arms, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I turned suddenly, expecting to see numerous eyes watching me from behind. I saw only bare walls. I thought I heard rustling and shuffling near the entrance to the kitchen. But when I strode to the doorway and looked out, there was nothing there.

"Lousy stinkin’ rats," I said irritably. "I thought Madame Nismer ran them all out awhile ago."

"No, not even close," came a faint, windy whisper.

I felt chilled, as if the temperature of the room had suddenly dropped.

“Who...who's there?” I stuttered timidly.

My ears, listening intently, heard nothing but the nearby forest rustling softly in the wind and rain.

Finally I shrugged dismissively. “Ugh, seriously, get a grip, you're imagining stupid things!”