Hollyharson Manor

I've been around here for a long time. You could say I'm the guy who saw it all go down, the guy who watched it all happen. As I sit here in my small apartment writing this, I'm wearing the old, dusty suit that I retired so many years ago. The suit of Redd Copperson, a butler serving at the Hollyharson Manor.

Hollyharson Manor was a pretty place. Cliche, almost, in the way that it hugged up to a coastal cliff of solid granite; its gothic, towering structure casting a shadow that went all the way to the cliffside if you caught it at the right time of day. When you were out in the backyard, you could hear the waves crashing against the wall of rock combined with a number of squalling seagulls, giving a nice sound that can only be described as the sound of silence - without the silence. It was nice place to relax, and recollect your thoughts if you were into that kind of thing.

The manor accomadated a wonderful garden as well. The well cared-for soil held a variety of flowers including rose sprays, morning glories, irises, and a certain peach colored flower that I could never really tell the name of. In the center was a cherry tree, growing tall and proud amongst the other luscious plants that sat about the garden.

Even the grass was perfect. It grew tall and straight, bearing a perfect dark green color that allowed for the sun to shine off the early morning dew. But perhaps the best part was inside the massive brick house itself - specifically, the fourth floor, third bedroom on the left-hand side facing the back of the manor. In it was a window that looked out over the backyard. Looking out the window was probably the most exasperatingly beautiful view I have ever seen in my life.

But perhaps the beauty of the manor and its grounds makes it no surprise that the series of events I'm about to relay to you are terrible. Perhaps that makes it no surprise that the horrible events I'm about to relay to you happened to the family that had moved into Hollyharson - nature has a way of balancing things out. Where there's good, there has to be evil. Where there's ripe, there has to be rotten.

Or, perhaps I'm just trying to be a bit too poetic.

I remember the day the Delacroys first moved in. It was bright and sunny, as it usually was during the mid-summer of nineteen seventy-eight. They drove into the mouth of the long driveway in their small compact car, pulling themselves around to the front of the manor. Everyone could tell they were richer than a stock market fat cat who had just won the lottery - why they drove in via small compact car was beyond me, and is still beyond me to this day. Perhaps they were trying to make themselves look normal. Perhaps they sought to distance themselves from the stereotypes of the common rich family; those who spoiled themselves rotten and deprived everyone else.

It's even possible they were a normal family who just happened to hit an abnormally lucky point.

The first person to step out of the car was James Delacroy, right out of the driver's seat. He was handsome young fellow, probably in his early thirties; the prime of his life. He had a nice moustache and black, medium length hair, slicked back over his ears. The man was wearing a pinstriped business suit with a fancy black tie and strikingly blue dress shirt. But the thing I remember most about him was his blindingly bright red shoes. A pair of shoes that you could tell from a mile away he was proud of.

Second person to come out was his wife, Mary. She was wearing this bright purple dress and enough makeup to cover five Mount Everests. Her black heels could probably be heard clicking on the concrete from a mile away. Her hair was probably best described as a mountain of hair spray with some blond under it. She looked like she was trying to make some kind of unneeded impression.

Then came the twin girls, Layla and Kayla. Unlike their mother, they hadn't taken the time to dig through a massive fashion kit. They were probably too busy playing dress up on their dolls - they couldn't have been more than five years old. They had their nice little Sunday dresses and shoes, and glaringly red hair that looked like a pile of ants had sat on their heads.

And last but not least, came their teenage son Brandon. He was your stereotypical 1978 loner kid with slicked over black hair and punk rock style that put him apart from his family in almost every way. I was surprised his pants even allowed him to walk; they looked so tight that they'd probably shred your legs to bits on the first step.

James walked up to me and shook my hand.

"James Delacroy, nice to meet you," he said with a smile on his face.

"The name's Redd Copperson, head butler," I responded, the same smile on my own face.

"So, this is the house right? Hollyharson Manor. Pretty fuckin' big if you ask me."

"That it is. Though I'd like to think the manor doesn't pride itself on its size. Got a lot beauty on it too."

"Seems nice enough," James commented. "Kids, go find a bedroom. Looks like we've found our new home."

I don't know what it was about him, but James Delacroy was a likeable guy. He just seemed to carry this aura about him - always taking things in this oddball goofy stride. Maybe it was the way he acted - always requesting that the staff call him by his name instead of "Master Delacroy" or "Master James". Maybe it was the bright red shoes. Maybe it was his charm with the ladies. To this day, I still haven't figured it out. Maybe it was just the fact that he was different from his family - Mary had this stuck-up attitude about her, always caring more about her hair and make-up. The girls mainly played around the garden, picking some of the flowers or messing about with a doll house. Brandon... well, he usually camped in his room, alone, listening to some kind of static-y noise he called "rock". I don't think he knew what a rock was, let alone what music was.

About a week passed. I was tending to the garden, as I usually did, when I saw James down by the edge of the cliff, picking up rocks and looking at them. He was wearing a pair of tan shorts with a white polo shirt. Curious, I stood up and walked over to his position, and he noticed me fairly quickly. I wasn't trying to be a sneak, after all.

"Hey, Redd."

"Master James."

He scrunched his face. "Just call me James."

"Okay. Mind if I ask what you might be doing?" I asked him, making the mental note to stop referring to the man as "Master".

"Ya see this rock, Redd?" he asked. I nodded, observing the piece of stone in his hand. "It's granite. Common igneous rock. I'm examining it to see if I can find some good enough pieces to make a nice little chess set."

"A chess set, sir?"

"Yep." He scratched at the rock with his finger nail, blowing on it. "Maybe you and I can play sometime. After I make the board and stuff, of course. You do know how to play, right?"

"That I do. I was a part of the chess club back in high school." I nodded, with a slight smile.

"Huh, interesting - I was in a chess club too. If you're interested, I was being serious. We really should play some time." He scrunched his nose, looking at the sunset falling over the cliff.

I laughed. "I'd be up for that. A man like me has to do something for fun."

For awhile after that, we made minor chit-chat, gathering granite rocks for carving of the pieces. I suppose that I wasn't a butler to him. Every time he and I would be in the same place, we'd talk and act like friends. He even had me drink with him when I wasn't tending to his wife's every whim. For months, he worked on that board, and I helped him do so. For almost two years, nothing was wrong in Hollyharson Manor.

But things slowly did go wrong. Pretty soon, his relationship with his wife deteriorated. Constantly, they'd argue and fight about everything. I heard everything from accusations of theft, to cheating and being unfaithful. I don't honestly think I could blame James for it.

Before I go into the events of that fateful night, I'd like to go into Mary's character. She wasn't like James - she was the very definition of a gold digger. Constantly, she'd yell at the staff for not making everything exactly right. She'd never do anything but her makeup on her own. Every night, she was drunk on wine to the point of pissing herself. The way she treated her kids didn't have any value either. She was an all-around spoiled brat with the attitude of an ungrateful bitch. And James had enough.

It was on that fateful night that I was sitting in my bedroom, the fourth floor, second bedroom on the right-hand side. Right across from the bedroom with the beautiful view. That was James's and Mary's room - the one with the window. And in it, they were fighting it out like a couple of pigeons over the last of a piece of bird seed. I was expecting that at anytime he'd knock on my bedroom door, we'd have a beer, and he'd rant about his wife's infidelity.

But that wasn't what happened.

I was paying little, if any, attention to the yelling, smoking my cigarette and reading my book. The yelling and screaming soon stopped, but it was followed by the loud crash of glass resonating through the floor. I immediately put the book down, not even marking my place, and ran out and across the hall, opening the door and entering that bedroom.

And James stood, a mixture of shock and fear on his face. He was holding a broken lamp, looking down at the floor. I could tell you that he was so pale his hair never looked darker.

And on the floor was his wife.

She was laying face-down, blond hair now dyed a bright red with the blood coming from her head. Her skull had to have been cracked into a million pieces. I don't know how hard she was hit, but it was clear: she was dead.

I couldn't tell you how wide my mouth was open, but my jaw certainly hit the floor. James looked at me with those eyes of shock and guilt.

"Redd, what am I gonna do? All I did was ask for a divorce and she started yelling... and everything went black and I hit her... Oh god, what have I done, Redd?!"

That was the first time I'd ever seen that man cry. I couldn't tell you how horrible it looked; how... pitiful. I felt nothing but sympathy as he bawled, asking me what to do. I don't know what prompted the response I took that day. Maybe it was because the children couldn't lose both their mother and their father. Maybe it was because I felt sympathy. Maybe it was some kind of odd bias I had towards my friend.

"Wrap the carpet up around the body. There's an area in the backwood, across from the manor. Small little area, but it's big enough to dig a hole," I responded. "I'll get the blood cleaned up. Lock the door behind you and don't unlock it until six."

He responded with a small "alright", and we wrapped the blood-stained carpet around the body, leaving nothing but the staining puddle on the floor. He quickly ran out, bringing the mop and cleaning supplies. He picked it up bridal-style, as the kids call it, and carried her out the door. He locked it behind him using his leg to prop the body up with one hand holding it and the other holding the key. I began mixing the proper cleaners together.

I spent what must have been hours cleaning up that stain. The moment it was done, I simply waited that next thirty minutes until six in the morning came. James unlocked the door, having come fresh out of the shower and washing the blood and tears off of his hands. I went to the bathroom, quickly washing myself down, and we sat on the bed.

"What're we gonna tell the kids, Redd?" James muttered. I looked at him, shaking my head. We stayed there, speaking quietly, attempting to make some kind of plan, I guess. This old man couldn't tell you what we were doing that night. Perhaps it was the stress of that night, or some repressed memory, but this is where my memory fails me. But perhaps that's for the better.

The next morning, James told the kids that their mother had just left overnight after their argument, and that he had just broke the lamp out of anger. He told them that she wasn't coming back; that she'd called some hot-shot kid in a black leather jacket with a greased up convertible that gets 900 miles to the gallon. And they believed every word he said. Brandon didn't seem to care too much at the time; perhaps he had the same opinion of his mother that I did. The girls just sat and cried, wanting their mother to come back as their father comforted them. I could tell though; he couldn't do much. He was heartbroken himself.

I do remember clearly, however, that he wasn't wearing those bright red shoes anymore.

James had walked into his room that night a man who was somewhat cheerful, only intent upon asking for a divorce for sake of himself and his children, and he had walked out holding a bloody carpet with his wife's body engulfed in it; he had walked out a broken man. The next time we played chess on the board that he made, he surrendered the game; if to do nothing else, but to cry. Sometimes I think that the guilt on his soul was too much for him to bear. Now and then, I would see him in the bedroom, third bedroom on the left-hand side, looking out the window with the beautiful view.

It was about two months afterward when he finally relayed to me the guilt that was crushing his soul.

"You know, Redd, I keep wondering. I keep wondering if we did the right thing. Maybe I should've turned myself in that day." He moved a pawn on the chessboard to E5.

"I don't think that. I think you did what was best for your family, James." I took his pawn with my queen.

"Redd, I killed someone! I ended a life. A life that could never come back. And over what? A divorce. I came in to get a divorce, Redd." He shook his head. There was a sadness in his eyes as he moved his knight to take my queen. "This wasn't what I wanted to happen."

"I know, my friend. I know. But the children can't afford to lose their father." I took his knight with a bishop. "Checkmate."

James examined the board. It was a checkmate; I had his king blocked in three different places, all through a strategic war of attrition over E5.

He looked up at me. "You're probably right. They can't afford to lose me. And I don't want to lose them, Redd. They're all I've got."

"How about we have a couple drinks? Take your mind off of your wife."

That night, we had enough drinks to fill a horse and then some. We laughed and joked, told each other our stories and memories. It reminded me of the old times, if they were old enough to call old yet.

“You know, Redd. One thing I’ve always wanted to do is start a restaurant. Nothing big or grand, just a nice little building. Maybe in one of those friendly little hamlets that hug old highways heading to the Interstate,” he said, a goofy grin on his face. “A family diner, of sorts. If you could really call it that. Serve some burgers and fries, a nice T-bone steak maybe - throw in a couple of… I don’t know! Milkshakes?”

I laughed, a smile on my face as James’ chipper self came back to the surface. “That sounds like a plan to me. Good luck on it,” I replied with a smile.

“Redd. You and I - that’s what we should do. You and me, working the grills in the back; grab a couple of cute girls to work as waitresses. We’ll call it… ‘Delacroy-Copperson Family Diner!’ It’ll be great - diamond-shaped neon sign outside. Have your name in red and mine in blue! Huh, huh?” He laughed boisterously, looking at me as if waiting for my answer. I laughed with him, almost coughing due to the cigarette that I had in my mouth.

“Aaah, I don’t know.” I coughed out, before continuing. “I don’t see me on a grill. Never really been a good cook.”

“Eh, I can help with that! Come on! Come on, it’ll be great!” He grinned widely, putting his beer can down on the table and patting my shoulder.

“Alright, alright. I’ll try it. But you’re gonna double my pay for that one,” I looked at him, feigning a serious face.

He snickered. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Aaah, double pay! Hell, triple pay - no, no, I’ll sextuple your pay. But we gotta do this, Redd!” He slapped his knee, waving a hand as he made his statement. The rest of the night was laughing and joking, just like the old times - if you could call them old yet.

It seemed like a good idea at that time; a nice little diner in a nice little hamlet on an old highway. It seemed small; simple, yet complex. I remember, for some reason, mulling it over in my head for the next several days. The idea of serving freshly cooked burgers out of a small little diner had an appeal, I suppose. Perhaps it was James’ way of taking a break from his life; to mull over his dream, much the same as I did.

We never did open that diner together.

It was a couple days later, when I was tending the garden as per the usual routine, when I saw a 17-year-old ‘punk rock’ boy sitting out by the cliff. Brandon was sitting in the only way a person could sit without his pants ripping in half at the seams; legs stretched out and resting on his hands as if he were about to lay down.

Brandon was a smart kid; though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He was what I would call a fluttering spirit; doing odd-jobs here and there, though mainly trying to live life as he saw it. This particular day seemed a tad different than usual; the black-haired teenager seemed to be rather upset about something, angry. I remember that he picked up a rock, flinging it off the cliff into the water below. It seemed more to be frustration than anything else.

See, James and Brandon had been fighting lately. It was just the normal dynamic of a teenage son and his father disagreeing on the various views of the world and refusing to accept that others are different. Yet again, today seemed a bit different. I walked over to Brandon, standing beside him as he gritted his teeth and stared angrily at the sun setting in the sky.

“Master Brandon.” I greeted him politely.

“Don’t call me that! What do you want?!” he snapped at me. I didn’t flinch, nor was I taken aback. I just stood there for a moment, before answering his question.

“I was actually hoping to inquire about what was wrong, Brandon,” I said as he took deep breaths of frustration. He stopped for a moment, then sighed.

“What happened to Mom?” he asked, point blank. I had to task myself to keep from jumping. Despite my calm stature, I was perhaps the most scared I had ever been in my life. Glancing out of my peripheral vision, I caught a small glimpse of James staring out the window; the same one that I’ve mentioned many times. The third bedroom on the left-hand side of the fourth floor; the one with the view. Brandon continued. “What really happened to Mom? I’m not buying that load of crap about some guy with a juiced-up convertible. Tell me, ‘cause he damn sure won’t.” He pointed at the window, to his father.

I blinked for a moment before replying. “As far as I know, that’s exactly what happened.”

"Bullshit!" he screamed at me. "I know that's a lie! I'm not stupid!" The teenager snarled, gritting his teeth a tad before continuing on. "Why do you guys always treat me like I am?!"

I shook my head softly, giving a small frown as the sun began to set behind the horizon.

"Son," I started. "Your father and I don't like the fact that your mother is gone anymore than you do. We don't know exactly what happened to her; we just know she went off with some greaser boy."

Once more I found myself tasked with not gritting my teeth as I lied through them.

"You can keep saying it, but that doesn't make it true!" Brandon was still yelling, upset. I wasn't going to be able to continue the conversation like this, so I only replied with one thing and left it at that.

"If you think that isn't the truth, then you'll understand it when you're older. It seems confusing now; I know. But know this; no matter what, your father loves you, Brandon." I placed my hand on his shoulder. "You may think he's lying, but maybe you should consider that he's only lying to protect you from whatever he's lying about." With a pat, I turned and walked away as Brandon's face softened and blinked. He seemed to be confused, but over a few minutes, he began to understand.

Poor boy never found out what happened to his mother.

It wasn't long after that when Brandon moved out - the New Year of nineteen eighty-one. Nineteen eighty-one was something of a good year. Nothing extraordinarily terrible happened. James and I would laugh and play chess, drink some whenever the girls went to bed. Nineteen eighty-one had been what I'd probably consider the best year of my life. The garden grew with very little weeding needing done, and James and I would constantly gather granite from the cliff edge to carve various statues and figurines from. However, it was the next year that something truly horrible happened to James.

I remember the doorbell ringing that night. I opened the door, and there stood a man in a black business suit, looked like your average secret agent stereotype with a frown on his face and straight stature that towered over mine. Any man under 5 foot tall would've pissed themselves upon viewing this 7 foot 6 inch man, at least, I'm guessing was his height.

"Are you James Delacroy?" he looked at me.

"No sir. Redd Copperson, head butler," I responded kindly.

"I need to speak to James, please."

I called James down, and went back upstairs in order to set up a new chess game. It was quite a while before James finally came back up, opening the door to the room in a grim silence. I wish I hadn't recognized the look on his face. I wish I hadn't seen that horrible look of shock, sadness, and guilt before. I wish that the tears the man shed that day weren't all too familiar to me. But, sadly, they were. I still remember that look of loss in his eyes.

"Redd..." He wiped his eye, his face red with grief. "It's... It's Brandon, Redd. He was... He was on the way home to visit me. To tell me - to tell me about his promotion. He got T-boned at an intersection, Redd. He was dead on arrival. They couldn't save him. My boy... I lost my boy..."

He sat down by the table with the chess set, and wept. I sat myself, rubbing my hands together and frowning, unable to come up with any words to help the situation.

"DAMMIT!" he banged his hand on the chess table as the pieces fell over. "First my wife, and now my son?! Now my son's been taken from me?!"

He continued to cry.

"Redd. I just want... what's best for my family. But... it... it's falling apart, Redd. I'm losing them, Redd... I'm losing them. Why? Why is my son being buried before me?"

James would opt to have Brandon cremated and hold the funeral on the manor grounds. I sat beside him, donning the same kind of black suit that everyone else wore, my hand on his shoulder as tears streamed down his face while the preacher continued to tell us all how Brandon was in a better place and happy - that he was with God. I was never a religious man myself, and to this day, I've never really been sure whether James was either. I suppose something had to keep the man holding on while life chewed him up and spat him back out, but for all I know, it could've been Buddha and reincarnation rather than a Jewish prophet on a cross.

He never did spread Brandon's ashes, either. Perhaps they symbolized the remainder of his family to him, or the past that he couldn't let go of. Either way, he held on to those ashes until the day that he died.

James changed after that day. The man that was once a chipper soul who had walked into the manor with bright red shoes and a blue dress shirt that could compete with the ocean in color was now a disheveled, depressed shell of what he once was. Everyday, he would stay in that bedroom for hours on end; simply staring out of that window with the beautiful view. When he did come out, his hair seemed to always be blacker than usual; he was pale, deep blue bags under his eyes when his face wasn’t red from crying. He would still drink with me, play chess, or otherwise; but our conversations were no longer about the old times. They were no longer happy and cheerful. More and more, it would seem as if I were listening to the ramblings of a drunken madman whose very heart and soul and left him long ago.

Even all the money in the world couldn’t buy this man’s old self back.

Nineteen eighty-seven. Now, that was a good year. The twins had grown up, looking nice and tidy. They were in their puberty stages; each one carrying a curvaceous stature and long, beautiful locks of red, curly hair. Layla and Kayla were good girls, too; sweet-hearts beyond anyone’s imaginations. Even though they were now teenagers, they were a far cry from what their peers were - still maintaining that child-like innocence, playing around in the garden.

Perhaps it was seeing that his two girls had grown so finely that brought James’ hope back. It was one of the few years that I saw James return to his chipper, charming personality. He was up on his feet, not taking so much time to stare out of the window with the beautiful view. We’d always talk about the diner; I always wondered why we never just did it. Money wasn’t an issue; nor was anything else. But it never went anywhere beyond just talking about it.

Hollyharson’s garden was in full bloom that year. The rose sprays, the irises, the glories, and that damned peach-colored flower that I still couldn’t tell you the name of. James took his time learning how to care for them, deciding to help me in the garden whenever we weren’t doing what we usually did. He knew quite a lot of the flower names, and almost overwatered the damn things.

We got quite the laugh when the girls came into the garden, only to meet a face-full of water as he playfully sprayed them with the garden hose. The reaction of the twins was rather hilarious; they screamed loud enough to hear from town.

History has a hell of a habit of repeating itself. I guess I should’ve known better than to think that the good times would last.

It was a school day. James and I were playing chess around the time, and as the bus began to come around, only one of the twins, Layla, came in. She was a mess; distraught, worried, and frightened.

“Daddy! Daddy! Where are you?!” She hollered and yelled, over and over. We came out of the room, and she ran into his arms, looking terrified enough I could have swore that she was about to scream the house down. She hugged him close, panicking as he attempted to console her, casting a worried glance at me now and then.

“Calm down, sweetie! Calm down! I’m right here!” He replied to her shivering self, before asking the question we all wanted to know. “Where’s Kayla?”

“I don’t know! She didn’t show up at the bus - I don’t know where she is!”

I remember that I’d never seen James’ face go so pale in my entire life. It wasn’t long - we were out of the house, looking everywhere for the 16-year-old girl. We had scoured the entire town - and that was a doozy - casting a sharp and long look into every nook and cranny. It was 8:00 when we arrived at that scene, if my memory serves me right. There she was.

I remember the words that I muttered the moment I saw her, shaking my head in a calm terror.

“Oh, no.”

The police tape stood no match for a distraught father. James had ran right through the tape to the bloodied body of his daughter, falling to his knees in front of her as police officers attempted to calm him down.

“No! No!” He screamed, sobbing. “That’s my daughter! That’s my girl! My baby girl!” He picked up her body, cradling it by the shoulders as he sobbed against her chest. He was gasping for air as they attempted to pull him away from the body, his shirt now covered in her blood. I grabbed him by the shoulders, escorting him away.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” My words echoed to a broken man.

Once more, James stood as a far cry from the chipper man that walked into Hollyharson Manor on that mid-summer’s day in nineteen seventy-eight. I think that if James weren’t broken, he would’ve found the man that killed his daughter and took the law into his own hands. He would’ve given what was coming. But, the series of unfortunate events didn’t stop there. No; that would’ve been a mercy, and James’ life was not keen on giving him mercy, no matter how much he deserved it.

Layla hadn’t left her room for much after that. She was just like him; utterly devastated by the loss of her sister. It was far more impactful than her brother and mother were; she just couldn’t move on. She never even played in the garden anymore; no, when she was outside of her room, she sat dangerously close to that cliff - the one made of solid granite. It was at least 200 feet before you’d hit the bottom; and the bottom was not just water. It was covered in jagged rock formations that were crowded underneath the cliff. Each and every one was just like the cliff face; made of solid granite.

James was no longer able to drunkenly ramble - usually because he’d drink himself to the point where he couldn’t even talk.

Then came that final, fateful day. The day that shattered an already broken human being; that killed any last bit of will James had left.

I was tending to floors of the dining room. James had been up in the bedroom; his bedroom. Watching from that window as he always did in this state. I remember that he had zoomed out of that room faster than a cheetah pouncing on a limping gazelle. The distraught man frantically grabbed me, his eyes wide open in abject terror.

“She jumped, Redd!” He yelled, terrified of what was to come. “Help me, Redd! She jumped! Please, I can’t lose her!”

My memory has a bit of haze here. I remember fairly clearly running down to the closest part of the beach. I had stopped at the water line, but he damn sure didn’t. James immediately jumped into that water, swimming what had to be a good several hundred feet. I went in after him, and ended up swimming a good distance myself. We had to work together to get that body back up to the beach.

It was already too late. As it turned out, Layla hit one of the rocks on the way down. I remember looking into James’ eyes with the most somber expression. He was truly gone; beyond the point of no return. He didn’t scream. He didn’t say a word. The man just cradled his daughter, sobbing quietly - and he couldn’t stop. I knew there was nothing I could do to salvage the broken parts; even my friendship with him couldn’t repair the remains of his heart.

James spent the next few weeks staring out of that window. I wonder if he saw himself in there; his old self. I wonder if the beautiful view brought him what little happiness he could have. I guess I’ll never have the answer to that until the day that I die.

I remember going into James’ room on that fateful day. It was sunset; the yellow and red hues of dusk colored the sky, and the sun began to dance below the cliff and beyond the horizon. James had been crying, staring out of that view all day. It seemed like days before he finally spoke. I don’t know what possessed me to do what I did. I don’t know what possessed me to do as he asked instead of trying to stop him. I could only gaze upon him with my somber, old eyes.

I haven’t elaborated much on how I felt over a lot of this. I can say that this old man felt horrible about the things that went on in Hollyharson Manor, and as this story approaches its end, I can say that I look on James and his family with a fondness that can never be broken, and I look on their deaths as tragedies that never should have happened. I was always calm; I guess, trying to keep a brave face for the friend who I was a butler for. James and I had shared many a laugh together, and many a cry. This, this night in the year nineteen eighty-eight, a gorgeous night full of stars as it was, was the longest night of my life. No matter how badly I wanted it to end, it wouldn’t.

“Redd. I want you to know… you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” James started, somberly. His voice cracked as his eyes reflected the setting sun; the orange hues amplifying the blue bags underneath his eyes, which were almost black from his many sleepless nights. “But, I want you to leave here. Go anywhere you want. But leave here.”

I was astounded and taken aback. I didn’t know whether I should feel hurt; now that I think of it, I feel that I shouldn’t.

“Wha- what are you saying?!” I stammered out the reply.

“I’m saying that I can’t take this anymore, Redd. I’m finished. With everything.” He started to cry, his tears glistening off of a sun that took forever to set. “I want my family back, Redd. I want my son. I want my baby girls!” He sobbed between his sentences. “I want my wife.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised. I didn’t really care for Mary, but James certainly had his soft spot for her, even after all this time.

“Just do this for me, Redd. The spot where Mary was buried - I buried something beside it. I planted some Calla lilies on top. I want you to have it.” He breathed in deeply. “Just… find yourself a place. Do whatever you want. But leave me here.”

I felt the tears stinging my eyes. They began to drop down my face as I looked at my friend one last time. I held out my hand; James stood, and took it, grasping it hard. He smiled one last chipper smile behind his tears.

“You’re still good at chess, right?” He sniffled after his sentence, face as red as it was wet with his tears.

I let out a small sob.

“I sure am… I was in chess club back in high school.” My lips quivered, and I hugged the man who stood in front of me. He hugged me back, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and patting my back. One final moment of embrace, before he finally uttered his last words he'd ever say.

“I was in a chess club, too.”

I turned to leave, stepping out of the house and crossing the road, into the backwood. I found the spot where Mary was buried, and a group of those same peach colored flowers grew beside it. Calla lilies. They were Calla lilies. I took the shovel from the garden shed and began digging, uncovering what appeared to be a shoe box. I opened it up, and found something I hadn’t seen in years.

Those blindingly bright red shoes. There were other things in that box; various pictures of our old times, a stack of 100 dollar bills, and quite a few other little trinkets. Underneath it was the chess set that we had played so many times on. Every chess piece was there, still in the same pristine condition as the day we made them.

It was at least an hour or two before I looked back at the manor; and it was no longer there.

All that was left in its wake was a deafening, blinding inferno, clashing with the night sky. I just sat in front of the gate, and I could do nothing but watch, and weep as the place I knew as home burned to the ground. The flames went higher and higher, consuming each floor individually as the fire bursted out of the windows and licked at the bricks and paint; the wood supporting beams would be long gone in little time.

The only thing that was found in the remains of Hollyharson manor was the charred body of a broken man, still holding the burned remnants of the matchbox he'd used to set the once beautiful manor alight.

A lot of people ask me about James. I tell them that he was a good man, a great father, and the best of friends. They always ask when they see the pictures on the wall of the diner.

It’s a small little place, in one of those friendly little hamlets that hugs a highway going towards the Interstate. I work the grills in the back; turns out people do enjoy my cooking. I got a couple of cute girls to work as waitresses, and there’s a great neon sign outside labeled ‘Delacroy-Copperson Family Diner’ - my name in red, and his in blue.

Our story is approaching its finale as I sit here, writing this in my small apartment. I’m wearing the same old, dusty suit that I retired so many years ago one last time as I record these memories. If James were still here, I'd tell him I was happy. I'd tell him that I made our dream. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear it.

I’ve taken to wondering in my old age if there really is an afterlife.

I honestly hope James is there, finally reunited with his family. Maybe, he’s in the afterlife with the life he should have had in Hollyharson Manor. Maybe, he’s got himself a pretty place. Cliche, almost, in the way it hugs up to a coastal cliff of solid granite; its gothic structure able to cast a shadow going all the way to the cliffside when you catch it at the right time of day. The well cared-for soil of the garden will hold a variety of flowers; rose sprays, irises, morning glories, and calla lilies. In the center, a cherry tree growing tall and proud among the other plants of the garden. Even the grass will be perfect.

But the best beauty will be on the inside: specifically, the fourth floor, third bedroom on the left-hand side facing the back of the manor. In it will be a window that holds the most exasperating view I’ll ever see in my life.

I think I’ll be joining him soon. Old age happens to everyone; I got somebody to pass the diner on to. I ain’t got too much to worry for. But I can tell you this:

When this old boy gets there, I’ll be wearing a pinstripe suit, a strikingly blue dress shirt, and a pair of shoes he’ll be able to tell from a mile away that I’m proud of - a pair of blindingly bright red shoes.