“If things are good they’re not terrifying, are they?”
Marcus sighed. Vincent may have been his cousin, but he knew nothing about reality. Marcus wanted to fire back a cutting retort—You would say that given the way your parents hover like nervous dragonflies. He said nothing, however. Vincent had received enough jibes of that nature in his first—and last—disastrous term at Public School. His overwrought parents had dispatched him for the holidays to the house Marcus shared with their grandfather. Marcus, though six months younger than his cousin, had quickly deciphered the situation by eavesdropping on the servants: Vincent’s parents were enmeshed in legal difficulties. There was talk of Debt, Divorce.
“The really good things are always terrifying,” Marcus replied. “At least before you have them.”
“I never have terrifying things,” Vincent declared loftily. Marcus recalled his cousin’s obnoxious refusal to sample unfamiliar foods at the dinner table and decided a counter-irritant was in order.
“In that case,” Marcus said, heading for the door of their sitting room, “you’ll have to spend the hols holed up in here.”
“Grandfather told us quite clearly we weren’t to wander.”
Marcus flashed a grin. “Say hello to the ghosts, then. I’m off.”
He felt an immeasurable relief to hear Vincent’s footsteps clattering down the nursery corridor behind him.
Vincent gasped: “Is our room haunted?”
Marcus shrugged. “The most haunted room in the house.” Vincent looked as though he might burst into tears. Marcus ignored his fear and led him up staircases, down corridors, and into and out of shut-up rooms, where they played the rest of the morning.
At lunch, their grandfather questioned them: “Keeping out of trouble?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus replied confidently.
Their grandfather narrowed his eyes. “You and I have yet to discuss your term reports, boy. I don’t recommend going for extras.”
“No, sir.” Marcus swallowed his soup serenely.
“Do not be under any illusions,” their grandfather said to Vincent. “My daughter may have wrapped you in cotton wool, but I most certainly will not.” Vincent blushed and looked hard-done-by. “There’s to be no more wasted food, for starters,” their grandfather continued. “You’ll eat what you’re given or go hungry the rest of the day.”
This approach was far too direct, Marcus could see, and served only to push Vincent into a stubborn realm of nausea. He ate no more of the lunch, and cloistered himself upstairs at tea-time. The next day Marcus redoubled his efforts, leading Vincent to some of the more thrilling corners of the house, peepholes, for instance, which revealed scullery maids bathing, or the stableboys exercising themselves whilst discussing the scullery maids. Marcus even contrived to position them to observe the stableboys’ punishment by the groom. Marcus hoped their stoicism unter the strap would provide inspiration for his cousin.
The second week they roamed beyond the grounds and into the district where they met with Marcus’s friend, Jasper, and Jasper’s delicious sister Susan. Whenever Vincent showed signs of wanting to stay behind, Marcus embroidered his accounts of ghosts. Vincent’s interest in them never waned, and in fact grew faintly ravenous.
One afternoon pelting rain confined them indoors. Marcus began to recount another imagined other-worldly encounter. Vincent interrupted and pointed to a small cupboard behind the settee.
“That’s where the noises come from. The ghosts.” Vincent reported this information with a good deal more enthusiasm than Marcus previously would have thought possible.
Marcus grinned: “Let’s turf ‘em out, then!” Vincent joined with enthusiasm, and soon they’d coated themselves in dust, emptied the cupboard, and uncovered a hidden door. Vincent wrenched it open and crawled, heedless, inside.
A mighty crash followed. Marcus peered into the darkness and soon found himself flailing down a tin shaft and landing painfully some distance below.
“You, too?” said his grandfather’s voice as Marcus felt his grandfather’s powerful arm hauling him to his feet. He blinked and tried to breathe. They had landed somehow in the library and now stood, filthy, before him. He raised a hand to silence them: “No explanation necessary. If you’ll be so good as to fetch the cane, Marcus, you know where it lives, I shall dust your jackets for you.”
Vincent emerged from his caning considerably more confident than Marcus had seen him. He grew to love their grandfather’s house, and spoke of it enthusiastically at school, where he joined Marcus the following term.
“It was the sort of house that you never seem to come to the end of,” Vincent would recount, “And it was full of unexpected places.”
What is Bookends?
Sorry about the late posting this week. I’ve been catching up on some sleep…
Also writing this week, PapaTomLA–check out his story.
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday. Come write a 250-word story (erotic? tgi oriented?). Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story in the comments below or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @asparkle2 @sandy_radbabe @masterretep, whose tweets supplied the wildcards.
