Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Fiction Prose’ Category

Ghost of the Past (Part 2a)

Please read Part 1 (if you haven’t already) before continuing.

        A few weeks passed and my German was only slightly better than it had been before. But I was determined and I managed to translate most of the letters into English with the help of the German teacher at school. They told a narrative that I was too angry to identify with: my grandfather decided to leave his home, with the blessings of his parents, to become a soldier for Hitler’s army. He became an SS officer assigned to Auschwitz. I wasn’t too interested in any more details; his long praises of Hitler made me feel sicker and angrier and the nonchalant tone he adopted to talk about the camps was horrifying.
        I knew that most of my disgust was because of Rachel. She was Jewish and my best friend; we met in elementary school and had never been apart since. I went to church every Sunday and holiday mass, but some people thought I was just as Jewish as she because I knew when and what all the Jewish holidays were as we always celebrated with her family. It particularly hurt to imagine people like Rachel being tortured and killed like animals.
        The current letter I was translating, though, was different. It was a later letter to my grandmother describing one particular boy. My grandfather went to great lengths to find out the boy’s name; he claims he was obsessed with this child—no more than ten years old by my grandfather’s estimate. But, orders being orders, as my grandfather wrote, the boy was sent to the gas chamber with his younger sister and mother.
        “Christel, are you ready to go?” my grandmother called to me. “We’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”
        We were supposed to go to my Rachel’s house that evening for Passover. I had completely forgotten, I was so engrossed in the letters. I frantically gathered them and stuffed them under my bed. So far, no one had found them there.
        “I’m coming!”
        I picked up the translation, however and ran to stuff it into my desk before catching near the end of the letter that my grandfather had found out the boy’s name. I barely glanced at the page, afraid that my grandmother would come into the room to see what was taking me so long, before running out of the room and bounding down the stairs. My grandfather was already in the car outside while my grandmother gently escorted me to it.
        The ride felt longer than usual. Maybe it was my mind focusing on the letters I had just translated or maybe it was the tension of confrontation that I felt with my family. I tried to remember the boy’s name. Benjamin Scheinberg, that’s what it was. But something about it didn’t feel right, like it was familiar. The name fit together much too easily for comfort.
        “You’re awfully quiet, Chris. What’s wrong?” my grandfather asked from the driver’s seat. I couldn’t see his face and I was grateful.
        “Nothing.”
        I caught my grandmother glance at her husband with a worried look, but she stayed silent.
        “Did you get a lot of work done on your homework today?” he asked.
        “Some.”
        “What are you working on?”
        “I’ve got a couple of papers due. Some reading.”
        He glanced back at me in the rear view mirror. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
        “Yeah. Just tired.”
        He looked back at the road, though I could tell my grandmother did not buy that answer.
        “What papers do you have to do?” she asked.
        “Nothing much, Oma, just something for the Industrial Revolution and another one for English.”
        “What’s your English paper about?” she asked.
        “Nothing important.”
        The irritation in my voice was not intentional, but it was enough for her to stop asking questions. My grandfather opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.

Author’s comments on post 408: Part 2 begins. I stopped here because this portion is the longest part of the story and I needed to split it up. More tomorrow.

Ghost of the Past (Part 1b)

Please read the story from the beginning, if you haven’t already.

        I knew the trunk was buried underneath boxes, I just wasn’t sure which ones. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the pile and opened up the rusted locks that I realized I had found the wrong one. I didn’t recognize it, either, which intrigued me even more. I found it odd that something I had never seen was the first one I opened; I would have thought a trunk I handled often would be in the front.
        The top layer was mostly papers strewn haphazardly and they had shifted to reveal a carefully folded tan uniform. I pulled it out, curious, and my heart skipped a small beat as the Swastika-decorated arm swung into my view. Surprise turned to anger; it didn’t belong in the house, the attic, to my grandparents or friends, and certainly not in my life.
        I folded the shirt up quickly and flung it into the trunk. The papers made a crackling sound underneath, reminding me of my initial task of organization, so I quickly swept up them to one pile. In my haste, however, I uncovered more and more documents until a black and white photograph came into view. Two men in uniform stood smiling and posing in front of a pile of chaotic large, long, white, floppy objects. Until I caught a distinct face of a short-haired woman near the bottom of the pile, I didn’t know they were humans. Suddenly, the limbs, hands, feet, and heads of thousands of corpses in the pile were so apparent I felt like I would be sick. They were so emaciated, it looked as if they had partially decomposed already and even worse was the tractor in the corner of the photograph shoveling more bodies into the pile.
        My gaze moved slowly to the two men.
        I didn’t recognize one; he looked like a healthy brown-haired, boisterous young man that in a different photograph I might have been attracted to. The other…the other man I recognized almost instantly. The photograph was not as clear as the other family portraits I had seen of my grandfather, but there was no denying that the second smiling man in the picture had to be him.
        I threw the papers down to the ground and ran towards the door, feeling everything in my stomach rise to the surface. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the stairs and stood panting in the middle of the hall on the second floor that I felt like I could breathe again. Thankfully, I was alone and for a few moments, I stood there staring at the family photographs on the adjacent wall as they stared disapprovingly back at me. Every single photograph looked like a murderer, looked Aryan, looked like me.
        “Christel, are you ok?” my grandmother called from downstairs. “I heard the attic door slam.”
        “I’m fine.”
        I went back up to the attic, seeing the room in a completely different way. It was no longer mysterious. It was frightening. I picked up the letters from where they fell after I threw them and gathered them into a pile once more. The trunk didn’t have much else in it besides the uniform and photo. There was one other photograph of my grandfather in his uniform, but there was nothing left in me to react. I turned to the letters, but I didn’t know German. I knew it was in my blood, but my grandparents never spoke the language. I felt angry at this and I resolved to learn it myself. I needed to know what secrets these words were hiding and I felt that there was nothing else that could be more shocking than the photograph. I closed the trunk and replaced the boxes on top of it, marking the place where I put it carefully in my head. Then I snuck the letters into my bedroom on the second floor before returning to the attic for a third time and resuming my reorganization of the new boxes.

Author’s comments on post 407: Yes, well. Hopefully this doesn’t freak too many people out, but if you haven’t figured it out by now, this story is not for children. Don’t worry, it doesn’t get worse, but it does get complicated.

Ghost of the Past (Part 1a)

        It started on a cold day sometime in April. It must have been a Sunday because I was told to spend the day cleaning the house, which usually only happened after church. I usually went up the attic at times like these, so that I could “clean” while spending most of the day searching through old trunks and looking at family heirlooms. You would think my grandmother would notice that I always reorganized the attic when she ordered cleaning days, but if she had, she never spoke up about it.
        I lived with my grandparents ever since my mother died when I was a baby. My father disappeared shortly after. He couldn’t handle raising a child alone, I suppose. All I know about my parents is the stories my grandparents told. Well, they would talk about my mother, anyway, their daughter, especially since any relative at a family gathering would say:
        “Look at you, all grown up! You look exactly like your mother. Especially your eyes.”
        But whenever I look at photographs of her, I never see myself. Yes, I see the same silver blond hair, the same blue eyes, but my face doesn’t look like hers. I’m not sure if its wisdom, love, or a sense of life’s hardship that shadows her face, but I can’t seem to find a likeness. Perhaps because she will always be to me a lifeless photograph with rose-colored memories and not very human at all. No one seemed to remember her mistakes or know her secrets and, to me, that’s what makes a person human. That’s what makes you able to love them—the chance to overlook their faults, even though you know they are there. To me, my mother is perfection and utterly cold.
        My father I have never seen, photograph or otherwise. I think I look for his photograph when I visit the attic just to find the other part of me. This potential for discovery is probably why I enjoy the attic so much. The space itself is not very inviting: dusty floorboards lie underneath dirty, peeling leather trunks and sagging cardboard boxes littered with insect corpses while spiders linger in the corner, their webs gently swaying in the drafts of my movement. There are two windows on either end of the house and a single, naked light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Every time I go into the attic I am both surprised by the amount of dust and mesmerized by the mystery of silent, static boxes.
        I noticed that there were a few other boxes thrown upstairs, most likely brought into the attic after my grandmother had finished packing them the last cleaning day and ordered my grandfather to bring them here. They were labeled in German, which I barely understood, and probably mislabeled as well, so I opened them and glanced at the old clothes and papers strewn inside. Somewhere in the attic was a trunk where I compiled all of my grandmother’s old clothes, so I set off to find it.

Author’s comments on post 406: I wrote this last year, actually, for a class studying genocide. I won’t say anymore so I don’t spoil the story, but I will be publishing this in parts for the next several days. I also won’t have a computer for a while, so after this story, I probably won’t have anything for a little while.

The Cake at the Fork

        Adam Berkley, 17 year old runaway, stopped at the fork in the road. But it wasn’t which path to choose that caught his eye, it was the smashed white cardboard box in the middle of the two paths that had his attention. He bent down, careful not to touch the orange mud with anything but his feet and poked it. It didn’t move.
        It was wrapped carefully in gold elastic, which probably formed a bow on the bottom as the single string was being pulled on the top to create an even cross. He gingerly flipped the box over so that the bow was on top and proceeded to untie the knot.
        Inside was a very smashed cake. If it was decorated in any special way, it was impossible to tell that now. All of the top frosting and most of the top layer of cake was stuck to the top of the box. The rest of the white frosting and cake were demolished. Both halves of the cake were crawling with ants and other insects, but Adam’s stomach growled at the smell of butter cream all the same.
        He wasn’t sure how long this cake had been sitting there, though he imagined it couldn’t have been long. Wagon ruts continued to the right path whereas the left diminished into grass worn by falling feet. Adam stood up and looked back down at the cake. He closed the box and noticed as he did so the insignia of the bakery downtown that specialized in wedding cakes. It was a small wedding cake, to be sure, but someone was going to be upset to find it missing. Just like someone would be upset at finding their 17 year old son missing. The thought sobered and sickened him. The sour memories came back but instead of feeling angry, he felt numb and a little guilty. His mother’s weathered face and teary eyes came back to him from that argument.
        He looked at the footpath and took a step forward. His stomach growled, but he refused to entertain the idea of eating the cake. The cake that someone would miss. He turned back along the main path and went back to town towards home.

Author’s comments on post 405: An interlude! Just a very short one and I am very happy with this one. It’s short, but I think the symbolism is pretty apparent and endless. Tomorrow I will start publishing a story I already wrote for a class but today, a little story I love. Thanks to http://fictionwriting.about.com/od/writingexercises/qt/feb2010writingprompt.htm for the prompt.

Secrets of the Blue House (13)

If you need to refresh yourself on the story, please read the story thus far.

        The first thing to strike him was the vastness of the clearing. The space was large enough for a swimming pool, though the fountain in the center wasn’t that large. Around the circular space were benches facing towards the center and most were next to another entrance in the maze. The fountain in the center was smaller than the other ones he had seen and true to Gervais’ word depicted the Minotaur and Theseus locked in battle. Ariadne was nowhere to be found, but that was the least of Nick’s worries.
        Sitting in a bench across from him was a tall, lanky man that looked much like Gervais but younger, although equally as ageless. He was reading a book but looked up when Nick approached the clearing and smiled when his green eyes locked with Nick’s.
        “Good morning, Mr. Fuentes.”
        “Mr. Fontaine.”
        “You’re welcome to sit down, if you like. I often like to come here to think.”
        “No, thank you. I won’t disturb you anymore.”
        “You’re not disturbing me,” the younger Fontaine stood up and pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket, wasting no time in pointing it at Nick. “In fact, I would prefer the company.”
        Nick turned and ran, thankful that a turn in the maze was nearby. He sprinted through straight paths and flung himself around corners all the while being able to hear the younger Fontaine right behind him. Clouds rolled overhead blanketing the world in gray and making it harder to see, but Nick knew he was lost every turn that he took. Once, he heard the clicking of the safety being turned off, but that was the only clue as to how close his pursuer was. His lungs felt like they were going to burst and the end of the maze was nowhere in sight.
        All at once, a turn around a corner led to open lawn. Nick stopped and breathed, listening to any sound that might tell him how close danger was. Thunder rumbled making any sound invisible. Deciding that a zigzag dash across the lawn was safer than staying hidden in a straight path, Nick took a deep breath and sprinted across the lawn only reaching halfway before he fell, his legs pinned to the ground.
        The younger Fontaine scrambled up from behind him and stamped on Nick’s chest as he cocked the gun and paused. It would have been a magnificent sight in different circumstances; the silhouette of a dignified man against a glowing, churning sky. Nick tried to pull his attacker’s leg off his chest, but to no avail.
        “Sorry to do this,” Fontaine said, still breathing hard, “but money is money.”
        “Don’t you have any conscience?” Nick yelled into the growing wind.
        “Conscience? I lost that long ago with my sisters.”
        Suddenly, something whizzed through the air and made contact with Fontaine’s head. The young man dropped the gun and staggered before toppling backwards onto the ground. Nick heard a horse’s whinny as he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the gun that Fontaine had dropped. The knight from the fountain on the patio was standing in the middle of the yard, his horse restless as it stood over young Fontaine.
        “Are you all right?” the knight asked in a voice that sounded far away like it came from a telephone nowhere near anyone’s ear.
        “I—I…guess so.”
        The knight nodded and bent down to pick up young Fontaine by the collar. Without a word, the moving statue walked towards the fountain and with a single movement dropped Fontaine into the water face down.
        “Don’t dro—”
        All at once, however, the statue grabbed the Holy Grail from its belt and regained its former majestic position, Fontaine disappeared under the water, and it started to rain. Nick stared at the water, still holding the gun, and feeling guiltier than he felt he should have been. It wasn’t until he heard shouts coming from a doorway to the house that he remembered where he was and that he needed to get inside.
        The maids were more than willing to help him into drier clothes, but he was still a bit shaken and couldn’t explain why. Gervais came down to the parlor at this point, concerned that Nick had decided to leave. No one asked anything about young Fontaine, although Nick found out later that everyone assumed he has just gone home or on another extended vacation. In the end, Nick inherited the house, although the other items were given to another remote cousin living in France.
        It was some time after owning the house that Nick felt he could ask the fountain what happened to young Fontaine, but the satyr just laughed and the nymph said nothing substantial about the matter. She could tell it still bothered Nick so she added, “he’s not being tortured,” as if that made the entire situation better. Nick never pressed the issue anymore.
        Eventually Nick had a family of his own, grew old, and died in the Blue House. He was the last of his generation to talk to the building, but every so often, the next inhabitants would hear whispers within the walls. They marked it as either auditory hallucinations, ghosts or faeries, but it was just the house laughing to itself and reminiscing about all the secrets in contained within its walls.

Author’s comments on post 404: Well, it’s been quite a ride. This is just a draft that will probably be massively edited on a future date, but for now, it’s done. I’m very pleased with how well the title fits the story, which is always something a bit iffy with longer works. But, I’ll leave it to all of you to analyze.

Secrets of the Blue House (12)

You’ll want to reread the story up until this point and it can be found here.

        Breakfast the next day was hard to swallow, though not too hard to eat. Nick was nervous and he felt jittery, though he wasn’t completely convinced why and the fountain had no answers for him in the morning. Nick ate alone in the dining room; he had woken up earlier than most people in the house and felt like he needed to do something other than sit in his room. The cook was surprisingly obliging to his needs.
        “Do you need anything else, sir?” she asked, peeking in to the dining room from the kitchen.
        “Tell me,” Nick said, calmly. “What happened to Gervais’ daughters?”
        The cook grew stony. “No one knows for sure, Mr. Fuentes. Mr. Fontaine was never very overt about how his daughters died. The casket was closed at the funeral, too, and though I’ve heard rumors, I’ve never been one to spread them.”
        “But they did die.”
        “Unfortunately. The youngest was always so nice.”
        “Well…thank you. I don’t need anything else.”
        “Just holler if you need me.”
        Nick stood up and left the rest of his breakfast. The rest of the house was quiet and Nick wasn’t sure what else to do. He wandered around the first floor for a bit, fantasizing about what he was going to do when he was master of the house. It was too big of a building for him, though he could admit that it was a very nice house. He found himself outside on the stone patio and wandering around between chairs and neatly organized flowers. Dew still moistened the world and the sun was high enough to make the dew sparkle. The knight holding the grail stood majestic, but remained deathly still. Nick sighed and kept walking around the grounds. He reached the hedge maze and looked back at the house; it seemed asleep, but even if people were awake, they were probably just waking up.
        He started walking in and around. A very small part of him felt uneasy, but he continued through the maze, confident he would reach the center. His mind was occupied, anyway, on other things: the house, his job, taxes. He was lost in thought about the size party he could throw in the Blue House when he reached the center.

Author’s comments on post 403: What’s this? An actual post? You bet your train set it is! It’s nice to get back into things. This is the beginning of the end; there will be one more post. And happy new year!

Secrets of the Blue House (11)

        “Wait a minute,” Nick interjected and then added after catching a stern look from the nymph, “Excuse me. But I’m not even sure I want this house and yet, you seem to have decided for me.”
        “Well, think of it this way: wouldn’t you do anything you could to ensure your survival?”
        “All right, continue.”
        “Mr. Fontaine, Sr used to have three children: two daughters and a son. His son would inherit most of his fortune, but his daughters would still receive a good portion of the money. I’m sure its a typical story, but they both were killed in the hedge maze and we didn’t want…”
        “Wait, wait. Killed? What happened?”
        “We don’t have much time to discuss it, but Mr. Fontaine, Jr. and his eldest sister decided that in order to prevent their sister and her soon-to-be husband from receiving the money, they killed her, leaving her significant other no reason to stay. Then they killed the remaining sister’s husband before Mr. Fontaine, Jr. turned on her and killed her. With no one else to receive the money and the house, he thought he would inherit it all and then sell this land to building contractors to tear us down and put up smaller houses on this plot.”
        “This seems like a lot more serious than you are making it out to be.”
        “Believe me, we are concerned, but there was nothing we could have done. The blood line and magic energy here were too weak for us to speak to the girls and warn them before it was too late. More importantly, Mr. Fontaine, Jr. has come to visit his father, but we’re sure he somehow heard that Mr. Fontaine, Sr. was seriously considering giving you this house. We’re afraid that he is going to try to kill you so that you don’t inherit this area.”
        Nick took a deep breath. “But I’m quite happy in the city and I don’t need a house out here.”
        “Please reconsider,” the satyr said for the first time in the conversation, “I’m rather fond of the flowers in the garden and I would hate to lose connection to the house.”
        “You don’t have to live here,” the nymph continued, “You just have to keep me standing.”
        Nick took a deep breath and looked at the hall around him. “All right. But what am I going to do about Gervais’s son?”
        “Just be wary,” the nymph said, putting a cold hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I wish there was more you could do.”
        “If he attacks you and you can get outside, I’ll help you,” the satyr said. “But don’t go near the hedge maze. Stay near the house if you can.”
        Nick nodded. “Well…thanks.”
        The nymph and satyr smiled and both wished him good night. In a daze, Nick ascended the stairs to his guest room and after undressing for the second time that evening, he fell back asleep.

Author’s comments on post 399: Part two of the section I wrote on Tuesday. Tomorrow, a small diversion and I might publish more of this story just to keep the ball rolling. Otherwise, you will get more of this story on Saturday.

Secrets of the Blue House (10)

        The sight through the door made Nick froze. The tree in the fountain cast a silver glow stronger than moonlight, but with the same sentiment. The water no longer flowed and pooled in the basin at the tree’s roots. The boobrie was sitting among its branches while the satyr and nymph sat at the edge of the fountain with their feet resting in the water, both laughing quietly. The nymph was the first to notice him and her warm smile was inviting enough to get Nick to step forward and allow the door to shut behind him.
        “Come, join us,” she said, though her lips did not move. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear us,” she answered to Nick’s unspoken anxiety. Cautiously, but not wishing to be rude, he made his way to the fountain and then sat down on the edge, his feet still planted on the tile floor.
        “I’m sorry we had to wake you,” she continued, “but it was imperative that we talk.”
        “What do you mean, wake me?”
        “I sent our messenger to get you from upstairs.”
        As if on cue, the boobrie flew down from its perch and quickly landed into the pond, splashing a little water from its great wings onto Nick’s back. “That is my purpose; to retrieve those whom the castle wishes to speak to.”
        “The castle?” Nick wished he could sound more intelligent than he was, but nothing else seemed to form in his mind. The adrenaline of the dream had worn off enough that he was getting sleepier, but not enough for him to nod off entirely.
        The nymph smiled. “He means the house. The Blue House, of course, where you are currently a guest. I am the voice of the house, and my friend here,” she indicated the satyr, who waved, “is the voice of the grounds. We were just discussing what to tell you when you arrived.”
        “Look, I know this isn’t real and that I’m dreaming, but could you at least try to make sense?”
        The nymph smiled condescendingly. “Unfortunately, this is real. Magic is a lost art to humans, but it still resides in objects deeply connected to a bloodline. This house is just a copy of the Fontaine Château, but it is connected because of spirit—love to be exact—and thus, holds some of the same magical properties as the castle in France. But all of this is technical and has nothing to do with you, my dear boy.
        “We don’t have much time to talk, so I am going to try to be as brief as possible. I’m sure you are aware of your connection to the Fontaines in France, but there are a few old households in other places in Europe where pieces of the Great Water Spirit resided. Millions of years before humans, the gods lived on Earth and then the wizards. During the time of the wizards, the gods started losing their connection to this planet. When the humans—completely magic-less creatures who worships wizards and gods alike—finally came around, the Great Water Spirit decided to split herself and spread the pieces far and wide to random humans throughout the land. Eventually these humans built households and manors around these pieces and each family called themselves “The Fountains” because they were protectors of the water spirit.
        “Somehow the piece that remains in what is now Spain was lost, but the family line remained. You, as you can probably guess, are the product of a merge between two Fountain lines, which means that you have a greater connection to the magic of the house. It enables me to talk to you and it also enables you to use a bit of the magic from the house for yourself.
        “But I did not call you down here to give you a brief history lesson nor to teach you how to control magic, I wanted to warn you about your role in the story of this house. Mr. Fontaine, Sr. doesn’t know this, but anyone involved in the inheritance of this house is in danger. As one of the strongest links on the Fountain bloodline, we feel that you are the best one to own this house and will do all we can to aid in your welfare.”

Author’s comments on post 398: Part one of what I finished writing yesterday. This was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, not because I didn’t know what was going to happen, but because I can’t seem to find enough motivation to sit down and finish it. The conversation will conclude tomorrow and then we’ll have a very interesting climax and "le fin." I started another story which I have a hunch will probably turn into a novel/novella, but I don’t really want to publish it until I have a good idea how long it might be. Also, I am working on something good to celebrate the 400th post on Friday. All in all, I’m super busy so I will go and finish what I need to do now and stop writing commentary

Secrets of the Blue House (9)

If you are starting here, please read the story thus far before continuing. Edits have been made to the story after the posts, so it might be a good idea to refresh yourself of the details.

        There was a tapping at the guest room window, even though it was nowhere near a balcony and on the second floor. Trying to ignore it, Nick continued surveying the closet where the guest set of clothes that Gervais had lent him were hanging. The tapping became more persistent, but when he finally looked towards the window, there was nothing there. After turning away again, the tapping continued, so Nick walked over to the window and opened it, sticking his head out and surveying the house and grounds.
        “You really shouldn’t do that,” a voice said behind him. He turned around and faced a rather horrifying bird, much like a heron but with feathers that seemed like spikes. Its eyes were dark and voluminous; they seemed to swallow the light and comfort from the room all the while masking emotion, although, Nick assumed, a bird could not hold such complicated emotions that could need masking.
        “You might fall,” it continued. “It would be so easy to push you.”
The bird flew right at him and though Nick never felt the impact of the great bird hitting him with incredible speed, he found himself falling. Panic gripped his limbs as the world started fading.
        Nick woke up with a gasp. His heart was beating loudly and the darkness suddenly seemed menacing. He propped himself on his elbow and tried to scan the room for any activity, lingering on the shadows longer as if they would become clearer the longer he looked. Suddenly there was a brush of wind across his bare arm, though the room did not seem particularly drafty. In the stillness afterwards, Nick could have sworn he heard feathers beat against the door, but there was no other movement to suggest a winged visitor and, after a quick glance, the window was closed. Nick moved quickly to the light switch but after finding nothing in the room, grabbed his clothes from where they were draped against the desk chair and dressed quickly. He shut off the light again and cautiously peered into the dark hallway, feeling foolish for expecting something that he logically knew should not be there. This time, though, he saw a shape go down the stairs. After the first initial bit of panic, he made his way as quietly as he could towards the staircase.
        The servants had left candles burning, for some reason, in the hall and it cast a meager, haunting glow to the bottom of the stairs. Nick couldn’t see anyone or anything at the base of them, though he did catch a thin line of silver light coming from under the door to the main hall. Just as Nick made up his mind that he had no reason to go and investigate, he found himself descending the steps towards the door and then gently and silently going through.

Author’s comments on post 397: Things are slowly picking up. What or who is behind the door? You shall have to wait and see.

Secrets of the Blue House (8)

If you are starting here, please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already) before continuing. Edits have been made to the story after the posts, so it might be a good idea to refresh yourself of the details.

        Gervais glanced over his shoulder to see where Nick was looking and said calmly, “What is it, Edna?”
        Edna took a deep breath and kept her eyes on her shoes. “Your son, sir, is here visiting.”
        Gervais nodded with a strange void of emotion. “I will see him in the parlor shortly.” After Edna left, he turned to Nick. “I hope you don’t mind staying here over night; it is getting awfully late.”
        “It’s not too late. And I wouldn’t want to impose.” Obviously, something lay between Gervais and his son and Nick already felt that his stay had been long enough. The unspoken tension between Edna and Gervais gave Nick a reason, internally at least, to want to leave.
        “You wouldn’t be imposing, in fact, I insist.”
        Nick forced a smile. “All right.”
        Gervais walked over to the wall to his left and pressed a hidden button near the corner of the room. “I need someone to escort Mr. Fuentes to a guest room.”
        Within short moments, a short, meek woman came from the direction of the kitchen and bowed very slightly. Gervais waved his hand nonchalantly in Nick’s direction before bidding him goodnight.
        “If you need anything at all, don’t be afraid to ring the bell next to your bed and a servant should come down to help you.”
        Nick smiled as best he could. “Thank you.”

Author’s comments on post 396: It’s not much, but it’s a post. I really hope to finish this story before school, but it’s weighing heavily on my head. Luckily, the concluding section should start soon and we are getting to some exciting revelations. Sit tight and enjoy the show, folks!