August's expression darkened, but I did not allow myself to cringe. I didn't think I had overdone it, but maybe I had guessed wrong. Not that it should matter, August no longer had control of my life. I was a grown, married man. I wasn't a naive, self-conscious freshman in such dire need of approval anymore. I just needed to act like I still was.
"Is it all business then?" August asked. His voice took on the whiny quality that used to make me leap to his side, full of apologies and favors. Now it just seemed petulant and spoiled. And kind of immature. It kind of ... kind of made me angry.
I stepped around August, feigning nonchalance, as though I could ignore him entirely. Moving down the path, I walked toward the kitchen door as casually as possible. I set my sights on the unruly, overgrown mess that had once been a perfectly manicured garden, marching in that direction as though it had been my destination all along.
"I thought business was what you had in mind. I mean it's been eleven years and--"
A hand fell heavy on my upper arm. A shiver shuddered down through me, raising goose pimples down my arms. There was something to them beyond the excitement of forbidden sex.
"You should know me better than that."
"Should I?" I should shut up. Right now. Just stop talking and walk back to the car and drive away. Right now.
But I didn't. Instead I found myself turning, heels digging into the gravel, gouging perfect circles as I spun. I shook off August's hand like a horse disengaging flies. Whatever I had been feeling a second ago had been replaced with shockingly searing anger. "How? How should I? We had what? One year? Maybe eighteen months? And the whole time, you kept me at arm's length or you debased me in public. And for what? Your family's reputation? Because a coke-snorting party-boy with a string of disgruntled, underage girls in his wake is way less embarrassing than admitting there's a homo in the family?
"But that's ok! You loved me! Loved me so much I had to learn from the headlines in a supermarket checkout line that you were engaged! To a woman!"
I was shaking. Shaking so hard that I couldn't speak through the clattering of my teeth. So I finally stopped talking, clenched jaw, clenched fists, muscles pulled so taut I worried they would pop right off my bones.
August sighed and ran a hand through his Clark-Kent hair, staring soulfully at some space over my head, flamboyantly dramatic. The edges of his eyes shimmered thickly with tears and he drew a ragged breath. It was amazing that this man had managed to keep anyone in the dark about his sexuality. He radiated such stereotypical melodrama.
"I know," he said. "I'm such a fuck up. I am. But things were different then. I couldn't--we couldn't ... People like us? We can get married now!"
I snorted, fingering my wedding band.
August continued as though he hadn't even noticed the interruption. Maybe he hadn't. "I loved you, Scott! More than anyone. More than anything! But I fucked up and now--"
"Just stop talking," I said, deflating as quickly as I had snapped to rage. "Just ... It's done. It's the past."
"But I--"
I held up a hand, cutting off August for real this time. "It's done. I'm married and I love my husband."
August made a rude noise and finally moved away. He stepped up to the servants' entrance and pulled an impossibly old and elaborate set of keys from his pocket. He started flipping through them, making more noise than necessary.
"Oh yes," he snapped as he searched. "Him. Professor Henry Thornton. A 'historian.' Whose only role in life is apparently to harass my family. But it's ok, he's not the paparazzi because he has a goddamned degree and tenure at Arkham's most vaunted college."
It probably wasn't worth it to point out that August and I had met when we were both attending that same infamous college. The one August had graduated from. Though it wouldn't surprise me if August's degree had been granted less on merit and more because of checkbooks and promises. Maybe school seemed less impressive when you didn't actually attend to learn anything.
"That would be him, yes."
The air around us grew cold, though the autumn sun still hung high in the afternoon sky. There was no dimming to indicate a cloud had passed overhead; indeed, there were no clouds in the sky at all. The chill seemed to emanate from August himself.
Metal groaned as rusty, long-ignored tumblers fought pressure from the key. Then it clicked and August pushed the door open with a surprising amount of ease. He stepped in and walked a few paces before turning back. He cocked his head, but the gesture wasn't inquisitive.
"Well?"
The entry gaped like the maw of an ancient, soulless effigy. The dirty, darkened windows to either side loomed like deep eye sockets. Not alive, not anymore, it was as though we had opened a corpse. Blinking, I looked to August, suddenly less sure of myself and this self-imposed mission.
"Did you want those ledgers?"
I nodded. Once.
"Then come on." August jerked his head to the side, toward the pitch black back of the room. Maybe it was a trick of the shadows and how they fit together in a puzzle with the light, but when he moved it seemed that his eyes changed color--the whites going dark, irises swirling red and purple, pupils flickering white and green and gold like a cat's. Then he righted his face and his eyes were normal again, that bright, cornflower blue.
"Right." I nodded again, determined this time. Forcing myself forward, jumpy as a fox.
The kitchen was as gray as soot and lit only by what streaks of light could leak through the grimy window panes. It was full of dust and ash and leaves and what I knew were animal droppings, though I pretended they weren't. The debris lay in a heavy cloak over the counters, the stove, the preparation tables, and the floor. It was like they had just closed the house in 1983 and never bothered to even check in at any point in the last 25 years. Which couldn't be wholly correct, right?
"This way." August was suddenly standing at the entrance of a servants' corridor.
"Really?"
"Faster."
Something about that statement seemed off, but I followed anyway. August knew better, he had actually been here before. I should trust him. In this at least.
The servants' halls were mildly intriguing, though they weren't really anything new. Most manor homes and mansions had them, and there was little variation from house to house. Most were in better condition though. For a brief moment, I hoped that their disjointed state would lend itself to the discovery of some forsaken personal effects, but no such luck. Just more natural deterioration.
It did seem a little strange that this far into the bowels of the house there were so many leaves and so much mud, etched in rusty arcs and splatters along all the walls. And the cloying stench that hung suspended in the air seemed all too incongruous with the long-ignored nature of the environment. But between animals and storms and time it made a certain sort of sense, so I began scanning for any clues of the family that had once lived here, trying not to let the mess get to me.
When we emerged, it was into a library so large the entire first floor of my townhouse could fit inside without straining. It was too dark--it seemed like too much time had passed while we were in the halls and the sun was starting its westward descent. A glance at the windows only seemed to confirm that thought. The light hung at much lower angles than it had when we were outside. It hadn't taken that long had it? My hand reached toward my pocket, going for my phone, to prove to myself that I hadn't somehow lost time like a fairy kidnapping. But August chose that moment to speak.
"I think they're over here."
August was standing behind a large desk, the most intact object to be seen in the near vicinity. He was facing some recessed bookshelves along the wall. It was as though he had once again simply materialized there--he couldn't move that fast. Could he? I shook my head, blinking, as though that would somehow fix whatever was wrong. What was wrong?
"Oh. Alright." I approached slowly, giving myself time to survey the room. It was amazing how much had been left behind. But then, if I recall
ed correctly, it had never been the intention to abandon this estate permanently. It was just that no one had ever bothered returning. I don't know why the family had initiated the extended retreat in the first place. This might be my only chance to answer that question, and others like it. It was just that with August right there, I wasn't sure how I was going to accomplish that.
Other than extreme neglect and imposing size there was nothing remarkable about the room. At least not when taking into account that this house was owned by one of the oldest and most powerful families in the country. The sheets used to cover furniture and books and wall art were yellowed and filthy, and more than a couple had fallen away from their charges. At some point in the last quarter century, someone had found their way in here and sprayed some occult symbols on a few of the swathes of fabric. There were more, barely discernible, on the faded wallpaper. It was practically inconceivable, given the grief I had experienced at the front entrance, that anyone could have broken in. But perhaps I am just not as persistent, tenacious, or resourceful as rebellious teenagers. Especially not teenagers who had gotten it in their heads that they should be practicing fringe, anti-culture religions in the spookiest house in this portion of the valley.
I searched the room for more signs of vandalism. Like the nubs of wax that had once been candles arrayed in front of the fireplace. Or the sheet that had been torn in the haste to pull it away from an ancient carving above the mantle, revealing an ornate twist of limbs and waves, of viney boughs and faces, and of ... bones? It was chilling. Something stirred in the back of my mind, a vague recollection of something I had seen years before. Just not where or any pertinent details.
"Scott?"
When I looked, the trick of shadows and light was playing on his face once more, turning August's features gaunt, changing his eyes again, teeth sharp and menacing. It lasted longer this time, just long enough to force me to consider that maybe it wasn't an illusion. But then it was gone and I couldn't wrap my mind around what I had just seen. I dismissed it, literally unable to give my vision any more weight than an eerie flight of fancy.
"Yeah. Sorry. You found them?"
August held out a large, leather tipped book with warped and weathered pages. "There's a lot more where this came from, I think there are some journals as well. Why don't you come over here and take a look?"
The promise of a treasure of information tugged me forward, motivating me with greed. It was ridiculous, but I couldn't help the surge of childish desire bubbling inside of me. These would make Henry's day. Or year really. Maybe we could actually finish a final book before Henry died. Tears sprang to my eyes and I sniffed as a goofy smile spread across my lips. He would really like that.
"Journals?" I asked, striving to keep the over-eagerness I was feeling tucked away. I took the ledger and flipped it open. The ink was faint in places but some was still legible. Most expenses appeared fairly mundane, but immediately an inordinate number of purchases from a holly farm jumped out at me. And a good number of goats and sheep. This hadn't been a proper farm had it?
August placed a smaller book on top of the pages. The tail end of an extremely menacing grin was disappearing when I looked up. My stomach deteriorated into a churning mass of queasy sludge.
"Journals," I repeated. The hair along the back of my neck and down my arms stood on end inexplicably. Torn between panic and awe, I wasn't sure which emotion to give free reign.
"This should make you and that snoopy husband of yours pleased."
That got my full attention, though it knocked into me too hard to respond. August was studying me with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. Panic began to win out, echoing through me in crescendoing reverberations that held me in paralyzing spasms.
"You know you didn't have to invite me here if you didn't want us to have this," I choked out through a parched throat, barely able to hear my own voice over the thudding of my own heart.
"Would that have stopped you?"
"What? If you hadn't invited me? If you hadn't offered the information and a tour I wouldn't even be out here. I don't really have the time for a frivolous day trip right now."
"What is it about my family that makes you so inquisitive?"
I shook my head and placed the books on the desk. They slid a little, belying a subtle imbalance, but they came to a stop before I had to grab them to keep them from crashing to the floor. The diary bounced a little, flipping itself open to a random page.
"It's not just the Winsingtons, you know," I protested. A little guiltily. "It's all notable colonial families."
It was true. Mostly. But I had met Henry because of the Winsingtons and my connection to August. It was shortly after August's first engagement announcement, the impetus for my leaving the fraternity and frat house where I had lived with August. More to the point, leaving the room we'd shared. I had been considering leaving college entirely when Henry, a professor of New England colonial genealogy at Miskatonic University, had tracked me down. He was hoping for an inside scoop on the heir to a bulk of the Winsington fortune and this dump of an estate. I may have never been allowed to be open about my relationship with August, but I had been to their houses and to all their private places.
When I met with Henry, we found inconsistencies, things about the Winsingtons that the other families didn't do, things they hid that others didn't. It was intriguing to look at the big picture and opened the door to so many more questions. Questions we both wanted answered.
August snarled. It had to be my imagination that gave it the monstrously threatening, throaty rumble. Had to be.
I stumbled backward, eyes wide, heart thudding a loud staccato, pounding in my jaw, at my temples. My feet collided with something both firm and lumpy on the floor behind me. I wobbled, arms windmilling as I toppled over, my back cracking against the wooden arm of an old settee. I exhaled a giant woosh, and my eyes clasped tight as pain bloomed along my spine. I fought to catch my breath. The room was reeling, even with my eyes closed.
I forced myself to look, pinning my eyes wide, trying to focus.
I needn't have worried. August was gone. For some reason, the fact that he was just gone, without a sound or a hint of his passing, just disappearing into thin air, was less unsettling than the why behind his absence. That was sobering and, despite the prickling of fear, I sat up, ignoring how my back clenched. I slowly covered the room, eyes eventually returning to the fireplace. The hanging wooden carving seemed to leer from its many hidden faces. I blanched and looked down. The fireplace was full of charred ropes of what had once been plant life. I squinted closer, making out scalloped points on once-waxy-but-now-crispy leaves.
Holly.
I looked toward my feet, time drawing out like taffy. The object I had tripped over was dark and still. It was tucked between the side table, an easy chair, and the matching settee I had just slammed against. I couldn't have seen it from where we entered. It was tough to make out the details in the dim light, but it seemed as though the lump was wearing jeans.
Holding down bile and a sudden urge to run I leaned forward, rocking the lump by its ... shoulder. I knew what it was--even before I touched it I had known, and now I was certain.
I rolled the corpse onto its back and choked back a piercing sob. It escaped in a strangled squeal like helium from a deflating balloon. August's rigid stare was fixed to the ceiling. Once bright blue eyes now dull and glossy. Lips and cheeks brushed with a pale, purple pallor.
"Oh no," I breathed, voice coming apart at the seams. I gaped stupidly at the lifeless body of my first lover. August had been a cruel, self-centered, spoiled playboy, but he was also the first boy who had drawn me into admitting who I really was. In middle and high schools, I had been far, far too shy. Even if I had been straight, I doubted I would have gotten laid before university. I had always been more comfortable with a computer between me and any social interaction, but somehow August had known what I had not and coaxed me into coming out. Or at least coming into his bed.
<
br /> I might hate August for the way he treated me like an inanimate accessory, dragging me around like a purse dog for a year and a half, but if it hadn't been for him, I would have been alone for so much longer.
And no matter how much anger and how many hurt feelings I had stored up, August was dead. Lying on the ground. Right in front of me. The enormity of the situation struck me like a fist. I brushed a hand over August's face and his half-lidded eyes shut easily. So it had been at least a full day, obviously quite longer, since August's death.
Something whistled down the chimney and up the corridors, stirring leaves and dust and reminding me that even one unexplained dead body was a sign of danger. I scrambled to my feet and crouched low. There was nothing to be seen, but I felt eyes on my back. I glanced over my shoulder, that strange carved wreath once again commanding my attention. I shuddered. It was, beyond a doubt, well past time to leave.
Four hours had passed, maybe more, and Henry would be worrying. I didn't want his fears to become realized. With only a moment's hesitation, I darted back and scooped up some of the ledgers "August" had shown me, snatching a few of what I assumed were personal journals from a shelf as I did. I noticed the journal I had been holding earlier, still lying open on the desk. A sentence from the page seemed to reach out and grab me.
The ritual last night proved effective.
I paused, ticking off what we knew about the Winsingtons. Their reclusiveness, even from their peers, the way luck always seemed to follow them, and the scandals that never seemed to break. How rivals always seemed to fail and enemies disappear. How slaves and servants and contractors refused to talk to outside sources, even decades after leaving the family's employ. How there were never chapels on their properties and even when they donated money to local churches, none of the Winsingtons were members or were ever buried on consecrated ground. How could I have been so blind?
Once again The Ilexiataent have silenced the rumors and my family is safe from harm or intrusion. It is just too bad that my brother could not contain himself without this intervention. I wish there had been a better solution to dealing with his indiscretions, but after years of his dalliances threatening to sully our reputation, this was our only course of action. His funeral will be held in three days' time, best to get this trouble out of the way now. And the witnesses are already falling away. I expect the last will be gone before the week is out. Our gods are truly powerful. Given the extent of this season's profits, our next sacrament will be an exceptional event. Yet again The Ilexiataent have blessed us with ...
That Ain't Right: Historical Accounts of the Miskatonic Valley (Mad Scientist Journal Presents Book 1) Page 19
