by Tyrer, D.
THE
YELLOW
HOUSE
DJ Tyrer
DUNHAMS MANOR PRESS
East Brunswick – Dunwich – Fisherville
© 2013 DJ Tyrer
Published by
DUNHAMS MANOR PRESS
An imprint of
DYNATOX MINISTRIES
http://dynatoxministries.com
CHAPTER ONE
A sudden jolt wrenched me awake. Despite the discomfort of the carriage, somehow I had managed to fall asleep on the wide red-leather seat, although my dreams, nebulous as they were, hadn’t been pleasant. I seldom remember the details of my dreams, but I could recall a shadowy figure looming over me with a bloody knife in hand. I shivered at the thought, despite the warmth of the day.
Clearly we had left the highway. From the way in which the carriage rattled along, lurching and bouncing, the road that we now took hadn’t been maintained in years. That meant we were likely drawing near to our destination, which was deep in the middle of nowhere.
I was on my own in the carriage, the coachman being seated up top. Due to the war, my parents had decided to send me away to stay with my cousins in the country. Father was in the army and Mother was doing some sort of important war work. Most of the servants had left to fight or work in the factories. From what I recalled, it had been said that the country was safer than the city. Not that I knew the details, it was also rather hazy. I couldn’t recall ever having met Camilla and Cassilda; something about their names made me think that they must be an obnoxious pair whom I would hate. I wasn’t looking forward to my stay.
Feeling curious, I leant my head and shoulders out of the carriage window. It was marvelous to feel the breeze on my face and whipping back my hair. We were passing a bright-yellow field of rape that looked amazing in the golden sunlight. The rape was the same colour as the dress I had on, my best, the one Father had given me for my birthday, and of the bow in my hair. It was also the colour of the house that came into view a moment later as we crested a hill. It was an oddly garish colour to paint an otherwise grand house. I had heard someone call it The Yellow House, but hadn’t really given any consideration to what the name implied. I didn’t particularly like the look of the building, although I couldn’t really pinpoint why.
The carriage juddered down the drive to the house and drew up before it. I heard the coach driver call out that we had arrived, so I opened my door and stepped down. Although propriety said he ought to have assisted me, the driver showed no interest in leaving his seat, sitting there hunched in hat and cape like a vulture. The most he did was to reach back and hand down to me my small traveling case of belongings: the relative haste of my departure had meant I hadn’t been offered much chance to pack. The driver didn’t even linger to ensure that I was safely received, just turning the coach around and heading back the way we had come, leaving me standing there, a little uncertain, on the gravel drive, the stones of which were uncomfortable through my ballet pumps.
I should have rung the doorbell immediately, but I had noticed a coach house on the other side of the drive and within it, besides an old and worn open-topped coach, there was something covered by a heavy tarpaulin that caught my attention. I walked over to it – which wasn’t pleasant as the gravel hurt my feet – and lifted back the covering. It was a bright-yellow roadster. You didn’t see them often, although I loved them. Somewhere in the back of my mind, memories stirred of just such a roadster, perhaps in a story my Mother had once read to me. A yellow roadster called Bessie. But, the notion slipped away from me, leaving my mind unable to place it.
Still, I couldn’t stand there forever gazing at the lovely workmanship of that vehicle, especially as the sky was growing overcast and it seemed as if we might be due for rain. So, I crossed back to the main doors, wincing a little with each step, and rang the bell. The discordant jangle set my teeth on edge and, at first, I thought that no-one would respond to it. Then, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps; finally, the doors swung open.
“You must be Miss Sylvia.” The door had been answered by a short, fat woman with a wide and toad-like mouth. She wore a dark-grey dress, mobcap and a filthy-white apron that indicated her servile status.
“Yes’m,” I nodded, bobbing an acknowledgement. I felt a little uncertain and intimidated by her.
“Good. Now, take your case and follow me,” the woman snapped. Her tone was offensive. She repeated her command in an even more cross voice when I didn’t immediately respond. It seemed that, today, nobody would do their duty and take my luggage for me. In the circumstances, I just had to be grateful that I hadn’t had the opportunity to pack more. It wasn’t easy, but I could just about lift and carry it.
The woman, with her unpleasantly-wide mouth, led me into the large and ornately-decorated entrance hall. We passed through too quickly for me to get a good look at it, but it was dominated by a broad marble staircase and contained numerous abstractly-shaped carvings. She didn’t pause, but took me through a door into a rather dingy and surprisingly long corridor that seemed to be lined with doors which we ignored until we arrived at the one at the very end, which opened into a kitchen.
“Leave your case there,” the woman said, gesturing to beside the door. I did as she bade.
Licking her thin lips, the woman went on: “My name is Mrs. Hawberk and I am the housekeeper for The Yellow House. You will always refer to me by my name or as Ma’am. Do you understand?”
There was a tone of menace in her voice that ensured I gave a quick nod and said, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“This,” she gestured towards a man slumped, snoring, in a chair, “is Chambers. He is the caretaker. You will obey me and Mr. Chambers in all things.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“While you are here, I shall care little for what you do as long as you obey two simple rules. I hope they will not be too onerous for a simple one like you. Firstly, you may never leave this house without permission. Secondly, you will confine yourself to the ground and first floors. You will not enter the upper floors under any pretext whatsoever. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Break either of these rules and I will spank you like you have never been spanked before.” I nodded. “Good. Meals are served at seven, noon and five in the nursery near to your bedroom and will be cleared away within half an hour. If you miss a meal, you will go hungry.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Right. I will now take you to the nursery and introduce you to your cousins. Chambers will take your case to your room.” Mrs. Hawberk shrieked his name in a bid to attract his attention, and then threw a tea towel at the sleeping man in order to wake him. “Take the case up to the girl’s room.”
“Yarright,” he mumbled back at her as he rose, sleep thick in his voice.
“Come,” ordered Mrs. Hawberk as she turned back to me. I did as she bade and followed her back down the corridor to the entrance hall and then up the marble staircase to the first floor.
“Another rule,” she said, stopping suddenly, at the top of the stairs. “Do not make a mess. I cannot abide a mess. Do you understand?”
I nodded and repeated, “Yes, Ma’am.” Wisely, I resisted the urge to pass any comment about the state of the kitchen or general dustiness I had observed so far.
“Good. Obey the rules and you will have nothing to regret.” She set off again, taking me through a series of corridors to the nursery. “Here we are. In you go.” She opened the door, grabbed my shoulder, and shoved me through it.
There were two girls seated at a table in the middle of the room, playing cards, who had looked up at the sound of the door, frozen in mid play. Their pose was almost comical and I might have laughed had it not been for the pain in my
shoulder and the look in their eyes; their faces were otherwise expressionless.
“This is your cousin, Sylvia,” Mrs. Hawberk said over my shoulder, and that was it; she pulled the door shut behind her and left us alone in silence.
Slowly, they laid down their cards and stood, looking at me with blank, mask-like faces and deep, unpleasant eyes. They each wore faded lemon-yellow summer dresses; the nursery window was immediately behind them and the golden sunlight shone through the fabric, silhouetting their slender figures. They were around my age: thirteen, fourteen.
“I am Camilla and this is my sister, Cassilda,” said one of the girls. They were almost identical, with waist-length hair that was a very pale blonde, the palest possible blue eyes, thin lips, and very pale skin. White Alice bands sat atop their hair. The pair had an insipid, washed-out look to them.
The only differences I could detect between them were that the one who had identified herself as Camilla seemed a little thinner than her sister – neither, though, had much flesh on their bones; I must have looked positively podgy beside them; she had bright eyes that seemed alert and intelligent, whilst those of Cassilda were hooded and sleepy-seeming. Only those eyes would be a reliable means of telling them apart when not stood side-by-side like this. Although their faces were somewhat angular and bony, I would have said that they were pretty. Given that I was quite different in looks to them – I doubt anyone would have identified us as cousins without prompting – being short where they were tall, fleshy where they were thin and dark brown of eye and hair, where theirs was so pale – I wondered what they thought of me.
I was feeling a mixture of emotions and, despite their hostility, made sure my response was a cheery “hello.”
Cassilda looked me over and said, “So, your name is Sylvia?”
I affirmed that it was.
“As in Sylvia and Bruno?”
“No, dummy,” Camilla interjected, “as in Sylvia, the famous artists’ model. Except, I don’t know – she looks like a silly little girl to me.”
I told her that I was not silly. To be honest, I was uncertain whether to protest that or the jibe that I was little, but felt on shaky ground due to the difference in height.
“Huh, you are silly. Why did you come here?”
I told her that I didn’t want to come to The Yellow House. I felt very cross with her. My parents had made me come here because of the war. I hadn’t wanted to come, I hadn’t had a choice. In fact, the place made me think of the house in The Haunting and I told them so. That took us off down a whole new tangent as Cassilda had no idea what I was talking about and just stared at me stupidly when I explained it was a film.
“We are not allowed to go to the kino,” Camilla told me. “We do not leave the house. We do not watch films. This place has all that we need.” It was then that she asked me an unexpected question: “But, do we need you, Sylvia?”
I didn’t answer her. There was a look in her eye, strangely appraising, that unnerved me. I didn’t even make an excuse, just turned and exited the room as quickly as I could without appearing to panic. From that experience and what little I saw of them over the next few days, it was clear that they had little liking for me – and I felt little liking for them; they were the very essence of the Creepy Twins of fiction. I did my best to avoid them and it seemed they were avoiding me. When we were in the same room, Cassilda would glare at me with the anger of a child whose fun had been interrupted. Camilla, on the other hand, would watch me intently in a way that made me feel nervous, as if she was gazing into my soul. Sometimes, she would smile at me, an expression that stirred a mixture of emotions in my breast and sent a shiver down my spine; her smile had a certain beauty that made it a joy to see, but was fierce like a predator preparing to pounce upon its prey. I often yearned for her to smile at me as she gazed at me, but, whenever she did, I would inevitably flee from her; that always seemed to amuse her.
I also sought to avoid any contact with the housekeeper and caretaker, who I found most sinister. I would do my best to avoid all of them when going to the nursery for my meals, although the twins, somehow, contrived to be there no matter how hard I tried. The only company that I wished was my own.
I stuck close to my bedroom much of the time: the house was large and labyrinthine and I was wary of becoming lost if I went too far. It amazed me that a house, even a grand one like this, could contain quite so many rooms. I also found it unnerving, with odd noises and shifting shadows – it was bad enough in my room and the nursery, but I soon became used to them there and even elsewhere. Slowly, I began to understand the ways of the house and feel more at ease, exploring further afield.
The bedroom I had been given was surprisingly large and decorated in a baroque style. At night, it could seem strange, but I felt as safe in there with the door bolted and a small cabinet pushed before it as anywhere. I made sure to keep it clean and tidy in deference to Mrs. Hawberk’s injunction and having no idea whether or not it would be cleaned by her.
By night, my dreams were disturbed by nightmare images of blood and a stabbing blade. Often I would see the face of Camilla gazing down on me, as if her presence was a metaphor for the hostility my cousins had displayed towards me. Sometimes, blood would be dribbling from her mouth and down her chin, as if she was some sort of vampire.
But, slowly, as my confidence increased, I began to explore the house more widely. I still found it strange, but it was no longer intimidating – I was even beginning to feel almost as if I belonged here in The Yellow House. Almost at ease.
CHAPTER TWO
Even a house as large as the one in which I found myself could feel restrictive when one was limited to only two floors and without permission to go outside. The problem really was that there was little of interest in any of the rooms I could access. Although the house was grand, it was emptied and packed-away in the manner of one that was closed for the season. Some of the rooms were completely empty; some had furniture with dust covers over them; a few were locked. It was the sort of thing, along with the lack of servants, one would expect if the family were away. I suppose, in a sense, they were, neither my aunt nor uncle being present, but you would assume they would have made some concession for their children calling it home.
I suppose, had my cousins and I been on better relations, and, perhaps, a little younger, we might have had a grand time making use of all those rooms in our games. And, as it was, the nursery was well appointed with toys and diversions. But, again, they were largely aimed at those younger than me or required companions to play with. I had found no sign of a library and there were only picture books in the nursery, so I even lacked reading as a diversion. I wished that I had brought something to read with me.
Thus, my primary diversions, in between mealtimes, were wandering the hallways in a vain effort to stave off boredom and evading my cousins.
“You don’t belong here,” Camilla said to me one day when we met at lunch. She and Cassilda were leaving as I went in.
“Why don’t you leave?”
Her sister echoed her words.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, stupid; just walk out the front door.”
“But, don’t let Chambers catch you!” Cassilda added.
“Why?”
Cassilda started to open her mouth to answer, but her sister made the slightest motion of her hand and silenced her, leaving her looking even more slack-jawed than usual. Then they left, leaving me wondering what she had meant. It was all nonsense, anyway; leaving wasn’t an option.
Despite that cryptic warning, I saw neither the housekeeper nor the caretaker during my wanderings through the first and second floors, avoiding, as I did, the kitchen area. As Mrs. Hawberk had intimated, if I did nothing to attract their displeasure, they would feed me and, otherwise, leave me to my own devices.
It was one day as I ate my lunch, gazing out the nursery window at the lake, that I decided I would take a risk and explore the upper floors of the house. I k
new it was wrong, but one could only stare at the view for so long or retread the same corridors so many times before boredom set in. Terminal boredom was a term I had heard someone use, and I began to wonder whether it was actually possible for someone to die from a lack of interesting stimuli. Would I?
The lake was an oddity and had afforded me some diversion at mealtimes as I sat, eating, looking out at it. The thing that was odd about it was the fact that it was always misty. I say misty – the mist was as dense as any fog and only the fact that it lay close to the water made me use the former word. Now, a misty lake is fine in the early morning or in the evening, but the thick covering of damp air would remain in place even at midday with the sun as bright and warm as it had been upon my arrival here. Which brought to mind another strange thing about the lake: although it was clearly wide, seemingly much wider than the house, I couldn’t recall seeing it on my approach to the house. I could only assume my attention had been fully focused on the house.
But, mind wandering, I finally decided to take a chance and see what else the house held. I had a little internal debate with myself as I ate a ham-and-mustard sandwich, but my inquisitive side won out. Yes, it was likely that the rooms upstairs would likely be as empty, bland or as locked as the ones I had already encountered, but the injunction against my exploring them made me wonder. Perhaps they were just dangerous – although that would make their exploration an adventure in itself – but, it was possible they might contain something of interest.
So, I mounted the stairs and ascended to the second floor. The stairs were as wide and grand as those between the ground and first floors. It felt strange that such a momentous journey, such an act of rebellion, was over so swiftly, was so easy. It is strange how, in the mind, we can invest an event with so much meaning, over-invest, that the actual event itself pales into insignificance beside what we had imagined. I had envisioned the journey up those stairs to be so significant, a sort of forbidden pleasure, but the act itself had proven to be both brief and disappointing in comparison.
