Guardian's Rise

by Matthew Renard

  ‘We’re going to take a look at it.’ Michael hesitated, but nodded, and tapped a button on his desk. ‘Anna, can you give the realtor a call? Mr Anson is going to take a look at the Phillips place.’

  He smiled at us, that famous winning smile of his, until Anna buzzed back.

  ‘Which realtor, Mr Taytum?’

  He glanced down. ‘Ravenswood Realtors.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He took his finger off the button again. ‘There, that should-’

  ‘Mr Taytum?’

  Finger on button. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s the name of our contact at Ravenswood?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He hung his head. ‘Just tell them that we’re sending two representatives to see the Phillips place.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He sighed. ‘Sorry, that was-’

  ‘When will the representatives be heading over, sir? They can get someone there in an hour?’

  ‘An hour will be fine, Anna!’ He shouted, losing his cool. He scowled, shaking his head, and removed his finger from the button. He continued to stare at it for a little while, as if daring it to buzz again. ‘Sorry about that.’ He smoothed his perfectly coiffed hair back and smiled at us. ‘Before I forget, you’re going to get some questions about a Resolution that’s going to be passed. Don’t worry about it, just refer anything back to me.’

  Sammy nodded, but I was curious. ‘What’s it on?’

  ‘The Gnarlers. There’s a pack of them that seem to have broken the quarantine zone in Capehill and are roaming some of the more secluded areas.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve been asked to help out, financially.’

  ‘Financially, how?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘You’re both aware that the worldwide governments have a system in place to help people who were affected by the Gnarler plague?’ We both nodded, so Michael continued. ‘The money for that system has dried up, and some special interest groups are pressuring the Foundation to help with the care of Gnarlers.’

  ‘But they’re basically Zombies, right?’ Sammy responded, frowning.

  Michael sighed. ‘Yes... and no. Genetically they’re still people. Just not as we understand it. Loved ones, family members... people say these Gnarlers have a right to live.’

  ‘I thought the Gnarlers had a shortened lifespan.’

  ‘Five years, or so they say.’ Michael nodded. ‘And that time is nearly up - at most, two years.’

  ‘So... why not help them? If it’s only two years...’

  ‘That could come to millions of OWDs, Jason.’ Michael leaned back in his chair, which creaked gently. ‘Millions of OWDs, and from a financial standpoint, we wouldn’t gain anything from it. We’d be throwing away money.’

  ‘But wouldn’t we get goodwill? You say they’re loved ones and family members.’ I prompted. ‘Surely the loved ones of the Gnarlers would remember that we’ve done something good to help them and be more prepared to donate to us in the future.’

  Michael smiled. ‘True enough. I’ll make the phone calls, and by the end of the year, we’ll have taken up care for the Gnarlers.’

  The buzzer sounded again, and Michael swore. ‘Yes, Anna?’ He asked in a saccharine voice.

  ‘Mr Taytum, the realtor from Ravenswood is on the phone. She’d like to know some more details which I can’t provide at this time.’

  ‘I’ll e-mail them to her now.’ Michael scowled.

  ‘Will you need her e-mail address, sir?’

  ‘Goddammit!’ Michael yelled. Sammy and I looked at each other, and wordlessly agreed to make our exit.

  As the door closed, Sammy looked back over at me. ‘That was awkward.’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it. Why did he think Anna would just have all those details to hand?’

  We smiled and waved at Anna as we walked past her. She gave her bright, brilliant smile and went back to her phone call, presumably with the Ravenswood realtor.

  ‘The more I get to know Michael,’ Sammy said, as we got into the elevator, ‘the more I think he seems... I dunno.’

  ‘Like there’s something off about him?’

  ‘Yeah. Like, he tries too hard to be likeable.’

  I grinned. ‘No, that’s you.’ I thumbed the button for the ground floor.

  ‘That, mate, is natural charisma. Just because you only have two friends in the entire world, and one of them is your only possibly requited love...’ he trailed off, seeing the look on my face. ‘How was dinner last night? You never went into specifics. All I know is you were an idiot and told her you were going to propose when she broke your heart.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ I pushed thoughts of Emily out of my head. ‘We have a house to look at.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sammy smiled slightly. ‘Hey, did you see where it is?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘South West. There may still be some of those Gnarlers around from the other day. You can tell them about how you’re going to pay for them to live well, until they die.’

  ‘Gnarlers are people too, Sammy.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He shook his head. ‘Yeah, I can see it now. You’ll tell them that you’re going to provide for all their needs. But they only want one thing, Jason. Just one... simple... single... thing.’ He held his arms out in front of him. ‘Braaaaaiiiins....’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  It was windy and cold at the Phillips place. The car had dropped us off, and sat silently, hovering in place as still as a stone at the bottom of a lake. We, on the other hand, were being buffeted roughly from the winds - I suppose because there were no other structures in sight to act as wind breakers. The grey skies lent an ominous atmosphere, with the moisture in the air reminding me of London fog in the early morning.

  ‘You know how we’re in Florida?’

  ‘Yeah?’ I looked at Sammy, who sounded oddly nervous.

  ‘Why does it suddenly feel like we’re back home? This is creepy as hell.’ We watched the long grass bend and sway in the wind. A third shadow loomed from behind us, and a clipped voice stated ‘Stenotaphrum secundatum.’

  ‘Gesundheit.’ Sammy replied, not missing a beat, as we turned around. A short, impeccably dressed Asian woman stood before us, smiling. She quickly sized us up, turned to Sammy, and stuck out her hand. ‘Mr Anson, I’m Zakkia Fel.’ She smiled her best smile and turned back to me. ‘You must be Mr Edwards.’

  I sighed. This is getting old. ‘Yeah, sure. Whatever.’

  ‘So, you were saying about... stenograph secondary?’ Sammy prompted.

  ‘It’s the type of grass. I noticed you watching it. Commonly called St. Augustine grass. It’s popular for Florida homeowners, but you need to cut it constantly, or...’ Zakkia gestured. ‘It tends to get a bit out of hand. But it looks nice when cut short, and it doesn’t mind the sea air so much.’ She shrugged happily. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  ‘Shall we, Sammy?’ Sammy’s smirk was disgustingly chipper. I ignored it, and we approached the house. I could see, from this distance, the wooden screen door was peeling lightly, giving me the impression that, although the inside of the house was beautiful, the outside wasn’t cared for as much...and possibly because nobody wanted to get that close to the house.

  ‘Just a warning.’ Zakkia stopped us as we got closer.

  ‘Yeah, I think I know what you’re going to say.’ I looked up and shivered a little. ‘Does anyone else feel like...?’

  ‘Like we’re being watched?’ Sammy supplied.

  ‘Yeah.’ The shiver got worse as I looked up at one window in particular, inset into the roof. I stared up at it, and Sammy noticed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s... something...’ I trailed off, uncertain, shaking my head.

  He leaned close and whispered. ‘Why not switch to Thermal vision? Or your X-Ray sight?’

  I muttered back. ‘Waste of time. There’s not going to be anything there.’ However, I kept my voice low, and I think Sammy knew the real reason was because I didn’t w
ant to see that there was nothing there… especially if things started to move. ‘This is one creepy house, though.’

  I kept an eye on the window. It’s just your imagination, Jay. Calm down. I tried to force my breathing to be slow and even, to calm myself.

  The curtain twitched.

  I jumped back, staring at the window. The curtain remained motionless. Sammy followed me, looking up. ‘You okay, there, Jay?’

  ‘The curtain moved!’

  ‘You sure?’

  I nodded, keeping my voice low so Fel wouldn’t hear me. ‘Hang on, I’m going to go to thermal vision...’ I did so, staring up at the uppermost floor. There was some heat, but nothing to suggest someone was standing there. There was, however, a faint outline that might look like a silhouette of a person...

  ‘Anything?’ Sammy shook me out of my concentration. I changed back to normal sight and frowned. ‘Maybe. Hard to tell.’

  Zakkia was smiling politely, but vaguely confused. She pointed at me uncertainly. ‘Wait...so he’s Jason Anson?’

  The house echoed with our footsteps, that quiet muted way that houses long empty often do. Very well maintained, the wooden floors polished to a shine that spoke of long hours of elbow grease and plenty of varnish. It was still furnished with the possessions of the previous owner, the photos on the wall spoke of old money and what may be considered elegance. One picture in what our guide informed us was the main sitting-room was clearly a photograph from the glossy paper, and photoshopped to look like a oil painting; the subject was an old English lord who was rather obviously wearing a digital watch.

  ‘That was Howard Phillips, the old owner.’ Zakkia noticed my gaze. ‘He was a little eccentric, but by all accounts a lovely man. He passed away 18 months ago.’

  ‘...Of?’ Sammy prompted.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘How did he die?’ Sammy continued.

  ‘His... heart stopped beating?’ Zakkia’s edge started to bleed through. Not that I could blame the poor woman; Sammy tended to have that effect on people. She recovered quickly, though. ‘I apologise, I’m not sure of the relevance.’

  ‘Because if he died here, in this house, and he had unfinished business, then maybe he’s the ghost!’ Sammy said triumphantly. ‘Or maybe he was killed here by the ghost, but the ghost got the taste for it, and now it wants more...’

  He trailed off at a sound thumping over our heads.

  Clump - shhhhhhhhhhhp

  Clump - shhhhhhhhhhhp

  Clump - shhhhhhhhhhhp

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  Clu-

  Silence.

  ‘Seriously!’ Sammy started to sound a bit more intense. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Zakkia glanced about nervously. ‘Honestly, I’m not totally sure. Perhaps we should vacate the premises and call the proper authorities.’

  ‘Proper authorities?’ Sammy yelled. ‘Who’re you going to call?’ I turned to answer, but he spun to face me, pointing an angry finger. ‘Don’t you even bloody dare, Anson.’

  I shrugged, looking up slowly at the white ceiling, ornately decorated by swirling patterns and subtly lit by recessed lightbulbs. ‘Well. There is something strange in the neighbourhood...’

  THUNK!

  ‘I think it heard you?’ Zakkia was now fully in Team Sammy, much to my annoyance.

  ‘There is no “it”.’ I looked around. ‘Where’re the stairs? We’ll go look.’

  Zakkia regained her senses and looked at her floorplan. ‘The master staircase is through those doors.’ She pointed. ‘And then you’d turn right, go down the main corridor, take the second left, and you should be directly above us.’

  ‘Right.’ I looked at my friend. ‘Sammy? Let’s go.’

  ‘Hell no.’

  ‘Come on, Sammy.’ I cajoled him. ‘The room above us is... what? A bedroom?’ Zakkia nodded. ‘We’ll see there’s no ghost there, and then if you like it, that’ll be your room.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping in a ghost room!’

  I grabbed his arm. ‘There’s no ghost, Sammy!’

  ‘Fine!’ He shook my grip away. ‘But if I die, you better pray I don’t come back and haunt your ass.’

  ‘It wouldn’t bother me if you did.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I smiled indulgently at him. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghost.’

  We crept upstairs, my left hand ready to flex and bring my sword to life. I was confident there wasn’t a ghost in the house... they couldn’t exist. But that didn’t stop the possibility of this being a Gnarler den, or a criminal hiding out, or any one of a dozen different scenarios running through my head which featured a very corporeal and very real threat to us.

  Maybe calling the police wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  The house, other than being home to an unknown and possibly evil entity, really was lovely. The furnishings seemed to be mostly oak, or another dark wood. It must be a real pain to polish, I mused, trying to mentally calculate how much furniture polish would be needed on the walls. The floor, at least, had a deep green runner starting at the stairs and across the upstairs hallway done in a forestry type design - lighter green picked out leaves, and red specks were, I assumed, berries. I leaned over the gleaming baluster to look at the ground floor below.

  ‘What’re you thinking about?’ Sammy whispered.

  ‘Just figuring out how hard I’d have to push you to pitch you over the rails.’

  He stopped and stared at me. ‘Hey. That’s not funny.’

  ‘What?’

  Sammy joined me in looking over the side. ‘You know what happens to the black guy in horror movies.’

  ‘This isn’t a horror movie!’ I hissed.

  ‘There’s a ghost in a creepy house, and we’re whispering.’

  ‘I’m not...’ I whispered, and then cleared my throat. ‘I’m not whispering.’ I informed him, forcing myself to speak at a normal volume.

  ‘And in a horror movie where the characters investigate an old, haunted house where the old owner dies under mysterious circumstances... who dies first?’

  I sighed. Sammy had a long-standing theory about how he wouldn’t survive a horror movie. ‘The promiscuous one.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘The promiscuous one. Or the black guy. Or the gay best friend.’ He eyed me. ‘I’m all three, Jason. All three! I’m a promiscuous gay brother.’

  I snorted. ‘“Brother”?’

  ‘When in America...’ He shrugged. ‘But you know what I mean.’

  ‘Okay. One? We’re not in a horror movie. Two? Stop using Americanisms. It’s weird hearing them come out of your mouth, with your accent.’ Sammy nodded his assent. ‘And three? There’s no ghost. There’s no such thing as ghosts.’

  ‘I didn’t say ghost. I said horror movie. Could be a possessed doll.’ I sighed at Sammy. ‘What? It could be!’

  ‘There’s no such thing as possessed dolls.’

  ‘Ten years ago you would have said people can’t fly!’ He had a point. ‘Maybe it’s a PI who can send their consciousness into other things. That could end up being a possessed doll, no problem. Or it could be a slasher...’

  ‘I have my Flame Foil.’ I reminded him.

  ‘It’s... hey, you went with my name for it!’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘It’s not a real sword, though.’ He chided. ‘Let’s be honest, despite what it looks like, it’s an extendable metal rod that gets warm.’

  ‘Warm enough to hurt a slasher or melt a possessed doll.’ I countered.

  ‘Besides,’ he ignored me. ‘In movies like that, what’s a popular way to die?’ He nodded at the top of the baluster. ‘Rail death.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rail death.’ Sammy explained patiently. ‘Someone goes over the railing and falls to their death below. Often to the Wilhelm Scream.’

  I shook my head. ‘We should split up.’

  ‘That’s what they say in horror movies.’ Sammy informed me m
ournfully.

  ‘You’re not going to die!’ I sighed. ‘If you see anything, just run and start screaming. I’ll come and help you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’m so going to die.’ Sammy muttered, before wandering off on his own, complaining under his breath. ‘Rail death for the hot black guy in three... two... one...’ He vanished around the corner, still muttering, and I took in a deep breath, relishing it almost as much as the silence.

  The near silence.

  A ticking noise, faint but rhythmical enough to catch my attention, was somewhere in the maze of rooms ahead of me. I tried a few doors, but they showed nothing except for furniture and knick-knacks, covered by drop cloths to ward against the dust.

  I drew closer to the mysterious ticking noise, which was beginning to tickle a memory in the back of my brain. It definitely sounded familiar, although I couldn’t quite place it...

  I rested my hand on the last handle, twisting it slowly, half expecting the ticking to stop as soon as the door opened. As I eased it inside, I stuck my head around the door.

  I should probably explain something. My parents were normal, every-day folk; what the people here in Capehill would probably label “regular joes”. They worked, they laughed, they celebrated and sung. My father was a hard-working man who earned a good living, and he got that work-ethic from his father.

  My paternal grandfather was a workaholic, but the things he amassed rarely showed for it. My grandparents lived simply, with a few exceptions - a desk (identical to that of my father’s, and now mine) sat in his drawing room, along with a Grandfather clock... a clock I had always found hugely appropriate, since he was my grandfather. Apparently, when I was young, I was caught licking the side of the clock. I have no idea why, other than to say I was a fairly odd child and who the hell leaves a toddler alone with an 18th century Grandfather clock? Come to think of it, between drawing on the back of an ugly painting and being left on my own to pursue a career in licking clocks, I’m beginning to suspect my mother and father weren’t that amazing at being parents...

  The reason I mention this is because in this room was a strikingly beautiful Grandfather clock. The whole room was undeniably breathtaking, but the clock caught my eye. I looked around slowly, taking in the sights. It was a library. A library. In a house. In America. In Florida! I knew I was being unkind to Americans everywhere by thinking it, but... this was a seriously impressive library, like something out of a movie. Wall to wall with leather bound books, hard-backed books without the dust-jacket, and a roaring fireplace, in front of which was a green leather high backed chair, next to which was what definitely appeared to be a glass of an alcoholic amber liquid, two ice cubes tinkling in the glass. Honestly, this was what sold the house to me. It was beautiful, and private, and untouched...