by James Somers
Gladstone woke with a start. A terrible dream had overtaken him during the night. Though it was difficult to remember the details, he did feel that he had been running. In danger for his life somehow.
The house was cool during these early morning hours. Spring had come, but this day in April would apparently be overcast. Apart from the meager light from a dim gray cast sky, Gladstone’s large house in Highgate stood in relative darkness.
His heavy velvet curtains were drawn almost together across the high window. A single bar of light issued through across the polished wooden floor. The aging prime minister sat in his poster bed, breathing away the last vestiges of his night terror.
Noises of unknown origin came to him. Gladstone stopped breathing momentarily, listening intently. It did not sound like the bustling of his servants. In fact, even with his acute elf’s hearing, he could not find the voices he usually heard at this time each day.
Rothschild, his butler, would normally be on his way with breakfast by now. Yet, Gladstone could discern no sound emanating from his kitchen on the floor below. No footsteps resounded from the halls beyond his bedchamber door.
Yet, there was some sort of noise. It was hard to discern the nature of it. A thrum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. No matter which way he turned his head, the sound was there.
Inquisitive, Gladstone scooted to the side of the bed. He called for Rothschild. No answer. Stepping down into his slippers beside the bed, he pulled his robe from a hook on the corner bedpost and put it on. The incessant thrum remained.
He crossed the room to his bedchamber door and opened it. Peering out around the door frame, Gladstone saw no one in the hall beyond. An ornately woven narrow hall carpet ran to either end before him. Every door along the corridor was closed. The thrum remained, though it seemed to have changed in pitch a little.
Gladstone called to Rothschild again. No answer. He repeated his call to anyone who might be within earshot. His voice boomed through the house unimpeded. No one replied.
Now, Gladstone was growing a bit angry. His anxiety level was only increasing, mostly because of how peculiar this all seemed following his night terror. Coincidence possibly. But, as an elf, he didn’t believe in coincidence much. He knew what things lurked in dark places, or beyond the veil of human sight.
Only the tick tock of the large grandfather clock standing in his dining room below cut through the steady and unidentified noise. Gladstone grumbled to himself and crossed the hall much like a soldier running from one safe place of cover to another. He peered down the curving stair toward the landing below. There was no one visible, no moving shadows.
He made his way down the stair, going gently, trying to remain as quiet as possible. When Gladstone came to the lower landing, standing now upon black and white tiles, he noticed that the noise had increased a little more in pitch and volume.
He turned toward the vestibule and the sound diminished slightly. Turning back toward the ballroom at the back of the house, the noise increased again twofold. Apparently, the source was there.
Gladstone found that he could not resist. He had to know if this was dream or reality. What was going on? Had everyone disappeared, or would a simple explanation present itself?
He stepped lightly, heading through the short corridor that bypassed the kitchen on his right and a formal dining room on his left. At the far end, the carved wooden doors to the ballroom stood open, as they usually did. Beyond, wall sconces on the octagonal wall of the chamber illuminated the ballroom in warm yellow light.
Every step closer brought a change in the noise he had been hearing. When he walked through the door, what had gradually begun to sound like a distant scream muffled beneath a feather pillow, erupted into a full blown howl and stopped.
Before everyone of the three large windows was hung one of his servants. The curtain cords had been wrapped around their necks. His portly female cook, Gladys, as well as her two teenage sons who worked on the property, dangled from the ropes like rag dolls.
Only Rothschild was missing. Could he have somehow perpetrated these heinous acts? It hardly seemed possible. The man was easily in his mid fifties.
However, as Gladstone stood in the center of the polished wood floor, gazing in horror upon his servant’s corpses, blood splattered lightly upon the ground at his feet. He looked down to see what it was first. Then he cast his eyes up toward the massive chandelier that dominated the room.
Rothschild’s battered and bloody body slid out of the chandelier arms, falling onto the floor before him. Gladstone leaped backward, screaming now. He suddenly realized he was in the house with a vicious killer. This did nothing for his screaming.
The ballroom doors suddenly slammed shut together behind him. No one was there. Laughter began to fill the room. Gladstone searched in every direction, but found no one there—at least, no one visible.
“Who are you?” he cried, wanting to back away, but not knowing which way to go. The voice cackled maniacally, mocking his fear.
And then someone tapped his shoulder.
Gladstone turned, instinctively firing off a plasm of energy from his fingertips. Southresh stood there in his Japanese host Toshima, waving the attack away as inconsequential.
“Guess who?” he cackled, seizing Gladstone by the throat.
This was it. His day had finally come. After all of these years, trying to serve faithfully as Britain’s Prime Minister, Gladstone was going to die at the hands of an abomination. But, while the angel had taken hold on him, he had not actually killed him yet. Gladstone’s eyes opened cautiously.
“It’s not quite time to die,” Southresh said, grinning. “Lucifer wants something from you. And if you don’t deliver, I’m to get creative in your demise. I have a very vivid imagination.”
Gladstone quivered in his grasp. “What do you require of me, my lord?” he asked, hoping his quick obedience might save his life. The last thing Gladstone wanted to experience was a creative death at the hands of the mad god.
Southresh smiled gleefully. “Lucifer wants you to surrender England, beginning with London.”
The request shocked Gladstone. “Surrender? You mean to Hitler?”
“Of course to Hitler,” Southresh said harshly. “Who else?”
Gladstone stammered, as though he might consider making some sort of protest. Southresh glared at him, waiting, probably hoping for the worst. The mad god was like a rabid dog on a chain—just itching to be set loose.
“What is your answer, Prime Minister?”
Gladstone swallowed with difficulty. His throat felt parched. Still, there was no use in delaying his answer. How could he possibly do anything else but what Lucifer had demanded? To refuse would mean death. And then Hitler would come to take what he had withheld anyway.
The aging Prime Minister nodded, swallowing again.
Southresh released the elf, straightening. “Pity,” he moaned softly. “We could have perpetrated the stuff of nightmares together.”
Gladstone couldn’t help but gulp audibly. He was sweating just thinking about what the mad god might have done to him. His torment would no doubt have lasted for days, or longer, the angel drawing out his agony with great care like a conductor leading an orchestra toward some magnificent crescendo.
Finally, he gathered his voice again. “How shall I do this?”
Southresh grinned. “Don’t worry, Gladstone. Lucifer will make it easy on you. The next bombing campaign against London will give you ample opportunity to give over control while saving political face. Hitler will probably even allow you to stay on as an administrator while he reshapes London society.”
Gladstone found this some small consolation, despite having to relinquish his long term in power. Essentially, he had reigned supreme for decades now uncontested. The second world war had only solidified his hold on power, the people fearing any uncertainty that might be caused by bringing in a new face.
Still, allowing Hitler and his Nazis to
take control was a nauseating thought. Gladstone enjoyed living among the humans, enjoyed their society. He would rather have lived in London as anywhere else in the world. It suited him. But that would all change when Adolf came to rule here.
