Gloom Town

by Ronald L. Smith

  Malvonius set down a bucket at Rory’s feet. “Use this,” he barked. “You’ll find brushes, rags, and a cleaning solution.”

  Rory picked up the bucket.

  “Remember,” Malvonius said. “Do not damage the paintings.”

  Rory nodded, then took the bucket and walked down the hall toward the front door. His stomach rumbled. Even though he hated the fish stew, he needed something in his belly, but it didn’t look like it was going to happen. He set the bucket on the floor and took out one of the smelly rags, then poured a little of the solution onto it. The fumes made his eyes water. He held his breath as he began to carefully clean the nooks and crannies of an ornate gold leaf frame. It held a portrait of what must have been Lord Foxglove in his younger days. The man had the same cruel eyes as Rory’s employer. His head was still bald, but he had no beard, revealing a bratty expression on his smug face. He was standing before a fountain, with one hand on his hip and the other up in the air, as if giving a speech. Rory snickered. Foxglove sure was full of himself. Rory used a fine brush to get into the intricate corners of the frame, which were molded in the shape of rose petals.

  He worked carefully, but absently, with thoughts of home and Izzy foremost on his mind. He really didn’t like it here. But he and his mum had money, and that was the most important thing. She had seemed so happy the night before. He couldn’t just leave his job. He wondered how much of the money his mum had given Mr. Bumbailiff—hopefully enough for a few months, at least.

  Rory stood back and studied his cleaning. One smudge in the bottom right of the gold frame made him reach in with a clean cloth to polish it, and when he did, he saw the artist’s signature, written in a tiny, cramped script, along with a location: Lysander Swoop. Captain’s Quay.

  “Humph,” Rory muttered. He’d heard of Captain’s Quay. It was a neighborhood on the other side of town, to the west of Copper Street and Market Square.

  He moved on to the next frame, a large brass circle. The painting inside it showed a woman with hair as long as seagrass and eyes the color of green gemstones. Rory looked along the portrait’s bottom edge. There it was again: Lysander Swoop. Captain’s Quay.

  He checked the next painting—a man on horseback, his hair blowing in the wind: Lysander Swoop. Captain’s Quay.

  And next to that one, a woman who looked as if she had just smelled something really bad, her lips curled in a grimace: Lysander Swoop. Captain’s Quay.

  All the faces were familiar, he realized with a start. Even though they were younger, they were certainly some of Foxglove’s guests from the night Rory had heard the mysterious words behind the red door.

  He stepped back and looked down the long hall. Were all of the paintings done by this man, Lysander Swoop? And how long ago had he painted them? Maybe if I find him, Rory thought, he can tell me something about Foxglove. Perhaps he would know what “a great harvest is coming” meant.

  No, Rory told himself.

  Snooping was forbidden. If he got in trouble again, he would definitely be dismissed.

  He stared at the painting of Foxglove and thought for a moment.

  Who says I can’t look for Lysander Swoop? he asked himself. What I do outside the manor is my own business. Izzy would tell him to do it. They had to find out what the mysterious words meant and what Foxglove and his guests were doing behind the red door. It could be something important.

  Something dark was in there. Something . . . evil.

  A plan began to take shape in Rory’s mind. All he had to do was find a way to get out again, so he and Izzy could search for Lysander Swoop.

  He paused. Find a way to get out again.

  Was he a prisoner, like Izzy had said?

  Of course not. He could leave anytime he wanted to. He could throw down his smelly rag right now and tell Foxglove to do his own dirty work.

  Except . . .

  He couldn’t.

  The advance on his earnings was a way to make sure he didn’t go running off after a day or two. People in Gloom were honest—at least most of them.

  He continued to polish the frames, the sharp odor of the cleaning fluid burning his nostrils. Finally, after several hours, he was finished. Sweat dotted his brow. The rumbling in his stomach was now a tight, churning ball. He had to eat something. Anything.

  Rory set down the cleaning tools and walked into the kitchen. He hoped to find a heel of bread on the table but was disappointed to see only the usual pot on the stove. He opened the lid. A thin layer of oil or . . . something floated on the surface of the fish stew.

  Rory swallowed a gag, but his belly was empty. He needed to fill it. Reluctantly, he set the lid aside and picked up the wooden spoon beside the pot, then skimmed some of the grease away to get a spoonful of the fish. He brought it to his mouth and slurped some down. Pushing his revulsion to the back of his mind, he did it again. And again. He filled a tin cup with water and drank it eagerly, trying to wash away the terrible taste.

  The pain in his stomach slowly disappeared as he sat at the table. He let out a breath and wondered what he should be doing next. He didn’t want to get caught lollygagging but didn’t want to roam around the house without a purpose either.

  He rose from the table and set about washing his glass. He looked out the window at the back garden. A tiny patch of sun filtered through some of the trees. He didn’t see sun in Gloom often, and more than anything, he wanted to run outside and feel the warmth on his skin.

  Hmm, he thought to himself, noticing the tall weeds. I’ll go outside and do some work in the back garden. That’ll show some self-motivation. Plus, I’ll get a little sun.

  Rory rinsed out the glass and set it on the counter.

  It was less of a garden and more of a jungle, with thorny shrubs, creeping vines, and all manner of weeds. He found a spade and a pair of rusty shears in a bucket and got to work. There was a small patch of garden at home, and he and his mum worked together in the warm months tending to the soil, trying to make things grow. Unfortunately, the dim sunlight made it a difficult task. But weeds and ivy didn’t need a lot of sun to thrive.

  Rory knelt next to a tangle of brambles and started cutting. It was hard work, and even though the air was cool, the weak sun felt good on the back of his neck.

  He chopped at a thick, gnarled root with the spade and began to hum a tune. It was a song his mum used to sing to him when he was young, and the melody came back easily.

  The Dragon of the Sea,

  a mighty sailor was he.

  But his ship was lost . . .

  Thunk.

  Rory stopped his digging. He had hit something hard. A stone?

  He tapped the point of the spade into the ground.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  There was definitely something there. He could feel it.

  He dug around until he saw a black square about the size of one of Izzy’s cards. He looked back toward the house and its windows. No sign of Malvonius.

  Rory set down the spade and carefully brushed away the dirt with his hand. It was a box. It looked like it could have been lacquered at one time; some of the sheen was still visible. He lifted it from the ground. A silver hinge fastened it shut. Rory unclasped it. He lifted the lid.

  Inside the box was a heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Lacquered Box and What He Found Within

  Rory knew what it was.

  There was no mistaking it. He had seen a cow’s heart once at the butcher’s stall when his mum had asked him to get some meat for supper. The butcher, a big man named Henry, told him it was a delicacy, something fancy people liked to eat with rosemary and capers. There certainly couldn’t’ve been much difference between an animal and a human heart.

  Who would bury a human heart?

  Foxglove would, Rory realized. Even though he had no idea why.

  He stared at it again.

  Maybe it wasn’t human, he suddenly considered. It could be an animal of some sort.

  Rory released a
trembling breath.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  Rebury it?

  Show it to his mum and her comrades?

  But how was he going to get a day off again so quickly?

  He glanced back toward the house. Dark clouds were rolling in. A drop of rain landed on his head. He closed the lid and, with one last look at the house, lifted his shirt and tucked the box halfway into the waistband of his pants, letting his shirttail cover the rest of it.

  * * *

  Rory made it to his room without any sign of Malvonius. He was glad of it. After a few steps, the box had begun to slip, and he’d had to take it out and rush inside and close the door.

  He slid the box under his bed, then stood in front of the little basin and washed the dirt from his hands and face. He watched the grime sluice off him, turning the water black.

  He raised his head.

  It was a heart, he thought with revulsion, understanding just how truly strange it was. A human heart.

  There were still a few hours left in the workday, so after washing up, he went back down and swept the already-clean floors. He had to make things appear normal, even though they were far from it. He didn’t want to make Malvonius suspicious.

  Later, he sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted. Whose heart is it? he wondered.

  They weren’t getting it back, that was certain. Whomever it belonged to was dead. Someone had killed him. Or her, Rory realized. It could be anyone.

  He got into bed but slept fitfully, knowing that, a few feet below him, a cold heart rested.

  * * *

  Rory and Izzy stood upon the edge of a great cliff.

  A vast sea was beneath them, with water so black and still it seemed like a mirror.

  Rory looked out over the water. A dark cloud—purple and black and pulsing with lightning—slowly drifted toward them.

  Inside the cloud, a shape writhed to and fro, a living mass of black liquid churning and turning in on itself.

  It began to grow arms and hands and legs. A head listed back and forth, as if trying to gain control of its newborn body. Where its mouth should have been was a void. Red flames danced within it.

  I thirst, a woman’s voice called. I hunger.

  * * *

  Rory awoke at dawn, his breath coming fast.

  He was sweating.

  He threw off his thin blanket. Most nights it was cold in the small room, but tonight it was hot. He got up and walked over to the basin to wash his face. He shook his head. The water was black. He’d been too tired to empty it earlier.

  His thoughts were muddled. He knew he’d just had a terrifying dream, but it was slipping away second by second. He pulled off his shirt, damp with sweat, and tossed it on the bed. He had changed his clothes as often as he could at Foxglove Manor but had only thoroughly washed them once, with water he’d heated in the kitchen. Malvonius had scolded him, of course, and told him to not use too much. How was he supposed to wear clean clothes if he couldn’t wash them properly? Just another reason he despised the creepy man.

  Rory licked his lips. He needed water. His throat was parched and dry. And that’s when he remembered:

  A shapeless shadow, trying to gain a human form.

  I thirst. I hunger.

  It was the strangest dream he’d ever had.

  He crept along the upstairs hall quietly. If I find you in a part of the house where you are not expected again, I’m afraid our little arrangement will come to an end.

  Rory made his way down the stairs. All he wanted was something to drink. Why should he have to sneak just for that?

  He poked his head around the door to the kitchen.

  Empty.

  He walked in and stood over the sink, then turned on the tap slowly, making sure it didn’t creak. Cool water poured out and spilled into the basin. Rory splashed his face, then took a tin cup from the counter and filled it to the brim. It felt cool and sweet going down his throat, and he relished the moment, drinking greedily. Briefly, he thought to listen at the red door but once again resisted. What is in there? he wondered.

  “Wandering about again, are we?”

  Rory froze.

  He turned around slowly, still holding the cup.

  Malvonius stood with one hand behind his back.

  “I was thirsty,” Rory said quietly.

  “I see,” Malvonius replied. “And why are you not dressed? Are you a savage of some sort?”

  Only then did Rory realize he was bare chested but for the black stone he wore around his neck. He hadn’t put his damp shirt back on before creeping downstairs. “I . . .”

  “It is of no consequence,” Malvonius said, cutting him off. “There are more important matters to discuss.”

  He withdrew his hand from behind his back. “What, pray tell, do you know of this?”

  Rory dropped his cup.

  It was the black box.

  * * *

  Malvonius pinched Rory’s ear and marched him down to Lord Foxglove’s dark cellar.

  “Owww!” Rory cried, trying to squirm away.

  But Malvonius didn’t let go. Rory thought for a moment of making a run for it, but there was no way that would work. The butler’s arms and legs were way too long, and Rory’d be caught in an instant, like a fly trapped by a spider.

  He stumbled on the bottom step, but Malvonius yanked him along until they were standing outside of Foxglove’s study. In the midst of his distress, with his heart beating furiously, the carvings in the wood stood out to him—a woman’s face, with leaves and vines for hair. He’d seen them before, but not this close. He tried to examine them, but Malvonius opened the doors without knocking and pushed Rory forward, sending him to his knees. The blood rushed to his face.

  “Stand up!” Malvonius shouted.

  Rory got up unsteadily, his kneecaps thrumming with pain. His ear stung where Malvonius had snagged him.

  Lord Foxglove rose from his desk and walked forward. “What do we have here?” he said in a cold voice.

  “I found this in his room,” Malvonius said, offering the box.

  Rory shuddered.

  Lord Foxglove took the lacquered box. He caressed it with a long finger. “Curious,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  Sweat trickled down Rory’s back.

  “Yes,” Foxglove continued, still focused on the box. “Almost forgotten.”

  The lord of the manor finally turned his attention to Rory. “Did you know, Rory, that you are not the first valet to work in this most glorious house?”

  Rory didn’t answer. He sensed Malvonius behind him. The butler had pushed him. Hard. Rory promised himself he’d repay the favor someday.

  “Yes,” Lord Foxglove said. “Your predecessor was a boy named Timothy. Such a lovely child.” His eyes roamed over Rory with a look of disdain. “He wouldn’t be caught in such a state. Look at you. Half-dressed.”

  Rory was trembling now.

  Foxglove turned away and began to pace. “Poor Timothy,” he continued. “Light of foot, with hair as pale as an angel’s. Alas, he went astray.” He paused and turned to Rory again, and his face was monstrous. “Wandering about the house on his own without my permission!”

  Rory cowered, almost bumping into the butler.

  Lord Foxglove drew himself up, and his shadow on the wall grew with him. “And now, I’m afraid Timothy isn’t with us anymore,” he said casually. “Is he, Malvonius?”

  “No, my lord,” Malvonius said obsequiously. “I’m afraid not.”

  “But I do have something to remind me of him,” Foxglove said, and then he opened the box. “His heart, Rory. I have his heart.”

  Rory turned and ran for the door.

  Malvonius reached out quickly, pinning Rory’s arms behind him.

  “No!” Rory shouted, struggling. “Let me go!”

  Lord Foxglove stepped closer. “Hmm,” he said, still caressing the box. “What shall we do with him, I wonder.”

  “Let me go!” Rory cr
ied out again.

  Foxglove bent down so his face was mere inches from Rory’s. “Do you remember the contract you signed?” he said softly. “There were some words along the bottom. ‘Upon penalty of death,’ it read. It stated that you were not to wander in the back garden at any cost, did it not?”

  Rory didn’t remember any such thing. He continued to fight, squirming and twisting, but Malvonius held him tight. “You never said that!” he shot back.

  “Regardless,” Lord Foxglove said, rising back up, “you have broken our agreement. The penalty is death.”

  “No!” Rory shouted, and kicked back with his right heel, directly into Malvonius’s shin.

  The butler grunted and, for a second, loosened his grip, which gave Rory just enough time to make a run for it. He bolted away and dashed for the door.

  “Seize him!” Lord Foxglove shouted.

  Rory burst through the double doors and sprinted toward the steps. Up and up he went, pushing himself as fast as he could, but his knees throbbed from being thrown to the cold marble floor. His head spun from the dizzying spiral staircase. Malvonius’s heavy footsteps pounded behind him.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Rory reached the top, but a wiry hand with sharp fingernails gripped his ankle and pulled him back.

  He fell, banging his chin on a step. Pain shot through him. Malvonius’s nails dug into the bare skin of Rory’s ankle.

  “No!” Rory cried, and kicked with all of his might, sending Malvonius tumbling back down the stairs.

  Rory scrambled to his feet and raced down the hallway, making a quick turn and heading for the front door.

  A few more steps, he told himself. Just a few more steps.

  Blood dribbled down his chin. His knees felt like they’d been hit by hammers.

  He stumbled down the reception hall until he got to the end, then, without looking back, flung open the door and rushed into the street.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Shoeless, Shirtless Boy

  Rory rushed out into the daylight.