“Bless you.” He finally grabbed hold of the unruly toilet paper and got up off his knees. “I can see you’re a stickler for cleanliness, Old…”
“Achoo,” came another sneeze from the angel standing on the stairs.
* * *
—
Conrad’s slight misgivings and doubts had now taken hold of him completely.
The small, sniffling being was unquestionably an angel. In a baggy, knee-length Garfield T-shirt and carpet slippers, with actual wings that were covered in light, soft down. Its long hair, reminiscent of thin cellophane strips, shimmered in the daylight, enveloping the figure with a delicate aura.
Conrad, dumbfounded, was struck by a thought: Like hell it’s an angel! There’s no such thing as angels. Angels only exist in paintings with “Baptism souvenir” captions, on postcards and tombstones, or in children’s books—not in weird Gothic houses with turrets. His mind was racing. Weird Gothic houses with turrets have vampires, ghosts, and big spiders. But not angels. Angels don’t exist.
“Achoo. Hello,” said the nonexistent angel. A tuft of down rose up above it into the air.
The man clutching the toilet paper couldn’t take his eyes off the runny-nosed envoy of the heavens; meanwhile, hordes of conflicting emotions fought fiercely inside him. To make matters worse, an apparition somewhere at the back of his mind began chanting: “Smoke and mirrors! Smoke and mirrors!” Conrad therefore relinquished his common sense, admitting that two visions at once exceeded his humble capabilities, and he was left to his internal chaos.
The big, old clock in the corner struck four in the afternoon. Right at the last “bom,” Old Harry appeared in the doorway, smeared in dirt.
“Your little car’s gonna live, Mr. Romanchuk! Only a broken timing belt, but some commotion it caused. Just need to order up a new one and install it, lucky the head and valves are okay, otherwise you’d be needin’ a mechanic…What’s the heck’s gotten into you two? Bugaboo,” he turned to the angel, “meet Mr. Romanchuk, the new landlord. Mr. Romanchuk, this here’s Bugaboo. The guardian angel of the late Mr. Vincent, and the longest-staying tenant,” he explained. “Mr. Vincent built the turret especially for him, ’cos Bugaboo wanted to see the views from high up. Ain’t that right, Bugaboo?”
Bugaboo nodded politely and wiped his runny nose.
“You mean…” Conrad stammered, “this is the tenant? The one that was mentioned in the will?”
“Well…technically, I guess.”
“I thought that was you!”
“Hell no!” Old Harry burst out laughing. “I ain’t a resident, I just oversee the place. You know, a handyman to fix stuff up, stick stuff on, hammer in the odd nail. Been workin’ here goin’ on twenty years now. And when your uncle died in the spring, I took care of the poor little things as well, brought them juice, newspapers, ’cos they was bored all alone.”
“We’re out of tissues,” Bugaboo piped up. “And descaler too, and the flannel is torn. Hallelujah.”
“Uh-huh, tore itself, did it? You can wash with the torn one today, I’ll bring you a new one tomorrow, okay? Go see if you’ve still got sunflower seeds in the pantry. And tell Crackers to give back them milk bottles!” he shouted after Bugaboo, who was trudging toward the kitchen. “He always forgets, and then I’m the one who’s gotta explain to them down at the store.”
“Explain?” Conrad finally regained full control of his voice box. “Explain? You can explain this to me right now! The will said nothing about any…any Bugaboo or Crackers! What the devil…er, what on earth does all this mean?”
“What do you mean, nothin’?” Old Harry shook his head forbearingly. “It said this was a house with a life estate, didn’t it?”
“But it didn’t say nothin’…I mean, it didn’t say anything about any angels!”
“But what difference does one little angel make? Polite, calm, helpful, nice and clean, all he does is wash and scrub. He’s a real stickler for cleanliness! He uses lots of tissues ’cos he’s always got a cold, but he keeps an eye on everythin’. He’ll make sure you don’t come to no harm, that no misfortune falls on the house, that you don’t get no mice. Without Bugaboo, there wouldn’t be no Bugaboo Hole, Mr. Romanchuk.” He patted him soothingly on the back. “You got an inheritance with a lifer? Well, this is it. A guardian angel is a real blessing, you mark my words. And the others ain’t bad neither. You’ll get used to it in a jiffy!”
Bugaboo returned from the kitchen with a bag full of empty bottles and watched with some concern as Conrad, going from pale to purple and back again, teetered on the brink of his first heart attack at the age of thirty-two. Finally, the little angel plucked up the courage to speak.
“Crackers says there are plenty of sunflower seeds left, but please could you buy sponge fingers? He’s going to make tiramisu on Saturday.”
“Round or oblong?”
“Oblong, hallelujah. About four packs. And some cocoa powder would be useful. Dammit got into that tin in the cupboard yesterday.”
“What’s that? Damn what?”
“Dammit, the cat,” replied the angel. “She’s very nice, though she bites sometimes. But not too hard.”
“And this, what’s-his-name…Crackers?”
“No need to worry about Crackers, he never leaves the kitchen.” The angel sneezed again, stirring up a fresh cloud of feathers. “He makes delicious pastries, they really hit the spot,” he added, by way of justification.
“You see, Mr. Romanchuk?” said Old Harry. He took the bag of bottles and the shopping list from the angel. “Don’t no one know this house like Bugaboo. He’ll give you the tour, show you where everythin’ is. Right, I’ll be off. I’m headin’ to the grocery store, then I’ll order the belt, maybe we’ll be able to fix up the car next week. And I should stop home too, I guess, look in on the wife.”
“You’re not coming back with the shopping? But it’s still early.”
“Oh no.” He shook his head firmly. “Not today, I’ll be back in the morning. By the time I’ve gotten into town, by the time I’ve taken care of everythin’, it’ll be evenin’. And you know, I…” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “I never stay here after nightfall. Never! Come hell or high water. Well, good night, see you tomorrow, Mr. Romanchuk!” he shouted, and he dashed off to the old banger at a hoglike trot, as if the devil himself were chasing him.
Conrad had never felt so helpless in all his life. He hugged the toilet roll to his chest as if it were a magic amulet that would protect him from any kind of evil. Life at Bugaboo Hole was certainly going to be interesting. Perhaps a little too interesting.
* * *
—
Bringing the luggage upstairs took them a good half hour. A few parcels tumbled down the steps, crunching and clanking, but there were no major losses. The boxes of kitchenware, provisions for the next few days and the unruly toilet paper stayed downstairs.
The winding staircase continued upward to Bugaboo’s turret. The first floor, according to the tenants’ tradition, remained at the sole disposal of the owner of the house. There was an intense smell of lemon floor cleaner in the air. The rays of sun streaming in through the skylights in the roof dispersed the darkness, and at the end of a small, gloomy corridor, Conrad saw a door. Of course, it creaked on opening—quietly, but ominously.
The room was a narrow rectangle. Almost the entire wall opposite the entrance, from the high ceiling to the carpeted floor, was occupied by a large window, under which stood a Biedermeier secretary desk and chair. There were paintings everywhere, all in massive, gilded frames, the dresser was crowded with clocks and figurines, and next to it was a wobbly-looking stack of books. This sight prompted a feeling of claustrophobic discomfort in Conrad. He was afraid that if he took even a single step, the entire collection of artworks would come tumbling down and bury him forever.
“And
this, hallelujah, is the master bedroom,” said Bugaboo. He sneezed three times and pushed on another door, which was miraculously squeezed in between a still life and a landscape featuring a rutting stag.
The increasingly “happy” homeowner peeked hesitantly into the room.
His eyes were met not by a regular bed or ottoman, but by a huge four-poster. It consisted primarily of a canopy and posts, heavy curtains and a pile of embroidered cushions, with steps to climb up into it, and it conjured up feelings of chronic insomnia. A large closet, a fireplace in which a couple of burly men could easily have danced a highland fling, a cast-iron chandelier and a cavernous armchair beneath the window completed the nightmare-inducing decor.
“Gothic terror style, I take it?” asked Conrad, who was an admirer of modern minimalism, eyeing the wallpaper that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a funeral home. He told himself that it could be much worse. At least he didn’t have to sleep in a coffin on a catafalque, surrounded by candles and accompanied by somber organ music.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said the angel, without a hint of irony. “Very cozy, achoo. The furniture has been the same for a few decades, but the young master regularly embroiders new cushion covers.”
“Erm…The young master?”
“Uh-huh, the young master. When he’s dealing with his autumn-winter-spring blues. He has a break in the summer.”
“A good mood break?”
“A jam break. Raspberry, bilberry, sometimes cherry…” Bugaboo sighed dreamily. “Ah, the cherry jam is the best. And the preserved plums. And when Old Harry makes his quince liqueur, there’s always some fruit left over and then the young master makes jam for tea. But that’s not until October, hallelujah…” He sniffed wistfully, though it wasn’t clear whether from sadness or his cold.
Conrad looked at him and a kind of warmer, happier feeling came over him. He took off his rucksack, threw it onto the armchair, and placed his still useless cell phone on the windowsill. He had no other option, he’d have to make himself comfortable for now in this Gothic freak house; but suddenly, thanks to the little angel in carpet slippers, this prospect had taken on a rather more optimistic hue.
“You’re quite the gourmand, huh?”
“Absolutely!” said Bugaboo. “Achoo. Oh, I almost forgot! There are cheese-and-spinach dumplings in the fridge, perhaps you’re hungry?”
“No, thank you, I’d rather get unpacked, take a bath, and get an early night. That half a day behind the wheel really took it out of me. Is there a bathroom somewhere round here?”
“The door’s there, the closet’s blocking it a bit.” The angel blew his nose into a hanky. “Do you have a towel and soap?”
“Yes, thank you, I brought everything with me,” said Conrad over his shoulder, and he turned the doorknob. He was intrigued to see what a Gothic bathroom looked…
“Were you raised in a barn? Knock next time!”
“Can’t you see there’s someone in here?”
“Get out, you pervert!”
“Beat it, pal, you’ve got some nerve!”
…like. Small, tiled, fairly light, and occupied.
Blushing and clearly perturbed, Bugaboo gently sat the surprised Conrad down on the edge of the bed, then went into the bathroom. In under a minute, four green water sprites emerged, meek and dripping water. Muttering their apologies, the ugly little creatures pattered downstairs one after the other on their spindly legs.
“I’m so sorry!” cried the angel. He pulled out a brush and some powder, fell to his knees, and started scrubbing the bathtub, which was coated in algae. “Really, it won’t happen again. ACHOO! Please believe me, there isn’t a demon in every privy, it’s just that we haven’t had anyone living with us for a long time. All the tenants use the bathroom downstairs, and it’s a little stuffy, so the water sprites installed themselves here. They won’t bother you anymore, I promise.” He wiped the puddles from the floor as quick as a flash, squirted the air with air freshener, and after a brief hesitation, adjusted the toilet paper, which was hanging crooked. “There, hallelujah, if you need anything, please give me a shout. The bed’s made, you can jump right in. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” He waved good-bye and left the room. A few seconds later, he stuck his head in again. “Not that you’ll find any bedbugs here,” he said, “nor ants, well, sometimes on the veranda…but you know, that’s just how the saying goes. Hallelujah and good night.”
The clocks in the room next door started to chime six o’clock in unison. The whole dresser shook, and the figurines, unexpectedly set in motion, jangled.
Conrad rocked back and forth, stroking his musketeer-ish beard, and kicking himself that he’d been dragged into this whole inheritance malarkey. He’d read with indifference the notification he received in the post about the death of a distant relative whose name meant nothing to him. In order to satisfy the formalities, he’d gone to court for the reading of the will within the designated period—and he’d left, dumbfounded, an heir. There’d been a small debt to pay off, the house had no outstanding mortgage charges, the reference to the life estate hadn’t aroused any concerns, so without giving it too much thought, Conrad had made the necessary arrangements, rented out his flat to a friend till the end of the year, packed up the Beetle and set out to claim his estate. He believed in destiny, in the miraculous fulfillment of his dreams of a place where he could focus on his Life’s Work in peace—without troublesome neighbors, without trams stopping right under his window at all hours, without hundreds of cars parked anyhow and anywhere.
In fact, he’d gotten everything he’d wanted, he just hadn’t anticipated the extras in the form of supernatural beings. So what should he do now? Go to court and say he’d been taken for a ride, because the tenant had turned out to be a sneezing angel and there were water sprites residing in the Gothic bathroom? He burst out laughing, imagining the face of the prosecutor or the judge when they heard a complaint like that. He himself wouldn’t have believed a word of it—after all, angels and water sprites don’t exist…
For several hours, his cell had been searching in vain for a signal, and it was finally indicating a low battery. The shrill ringing was enough to shatter fillings; it immediately wrenched Conrad out of his reverie. Just in case, he checked in the corners of the room to see whether any other mysterious creatures had made themselves at home, then began to tackle his luggage. He put his laptop, printer, and a ream of paper on the desk, and shoved his designer clothes and shoes, which were masquerading as any old thing purchased any old place, into the cavernous closet. Due to the lack of a suitable piece of furniture, he placed his books on the windowsill. In the process, he found his charger and plugged in his beeping phone. Before night fell, Conrad, freshly bathed and too tired to worry anymore, squeezed in between the cushions and was out like a light.
* * *
—
The bed didn’t disappoint—a first-class nightmare ensued.
A green-hued Old Harry with huge wings was sitting on his chest and feeding him teaspoon after teaspoon of cherry jam from a jar, while crunching on salty crackers. With each bite, he grew heavier and heavier. Conrad tried to get some air, but the pressure on his breastbone and ribs was too much, and he was being mercilessly choked. Wet cushions and feathers were flying at him from all directions, and every now and then the sound of sneezing reverberated around them. Then Old Harry reached behind him, and with all his strength he stuck an embroidery needle into Conrad’s cheek.
Conrad shuddered violently and woke up. The pain did not subside.
A gray, soft paw was pulsating on his cheek, alternately baring and hiding its claws, which were small and sharp like a razor. Their owner, curled on Conrad’s chest in a large, vibrating bundle, purred with pleasure. Apparently sensing that her new lair was no longer asleep, she opened her yellow eyes and stretched lazily.
“Dammit, you almost
suffocated me.”
He let the cat sniff his hand and gently stroked her head. She purred louder, swishing her tail back and forth. What a cutie—heavy as hell, but endearing. Cats tended to give Conrad a hard time, but he liked them a lot and endured everything they did with admirable patience. Apparently, Dammit had sensed this and had no intention of leaving.
An almighty sneeze shook the windows.
“Sounds like Bugaboo’s up already.” Conrad hissed as the claws of the escaping cat left bloody trails across his chest. Not too deep, but they burned like hell.
He’d always considered making the bed a completely nonsensical activity, so he didn’t bother. Automatically, he grabbed his charged phone and ran downstairs. He thought he could hear some murmurs in the kitchen, but when he looked in, he couldn’t see anyone.
Another sneeze came from the veranda.
“For the love of God, Bugaboo, what are you doing?”
Bugaboo almost dropped his tweezers. He was squatting on the veranda, surrounded by mirrors, tearing feathers from his wings one by one.
“Are you mad?” Conrad was baffled. “Are you that bored?”
“…pilating, hallelujah.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m depilating,” the angel repeated. “I pluck them out every month or so, but they grow back eventually, so I have to pluck them again…It’s extremely tiresome, you know.”
He must be a masochist, thought Conrad. What if he starts going around saying “hit me, hit me, pluck out my feathers”? I’m not going to knock him out, you don’t hit angels…And what’s he got on his T-shirt today, Peanuts?
“Okay, you’re depilating, but why?” He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. “You look like a plucked chicken.”
“I’m allergic to feathers, you see,” Bugaboo sniveled pitifully. “I’m constantly sneezing.” He blew his swollen nose in confirmation.
The Big Book of Modern Fantasy Page 160