by M. E. Eadie
Chapter Three: Horwood House
For every kid in Rivertown, school started the very next day, every kid except, Colin, Spike and Melissa. To Colin’s request, or to the law’s demand for compulsory attendence, Grizzelda was not in the slightest way inclined to listen. There were more important matters to attend to. The first thing on her agenda was to get rid of the Sergeant Peary comics. She burned them, throwing them one at a time into the fire.
Colin watched the black and white ashen flakes rising up into the air. He had read most of the comics anyway, but the violation of his property hurt. They were his, especially the last one. The last one Grandfather Thunder had touched. Unable to witness it anymore he ran away, making his way to G.T.’s teepee. There was nothing inside. It was as though all evidence of the old man had been rubbed out, except for one item. In the center was the last Sergeant Peary comic book, the one with the blazing machine gun, cigar chewing sergeant and the blond. He snatched it up and fanned through it. Why hadn’t she burned it? She had taken it from him, but here it was. The departure of the old man had left a big weeping hole in him, but the comic, or its physical presence, managed to fill it somewhat. He rolled it up, and tucked it deep into his jacket pocket. Even the prospect of leaving their home didn’t seem to bother him as long as he had the comic.
Although Grandfather Thunder was gone, some of his residual power kept Pansy Patch Park invisible; but in the span of a week, that power would entirely dissipate and everything they knew would be gone. Alive, he was a link between the two dimensions; now, their Pansy Patch Park would be the same one that everyone else saw. They had to find another place to live. By the end of the sixth day, Grizzelda’s exhausting search had yet to yield fruit. It was as though she was frantically looking for something that didn’t exist. Although Colin, Spike and Melissa thought at least a dozen houses were nice, Grizzelda had dismissed them as being somehow wrong. Spike had foolishly asked her what wrong meant, and received a scorching diatribe that left him awfully confused.
As far as Grizzelda was concerned, none of the houses she’d viewed had the right character. They all lacked taste. She disliked the square, weighted blocks of most, and the flimsy construction of others. She was trying to match something in each house she inspected to an indistinct dream image she had had. She knew and yet, at the same time, didn’t know what she was looking for. Late in the afternoon of day seven, she finally found the perfect place. It matched the distant half memory of a home that was becoming more distinct with each passing day.
The property was encircled by a twelve-foot stone wall with a large iron entrance gate. A real estate sign by the entrance hung lopsided from its metallic arm, eerily creaking back and forth, moved by some invisible hand, as there was no perceptible breeze. The rusted chains that held it attached, and the nearly obliterated name and phone number of the real estate agent, testified that the house had been on the market for a very long time.
From the gate, it was difficult to see the house because it was also ensconced behind mature stands of trees and shrubbery. Only a series of sharp gables and some crenellated castle battlements were visible: the crown of what must be a massive mansion. A bronze plaque, stained green through the passing of years, was mounted on the stone wall by the rusted, iron gate. Spike, his nose nearly against the plaque, tried to read the peculiar, hand-engraved, gothic script.
“Sors – ee – mman - us,” said Spike. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He turned around hoping for an answer, but Grizzelda was staring in past the gate with obvious delight on her face, as though she could see all the way to the house.
“This is it? This is what we’re looking for?” asked Spike, incredulously. “You haven’t even seen it!”
Grizzelda, who had been merciless in all the other inspections, was unable to break her rapturous gaze.
“I think that’s a definite yes,” whispered Spike, diffidently.
Grizzelda came out of her trance and gave Spike a withering glare. “If you don’t mind,” she said, her lips tight and thin, “I am making a call to the real estate agent.”
Colin, Spike and Melissa looked at each other. They didn’t know much about the outside, but they knew about telephones. How could she be making a call without a telephone? Then they remembered: Grandfather Thunder always knew of things happening in places far away from Pansy Patch Park, and they’d never had a telephone there. All three had a sinking feeling that Grizzelda knew how to do things they hadn’t even fathomed.
“Ah,” she said, taking her finger from her temple and looking down the street with intense satisfaction.
A vintage black Jaguar, looking rather predatory, sped up the street and lurched to a stop beside them. It was hard to see the driver through the dark tinted windows, but when the door flew open, a well-dressed, portly man, with a shiny, bald head, climbed out of the car. Even the severe-looking sunglasses on his face couldn’t hide his jovial disposition. He removed the glasses and, with a springy step, walked straight to Grizzelda, his hand extended in welcome.
“Well, well! My competitors have been telling me about you! I was wondering when I was going to have the pleasure of meeting you,” he said, pumping Grizzelda’s hesitant hand. “Marcus Tiberius Dundas at your service!”
Colin expected Grizzelda to wipe her hand on the black scarf around her neck, but instead she leaned down (she was at least two heads taller than the rotund real-estate agent) and placed her cheek against Marcus’ cheeks, once on the right and once on the left, kissing the air both times.
“Oh ho!” exclaimed Marcus, “The French way! Very good, very good!” He dug through his coat pockets and eventually found the key he was looking for. It was a long black thing on a big ring that looked more like a weapon than a key. “I travel to Europe now and then.” He inserted the key into the lock in the gate and with all his might tried to turn it. “Now, this little beauty is the gem of the town.” He tried to turn it again. “But I have to warn you, the reason it hasn’t sold was because of its price and a couple other little matters. Looks like I should have brought some oil,” he said, slightly embarrassed, staring at the rusted lock.
“Here,” said Grizzelda, slipping her hand under his and taking over from Marcus, “let me try.”
Colin stared at his aunt in wide-eyed disbelief. Was there a little purring inflection in her voice? He shook his head.
“By all means,” chortled Marcus, “nothing against women’s lib. I’ve always said it doesn’t matter who does it, just as long as the job gets done!” His slightly protuberant eyes bulged even more as Grizzelda smoothly and adeptly turned the key and opened the lock. “I . . . I’ll make sure to have this lock looked at.”
Colin had noticed something peculiar when his aunt had turned the key. As she was doing so, a slight glow had pulsated from Grizzelda’s hand and into the lock. In a fleeting moment he understood what had happened. Somehow she had reformed the fused metal inside the lock, returning it to its original, working state. How she had done it, or how he knew she had done it, he hadn’t a clue, but what amazed him even further, was a feeling from deep within him, that given time, he would be able to do the same thing.
Marcus took over and shoved hard against the gate until the rust on the hinges gave and one side began to swing inwards with a screeching chorus of tormented voices.
“After you,” said the real estate agent cheerily, bowing before Grizzelda who was visibly beaming.
Colin noticed that even though the weather was rather cool, beads of sweat formed on Marcus’ pink flesh. There was something about Marcus that bothered him: he was hiding something.
Horwood House was an awe-inspiring, yet dour-looking, piece of architecture. With its crenellated towers and steep frowning gables, the mansion looked like a grotesque cross between a castle and a Victorian nightmare. After the eye had been assaulted by the pure massiveness of the building, it was drawn to the partially attached ruin
ed tower to the West, and there it stayed in wonder. Never finished, it was left as a testimony to something mysterious and Colin couldn’t keep his eyes from it.
As they walked up the long cobbled driveway, an unfinished statue rose up before them, forbidding and sinister looking. The block of unfinished black marble was large, and it gave them the impression that it was squatting, impatiently waiting for them to arrive.
“The owner was rather – eccentric. He commissioned this statue, but he died soon after. It was never finished, along with the Western tower,” explained Marcus. Grizzelda speculated with Marcus as to the possibility that something might lie beneath the block. For a moment, they talked of how the famous artist Michael Angelo would carve away all the rubble to reveal what was already within. Then Marcus ushered them away from the amorphous, black stone.
“Just what this place is crying out for: a statue of a crazy, old, rich guy,” whispered Spike. “How much you wanna bet the face that gets carved in that rock is going to look a lot like Grizzelda’s?”
Grizzelda gave a terse, impatient nod. “The house?”
Marcus rubbed his hands. “Yes, the house, the house. Please follow me.”
He led them up a series of wide, stone steps and past the big wooden columns that guarded the entrance. He pointed to a particular spot on the outside floor, but was too late. Spike had stepped on the rotten board, putting his foot through it.
“Sorry! A bit of a fixer-upper, it is, but being the industrious woman I think you are,” said Marcus in an attempt to flatter Grizzelda, “you should have it patched up in no time.”
As he fumbled to find the house key on the big iron loop, Colin examined the gigantic double door in front of them. It was massive, and very unfriendly-looking with iron studs and large angular hinges. Two green brass plates, bottom and top, bound the dark, pitted planks together. In the center of the right-hand door was a large, circular knocker shaped in the form of entwined serpents. He almost felt compelled to reach out to rap the knocker against the wood, but Marcus found the right key and opened the lock.
“So, as I was saying, a bit of a fixer-upper.” Marcus waved his thick figures dismissively at the ceiling. On the floor there were a number of buckets -- most were half filled with stagnant water. “The roof has a few holes in it, but nothing…”
“…a resourceful woman like you can’t fix,” completed
Spike, rolling his eyes.
Glancing first at Grizzelda, then at Spike, Marcus gave a hesitant grin. “It has been vacant for many years.”
“I don’t know about you, but this place gives me the creeps,” Spike muttered under his breath. He leaned in close to Colin and whispered, “So what does Sergeant Peary think of the place?”
The boys weren’t worried about being overheard. Marcus was over by the stairway, rubbing off the dust from the banister with his sleeve to show Grizzelda the wood grain. And Melissa was shyly, but curiously, lifting the sheet off what appeared to be a piano.
“I don’t know. Ever since Grandfather Thunder left, he’s been silent.”
“That’s unlike him. I sure hope he pipes up real soon ‘cuz Grizzelda’s gone totally whacko and I kinda doubt G.T. meant for us to end up here. What do you think of this place? You can’t think she’s really considering buying it? I mean, a place like this must cost a bundle! It’s creepy, but it could rub off on you. You know what I mean, lots of places to hide from Grizzelda. Where would she get the money?” Spike cast a furtive glance at his Aunt who was now being led up the stairs to the second level.
Colin knew Spike was just letting off a bit of steam and wasn’t all that concerned about hearing what he had to say.
The boys joined Melissa who had now peeled back a corner of the dusty linen, revealing the black and white keys of a baby grand. She swished the dust off the bench, sat down, and softly, ever so softly, began to play Au claire de la lune, the piano in perfect tune. Colin and Spike stared at her stupefied.
As she finished playing the piece, Spike asked, “How did you learn to do that?”
“Yes. How did you learn to do that?” demanded Grizzelda, sweeping down the steps in a long aggressive stride, her voice harsh like the ragged edge of hastily cut tin. Quickly, she grabbed the corner of the linen and pulled it back down over the keys of the piano.
Melissa shrugged apologetically, using physical motions in place of words. There were times when Spike wondered if his sister would ever speak, but, even if she never did, he recognized there was deep, startling intelligence there, moving beyond the limpid depths of her eyes.
Grizzelda snorted disdainfully and turned away to face Marcus. “I think I’ve seen enough. We’ll take it.”
The real estate agent choked on the rush of grateful words spewing out of his mouth. Once he had settled down, suppressing his enthusiasm, not trying to seem too eager, he regained the use of his voice. “There is – ah - something else you should know. The house is – how might I say this - haunted.”
“Haunted!” Spike couldn’t control himself as he shouted with glee. “Excellent!”
Grizzelda merely arched a condescending eyebrow, “An earthbound spirit? Is that all?”
“Well,” continued Marcus, taken aback by the response, “I don’t know if anybody has ever seen it. They just sort of hear it and sometimes - smell it.” The portly man was unaware that he was rubbing his hands together in a worried, contrite fashion.
“Smell it?” asked Grizzelda.
“Yes, the smell of tobacco smoke,” he said, then returned to the matter of the sale. “So, to go back over the – er - some of the detractors of the house – so that you are perfectly aware of what you are getting into…”
Grizzelda coiled her arm around Marcus’ sleeve and squeezed his arm, giving him a flattering, smile.
“Don’t you worry about any of those things; I just need to know if you can accept gold.”
Marcus went white. “Gold? You mean cash? No mortgage? You’re buying it outright? You haven’t even heard the price?” When the look didn’t change on Grizzelda’s face, he continued, “No, no, you don’t pay me, my good woman; you pay the bank. This place fell into receivership, for unpaid taxes, years ago when old man Horwood died. His only son preceded him; he was killed during the Second World War. No, it’s the bank you need to go to. They bought the place off the town, and to this day they continue to pay the taxes.”
“It doesn’t matter what it costs,” said Grizzelda, turning about to get a full panoramic view of the dark interior. “It’s perfect! Can we move in tonight?” She gave him a disarming smile.
Swallowing hard, as though he was trying to confirm to himself that this wasn’t a dream, he fumbled with the brief case he had been carrying, opened it and pulled out a bundle of papers and a pen.
“Of course you can move in tonight, if you really want to, but we’ll have to sign a few papers. You know, for liability purposes.”