The High House

by James Stoddard

  “I … I promise. I’m sorry, Father.” Carter was close to tears.

  Seeing his son’s distress, Lord Anderson softened. “It’s all right. No harm was done. Come now, let’s go see your brother.”

  * * *

  On the southwest side of the High House, at the garden entrance, a little door led outside from the kitchen into a yard overshadowed by immense oak trees, bordered by a brick fence four feet tall, with short bronze statues of angels with longbows drawn, standing atop the wall at each of the four corners. A wishing well, surrounded by red lacecaps, stood in the middle of the yard, with snails drifting like sailboats up and down its sides, and a bronze plate along its rim that read: Masonry From the Ifdawn Marest. A row of tall hedges filled the northern portion of the court, forming a haphazard maze where Carter often played. He loved the yard; it was cool on hot summer days, and when the wind blew, the leaves of the trees rustled like the wings of giant birds. He liked to sit with his back to the well and read books, adventure stories such as The People of the Mist or, even better, The Well at the World’s End, which he thought must be much like this well. Beyond the short wall ran a cobblestone path that circled the entire house, and in its midst stood a black lamppost. Every evening, Chant strolled out the white wooden gate hidden behind the grape arbor, singing snatches of verse as he lit the lamp. Ivy covered the fence; verdigris covered the angels; a heavy layer of peace covered the whole yard.

  One day, as twilight slipped gray over the world, when the Lamp-lighter had already done his work, Carter lingered upon the lawn, watching a blue beetle, big as his thumb, making its way along the bottom of the fence. Its shell crackled like papyrus as he cautiously prodded it with a stick.

  In the midst of his investigation, a shadow fell between him and the lingering sun. Glancing up, he gave a cry of fear, dropped the stick and backed away, for a man stood, watery as a mirage, on the other side of the fence. In the dimness and the long shadows, when he had first glanced up, he had thought the stranger had no face at all, but a smooth, pink blankness. He saw now this was not so, but it took a moment for his heart to calm. Although he had never actually seen an English bobby, he recognized from illustrations in books the man’s tall helmet, dark uniform, and long, wooden billy, swinging on its cord. When he smiled, he had a round, pleasant face.

  “Did I startle you, lad?” he asked, in a low, rasping voice, belieing his affable stare. “Terribly sorry. I’m Constable Pratt.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Carter said, remembering himself. “Has there been trouble?”

  “None at all. None at all. I’m simply making my rounds. It’s good to check on things.” The Bobby drew close to the wall, though he did not touch it.

  Carter thought it peculiar that a constable should make rounds so many miles from any village, but he said nothing. His first fear had been replaced by a solid dread, a kind of quiet horror. He did not understand it, but it was made worse each time he glanced away from Pratt, for the illusion of his facelessness returned when Carter saw him only from the corner of his eyes.

  “I wonder,” the Bobby said, “could you perhaps let me in through the little gate? I’d like a bit of water from that well, if you don’t mind.”

  “I … I couldn’t do that, sir. Chant keeps it locked. I could get Brittle to let you in if you’d like.”

  The Bobby exhaled with a noise like a low hiss, but he smiled again. “No, don’t trouble him. Perhaps you could bring me a cup of water, then?”

  “Of course,” Carter said. If anything, his fear had increased. He fought the urge to back his way to the well, as if he were retreating from a viper, yet every step with the Bobby out of sight filled him with panic. He wanted to dart inside, shouting for Brittle and Enoch, but instead he lowered the bucket and drew water from the well. He dipped the tin cup in, filled it, and brought it toward the constable, who waited, hands outstretched.

  And suddenly he knew, as surely as he knew the faces of the angels on the fence, that the Bobby could not pass beyond the wall, that it served as a barrier he could not cross. This, then, was the line, and if Carter handed him the cup, he would be crossing it, over into a country where he could be reached. He paused.

  “That’s a good lad,” the Bobby rasped. “Bring it to me.”

  Carter stretched his hand out and gently set the cup upon the wall. “Here, sir.”

  Just at the corner of the constable’s eyes, so slight Carter thought he might have imagined it, he saw the dagger malice of one thwarted. “Thank you, lad,” he said, but he did not take the cup.

  “You’re welcome. I … I have to go in now.”

  “Wait! Before you go, come closer and let me ask you something.”

  With all the courage he possessed, Carter stepped toward the fence, not even certain why he obeyed, but quite careful not to cross it with any part of his body. The Bobby, too, drew as near as he dared, and spoke in a whisper.

  “What if you took the keys on the brass ring? You could see what was behind the Green Door. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Even as he said it, the Bobby leaned closer toward the wall. His hand shot out, clawlike, toward the boy, but struck an invisible barrier above the fence. In that instant, his features went blank again, and he stood like a faceless doll, struggling against the obstruction. Carter backed away and the Bobby did likewise, his features returning.

  “Think about it, boy.”

  Carter bolted for the house, his courage expended. He dared not look back until he had locked the heavy door behind him. Then he peered through the leaded glass. The Bobby stood away from the wall, beside the lamppost, his head turned downward, hidden.

  * * *

  Carter saw the Bobby no more that summer, though many evenings thereafter he looked from the windows, half expecting to see him lurking at the lamppost. Neither did he tell Lord Anderson the tale, though he did not know why. Perhaps it was because he had never thought of taking any of his father’s things before, and so wrestled with the temptation the Bobby had placed within him. As time passed, he found himself watching Lord Anderson, to see where he kept the keys, though Carter told himself it was only curiosity. His father had them with him always, in his greatcoat when he traveled, but otherwise in his pocket.

  One evening, when the whole family sat down to supper, the Master said to Lady Murmur, “Tomorrow I must go hunting in the country of the Tigers of Naleewuath. I shall be gone no more than a week, I think.”

  Carter looked up from his roast brisket and cried, “Oh, Father, could I go with you? I’ve never seen a tiger!”

  Lord Anderson paused in thought. “You are nearly twelve. This might be a good time. There are no tigers like those in Naleewuath.”

  “Do you think it wise?” Lady Murmur asked. “It sounds dangerous.”

  “There is some danger, it is true, but a boy must learn to be a man, and seeing is a start. We would not be alone there. The tigers—”

  “Oh, Ashton,” Murmur said, looking away at her spoon, “I did not intend to mention it, but I’m afraid Carter has not been a good boy this week, and I told him to spend the day in his room tomorrow.”

  Carter stared at Murmur in wide-mouthed surprise.

  “What’s this?” Lord Anderson said, looking hard at the boy.

  “I didn’t want to trouble you with it,” Murmur continued. “It’s just that your son is always saying cruel things to little Duskin. He has been absolutely hateful, and spoken back to me as well.”

  “Carter, is this true?”

  “It’s not true at all!” Carter cried. “How could I be cruel, when she never lets me near him?”

  “You see,” Murmur said. “He’s quite sarcastic.”

  Lord Anderson gave Murmur a rigid glance, then looked at Carter in perplexity. “Perhaps tomorrow would not be the best time,” he said softly. “You will accompany me to Naleewuath some other day.”

  As soon as dinner was over, Carter excused himself and rushed up the stair. Once in his roo
m he slid into a corner and wept, understanding nothing. Why had she lied? His young mind could not conceive of her wish to discredit him so Duskin could become the favored son; his only thought was that he had somehow offended her.

  The next morning he woke early, dressed quickly, and hurried into the upstairs hall. Far below, he heard his father’s voice. Almost without conscious thought, he slipped into Lord Anderson’s bedroom, where his greatcoat lay waiting on the bed.

  A dim plan, one he had dared not consciously consider, rushed all at once into him. He went to the coat, felt inside the pocket, and drew out the bronze key ring. It gleamed with a hundred colors, but he stared at it only a moment before stuffing it into his own pocket.

  He had only one thought: if he could get beyond the Green Door, where Murmur could not reach him, then his father would be glad to see him and they could go together to the Tigers of Naleewuath.

  He hurried down the corridor and descended the narrow servants’ stair beside the day nursery, which brought him directly to his destination. The stair was straight, but very long; the leering gargoyles on the railing knobs seemed to taunt him as he hurried down. Passing to the floor below, he entered the narrow door beneath the stair. The gas lamp was already on, making him marvel at Chant’s abilities. He gave a sudden rush of breath as he stopped before the Green Door. A twinge of doubt assailed him; the door seemed foreboding—even threatening—this day. For a moment he stood uncertain. There was only the gentle swishing of the gas jet, the door before him, and the keys hanging like a heavy weight in his pocket.

  “I don’t care!” he cried suddenly. “I’ll show her!”

  His mouth went dry as he took the keys. They shimmered in his hand like phosphorescent stones, all colors, many different sizes, with heads rounded, ovoid, square, triangular, some with angels’ wings or faces upon them, and one with an acorn with eyes. Each key brought a different emotion with it: the royal blue, speckled with gray, radiated peace; the golden key excited; the silver spoke of wonders uncounted; the red key of danger; the rusty key, sepulchers and dust. Carter tried to count them, but the number never totaled the same. There was a power, a strength about them that both frightened and thrilled him, as if they had not been made by mortal men.

  With shaking hands he took the malachite key and inserted it into the gray lock; it resisted only an instant before turning with a solid click. He opened the door cautiously and peered within. Seeing no danger, he stepped into a gray hall filled with a light mist. An ashen carpet covered the floor and gray pictures of gray flowers hung upon the dull walls. The corridor led to right and left. After some hesitation, he chose the right.

  His entire body felt strange and he experienced minute pains—on his arms, his legs, his back, as if every part were being discreetly torn away and rebuilt. A shuddering overtook him that was not fear, and he knelt upon the carpet until it passed. As he did so, he glanced up and realized he could not see the ceiling, which was hidden by the mist.

  As he proceeded down what seemed an endless way, the thought occurred to him that he should turn back, lest he miss his father. He did so at once and found he had traveled farther than he would have believed. When he finally arrived back at the Green Door, he found a figure standing there, half-hidden by the fog.

  He ran forward, expecting his sire, then stopped short when he saw the Bobby, his face a smooth nothing save for a crescent-moon grin.

  Carter backed away in horror, but when he turned to run, his path was blocked by a man clad in black, who seized him at once, bound him by the hands, and threw him over his shoulder.

  The Bobby approached. The grin had given way to the kindly face he had worn in the yard. Smiling, he searched Carter’s pockets until he found the bronze ring. As he held the keys, they dulled in his pale hands. “Thank you, boy,” he rasped. “You have given us a great gift.”

  Carter cried out, but the man holding him thrust a gag over his mouth.

  “Should we lock the door?” the man asked.

  The Bobby grinned. “No. Leave Anderson a clue. He will suffer all the more for it.”

  For what seemed to Carter like hours, his abductors carried him through endless halls, up winding stairs, then down others, through rooms great and small, until he thought they must surely be traveling in circles; no house could be this large. Yet on they went, past bookcases with shelves carved like serpents and nightstands sculpted like dragons. Carter was carried facing backward, so he could not see their direction of travel, but only where they had gone. So miserable was he that his disobedience had brought disaster, he did not think to memorize his path until it was too late.

  The men began a long descent, down a stairway woven in shadows and spiderwebs, that creaked in protest at every step; ebon carvings of angels of darkness stood in alcoves to the sides—proud, arrogant, their wings like vultures, their hawk noses cruel. Carter whimpered and closed his eyes.

  That stair seemed to go on indefinitely; they passed dozens of landings lit by green gaslights in braziers carved as skulls. Carter only once caught sight of the Bobby during that time, his face blank, ghastly in the eldritch glow.

  At last they came to a four-paneled door formed of black marble. The Bobby drew out a long, rusted key, though not from the bronze ring, and unlocked it.

  “In you go and in you stay,” he said, taking the gag from Carter’s mouth and the rope from his wrists. “This is the Room of Horrors. You will never leave it.”

  With rough hands, they cast him into the darkness, skinning his knees as he slid across the hard floor. He flung himself, too late, back at the door; the lock clicked shut before he ever touched it. Through the heavy marble he did not even hear the men depart. He beat upon the door with his small fists, until he heard an odd, scraping sound behind him.

  He turned to face it and screamed.

  A ghost stood before him, wrapped in insubstantial white, chains fastened to its gossamer arms. It moaned as it approached, like wind blowing through rafters. Carter backed against the marble, paralyzed with terror. The specter drew near and abruptly thrust its face three inches away from Carter’s own, its mouth and eyes gaping darkness. The boy screamed and bolted, feet pounding against bare boards, fleeing through utter blackness.

  He smashed against something hard, and fell back, dazed and weeping, trembling like a fawn. Gradually, he recovered himself, controlled his sobbing, and sat up. No matter how he strained his eyes, he could detect no trace of light.

  A low growling rose at his left ear. He leapt to his feet and ran again.

  Hours later found him cringing in a corner. He could run no more; he had been pursued through every waking moment by visions and monsters, some visible, others hidden in the night. He had no more tears for crying; he wanted his father, who he now knew to be involved in dangerous business indeed. He wondered how the Bobby could be so cruel.

  Finally, he slept a twitching, trembling sleep, a brief cessation from the horror.

  When he woke, he found the face of the ghost thrust before him once more. He screamed and ran again.

  * * *

  In years after, he remembered nothing about the Room of Horrors except its night and terror, for it was indeed filled with fears of every sort that sent him scurrying across the boards, hiding in closets and crannies, sleeping when he could, only to be awakened by the things of nightmare. He found food sometimes, for it was never the purpose of the chamber to starve its victims. There were moments and even hours of respite, but these were always broken by tramping feet, hideous howls, or leering stares.

  He could not have lasted long there, in such dread, not without being broken in spirit. Whether he remained a week, or only a single day, he never knew; it seemed eternal, but eventually he heard the sound of thunder. A blast shook the chamber, blinding him; he thought it only a new peril. But when he could see again he found Brittle, holding a lantern aloft, standing before the marble door, which lay broken and smoking, sundered by a mighty blow, the smell of sulphur roiling fro
m it. Beside the butler stood Lord Anderson, his jagged Lightning Sword held high, fury burning in his eyes. In that moment, Carter understood, perhaps for the first time, that his father would have dared the devil himself to save him. He swept Carter into his arms in one swift motion, wrapping him in his cloak as if he were an infant. Wasting no time on speech, but weeping as he went, he rushed the lad up the stair.

  Carter cried in his father’s arms until he fell asleep, so that he did not even remember being tucked safely into his own bed.

  * * *

  He had nightmares for several weeks thereafter, and his father stayed close, neglecting the business of the house to be with his son. Carter remembered those days as happy ones, despite the lingering fear, because of Lord Anderson’s attentions. Murmur, if anything, was even less kind, and often, as the Master held his son’s hands to help him say his nightly prayers, Carter would see, between half-closed lids, the lady standing at the doorway, glaring.

  It happened shortly after Carter’s twelfth birthday that he wandered back into the walled garden, which he had avoided since his encounter with the Bobby. Still, looking out the windows, the sunlight against the leaves beckoned him, and he followed after, to play among the hedges, knowing his father was in council with visitors and would be busy throughout the afternoon.

  With a carved wooden sword and a hat made of paper, he charged among the hedges, playing games of war, fancying himself a brave captain, leader of a host. The tall rows of privet provided fortresses, enemy lines, and corners for turning and falling on the foe, and he played while the cool breath of morning lapped his brow.

  He was bent down upon the ground, drawing a map in the dirt with a stick, when a shadow suddenly crossed above him. Looking up, he saw the Bobby grinning unpleasantly.

  He shrieked in terror and leapt up, but the hedges pinned him roundabout, and the Bobby grasped him in his cruel grip. He cupped one hand over his mouth and dragged him across the yard. They were at the well, heading toward the gate behind the grape arbor, when Carter got his teeth into the thick hands. The Bobby growled in rage and the boy screamed for help as loud as he could. His captor cuffed him sharply, then continued dragging him toward the gate.