The High House

by James Stoddard

  “Come to me,” the Bobby said, low and earnest. “Join us. Or do you want the Room of Horrors again?”

  Carter rushed back down the rows of books, the whispering all around him. “Join us,” it said. “Join us or die.”

  He tried to turn a corner, banged into a shelf, and fell to his knees. Far away, he thought he heard the growling of a large animal, a hunting beast. Looking up, he saw the bookcases changed, half-organic: leaves branched from the volumes, moss grew down the tops and sides of the shelves. A jungle of books, he thought, rising to run again.

  Around the next corner he found Brittle stalking along the aisles, poking between the books, a bright sword in his hand. Gold specks danced on its point.

  “What is it?” Brittle demanded, seeing Carter’s expression.

  Carter halted. “Didn’t you hear the noise? The Bobby pursues me. Come with me.”

  Brittle stood and listened. “It is very faint to me. And it is hard to see as well. They are controlling the dream, but they won’t have it all their own way. You should hurry.”

  “Come with me,” Carter urged again.

  “Not yet. You go ahead. Find Hope. He is in danger as well.”

  Carter paused, confused. It was a dream, wasn’t it? It even felt like a dream. Yet, he could not escape the inordinate sense of fear. What was the saying, that if a person dreamed they were falling and hit the bottom before they awoke, the shock would really kill them? But who had ever hit the bottom and found out?

  He continued down the maze, turning right, left, then right again, nearly colliding with the man waiting for him, a long knife in his hand, the very same man who had helped abduct him many years before.

  “Been looking for you,” the man said.

  Carter backed up, while his assailant followed. Reaching to the side, he grasped a book and threw it with all his force, striking his opponent in the forehead, sending him reeling. Carter fled once more down twisted aisles resembling more and more a wildwood; branches drooped from the ceiling; bird calls filtered down through heavy foliage.

  He turned another of the endless corners and found Mr. Hope standing perplexed.

  “Carter, what the devil is happening?”

  Carter had no time to reply before one of the bookcases toppled toward Hope with a loud rumble. He yanked the attorney away, saving him from being crushed as a whole row of shelves fell in domino fashion. Out of the dust and rubble, Brittle came running, brandishing his sword before him.

  “They are right behind me!” the butler cried. “Continue ahead! Seek the second floor; there is a door to the north.”

  From behind the fallen bookcases came the Bobby, the other man with him. A large black beast proceeded them, like a great cat, but a shadow creature with a continually shifting form. The chandeliers rattled as it roared.

  “You can’t stay here!” Carter cried.

  “Someone must hold them off,” Brittle said. “You are the one they want. Hurry!”

  Carter turned, Hope with him. He thought himself a coward, leaving Brittle like this. But wasn’t it all a dream? They rushed down the aisle, dodging and turning through the maze. They had gone no more than fifty yards when they heard the scream of the dark animal, this time crying in pain, and Brittle’s ancient voice, shouting, “For the High House!”

  A thunderous crash followed, and then silence. Carter and Hope kept running, straight into another dead end. They exchanged frightened stares. Hope was dripping with sweat, looking terrified; Carter was certain he looked the same.

  “Over here!” a gruff voice said.

  A center section of one of the bookcases slid forward, opening like a door into a dull, shadowed chamber. Within it sat a lanky man wrapped in penumbra. Even in the darkness, Carter saw his clothes were old, mismatched like a vagabond’s. His face remained hidden by the wide brim of his stovepipe hat. The collar of his patched coat hid the rest of his features.

  “Who are you?” Carter demanded.

  “The Face Outside the Window. The Thing the dog barks at in the night, which it cannot see. I am the Thin Man. In here, quickly.”

  Despite his reservations, driven by need, Carter followed, Hope behind him, and the door slid into place at their backs. The stranger held a tiny candle, which barely illuminated the way before them, revealing a rounded tunnel, with a stair angling upward.

  “Where are we?” Carter half whispered.

  “Headed away,” the Thin Man replied.

  They climbed one flight of rickety steps, but then descended as if toward the basement. Carter wondered if he could defend himself in this narrow way if the Thin Man meant them harm.

  They came to a door, and the stranger grasped Mr. Hope’s sleeve. “You go through there,” he ordered. “You will be safe.”

  Hope looked at Carter and licked his lips. “This is just a nightmare, isn’t it?”

  Carter attempted a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Hope disappeared behind the door. The Thin Man led Carter farther along to the end of the stairs, into a vaguely familiar room.

  “I will leave you now,” the stranger said. “You should be fine.”

  “Yes, thank you.” He turned to look around, but when he turned back, the Thin Man was gone. “Where are you?” he cried. And though he had vanished, his voice echoed in the room, as if far away: “Happens this way in dreams.”

  Part of the wall slid outward, revealing an opening. To Carter’s shock, he found himself back in his own room, entering from the fireplace again. Yet, the staircase had led down, from what should have been the attic, not up from the library. He pressed the brick that rolled the hearth back into place. A great weariness was upon him, despite his fear, and he lay upon the bed, intending to close his eyes only a moment.

  A loud knocking on the door roused him from sleep. He stood groggily.

  “Just a dream, after all,” he murmured, relief sweeping over him.

  As he went to the door, he abruptly halted, for if this were a dream, why hadn’t he awakened in the library, instead of in his own room?

  He opened the door cautiously and found Mr. Hope looking grim.

  “Something wrong?” Carter asked.

  “You better come down. It’s Brittle. In the library. He’s been murdered.”

  The Tigers of

  Naleewuath

  A hard rain fell as they laid Brittle to rest in the servants’ portion of the ancient cemetery south of the house. All the staff was gathered around: the housemaids, ladies’ maids, the housekeeper, valets, butler’s assistants, cooks, the groom of the chamber, footmen, ushers, the hall boy and others, some gaping, some weeping, some biting their lips so as not to weep. Most of the grave markers were modest, but a marble statue of a young boy stood in the center of the stones, his hand above his brow, as if gazing into the distance, and though Carter thought its significance obscure, it gave him comfort to look upon it, and there were flowers on many of the graves. The mounds were nearly level, for no one had been buried there in many years. Brittle’s marker was unassuming, for Enoch said he would have wished it so, and it bore the words Trusted Servant, and gave the date of his death, but not of his birth. Carter asked Chant about that, but the lampman said, “No one really knew when he was born, he had no kin, and no one would believe the number of his days, anyway.” Since Chant was sometimes poetic, Carter asked no more.

  Others attended the service, a mysterious assortment of strangers in all manner of garb, from light armor to long robes, as if they had stepped from another century. Many spoke languages Carter found unrecognizable, and made mysterious, holy signs over the coffin. Over two hundred mourners assembled to honor the humble butler and Carter was both touched and amazed that so many had come.

  He stood with Duskin and Lady Murmur to his left, Chant and Enoch at his right, beneath the sheltering pavilion, as the minister, who must have traveled a considerable distance to reach the house, said the final words. Enoch wept openly as the wooden coffin was lowered into the gro
und. Carter dropped a handful of mud into the hole, and moved away, misty-eyed, nearly stumbling against Duskin on his way out. His half brother’s eyes were red from weeping—a momentary rush of sympathy ran through him—he had known Brittle until he was twelve, but Duskin had been with him all his life. He glanced at Murmur. If there was moisture on her cheeks it was from the rain.

  Mr. Hope approached, extended the cover of his umbrella, and shook Carter’s hand. “A terrible blow. I’m sorry. Can I walk with you back to the house? An awful day for it—stormed ever since we came, hasn’t it? We could all use some hot tea.”

  They made their way across the small hill toward the manor, the others following after. Carter walked with his head down, feeling the rain, the storm, and the heavy weight of Evenmere upon him. It was late afternoon; the clouds hung nearly to the ground; all the world lay shrouded. He thought it fitting.

  “It’s probably a strange time to mention it,” Hope said, “but I’ve had no chance to speak with you since the murder. Did you … by chance … I mean … well, did you happen to have a dream about any of this?”

  Carter stopped, turning sharply toward him. “I did! I’ve been trying to put it all together.”

  “As have I. I fell asleep in the library; at least, I thought I was in the library, though I awoke in my own room. I failed to mention it at first. I think I was afraid. I wondered what the police might think. But then, the inspector was an unusual man; I never quite caught where he was from. We should compare notes.”

  “But not alone. As soon as we are warm and dry I want the two of us to meet with Enoch and Chant in the drawing room. It is time I learned what the High House is about. I think they know.”

  * * *

  Standing by the hearth, Carter warmed his hands and studied the intricate pendants of the plaster ceiling, which trembled with each roll of the thunder. The meeting had been postponed until after dinner, and night had fallen before the four men gathered together; the gas lamps cast shadows thick as rough wool, which wrapped around the light like east-end thieves. Enoch sat in the high-backed chair; Chant sprawled across the golden sofa. Mr. Hope stood in the center of the chamber, as if in a courtroom, and was just finishing his tale, following Carter’s own account.

  “Then, this ‘Thin Man’ let me into my room. I lay down on the bed and was almost immediately awakened by one of the maids. It had the unreal quality of a dream.”

  “Yet we shared the same dream,” Carter said.

  “A premonition of Brittle’s death?” Hope asked.

  “No, not at all,” Chant said. “It was more.”

  Carter turned. “You must tell us.”

  The lampman glanced over at Hope. “It may be too much for an outsider.”

  “I have hired Mr. Hope to counsel me on these matters,” Carter said. “I did so because everyone here is unwilling to speak. Tell us.”

  Chant looked at the floor.

  “Were we the Master, to presume on Brittle’s position?” Enoch asked reluctantly. “It was his place to show you these things. That is why they killed him. Who knew more about the house? Only your father.”

  “They have many powers, the Society of Anarchists,” Chant said. “In the past we have been protected; they could not come here. But now, though it takes great strength to do so, they have entered the library through your dreams. It shows how vulnerable we have become.”

  “What is it all about?” Carter said. “If I am to help, I must know. What is the High House?”

  “A poem,” Chant said. “A mystery. A Force of Nature. All of these and more. I stretch lame hands of faith and grope, and gather dust and chaff, and call, to what I feel is Lord of all, and faintly trust the larger hope. Do not look so. I am answering as best I can. But Enoch is older. Perhaps he can say it better.”

  The old man sighed and stared into the shadows and the fireplace; the sound of the burning logs mingled with the patter of the rain against the eaves, while the angels in the architecture bent their heads above the men, quite frightening in the darkness, all shadows and staring eyes. Carter cast an anxious glance around the room. As a child he did not recall being bothered by the weight of the gloom.

  “My story is the only one I know,” Enoch said, his swarthy features deepened by the night. “I was born, son of Yarad, six thousand years ago in the country once named Aram. You would call it Syria. As a young man, I used to walk with the Lord God among the fields and forests. Do I deserve that look? Such things were common in the Old Days. And I know what you are thinking: what was He like? Don’t ask. I can only tell you He was beautiful. We would talk. Mostly I listened, which is a good thing to do when you are walking with God. People lived longer then, and one day, when I was three hundred sixty-five years old, we strolled until the evening. The stars came out, the pearls of heaven. I suddenly thought: I am far from home. My feet are sore. I should have thought of this. The Lord looked down at me and said, ‘See, your house is far away, but Mine is near at hand. Come stay at My home awhile and I will give you work to do.’

  “So He brought me here, and showed me how to wind the clocks. Then He went away. And not a word since.” Enoch shrugged. “Maybe He’s too busy. I miss our talks.

  “The house was different back then. The styles changed; the architecture changed. But one thing is the same: it is His mechanism. He uses it to run the universe, and the clocks must be wound and the lamps lit, or it will All run down.”

  “And I thought Chant a poet,” Carter said. “So the Bobby and his brood wish to replace order with anarchy?”

  “Do not be deceived by their name,” Chant said. “The anarchists use order or chaos at need, for the universe requires both and they must remain in balance. The anarchists oppose the idea of the universe. On the surface, they seek power, but they are the Great Destroyers, and our real enemy is Entropy. Sometimes, if I cannot light a certain lamp, or if Enoch cannot reach a clock to rewind it, then suns perish and segments of Creation die. The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit. The anarchists will do anything to master the Balance. What they cannot control, they will destroy.”

  Carter and Hope exchanged skeptical glances. “Here, Mr. Hope, is a behemoth even you may have trouble swallowing.”

  The lawyer smiled. “Yet we have dreamed of faceless men, and death has passed from sleep into the waking world.”

  “But what are we to do?” Carter asked. “Can they attack us anytime we slumber? How will we rest tonight?”

  “I don’t believe they can reach us so easily,” Chant said. “The library is a most unusual place; it is their beachhead. There , they focused their powers, causing both of you to fall asleep so they could enter your dreams. Apparently, Brittle was caught in it, and was probably their true target. But I think we will be safe in our beds this night, so long as we are far from the library.”

  “Why Brittle instead of me?” Carter asked. “They have made attempts on my life before.”

  “The High House will have a Master,” Enoch said. “Perhaps you; if not it will choose another. By killing Brittle, who could have taught you much, they have delayed us. They want to overwhelm us before the new Master is ready.”

  “Then I must learn what I can, as quickly as possible. But one thing still troubles me: how did the Thin Man transport us to our rooms? And why?”

  “The why is simple,” Chant said. “To take you beyond the anarchists’ control, so you could wake.”

  “Yes,” Enoch said. “That must be true. And I have known Masters who possessed the power to enter the world of dream and to transport the physical body along the paths of the dream self. It’s difficult and seldom done, but maybe this man has the talent as well.”

  “Intriguing,” Mr. Hope said. “We must learn more of our unknown benefactor.”

  A knock sounded on the door just then, and a hall boy, made timid by having to perform the butler’s services, entered and bowed.

  “Sir, there is a man named Duncan to see you. He wa
s at the funeral today.”

  Carter looked at the others. “Send him in.”

  The man entered, a stout fellow, with eyes cat-green in the firelight. He wore a dark coat, black trousers, and carried a black hat, clothes too fine to suit his weathered face and hands. He was surely older than fifty, and he looked miserably uncomfortable.

  Giving a half bow with his shoulders he said, “I’m Duncan. I’ve come from Naleewuath.”

  Carter started, not having heard that name since the day of his kidnapping. Looking closer, he thought Duncan might appear familiar if fifteen years were taken from his face. Rising, Carter shook his hand and introduced the others. “I believe I remember you, sir. Didn’t you visit my father?”

  “I did. Many years ago. You were only a lad.” The man warmed slightly. “You favor him.”

  “Sit down. Tell us why you have come.”

  He took a chair across from them, facing the fire; the dancing flames made crags of the planes of his face. He smelled vaguely of cedar.

  “Perhaps you remember our story, then,” Duncan said. “Every few years, the wild beasts become too many in Naleewuath. Sheep begin disappearing, and if it isn’t stopped, then children. As we came to your father and the Master before him, we come to you, asking your aid. Bring those you can and help us, as agreed in the treaty between my people and the Inner Chambers.”

  Carter sat silent so long Duncan grew nervous. “My lord, is there anything to consider? We have promised fealty to you in return for your protection. Will you come?”

  “Forgive me,” Carter said. “The name of Naleewuath stirs old memories indeed. The tigers—”

  “Yes,” Duncan said. “Several handfuls of them. You must come.”

  “You realize I am only the Steward, not the Master of the house?”

  “But if there is no Master, the Steward must do. We have waited longer than we should, during the time when there was neither Master nor Steward, while your father was away. It seems he is dead; someone must perform the task. Will you come?”