Spooky Trills

by Nic Saint

  I woke up with a start. Somewhere in the bowels of our house, people were screaming. This wasn’t as unusual as it sounds. At Diffley Manor screaming and hysterics are pretty much a normal part of everyday life. When you live with five brothers, it’s all par for the course. But since it was barely seven o’clock, I wasn’t amused. I like to sleep. In fact I love it. And I hate it when my brothers wake me up before I’m good and ready.

  I threw back the covers and stomped out of bed, ready to whoop some ass and tan some hides. This is another aspect of living with five males: a girl learns to stand her ground. I quickly checked if I was decent. Hermione Granger shorts. Check. Han Solo T-shirt. Check. Gandalf the Gray slippers. Check. Hey. I like fantasy movies and books. Sue me.

  I stalked from my room and stepped into the hallway. Six other rooms lead off this hallway, along with one communal bathroom, though Grandma has been promising us for ages she’s going to install a second one, just for us girls, so I wouldn’t have to share the space with my five pig brothers.

  The noise seemed to come from downstairs, and as I crossed to the balustrade to peer down, two more doors opened and my equally sleep-deprived brothers Calvin and Brice walked out, rubbing their eyes and yawning freely.

  “What’s going on?” asked Calvin, stumbling forward. He’s one year older than me, and he’s the brainy one. With his blond hair and bright green eyes, he looks a lot like me, too. Minus the boobs, of course, and other assorted body parts.

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Probably Rodrick again,” said Brice. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he’s the photogenic one, and he knows it. One day he would like to be a movie star, though I hope that day never comes, as he’s already too conceited as it is.

  We pricked up our ears. The screamer seemed to be a woman.

  “Does that sound like Mrs. Gauntlet?” asked Calvin.

  “Now that you mention it, that does sound a lot like her,” I agreed.

  “I like Mrs. Gauntlet,” said Brice with a knowing grin. “She’s hot.”

  “She’s our neighbor,” I said. “Show some respect.”

  He shrugged. “So? Neighbors can be hot. And Philana Gauntlet is definitely hot.”

  “She’s also definitely married,” said Calvin. “So you better keep that in mind when you start going all googly eyes at her.”

  “I’m not going to go all googly eyes at her!” Brice cried. “Though I might.”

  “No, you mightn’t,” said Calvin.

  Brice grinned. “That’s not even a word.”

  “It is, too,” Calvin assured him.

  “Whatever, dude. You don’t get to tell me what to do,” said Brice. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “She’s our neighbor, for Christ’s sakes,” said Calvin. “And the wife of one of the richest men in the country. And from what I’ve heard Zedekia Gauntlet is involved with some very shady shit. So if you don’t want to find yourself buried three feet deep in concrete, I suggest you be on your best behavior.”

  Brice’s eyes had gone wide. “He’s Mafia?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was,” said Calvin, with a quick glance at me.

  I knew for a fact that Zedekia Gauntlet was an investment banker, and to my knowledge investment bankers don’t bury annoying neighbors three feet deep in cement, but I wasn’t going to derail Calvin’s attempt to keep my horny older brother in line, so I merely nodded knowingly when Brice directed a look at me for confirmation.

  “Christ,” said Brice. He’d blanched a little. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “Why? Did you make a pass at Mrs. Gauntlet already?” I asked. It wouldn’t surprise me. Brice seems to feel that as a budding movie star he needs to get a head start on the collection of his harem, which is probably the only reason he wants to be an actor in the first place.

  “Well, I might have,” said Brice dismissively. “But now I won’t.”

  “Good thinking, buddy,” said Calvin, patting him on the back. “You just saved us the cost of a funeral service.”

  “Though without a body I think we might get a discount,” I said.

  Calvin pointed a finger at me. “I like the way your mind works.”

  There was a commotion behind us, as two more doors opened and two more Diffley men joined us. I know. There’s too much testosterone in this house. I’ve learned to live with it. Barely. These two specimens were Lucien and Dalton. Lucien looks like he was adopted, as he’s scrawny, gangly and royally pimpled. His black hair is fashionably unruly, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of spectacles. He’s also very, very gay.

  Dalton is the muscleman in our family. He can usually be found lifting weights in his room, and scarfing down chicken breast fillets. He looks like Dwayne Johnson, but unfortunately lacks that man’s fine intellect.

  “What’s going on?” Lucien asked annoyedly. “What’s all this damn racket?” He took off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his black silk pajamas.

  “Yeah, what’s with all the noise?” Dalton added, making his chest muscles dance, more out of habit than for any particular reason. He was dressed in his usual tank top, displaying a lot of finely-chiseled muscle.

  “I think it’s Mrs. Gauntlet,” said Calvin. “And I think she had another run-in with Rodrick.”

  “Oh, God, not again,” said Lucien, expressively rolling his eyes.

  “What do you mean, again?” asked Dalton. “And who is Mrs. Gauntlet?” I noticed he was squeezing a little red ball, his right bicep swelling ominously.

  “If you’re not careful that’s going to pop,” I told him.

  He looked down at his bicep stupidly. “Huh? Oh, I see what you mean.” He gave me a good-natured grin. “Funny, Saffron. Very funny.”

  “Mrs. Gauntlet is our neighbor, dumbass,” Lucien grated.

  “The blond bombshell,” Brice added helpfully. “The hot chick?”

  “The very married hot chick,” Calvin said with a warning glance at Brice.

  “She’s not so hot,” said Lucien. “Her husband’s hot, though.”

  “Her husband is a banker,” I said. “How can he be hot?”

  Lucien shrugged his bony shoulders. “Like Christian Grey? He’s hot.”

  “Christian Grey isn’t a banker,” I said. “He’s a businessman.”

  “Pretty sure he’s a banker,” Lucien said in that grating voice of his.

  “Who’s Christian Grey?” asked Dalton, squeezing the little red ball with his left hand now.

  “He’s the guy from Fifty Shades of Grey,” said Brice. “The sex movies?”

  “They’re not sex movies,” Lucien protested. “They’re books. And it’s not all about the sex. There’s a significant romantic storyline. And an exploration of the world of BDSM that was unheard of before the publication of the trilogy.”

  “What’s BDSM?” asked Dalton unflinchingly.

  “Nothing you should concern yourself with,” Lucien snapped. He, more than the rest of us, could get worked up over Dalton peppering him with questions.

  There was more shouting drifting up from downstairs, so I decided that maybe we should go and have a look, just in case Grandma needed our help handling Mrs. Gauntlet. My brothers seemed to share this sentiment, for they all headed for the stairs the moment I did.

  When we arrived in the foyer, where the noise seemed to be coming from, I saw that Calvin was right. It was Philana Gauntlet, and she looked very unhappy. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with long, blond hair, vivid blue eyes, and those classic Sports Illustrated features. She’d been a model before getting hitched with the banker.

  She was unloading on Grandma, who stood stiff and unyielding, arms crossed over her large chest, her coarse features twisted in an expression of anger. Her anger wasn’t directed at Philana, but at the little boy who was weathering the storm with his customary brand of bluster.

  That little boy was Rodrick, the caboose baby in our family. I’m twenty-three, and Rodrick is ten, so
there’s a big age gap. In fact I’ve heard Grandma tell her friends Rodrick was something of an accident, though she’d never say that to his face, of course. Truth is, Rodrick, green-eyed and blond like me, is a little rascal, but we still adore him. From time to time.

  “I caught him peeping through my bathroom window!” Philana cried.

  “I just wanted to see if she was a witch!” Rodrick yelled.

  “A witch?” Philana asked. “Why would you think I was a witch?”

  “Because you’re so pretty,” Rodrick admitted.

  Philana seemed taken aback by this. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “Uh-huh. Unnaturally pretty. So of course I figured you’re a witch.”

  “Of course,” Calvin muttered next to me. I gave him a shove.

  It was obvious that Philana didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed by this. “But why would you look through my window?”

  Rodrick shrugged. “I was looking for your third nipple. Everybody knows witches have a third nipple!” he added loudly when Brice uttered a guffaw. “And I just wanted to find hers!”

  “What’s a third nipple?” asked Dalton.

  “A third nipple or some other sign of the devil,” Rodrick explained. “A special birthmark. I didn’t get a good look, though,” he lamented. “Just when I got my camera out she saw me and freaked out.”

  “Oh, you brought a camera, too, huh?” asked Philana, her cheeks flushing. “You were going to film me?”

  “Duh,” said Rodrick. “I need proof if I’m going to convince my friends I’m living next door to a witch.”

  There was a hint of amusement in Philana’s eyes. “For your information, Rodrick, I don’t have a third nipple. And I’m not a witch. But thank you for the compliment. I guess.”

  “Don’t encourage him, Philana,” Grandma said. “He’ll just do it again.”

  “Oh, well,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Boys will be boys.”

  “You will apologize to Mrs. Gauntlet at once,” Grandma insisted. “And promise her you’ll never do it again!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gauntlet,” said Rodrick grudgingly. “And I won’t do it again,” he added when Grandma fixed him with a kindling eye. He was crossing his fingers behind his back, though, which elicited another guffaw from Brice, who seemed to think the whole thing was just hilarious.

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” said Philana, her lips pursed but her eyes smiling. “I can’t have little boys spying on me while I’m in the shower now can I?”

  There was a soft moaning sound next to me, and when I glanced over, I saw that Brice was practically salivating at the thought of spying on Philana Gauntlet while she was in the shower.

  “Buried three feet deep in concrete,” Calvin whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, shut up already,” Brice hissed.

  Lucien had wandered off. He wasn’t all that interested in blond bombshell neighbors who may or may not have been Sports Illustrated cover models. Brice followed in his wake, and I could hear him asking, “What’s with this third nipple business?”

  Philana had crouched down, so her face was level with Rodrick’s. “You can’t go peeping in other people’s windows, Rodrick. It’s not very nice. I mean, how would you feel if I came looking through your window?”

  Judging from his frown, this gave the kid some food for thought. Finally, he seemed to decide how he felt about Philana’s unusual proposal. “I’d be fine with it. As long as you fly in on your broom. Brooms are cool.”

  Philana laughed and tousled my little brother’s straw-blond hair. “You’re a funny little boy, Rodrick.”

  “I’m not a little boy,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height of fifty inches. “And I’m not funny!”

  “No, I don’t think this is funny, either,” said Grandma.

  “He won’t do it again,” said Philana. “Cause next time he tries, I’ll cast a spell on him!” At this, she made a grabbing motion for Rodrick.

  The kid squealed and ran off. “She’s a witch! I told you so!”

  Philana laughed and rose to her feet. “If I ever have kids, I hope they’ll be like that little boy of yours, Margaret. He’s simply too precious.”

  “He’s simply a pest,” Calvin muttered.

  Just then, Jerome, our family French Mastiff, came waddling up, directed a sad look up at Philana, let rip a noisy fart, and dropped down on her feet with a sigh.

  Philana heaved a squeal, extracted her foot from beneath Jerome’s sizable butt, and walked off in a huff. I wondered if she thought Jerome was precious, too.

  Chapter Two

  I knelt down next to the old dog and tickled him behind the ears. Jerome, who looks exactly like Hooch from the Tom Hanks movie Turner and Hooch, has been in our family for so long nobody knows exactly how old he is. I googled French Mastiffs once and saw their life expectancy is five to eight years. I’m sure Jerome is an anomaly, for he was already part of our family when I was born. Then again, nothing about our family is normal.

  For one thing, we were all raised by our grandmother, after our mom and dad mysteriously disappeared soon after Rodrick was born. And for another, we work for an organization called Karma Corps. It’s not a car company, or one of those snazzy Silicon Valley software start-ups. Karma Corps has been around since pretty much forever, and handles humanity’s karma. You know the drill. If you do something bad, sooner or later you will pay the price.

  We don’t handle the small stuff, though. That kind of thing usually takes care of itself. Like when a little boy peeks through a neighbor’s window hoping to catch a glimpse of her third nipple, he might get sent to his room by his grandma. Or when a guy kicks a dog he might get fired by his boss for arriving late for work. No, we handle the big stuff. Murder. Grievous bodily harm. Kidnapping. Arson. Fraud. Not that I’m perfectly up to date on all of the particulars, as I only started working for the company after I graduated from Columbia last year. I majored in history. Not because I needed the degree to join the family business, but I like history. And it doesn’t hurt to have a little perspective when you dole out the proper punishment for a corrupt politician or a greedy deceitful banker.

  I sat down for breakfast in the large kitchen, and my brothers all joined me. Calvin started preparing himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Brice prepared himself some whole wheat cereal with fat-free milk—the Angelina Jolie breakfast, as he called it—while Dalton nibbled away at a cold chicken breast fillet. Lucien sipped his black coffee, a dark look on his face as he stared before him, and Rodrick dumped half a box of Cap’n Crunch into his bowl.

  I preferred Grandma’s waffles, and snapped up three, hot from the griddle, before they disappeared down my brothers’ gullets. Or Jerome’s.

  “That stuff’ll kill you,” said Calvin sagely as he watched Rodrick scoop up his cereal. “It’s just a bunch of chemicals. No nutritional value, like, at all.”

  Rodrick shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “It’s just a lot of sugar.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’ll rot your teeth.”

  “Huh. Still don’t care.”

  “All those hydrogenated oils will give you cancer.”

  Rodrick gave him his best eye roll. “Don’t. Care.”

  “It’ll give you a third nipple.”

  This time, the little tyke looked up, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. “For real?”

  “Sure. And a fourth, and a fifth… In fact if you keep eating that stuff you’ll sprout nipples all over your body. And your face.”

  Rodrick glanced over to Grandma, who was pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Grandma? Is that true? Am I going to get a bunch of nipples?” There was a note of panic in his voice.

  “Of course not,” said Grandma. “Calvin, stop feeding your brother a bunch of nonsense. And finish your breakfast, Rodrick. I don’t want to have to run after the school bus again.”

  Rodrick directed an angry look at his older brother. “You�
�re mean, Calvin.”

  “It’s true. Just wait and see.” He frowned and stared at Rodrick’s face. “My God. I think I can see one coming on already!”

  Rodrick’s hands flew to his face, upsetting his bowl and sending cereal flying all over the table. “Where?! Where?!”

  “Between your eyes. A big, fat, blue nipple!”

  “You’re lying!” Rodrick cried, pushing himself away from the table and racing into the hallway to take a look in the mirror. “You’re lying!” we could hear him screeching. “There’s nothing there!”

  “Calvin!” Grandma said, her hands planted on her hips. “Stop teasing your brother. And I won’t say this a second time. Or a third, actually.”

  “Just a little instant karma,” Calvin said innocently.

  “No doling out punishments to your own family,” she said. “You know the rule.”

  “Rodrick is right,” I said. “You’re mean.”

  “I thought it was pretty funny,” said Brice.

  “Me, too,” said Dalton. He’d finished one fillet and was gnawing on another.

  “We shouldn’t punish our own,” I said. “Especially for something minor like snooping around Philana Gauntlet’s house.”

  Calvin groaned. “Can’t I have a little fun around here? I was just joking.”

  Rodrick had joined us again, casting nasty glances at Calvin. “I’m going to get you for this,” he said.

  “I do not doubt that you will,” Calvin said cheerfully.

  “See?” asked Grandma. “That’s what you get. Punishment begets punishment. You of all people should know better, Calvin.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Calvin muttered, taking another bite of his peanut butter sandwich and picking up his iPad to read the New York Times.

  There was a ring at the door and Lucien looked up eagerly. “That’ll be the mailman,” he said, and scooted away in the direction indicated. Moments later, he returned with a bulky package, his eyes shining with excitement.

  He dumped a copy of US Weekly in Brice’s lap and said, “Oh, there’s a package for you, too, Dalton.”

  “Cool,” said Dalton. “That’ll be my new dumbbells.”

  “What’s that?” I asked as Lucien rattled his own package. He eyed me uncertainly for a moment, then said, “My meds. I ordered them online.”