Death's Puppeteer

22nd July 1909

"Owen? D'you forget we 'ad a job?"

"No..." Even Owen's voice was strangely quiet and without a word to Enoch he let his son step around him and towards the kitchen to get his breakfast. "Enoch won't be comin' today."

"Why ain't 'e comin'? What's 'appened?"

Enoch paused inside the kitchen to listen. His eyes were fixed on the bowl of cool porridge and trickle of milk at his place at the table but his attention was on the hall where he heard his father and uncle speaking in hushed tones he couldn't quite make out. He chanced a glance around the doorway in time to watch his uncle head towards the stairs and his father run a hand through his receding hair and grip a great chunk of it.

His gut twisted unpleasantly as he sank into his chair at the table, tossed his cap onto it, and tried to stomach a few mouthfuls of the disgusting, lumpy porridge. He had barely swallowed a spoonful when he heard someone's heavy footsteps on the stairs and his uncle's unmistakeable voice curse loudly.

Enoch didn't move from his seat for several long minutes. His restless fingers tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl though he didn't feel hungry at all enough to finish the breakfast his mother left out for him. It was still early, Faith would probably still be in bed but he hadn't seen or even heard his mother in the house yet.

He didn't move until he heard his father in the doorway and slowly looked over his shoulder at him.

The chair scraped against the floorboards as he pushed it back and got to his feet but otherwise made no movement closer to his father.

There was a long moment of tense silence between father and son before Owen spoke in a low, barely measured voice that trembled with some suppressed emotion.
"You won't be comin' into the shop today, Enoch."

Enoch didn't need to ask why. He wasn't entirely surprised that his father no longer wanted him around there but all the same he looked over his father's shoulder to his uncle who stood in the room beyond. The man whose face had minutes ago been laughing and happy was looking at Enoch with an expression of disgust and fear Enoch had never seen before even when he raised the dead in front of him.

"Look at me when I'm talkin' ta ya."

Enoch's blue eyes snapped back to his father's face and he clenched his jaw in an effort to resist the retort that tingled at the tip of his tongue.

"You will not leave this 'ouse 'til I get back."

"I what?" Enoch snapped, his eyes wide with shock at his father's very stern order. "D'you really fink I'm gonna 'urt someone? It ain't doin' no 'arm! Y'can't-"

Smack.

Enoch staggered sideways and whatever he had been about to say was lost on his lips as he stared in shock at his father who was staring at his own hand like he hadn't really meant to strike with it.

While his son raised trembling fingers to his cheek and stared at him like a frightened dog, Owen swallowed a lump in his throat and stood his ground.
"I'm yer father, you'll do as I say. I wouldn't do this if I fought I 'ad a choice. You will stay in this 'ouse 'til I come back. Do ya understand me?"

"...Yessir."

"Good."

Enoch remained rooted to the spot and staring at nothing as his father walked away towards the front door. Uriah looked over at Enoch but seemed to think better of saying anything to him before he followed his brother out the door.
Only when he heard the front door close did Enoch move. His fingertips traced circles over his cheek where he still felt the sting of his father's blow. He was stunned, but not entirely surprised. Slowly the hand holding his cheek dropped and curled into a fist as he shook with barely suppressed anger towards his father. All this just because he'd seen Enoch make a few dolls dance around. Or was it? Something had made even Uriah look at him like he was a freak now after laughing with him and thinking he was joking about his abilities.