The Demon Boy

Day One - Night

     The boy, the only sensible one around here, takes not one step forward. The toff lags behind to convince him with rushed whispers. The uncle doesn't notice. He's too busy prompting someone inside to prepare for guests and to do it quick like.

     "Listen to me John." The toff talks over the boy's protests. "Listen to me!" The boy pauses, out of breath. The toff assumes he's allowed to continue and chooses not to look beyond that. "I have a plan." The boy doesn't care, but the toff goes on. "He won't hurt you. He won't touch you; I promise. I'll make him promise. As soon as I can, I will come back for you. You won't stay here a day longer than necessary."

     "But I can't, I can't." The boy's terrified his small voice will fail him if he says more.

     "You can, and you will. You're a tough boy, John. You- you're smart and- and clever and you can do this."

     They're kind words, the kindest the boy's heard in a long time. They're words he wants to believe. So, he nods, he foolishly places his faith in a man he has no confidence in whatsoever. "Okay." He barely breaths the word.

     "Good boy, John."

     The name is all wrong, but it doesn't matter. The praise gives him courage he doesn't have. "I can do this," he parrots.

     "Yes, yes you can... Ah. Here." The toff pulls a piece of paper the size of a playing card from his breast pocket. "If you've any trouble, send a telegram to his address here," he points as he hands over the card, "and help will be on its way."

     The boy frowns at the card. "But I can't-"

     "Oy! Where'd you lot go?" A voice echoes from inside.

     "Later." The toff leads the boy inside. The card gets stuffed in the boy's pocket and any further disputes are conveniently forgotten.

     The first thing the boy sees upon entry are not the shriveled stems of long dead house plants, nor is it the multitude of cracks running through the yellowing wall plaster. None of these things stick out due to the overwhelming presence of the foreigner standing to the side of the doorway, dully inquiring if he may hang their coats.

     The boy's seen foreigners before. He saw loads of them crowding the walkways and piers the day he visited the waterfront, tempted by tales of ships filled with faraway riches. He didn't stay more than one day. Pickings were risky and slim, plus the ships weren't interested in enlisting boys so young, so small as him. That was years ago. He's grown since, but never did see many foreigners after, especially after he was thrown to the homes. So yes, he's seen a foreigner before, but it's been awhile. He hasn't ever been so close to one though. He's near enough to touch if he wanted. Which he doesn't.

     The tall, dark man dressed in a butler's livery intimidates the boy. Half of it is his colour and size, half is his uniform, the last half is his voice rumbling deep as thunder. In short, he's another unknown element.

     In this great house filled with dark corners the wax weeping sconces fail to touch, everything is unknown. Therefore, the boy is scared of everything. He's led further through long halls, the foreigner guiding in front, the toff limping behind. The ceilings are high and the corridors wide, but somehow the foreigner makes the innards of the house look tiny in comparison. It's claustrophobic. He's trapped in a tiny big place with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Keep walking forward, deeper and farther inside closed walls.

     The boy now knows what it's like to be swallowed whole and alive.

     It's warmer inside than it was out.

     The boy is shivering again. Nobody comments on it. Either nobody notices or nobody cares.

     Round a corner they go and around again until they arrive at a large seating room. It's as dim as the halls. The large curtains eclipse all light from outside. Elaborate candelabras dance shadows across every surface. Portraits stare at them. Dusty furniture crowd them in. The stuffed bear lurks in the corner. The uncle leers at them from the sofa.

     It's a scene out of a penny dreadful. You just know something bad will happen.

     "Now," the uncle barks, "le's talk 'bout tha' stipen'."

     The boy can feel the toff stiffen at his side, likely rankled at not being offered a seat. "Very well."

     The boy expects a terse, though polite smile to be splayed across the toff's face. To his horror, he sees no features at all. The light's too feeble, the shadows too strong.

     "But first, I must insist that John here is shown to bed," says the toff. He gives the boy what was supposed to be an affectionate pat.

     The boy would scream if he could lever open his mouth. An inaudible whimper comes from between his clenched teeth.

     There's a flutter of movement in the room. It's the uncle's hand waving. It's the boy's dismissal. "Yeah. Sure. Wha'ever."

     He can't make out what's said afterwards. The throbbing in his chest is too loud. It drowns out all sound. He knows he's supposed to follow the foreigner purely due to the toff's insistent nudge. So off he goes, again swallowed through dim corridors, again following a dark stranger.

     The thudding is getting louder. Is the sound really coming from his chest or is it coming from the walls? The boy can't tell. It could be either.

     They go back down and around turns and bends and stop in a corridor lined with plain doors. The foreigner motions to the doors on the left. He says something. The boy listens without hearing a word. He shudders at the foreigner's voice vibrating along his ribs. The vibrations stop. He takes it as his cue to nod furiously and look submissive. He finds himself staring hard at his feet anew. By the time he risks lifting his head, the foreigner is gone. This leaves him alone with many doors to choose from.

     He turns the knob nearest him. Before him is a vast room with a stone floor and a long counter lining the far wall. He hasn't the foggiest idea where this is until he spies the oven and stoves. This isn't a bedroom. This is the kitchen, a fine place to visit, though not a good place to spend the night. There's too much draft blowing down the stove pipes and too many mice.

     The boy wrinkles his nose at that particular recollection. He hates mice.

     He backtracks, shutting the door behind him before opening the second closest one. Door number two is among the collection arrayed along the left wall of the hall. He stands transfixed at the doorway. The thumping that's haunted him quiets and finally stills. Dust motes dance in the moonlight cast by the uncovered window. They spin and twirl in frenzied waltz spurred by the recent movement. Covered in dust and moonlight, the room glows silver. It feels like the boy's trespassing, like he shouldn't be there. Should or shouldn't, he's here anyways. May as well go inside.

     Footfalls send tides of shining grey rippling from the floor. They lead a trail from the door to the unkempt bed upon which the boy kneels. He's surveying the window hanging above the headboard.

     The glass is stained in cobwebs. The painted frame peels and splinters at a touch. It shrieks and stabs the boy's fingers as it's pulled open, but the change of stagnant air to fresh is worth it.

     At least now the boy won't be smothered to death by dust bunnies in his sleep. He muses such things as he contemplates what his new life will be like in this large, eerie house. He idly carves a notch into the fragile sill with his thumb nail and gets himself yet another splinter. Nothing pleasant will ever occur while he's living here, he decides.

     On that cheery note, he throws his shoes to the floor and shakes out the covers he's crouched on top of. He sneezes several times at the billowing, grey cloud his actions kick up. Thankfully, the breeze from outside clears the air quickly. He settles under the sheets. His eyes close. He is soon asleep under the moonbeams.

     The open door closes as he slumbers.

END OF DAY ONE.