The House of Grant - Chapter II

“So, Professor Lowe, now that we have established that you are no better than other men, let us get on with the business.” This woman was Lady Clarissa Grant. She was a complete albino. She was cursed to live in the dark and she used this too her advantage. Controlling the whole village from her seat of mystery.

“I did as I was asked to by your private ape, Bartholomew. I gained entry to the house of Mr. Daly. I used a standard practitioner trick, the hand of glory. It is the hand of a hanged man, dried, dipped in wax, made into a candle. Opens doors, immobilizes occupants and fascinates party guests. I used the tools to break into the wall. I found the box there. The house was a convent before. So thar’s that.”

“Very well, Professor Lowe. Now we get to work. The box as you may know was made of the same stone on which the first Lady of House Grant was murdered by those savages. The box contains her heart. It is supposed to have trapped one of the spirits that rules the netherworld. And now here it is. I am pleased.”

She did not look pleased. She never was. The blood red eyes could only muster pity and condescension.

“So, here is the key. Which I procured independently as a gift to you. Now the small matter of my final payment.”

Derision was writ in her eyes when she said, “Yes, how could I forget? Bartholomew, hand over to him the deeds to the manor. With the power that this box brings me, I don’t need this hellhole.”

She took the key and moved towards the box.

“Lords of the Darkness, your freedom is at hand. I am your servant. I ask only one thing. Mercy in your madness. Appear in a shape that I am fit to witness... Please.”

The box hissed slowly and the lid opened with a bang. There was a puff of smoke and then nothing.

“You lying scum! You tricked me! Lowe, I will not –”

Color flooded Lady Clarissa’s lifeless cheeks. For the first time in her tortured existence, she looked human. Bartholomew rushed to her aid, fearing the worst.

“Don’t touch me. Ape.” The words were like a cold dagger to all those who heard them. Bartholomew froze in place.

“But I was only trying to help you, M’lady.”

“I DON’T NEED ANY HELP! Be the monkey that you always were.”

Bartholomew was now an ape. Surprisingly, the tuxedo still fit him nicely.

“And you, Lowe. What are you? A pig, maybe or a weasel.”

Froth formed at her blue lips and her eyes looked like sunken pits of congealed blood. She tried using her powers again. Lowe stood unperturbed.

“In the house of Mr. Daly, along with the box, was an inscription in some rudimentary dialect. I am no fool, Madam. Your power won’t work over me. The shaman did his job right. The shaman’s servant did his job better. The box contains not the heart of the first Lady of House Grant. It holds the heart of the Shaman.”

Lowe ripped open his jacket to reveal a seal bearing an inscription in the same savage dialect of the tribe. The seal shone with an eerie light. Lady Clarissa screamed as if stabbed by a dagger. She turned away from the seal, “TAKE IT AWAY!” 

“By the names Lonim, El Morrh and Nehen Syeth Nehen. By the name of Ado, the saint, your jailer, whose corruption and malignance protects me. And by your own name, Homir, a minor disturbance in the bowels of this rock. By knowing the name, I command power over thee. I know your kind are liars and the Shaman must have tricked you into submission. So, By his name and his words, I command thee to obey me.”

The woman collapsed to the floor. When she rose up, It was a different voice that spoke. A voice that rumbled through the house.

“Very well, human. Command me.”

“Yes, the usual. Wealth and riches. I know it isn’t original but I don’t have many needs. Nevermind, I am just messing with you. Just go back quietly into your lithic prison and stay where you are. I command you in the name of Ado, the shaman who trapped you.”

The woman leapt towards him. Lowe quickly grabbed the box and held it open, trapping the spirit inside.

“Stupid bitch.”

--

Bartholomew, the ape wasn’t seen or heard of. 

The villagers didn’t care about the House of Grant. 

A week later, the manor was sold to a Hollywood starlet. She was determined to hunt down ghosts. 

She was contacted, a month later, by a certain Professor Lowe who claimed he could find any ghost she wanted. 

All he wanted was her autograph on a blank cheque.

The House of Grant - Chapter I

A time when man was more of an animal than he is now, though some would surely dispute that, there was a man, bent by his own greed. His lust for power and an ambition to conquer the worlds lead him down a dark and dangerous path. A path that saw him surrender to forces far greater than him. Puissant spirits of utter malevolence. He was driven to the brink by them and dangled there. He begged for mercy and pledged undying loyalty to them. They freed him in return for complete servitude. His tribe called him Shaman.

This man, the Shaman was not very happy. He was old and sick now. Most likely to be stabbed to death by one of his own power-hungry underlings. He, however, had a duty to perform. A ritual. He commanded his servant to bring him the book.

The woman was bound to the black slab of stone. Gagged. She was completely clothed in black. Moonlight bounced off her translucent face and slid off the stones casting eerie shadows. A face, so pure and unmarked, that one could see through it. She was unconscious. His underlings begun chanting. He raised his azure knife and muttered a few arcane words. Words of power. Words that sent a shiver through the gathered vermin. The knife flashed as it dived toward her heart.

The stone was stained in her blood. The shaman was never happy. He was content now and he smiled like a man freed of his duties. He laughed in his big booming voice. A flash of light caught his eye. He could see the servant’s knife glinting close to him. The knife was nestled in his heart. He died satisfied.

Scotland. In the present.

There is a single house on the hillock. It looks like a crooked old raven when seen from the distance. It is a house of disrepute and sickness. A sign of nature’s triumph over frail human will. It is the House of Grant.

One man stands in front of this house now.

Peyton Lowe. Born German, raised British. Professor of very old follies and fungus.

He has a briefcase in hand, an umbrella in another. He is dressed as befitting a gentleman yet somehow exuding an air of shabbiness that is characteristic to those of the scholarly kind. He takes hold of the rusty knocker and taps twice on the door. The door creaks. A butler opens the door. He is a specimen of no real distinction. Lowe steps in and immediately, he is swallowed by the house. The darkness gropes at him with cold, lonely fingers.

“Excuse me, could you take my coat and case?”, he says and turns around.

“You will have to excuse Bartholomew, my butler. He is old and his hearing is not as good.” The voice is old, clammy and repulsive. Light is scarce inside and as his eyes adjust to the dark, his eyes find the source of the voice. He is quick to control his shock but not quick enough.

She has reptilian scales for skin.

Bugged

"I just got up normally, you know. Fine morning. I was standing with my car. She is a fine lady. The engine was warm though. I thought I might have forgotten to take the keys out. So, I looked in and no keys. But I notice something else. An extra 100 or so miles on the clock. Fuck I say to myself. Fucking Fuckerson. I keep note of all those little numbers. It is fun. Might have made a mistake, Landsman I say.Never driven in my sleep. Never driven much actually. Bessie used to drive. She loved it, god bless her tired soul. I pick up the newspaper and it is all creased and folded. Now, I ain't got no neighbours. I figure, it might be some of them pesky kids. Sometimes, I wanna shoot one of those. Never had any. I shrug and I enter the kitchen.The light is on. It should not be. There is some leftover capicollo in the fridge. There is a half eaten bacon sandwich on the table. So, I go to the cops. They give the amount of fuck an old man gets in this country of liberated fucks. So, I get back. As far as I know, no one else has access to my file. Then I watch some TV and I go to sleep."

He took a gulp of air and water. Thanked himself and continued.

"I usually wake up around 3 am. I feel uneasy. Gradually, I realize there's someone else in my bed. It is a woman. Bessie. She smells of sweat and stale perfume. I don't even know what stale perfume is. She is also wearing one of those leather things that they use for those perverts. You know, those BDSM things. Those. I usually struggle to get up at this point. I recoil, gasp and curse. She puts on her flirty voice and asks if I want one of those wet nightmares."

Bessie has been dead for 8 years.

"Some sort of foul oddment, a tweak in the code of being. A- A, an exception! Is she for real? Is she my Bessie? Either way, I have got problems."

"I understand completely Mr. Landsman but don't you think it is a little odd that you are telling all this to a giant bug that is having tea in your kitchen with you?"

There was a giant bug in Mr. Landsman's kitchen, sitting at his table, sipping chai and eyeing that half-eaten sandwich.

"I hadn't thought of it that way before. Dear me. This is worrying. I should get my gun."

He went to the living room.

"What are you guys doing here?"

There was a family of 3 sitting on a couch in his living room, watching TV.

The dad wore a floral dress with purple polka dots. He had a caribou for a head.

The mom wore a business suit and a hat. She had a bulb for a head.

Their kid was a bowl of punch.

"Oh, fuck this. I will just kill all of you. Fucking with my mind like this, you got no right."

The door to the cupboard was slightly open. Apart from being a handy place to keep a gun and a vat of generic expressions, it was a cosy place. So, he kept his wife's dead body there.

"Just to remind myself that you are dead. Everything is wrong here. I have no idea why that clock is trying to defy time and those babies have no business being up there on the ceiling. What is going on here? WHAT is happening to me?"

The bug was back. OR maybe he never left. He spoke.

"You know it Landsman. You have known it since you woke up. There is no use denying it. Bessie is dead. You killed her. You kept her body so that you could stay. It was your ticket to sanity. But it wasn't enough. Your mind has eaten itself. The chip has corroded. You looked into the abyss and now, their is abscess in your mind. Fuck, who writes these lines? Jeez."

"So, what are trying to say? I am not insane. I won't be called crazy. I heard where they took Albie. I won't go there. I won't. I will kill everyone."

"Oh no, no. I am your friend, Landsy. I am on your side. I am your bug. I am you now. We are in this together. When, they come for me, they come for you. BLAST THOSE FUCKERS! Till then, let us watch some TV and drink this coffee. I love the smell of coffee like blood in the hours after the morning. I think they should fire this writer. What do you think?"

Landsman was old and a sad conservatory for fluids. Just last week, he had soiled himself. In the mall. However, his mind was still sharp.

"I think you are the problem. I think you are the glitch. I think you are making me do this."

"Me? ME?! Harmless, Mr. Bug. You are the one who is corrupted, Landsy. You killed Bessie. I ain't no external agency or no act of god. I am your disease. There is nothing you can do."

"You are wrong. All my life, I have felt this urge. THIS voice telling me what to do. I always did it. Go to the bathroom, Watch TV, Read books, Work, Engage in activity, Build Charisma points, Gather Knowledge points, Make love, Shit, Eat. All the time, some one up there pulled the strings. Like a game. But no more. One click of this gun and it is over. Everything I loved is dead. I refuse to be saved."

*click* They deleted him the next day.

Pay For Your Own Time

29th April

"So, what you are trying to say is that, you actually were there when it happened? Is that what you are saying Mr. Grant?"

Mr. Grant was lying on the couch. It was Saturday afternoon. He always showed up then, to talk about his problems.

"Yes. I sense derision, Mark. And I get it, it is difficult to accept something like this. I don't even want you trust me. Just listen. I pay for my time, don't I?"

It had been the same story for 3 weeks. Mr. Grant would show up and talk for an hour. He would then leave. His story would never really change much. It would just go on for a bit. Mr. Grant was starting now and Mark was getting ready to be paid for feigning interest.

"I am holed up in my room on the ship. It sways ever so slightly. I am sick. I am looking at the calendar. I have eaten something bad or maybe I was never made for the sea. I hear the sounds and the smells waft in. It is the Lusitania. Doomed to a watery grave. The fabled South Hampton to New York route. It is the 7th of May, 1915. And then I wake up. I have never known what time it was but my guess would be noon. Any thoughts today?"

Mark had thoughts though they did not concern Mr. Grant's story. They were about mortgages, the secretary's blouse, his fiance, a sandwich at the cafe and his mother's recent death.

So, he said, "Hey Mr. Grant as long as you pay for your own time I have no problem. You have a good one. See you next Saturday."

Mr. Grant thanked him and left. Mark continued work.

Next Saturday noon, the couch was empty. Mr. Grant did not show up. Mark had time to kill. He went out for a drink.

The bar had no one except the bartender. The mortgage and his dead mother were weighing heavily on his mind. He was tired of seeking happiness in lies to his fiance and self-medication. So, he drank. An hour later, he was sufficiently drunk to drown out the world but not enough to lost interest in it. A photo did catch his attention.
He easily identified Mr. Grant in the photo. He asked the bartender about the photo.

"Yeah, that was my great grandpa. He died in that ship thing that happened in the great war. The Lusitania. German bastards sank it."

He rushed back to his office. The couch was definitely empty. He checked his drawers. The money was there.

Mr. Grant had, after all, paid for his own time. It was a good thing that Mark was drunk.


--

1st of May 1915, the RMS Lusitania left New York heading for South Hampton carrying 1,965 passengers and crew ( the majority being American citizens). 7th of May she had been making good time on her run, and while off the coast of Ireland, a German U-boat spotted her, lined her up in their sights and fired a torpedo. The torpedo wasn't spotted til it was almost upon the ship.

The torpedo hit the Lusitania making a large hole in her starboard side. Water began rushing into the 1st and 2nd boiler rooms. The ship was then rocked by a 2nd explosion.

The Lusitania took a mere 20 minutes to sink taking 1,201 people with her -- only 764 survived.