By Shay Manning
The keeper can’t remember the last time the old house had a guest. Perhaps the woman who’d become lost in the rose garden? Or was she before the man who’d been stung to death by the bees? He shivers; that death had been particularly gruesome. But the house demands a sacrifice now and then.
The grandfather clock in the hall has long since chimed eleven in the evening when the keeper is roused from his amusements by the sound of the front door opening. He waits unseen, watching a rain-soaked man shiver on the sitting room’s threshold.
“It’s warm here, love,” the guest says, turning to address someone else. A bedraggled woman, made silhouette by the lamps in the front hall, comes to his side.
Two guests. How unusual, the keeper thinks, his heartbeat quickening. He watches them take in the sumptuous appointments: curtains, rugs, and cushions, the gleaming armor by the window, the menacing wall of daggers.
Finding themselves seemingly alone, the lovers scramble toward the fireplace, so hurried they don’t notice the rug is concealing a ten-foot drop. They hit the bottom with screams and thuds while the keeper watches, a small smile curling his lip. They’ll be alright; there’s nothing in the pit except the rats (and the ladder).
From his place by the fire, he waits. A few moments later, he’s rewarded by a tousled head appearing over the edge of the pit. The woman pulls herself out with a harrumph and turns to help her companion. Then she stands in front of the fireplace and looks about the sitting room with more caution. For the first time, he clearly sees her face and has to stifle his inadvertent intake of breath.
Then the keeper grins. Of all the people in the world who could have stumbled into this old house….
It’s time to make his entrance. “Good evening,” he says smoothly as he lets himself be seen. He leans casually on the mantelpiece, as if he’s been standing there the whole time, which of course, he has.
The pair startles. He can only imagine what they’re seeing: a tall, thin specter of a man in a ten-years-out-of-fashion dinner jacket and worn black trousers, shoes falling apart at the seams.
The woman recovers first, squinting at him in the firelight. “Valerian?”
He inclines his head politely. “Theophania.” He turns to her companion. “And …?”
“Forrest.” The man edges slightly in front of Theophania.
“Welcome to the house,” Valerian begins. “I see you’ve already—”
“I thought you were dead,” she breaks in.
“—become acquainted with the trick rug,” he finishes. “No, I’m not dead.”
“How?” she presses, taking a step toward him.
Valerian doesn’t move. Nor does he answer. Instead, he folds his arms over his chest and begins to speak the rhyme. “This house isn’t evil, though blood it most wants. When a new keeper enters, this house it must haunt.” Outside, thunder booms.
“You’ve been here this whole time? I … your funeral … your mother …” There are tears in her eyes.
Valerian flinches. Still, he continues as if uninterrupted, “For evil and mercy but one coin do make; when keeper meets guest, there’s blood in one’s fate.”
“Stop!” she cries. “This is madness.”
“But if two guests enter, and company’s three …” Valerian looks pointedly at each of them until she falls silent. “When one dies and one stays, the old keeper goes free.”
Silence reigns but for a moment.
Then Forrest speaks. “You’re mad.”
Valerian shrugs. Then he glares at Theophania. “I suppose ten years in a haunted house will do that to a person.”
Theophania takes in his out-of-date clothes and her eyes go wide. “That night … is that what happened? You’re the keeper now?” Horrified comprehension dawns on her pretty features. “You’re saying only one of us can leave?”
“Correct,” Valerian answers. “And it’s going to be me.”
Theophania and Forrest look at each other.
“There’s no such thing as haunted houses.” Forrest straightens his shoulders, his bravado undermined by shaking hands.
Valerian spreads his arms wide in a convivial gesture. “You’re free to try to leave.”
Both Theophania and Forrest don’t hesitate as they turn toward the door, giving the pit in the center of the room a wide berth. The door to the sitting room swings shut with a bang just before they reach the threshold, and they both swear as they stumble backward.
Forrest turns. “Tell us how to get out,” he demands.
Valerian pushes away from the fireplace. “I already told you: only one of us can leave.” Thunder rattles the eaves and the house groans from the wind lashing the siding. He can almost taste the sour tang of fear in their sweat now.
This time, they head for the window only to reel back, cowering, when the suit of armor suddenly lunges for them. They get to their feet again, and this time, Theophania leans back on the wall of daggers for a moment, eyeing the suit of armor with disdain.
Forrest rounds on Valerian again. “What will it take? I’m a wealthy man.” He stands a few feet from the pit and keeps his eyes on Valerian.
The house groans.
Valerian says nothing, just raises a curious eyebrow.
“I’ll give you anything. Anything.” Forrest’s eyes are wide with fear. “Please.”
“Oh, don’t beg,” Valerian says. “It’s so … unseemly.”
But Forrest is insistent. “Everything has a price.” He reaches into his pockets and withdraws a silver cigarette case. “See? And I carry this on myself on the daily. It’s nothing to me.”
“Stop, Forrest.” Theophania comes to stand beside him. She gives his hands a squeeze while she levels a glare at Valerian. “Could we have a moment?”
Valerian steps back, gives a friendly sweep of his arm. “By all means.”
He doesn’t listen to the words they speak—he considers himself a gentleman, circumstances notwithstanding. There is a quiet argument, a resolution, and then Forrest presses a kiss to Theophania’s forehead.
And then, in a movement so quick, Valerian isn’t sure it really happens, Theophania hooks her foot behind Forrest’s ankle and shoves him backward. Forrest gives a shout, his eyes wide with alarm as he tumbles back into the pit. The cigarette case flies from his hand and lands with a clink on the stone floor. There’s a thud and a crunch and then silence.
Valerian peers over the edge. Forrest lies in a crumpled heap at the bottom, his neck at an impossible angle and his eyes wide and blind. Shock roils in his gut, but then he grins. Perhaps she’ll make a good keeper after all.
Theophania turns her horrified expression on him. “I didn’t mean to … I was trying to …”
“Save him?” Valerian laughs.
She nods. The silence that yawns between them is broken only by the midnight chime of the grandfather clock.
Her eyes dart back and forth between Valerian and the pit as she fumbles with her skirts. There is a flash of silver and suddenly she presses the tip of a dagger to her neck. “I’ll die before I let you make me the keeper.”
Valerian glances at the now-empty spot on the wall where the dagger used to hang and smiles appreciatively. “Clever,” he says. It won’t be enough.
She slashes. He dives for her. His fingers wrap around the blade before she can embed it in her neck. He’s surprised to feel the sting that bites into his fingers as they tumble to the floor.
Then he wrenches the knife from her hand and rises to his feet. “I told you,” he says smoothly, one last time, “only one of us can leave.”
She doesn’t move from her place on the floor, just watches him as he tosses the knife away. It clatters on the stone floor, spraying droplets of his blood. Overhead, the house has finally stopped creaking and groaning. The room around them begins to change; the ornate paintings dull with age, the tapestries disintegrate with a whisper, and the fire dies in the grate. The suit of armor crumbles, as do the knives on the wall, until they are standing in the small entry hall of a humble, run-down old house.
Gone is the manor with all the trappings designed to lure in new guests. The house has its new corpse and its new keeper. The dilapidated front door swings open with a creak. Valerian strides toward it, pausing only to pick up the silver cigarette case and tuck it into his jacket.
He is on the threshold when Theophania whispers, “Valentine, please.”
The old nickname gives Valerian pause. Long ago, it would have made him do anything for her: cut himself plucking a most beautiful rose, risk the stinging of bees to bring her the best honey, even set foot in a haunted house on her behalf. Strange, he thinks, how time will turn even the most ardent affection to ash.
He does not look back.