Gothic Lovecraft by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short stories, horror, occult
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2017-04-03T16:00:00+00:00

Always a Castle?

Nancy Kilpatrick

“We’ve always lived in the castle,” Martin told me.

I glanced at him, a handsome if aloof man, late thirties maybe, who looked as if he rarely smiled. I turned back to face the enormous Tudor-Jacobean edifice that I would not have called a castle, more a small estate, although it did sport turrets.

Reddish brickwork had never appealed to me—this building material reminded me too much of PS 46 in the Bronx where I’d gone to grade school—but I did like the bay windows, and especially the little windows framing the front door. The wavy glass looked Tudor—I could tell by the green color—and I was amazed the panes had lasted over 500 years. “Since the castle was built, Dana,” Martin assured me, as if reading my mind.

He insisted on a tour. I was pretty sure he’d be a good guide, but I was exhausted after such a long trip to Yorkshire. First there had been the six-hour flight from New York, an overnight near noisy Kings Cross tube station in London, then the early train to Leeds, where I was met at the station by a driver in one of those enormous old black Austins that used to dominate the streets of London. The ride to Whaterley House took close to an hour, and I curled up against the car’s lush upholstery and stared out the window. Enchanting as I found the increasingly rural scenery, I still managed a couple of catnaps.

At the entrance to the stately home I’d been greeted by Martin Whaterley, the nephew of Alexandra Whaterley, an aged widow in need of a companion who had selected me from “six hundred and sixty-six applicants,” Martin’s email quoted her as saying. I didn’t know whether to believe that number, and I vacillated between feeling flattered and frightened by such a picky employer.

This was not my dream job. My recently acquired BA in history did not open doors to exciting work. To go for an MA with its promises of employment, well, I needed money. I definitely felt I had a grander purpose in life than taking care of a sick old woman in a remote location, but still, they’d paid for the trip to England, and the contract was short term. Martin took my coat down the hall and left my suitcases inside the door. The entrance area was large, with a grand staircase, overhead chandelier, black and white tiles beneath my feet, and a Marketry Regency table under an oil painting of goats grazing in a field.

Martin was back quickly, and I followed him on the enforced tour: the private parlor with what I judged to be a George II breakfront full of no doubt expensive knick-knacks and several damask-upholstered sofas with carved arms and legs; the library crammed floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes that sheltered comfy-looking chairs; the “drawing room” where presumably men used to smoke after dinner; the elegant dining room, set for a dozen dinner guests with ornate silver cutlery,

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