The Alyce in the Watch
Charles hated the house.
It was a large, old Tudor with a dusty brown roof, ancient turrets and chipped bricks beneath the tarnished wood paneling. The house itself was of the haunted variety, and it was hard not to think of it as anything short of foreboding, what with the rusted black iron gates and the twisted forest of dead trees, whose branches resembled the flailing limbs of those long dead and forgotten as they were being dragged down the cliffs of Dover, and straight into hell's fiery bosom.
It was horrible.
It was intolerable.
It was the most gruesome, oozing sore upon the face of the earth that Charles had ever laid his eyes on.
The house was Hell itself.
It was now his current place of residence.
The trip from Miami, Florida, United States of America to Dover, England was excruciatingly long and Charles was understandably tired, cranky, and feeling quite descriptive. Upon further analysis of the picky 12-year-old's wandering eye, he found pink roses that adorned the garden in a pitiful attempt to make the house seem more inviting. As if a few stupid flowers could make this dump seem more lively, Charles thought, completely set on the belief that the house was a portal to the underworld.
"Do you like the roses?" A thick British accent inquired, "We planted them just for your arrival."
Now Charles loathed the house.
"No." He answered plainly.
This kind of reply was intended to crush any hope of further conversation, and was usually successful in doing so, but these Brits are resilient.
"You know, this house was built by your ancestors almost 120 years ago." The servant, Charles couldn't remember his name, walked him up to the front door while carrying his luggage from the black BMW Charles had been caged in since the airport in London.
"And those years have not been kind," Charles remarked as he scanned the door for any part of wood or metal that wasn't dented or scratched. The doorknob looked like someone had bludgeoned it to death with a baseball bat, and although it had been shined to the point where Charles could see his two big brown eyes and every last hair on his fluffy, blonde head, it showed years of abuse and grime. Charles became nauseous at the realization that he may actually have to touch this thing.
Luckily he didn't have to because the servant, showing a great deal of agility and dexterity, managed to balance all of Charles' bags, twist the knob and pop the door open. After regaining his balance, the servant hobbled inside the house and Charles followed suit. The two were greeted by a large foyer constructed of white marble and a fuzzy, ornate, royal blue rug that lead them to the twin staircases in the main room up ahead. No paintings or tables adorned the entrance although Charles couldn't fathom why, considering there was some sort of dried ancient, reddish-brown liquid splattered about the marble. Why wouldn't they cover it up? He wondered. Even in the orphanage, where rats and roaches roamed freely, there had never been this disgusting liquid in view for all to see.
Charles distastefully wrinkled his nose, "What is that?"
"Hmm?" Inquired the servant, and Charles pointed to the blotches; he was very irritated that the servant hadn't already noticed the obvious blemish.
"Oh!" The servant's posture straightened up as if he were excited to have this topic brought to his attention, "You mean the blood."
"Blood?" Charles asked dryly, clearly not believing him.
"But of course!" His enthusiasm was as bright as the sun, and Charles, who had a particular dislike for sunshine, found his annoyance growing. The servant then dropped the bags and sat down onto the floor, Charles, out of sheer pride and stubbornness, remained standing.
"There was a great battle here, back in the early 1900's that is, and loads were murdered right where you're standing!" Charles seriously doubted that fact but made no effort to correct the young man, "You see, they were enemies from France who came looking for treasure. And they were sure keen to get their snobby frenchy hands on it too! Those revolting, slimy, arrogant-'' The servant then went on to call the French every nasty British name he could think of, most of it Charles didn't understand, nor retain for future reference and possible use , as he usually would have done. Most of what he picked out consisted of swear words, wanker, bloody, git and so forth.
"What were they looking for?"
"Tha' just it," The servant replied laying on more accent than normal, "No one knows what they were after in the first place. But it must have been something of great value for them to burst into enemy territory and kill for it. Now, listen here my wee American friend, I've been livin' here my entire life and I know better than anyone that sometimes if you get too close to the treasure, the ghosts will come out and scare the devil out of you. Most people say that they can still here the cries of the fallen, still trying to protect their possessions. Who knows, maybe you'll be the one to find it."
Charles snorted, "If you honestly think I believe that silly, old wives' tale, you are defiantly off your rocker, servant." He said the word with malice, staring anxiously into the servant's face, searching for any sign of hurt, however like all of his previous endeavors to upset the British man, it was not giving the usual satisfaction of hurting someone, mainly because Charles couldn't see his face underneath his shaggy black hair and khaki riding cap that matched his vest and trousers.
"Jack."
"Excuse me?" Charles wasn't entirely sure he heard the young man speak.
"My name, it's Jack." He said louder, "I'm not your servant, I'm your cousin. I suppose I shouldn't be upset about this- you couldn't possibly know we are related." Jack removed his riding cap to reveal his two chocolate brown eyes that matched Charles', a small button nose, well defined cheek bones, and a slight amount of stubble on his chin.
Small, pale fists clenched at his side, "Of course I wouldn't know! In case you haven't noticed, my father, who has blatantly ignored me all these years since Mom died and stuck me in that miserable boy's home in Miami, has only just dragged me back to London in some big, freakin' scary house with a total stranger and isn't even here to greet me! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE! Make up your minds about whether you want me around or not because I have had it!" And with that, Charles stormed out of the house in a great huff and sprinted off into the woods. Jack's calls in alarm soon were drowned out by the waves crashing against the rocky shore. Charles slowed his pace to a walk and made an attempt to regain his breath. Out of nowhere, he swung a punch at a nearby tree, missed and felt the terrifying sensation of the rock giving way under his weight. With a scream that no one but the sea and twisted trees could hear, Charles plummeted down towards the beach.