The Alien Hotspot
Chapter 1
Tuesday 5th 2011
Dear Spook Book,
I found another freaking hidden door in Grandpa's house, a trap door that was previously covered with elf fur rug. It's got these huge iron hinges that I can't stop stubbing my toe over, and the keyhole is large enough to lose a finger in (I tested it). I dropped a stone down there, and I couldn't hear when it hit the bottom.
The house officially has it's own bloody cave system.
I bet there are rats.
But hopefully also bats!
Then I could be Batman if I really wanted to, but I like having Mum and Dad alive.
Marcus can go shove himself into the keyhole himself.
Of course I had to discover it by tripping over the keyhole at 2am running to catch Mum trying to call me from Germany.
And it was also necessary that Tiny be there for me to flatten. He punished me by fucking up my arms with his stupid claws, and now my black pjs have to be washed again cause they're covered with his malting fur.
I really need a torch.
Yours truly,
Val.
I closed the flimsy leather journal with a click of the sealing buckle, put down the gothic fountain pen down with the lid on and make my way out of bed. It's huge, with mountains of pillows and drapes that block out the devilish sunlight from blinding me in my fragile state (caffeine addicts say 'aye'). I tripped over the extra duvets that I've disguarded throughout the night, being a violent sleeper that tosses and turns a lot. To be honest, it's a small miracle that I didn't wake up on the floor cocooned in the duvets themselves.
3 months after moving in, and I'm still not used to this place; Grandpa's old house is chaotically large, with winding passages and doors, the upper levels visible from below because of the open rails and gaps in the floor, like some sort of endless library. The actual library even has one of those ladders with wheels that are attached to the iron handrails. Each generation of Montgomery has left their own mark in the original family home, ever since the Civil War, when the good ol' Montgomery brothers, Edger and Rodger Montgomery fought the British with all they had. The grounds used to occupy a small town that now only exists as rumble and the occasional wall still standing in the forest. The house itself was built over the remains of the district's fort, but was renovated to an extent to make it more 'homely'; either way, Edger and Rodger kept the stone structure in tact as much as possible, working around the actual trunks of trees and trying to piece together structures that had survived the war, so that it could pass as the lair of Gandalf after winning the lottery.
Overall, Montgomery Manor (how intimidating does that sound?) looks the castle from the Rocky Horror show fell from the sky crashed into Bilbo Baggins' hobbit hole. The centre of the living room is actually built around a bloody tree that covers the roof with a green head of hair. The bark itself hasn't even been smoothed down inside, apart from where Great Grandpa Thomas decided he needed a new armchair and 1.5 metres of the trunk from the floor upwards hollowed out and polished with a door. Literally, the only reason you know its there is because of the amber doorknob jutting out from the bark. The width of the truck is also almost 2 metres, making it the centre of attention in the living room. It's a real journey walking all the way around it, so one of my other cooky relatives decided to build a mantle piece like shelf all the way around the perimeter (apart from the door that's covered by thick Persian drapes), filled with various lace and china oddities, portraits and a swanky Turkish sword that hasn't left the scabbard for a few hundred years.
The newer parts of the manor are mainly made up of brick that's covered by rugged carpet like wallpaper or great logs of dark wood, held in order in their iron fastenings. A lot of the original grey stone slabs of the fort's tower are still present, though have been cut and shaped in curved rooms. All in all, the place is a confusion of open corridors and stone and wood fighting to conquer each other. Being the hearty old Americans that my father's family are, dozens of furs, mounted elk and bear heads and weapons live all over the walls, bolted down so that I've been forced to get used to their long dead eyes judging me while I eat breakfast or drool on the couch after a movie marathon. I'm essentially living in a hunting lodge, all heavy resin and tobacco smells and hearty, thick fires.
From the outside, it doesn't look too big; there's a sort of Tardis 'bigger on the inside' voodoo that applies, though the exterior is still as ostentatious. The shape mirrors the twisting, angular trees around it, various parts of the roof higher than others and oddly shaped windows peaking out. The stone steps are covered in a fuzzy green moss and creepers pull themselves up the wall, staining it like wine as if the manor is slowly becoming a part of the forest.
I still don't fully accept that Grandpa Lionel gave me this place in his will, half of his hefty savings from his life and his share of the company. Not even Dad got as much, and he was his son!
Sure, the crazy gene in the Montgomery's seemed to skip my Dad's generation (him and his siblings rarely visited after they left), and Marcus and I were the only ones that enjoyed visiting and staying for Easter holidays, but common, 65% of an engineering firm when I've only just finished my masters'?
I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Grandpa was off his rocker.
Admittedly, Marcus owns half the manor, but he's being all fancy shmansy living the glamorous life as a model in Manhattan. Yeah, who knew being a straight male albino with abs paid so well?
Let me get this straight, I'm not complaining; I love this place, it holds memories that I cherish, even though I still am convinced this place is haunted. The wood seems to creak and moan at night, and woe betides if you watch any horror film over 15+ on your own here. Grandpa refused to leave the blue prints for us, and in his will stated that we had to be true to the family spirit and discover all of Montgomery Manor's secrets. At the time I was like pffft right you crack pot, you're not serious.
But he was.
In the hidden bathroom behind the 3rd second floor shelf of the library (classic) there was the first part of the blue prints of the entire library and the grounds of that wing.
Three other pieces of the blue prints have been found, all as some sort of reward for finding each secret door or safe or whatever. As a Montgomery, even in death Lionel is training me to treat life like some endless Indiana Jones movie.
I've taken to pulling out my 'spook book', and writing entries in it, recording my findings and the goings on of this house, just in case I'm found weeks latter chopped to pieces in the pantry. I've put Lionel's most confusing legacy he left me to good use; the fountain pen he seemed to write everything with, which still lives at the desk of his old study, now peaking out of my work sheets, print outs and stationary.
You may be wondering why on Earth is a 24 year old woman is doing living in the middle of nowhere like some evil warlord.
To be honest, so am I.
Everyone was shocked when Grandpa's will was read; Dad and his three siblings were pissed off even though they always went on about how horrible Lionel was to them, Mum just laughed like a deranged women at the "mad white people" (ahh racism), Marcus called the deceased "a cool dude who lived a bangin' life" and I sat there in shock as my relatives glared at the girl (who most had never met) who had just inherited the bulk of the family fortune.
Aunt Eleanor screeched about it, claiming there must be a mistake because her and her family only inherited the yote.
Cousin Benji told me that I had the Montgomery family curse and would be even scarier and crazier than had been Grandpa Lionel and would die with only my cat Tiny and my scandalous secrets for company.
Dad offered to buy me out, as I was too young to bother myself in the company.
Grandpa Lionel's long lost brother in Australia called and told me to not trust anyone and do my duty. (?)
Of course, by pestering me to give away my inheritance, I decided to keep it all and bloody well make use of it.
I'm a peaceful sorta person (usually), who appreciates old stuff like the Manor, and would happily make it my home. Which is what I've been doing. Sure my clothes now stink of the manor now, and I have the urge to walk around in my satin robe + slippers with a pipe, but I've never owned anything so…important. Besides its much more interesting than my previous apartment, made up of a bedroom, kitchen/living room and bathroom that I kept getting locked in. All my belongings are now spread through the house, Tiny's marked his territory and seems to really like his kingdom (he knows all the hidden passages already, but won't freaking tell me!), and I've started to make 'my mark' in my family home, which basically means I've made sure every room has something electronic in, and perfected the Wifi connection.
I opened all the windows I came across and fell into the mandatory routine of airing my bed and dusting away at the surfaces that were cleaned in the same manner the day before. I don't know why, but having to clean the manor on my own isn't as much of a task as I thought I would be; as long as its done as soon as possible, I can get on with my work so that the afternoons are free and lazy. Admittedly, I find it oddly therapeutic, and the vacuum drowns out my booming singing shamelessly so I can pretend it's actually the roar of adoring fans (big woop).
It was kind of sad yet exciting, moving through all the rooms at first; many were still well kept and showed signs of regular use because Grandpa Lionel died of a heart attack quite suddenly, and was always buzzing around with some wacky project of the week. I've pitched tent (not literally mind you) in the main bedroom, which like the rest of the house, is dressed in thick fur rugs, ligneous furniture and the ostentatious decorations of busts and ornaments that most old families pass down the line. The living room, study, dining room, conservatory (now the motherfuckin' games room yeaaaah!) and a few others were clean and pretty much presentable, with additions of a TV, games consoles, landline, and recent photos of Mum, Dad, Marcus and my friends.
The kitchen was pretty out of date, and while Grandpa never used a maid or anything like that as far as I knew, obviously held the traits of being a servants dwelling that the masters of the house rarely entered. It was the one room with out the usual decorations, so once renovated looked fairly modern. Marcus and I banded together one weekend and painted the room and bright white, laid down a wooden floor and had all the necessary appliances fitted in, along with bottle green counters that matched the oven and the view of the greenery through the window outside.
Other then that, apart from the concealed mysteries that were still unknown to me, the only other rooms were bedrooms and bathrooms that hadn't been used for a very long time. Unlike the rest of the house that was tidied and showed signs of use, these had doors that were stiff in their frames, tired mattresses on dusty beds and scaled over windows and mirrors. There were no personal possessions or attempts to make them comfortable, apart from the standard wooden 4 poster beds, vanities, wardrobes, empty shelves and desks with respective chairs that all matched yet varied in style, grain and shade of the polish for each room.
It was really uncomfortable to see these, so devout of life; these were my aunts, father's and uncles old rooms before they 'escaped' to university and what not, though a few were also for long gone guests.
I knew that Grandpa Lionel was a stubborn, rude, fanatic that had a genius intellect, which made the family business so successful, and that his overbearing ways alienated his kids who were too much like their mother. I never was told the details, other than the regular, thunderous fights with father, sons and daughters, and the resentment they carried against a lonely old man.
Its heart breaking to think how happy Grandpa Lionel was when Marcus and I actually liked listening to his endless stories and theories, and that the Manor was a haunted house for us that as kids had to be discovered. I think he was upset that the craziness of the Montgomery's decided to ignore his own children, so he made due with pretending that we were his second chance at passing down his knowledge.
Most people have no idea why he was so fascinated with us. Marcus I could kind of understand; he's loud, impulsive and pranks people like it's the end of the world. It used to drive Dad crazy when Lionel encouraged him, saying he was 'spirited' and told my Dad that Marcus had more balls than he did. Marcus flew through high school as a typical all rounder (despite having to wear the entire sunscreen bottle for every gym class outside), gained a degree in Media Studies and started out as a photographer for a newspaper before he met his modelling agent who now helps him make piles of cash.
I on the other hand, am reserved in unfamiliar company and need to always have something in my hands to fix or entertain myself with. The garage (which looks like a ranger's cabin but smells of gas, concrete and burning rubber) is large enough to fit my lathe, carpeting tools, work bench and a mechanic's necessities for fiddling around with scrap pieces of metal, though Lionel's (now my) XK120 1948 Jaguar lives there out of harms way.
I frankly have no idea what magic Grandpa used to keep it in such beautiful working condition, though I'm terrified to try it out on the highway. No sir, uh uh. Thankfully, I was not impulsive enough to sell my trusty BMW midnight blue M35i.
Books are regular companions of mine as well, another reason for moving; the Manor's library would have given Belle from Beauty and the Beast an orgasm, it's so magnificent. Along with the wheelie ladder, you can re-enact songs from My Fair Lady pretty well.
After college, admittedly I was leaning towards using Lionel's contacts to get into the business, mainly onto the designing side, like an Architectural Engineer. Creating structural works of art has always interested me. I had already done a cringe worthy internship at Montgomery Engineering Ltd, impressing my superiors with my ideas and passion, and wanted to apply some where outside of familiar territory with Lionel as my safety net before considering joining the family firm.
However now, I couldn't exactly do that.
Now I had decided to join the company and fairly work my way up the firm to become an employee worthy of the position I held because of my shares and blood relation. Sure I was technically my own boss, and rarely worked away from the mansion (the wonder of Skype company meetings, emails and scanning printers), but as I told Lionel's old business partner and friend James Nott (looks just like Santa) I wasn't going to be held responsible for ruining all of Grandpa's legacy because I was too naïve to know what I was doing. Nott's been a great help, integrating me into the firm with a team of trusty colleagues that never mention my heightened status, which is a relief. He keeps me updated when I miss something even if it's a menial thing, and offers advice methodically when I need it.
And I'm happy with my decision, no matter how many times Dad sniffs that I'll forget about the outside world, Mum calls and cries because she's not used to me visiting every weekend with Marcus, or Aunt Eleanor leaves a message about me 'hoarding' the family fortune and 'tricking' Grandpa Lionel into liking me.
Because nothing says manipulative bitch like wanting to spend time with your misunderstood Grandfather.
Sure, I'm isolated, young and too rich for my own good, but I know I'm smart, and I don't take risks without knowing every single option and my chances of success. The only money I've spend from my new pot of gold has been for the house, with a few cheeky heels and games subscriptions on the side.
It's still hard to get used to, because I don't feel any different; overwhelmed, yes; excited yet missing Lionel, of course. But I think this is what I need; to be knocked off my donkey and strive to master the largest fucking stallion I can.
Oh god did I really just…
Perhaps I do need to hook up with some one soon.
I suppose it's a good thing that my friends and I have come to a compromise; we're close, many of us bonding over cosplaying, football, out of date beer and fandom arguments like you wouldn't believe. Most are from college, who are easy to stay in touch with because I'm already in the habit of constantly texting, snap chatting, calling, tweeting (ect) them. And while I now can't walk down to my best friend Tilly's house and steal her mushroom pizza before the delivery boy even makes it to her apartment, we've sorted out this system of my inner circle dragging me back to our safe haven, Billy's Bar in NYC every Friday fortnight. Even though I miss them terribly, I can't help but love the way they all randomly knock on my door with beer, extra Xbox or PS3 controllers and food.
You would not believe how excited they were with they first came here and I told them the history of the Manor; Kev, Alex and Ellie all arranged a massive AC3 party here which involved scarily accurate cosplaying and running around the place for hours, filming our attempts and 'assassinating' the Templars.
The next on the bucket list is using the ruins of the old town to re enact scenes from The Hobbit and LOTR.
But as much as I hate the tightening feeling in my gut of missing my friends, I have to admit I love being alone here, just me and Tiny chilling like rich bitches and surveying our woodland kingdom.
I figured that my life would continue down this new route of work, escaping to NYC, living like a rich bachelorette until I either a) died like Cousin Benji said I would, b) got hitched and passed down the crazy Montgomery gene with some poor, unsuspecting lad.
A morning run came next after acting as housemaid. I threw my corkscrew curls up, swapped my pjs for trackies and the same baggy Darth Vader t-shirt and pulled on my trainers, running through the house and out the huge front door. Of course, tradition dictated that I sprinted back to stop it from closing so that I could retrieve my house keys first. After a brief stretch, I picked up a safe pace down the wide forest trail, sighing as the chirping of birds and the chilly spring breeze peeled away my sleepiness.
It was so beautiful here, how had I managed to resist the countryside for the city for so long?
The ent-like trees hovered over the ground, so that I had to throw all my weight to jump across their winding roots. Even after 30 minutes, I was huffing and puffing at having to steer through the obstacle course. However I pressed onwards, until I reached the shabby Montgomery Manor sign that hung from a broken stone archway, the gothic black barred gate moaning with the strain of staying in place.
When I got back satisfied that I was saturated in enough sweat, Tiny was plodding up the stairs, not even looking back to acknowledge my arrival. I hastily took an unmercifully cold shower, rubbing away the slick grime that had accumulated in my thick roots.
The great thing about living alone is how free it is to walk around bare naked without a hint of shame. I winced slightly at the bounce of my breasts as I sat down in my room to start drying and attempting to tame my hair with a flimsy plastic comb.
By the time that was done (45 bloody minutes later, mind you), I searched my wardrobe to decide on a stretching pink sports bra and matching panties, black drawstring slacks and my trusty fitted 'No one expects…the Spanish Inquisition!' t-shirt. I donned the most flashy glittery pink (not to mention fluffy!) socks I could find as well, because my tootsies were cold.
It's no fun getting a cold when there's no one around to be your slave to fetch and carry food until you can actually breath.
Before I headed down to breakfast, I vaguely noted my reflection in the bathroom mirror and for some reason I snorted. On meeting me, you'd probably notice my hair first, a curtain of wild, dyed dark bloody red curls that get stuck to everything, doorknobs, other people, cat claws, you name it. My original colour was like Dad's, a sort of warm sandy brown that hasn't been seen for years on my head, which I'm sort of proud of because my red hair is my pride and joy, if I'm honest.
I suppose most people would notice my skin next, which while it isn't as pale as Marcus', still earns me the nickname 'Val the Vamp'. Then there's also my standard blue eyes, classically shaped nose and big pouty pink lips. Thankfully, my eyebrows have a good shape and thickness, because I'd probably get carried away drawing them and make myself look like Spock.
My slacks flare out with my hips, mimicking the curve of my 'bountiful boobs' (Tilly's description, not mine) as an hourglass shape. I'm fitter than most grown ups, having used sport as a way to stress relieve, and I'm skilled as a mixed martial artist even though I only ever started so that I could learn how to beat up Marcus (still can). To be honest, I'm obsessed with working out nowadays because I was a seriously chubby kid in high school.
Never again.
I have scarily muscly legs, with abs and even that v shape thingy that looks so sexy on men!
It's a little awkward that my ex (all those years ago) didn't when I did.
Breakfast was quickly made today, just fruit loops and soya milk in a large striped bowl. I hummed as I thought of the day ahead and lazily meandered to the living room. I shook my head as I'm still not used to seeing a giant tree there. As I combed the curls of the rouge carpet with my toes, I paused at the sight of Grandpa Lionel's portrait in an elegant gold frame, high above the TV that sits a top the currently dead fireplace.
Lionel was less than a decade younger in the oil painting; he had the curly hair I inherited from him, already a stark white that gave him a sort of mad scientist persona that he was pretty proud of. A cunning smirk and mocking eyebrow was raised, and because the portrait was so large, his egg blue eyes were striking, even at the distance I was at.
I feel like I still am in denial that he's dead; Lionel would probably snort if he knew that I had barely cried about it, and say something along the lines of 'thank god you're not a pansy'. It's not that I don't miss him; everything felt a little too simple and mediocre without that madman, another reason for moving into the Manor. Everything here oozed Lionel Bartholomew Montgomery, faithfully retaining his lust for secrets and wild adventure till the end. The walls hold his memories, souvenirs and stamps on the world he's now left.
But even now, I'm waiting for him to jump out of the chandelier and cackle about some Back To The Future gizmo that he's been testing, or how he's been on a quest for glory and to save the world.
I figure he'd make a good Dragonborn.
My own eyes are glued in place, picking up the artist's miniscule olive strokes as shading of his eyes, so realistic, even the brilliant glaze of white makes it look like I could just lean in and grab them like marbles.
I shoved my fruit loops in my mouth messily and stretched up to touch Grandpa's pupils in a trance, a thousands thoughts jumping around at the possibilities.
What if it's another trap door?
Only inches away now, the fireplace digging into my chest.
What if Grandpa Lionel really IS alive, behind this-
"ROARRRRRRRR!"
I screamed for dear life and dropped my cereal, spasming with terror and fell backwards over the arm of a leather sofa. I flipped out it so that my legs dangled over my torso and I stubbed my nose in my knees.
"Owieee…"
What the hell! The noise sounded like it came from outside, a horrible contortion of mountain lion and bear; but there wasn't any game as large as that this close to the house, was there?
I sat upright again and stumbled to the kitchen window that faced directly in front of the manor. I waited for what felt like hours, but jumped yet again when the thunderous roar happened again.
That didn't sound like Bambi at all.
Ok, ok. Crazy noise outside. What do you do?
Obviously, I had to find out what it was. Because that's what a sane person would do.
I scrambled past my breakfast, soggy in the carpet and pressed down on the sliding panel in the side of the staircase by the door. After flicking the lights so hard I scratched my finger, I flew down the concrete stairs to find my self in the basement.
It was just one large open space under the entire house. To one corner I had arranged spare antiques and boxes of crap, along side Lionel's stash of canned food (I assume in case of some nuclear disaster). The rest I had made use of the springy wooden floor, which was now sat on by my own personal gym (weights, rowing machine, stretching mat, punching bags, the works). My martial arts gii was hanging spread out on pegs against the wall, along side my padding and further down my weapons collection.
Yeah, you heard me.
Motherfucking pointy things!
I don't really know what came first, the training with a bo staff and tonfus in my old club or the cosplaying obsession. Of course with my fascination with projects and making things, they were all fairly accurate and handmade by moi; throwing knives, leather armour, bow and arrow, blades and robes all inspired by Assassin's Creed were sitting in their cases, polished and beckoning the beholder. I had been planning on starting the shield for a Captain America cosplay soon, so sealed cans of metal paint lay in the corner as well.
Like a greedy kid in Honeydukes, I rushed forward and laced on the engraved bracers that held steel hidden blades.
They were my pride and joy, and though I'd never attacked someone in self-defence with these badboys, I knew how to use them.
I also pulled on the holster of my own design and tucked a small amount of throwing knives in there.
I finally pocketed some pepper spray, for funsies.
Girl, hurry up! You'll miss the showdown!
Wait, showdown? What is this, a freaking cage fight?
Tiny was licking his balls on the staircase when I came out.
"Bye Tiny! Avenge me if I get eaten!"
A sarcastic snort was my only reply as I legged out of the house. After 10 minutes of running aimlessly, I realised that I wasn't on the trail anymore, and that I had no idea where I was trying to get to.
Thank god no one lived nearby, and was watching me running around like a lunatic dreaming of become a part of the Order.
Hey! I'm not insane!
Dude, it runs in the family.
Embrace itttttt!
I slid to a halt and paced awkwardly, trying to work out my plan of attack. Right, so I've run outside with the intention of what? Killing whatever animal made that noise?
Hell no! I've only ever hunted with Grandpa Lionel, and that was fluffy bunnies and deer with a modern bow and arrow!
Besides, 'save the planet' and all that!
Ok then, I'm just going to poke around and satisfy my curiosity.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Mind you, if it came down to a show down with Tiny, curiosity would have to have a closed casket funeral service.
"Common, big scary bear, shout for me!" I threw my arms out mockingly at the sky. When no thunderbolts reigned down and granted me super powers, I huffed and kicked the dirt. "Gee, I feel so special."
Why did it work for Thor and not me!
Since now I was out here, I might as well take my time getting back. It was a Sunday, which meant no work other than emailing Nott a completed report on the team's current project of a new amphitheatre. We'd finally replaced the design for the roof, and contacted our usual industrial materials team to sort out that stuff. The report was already written up, I just needed to click send and stroke Tiny in my swivel chair while evilly laughing.
Lionel really would be proud.
So I walked around, cheering when I managed to climb trees (almost) unscathed with branches lower than my head and giggling every time I stuck a pose and flicked my wrist blades out.
"Watch out for the greatest assassin ever to have killed, the elusive, goddamn sexy Valentina the Vampire! Grrr!"
"Grrrrrarrrrr…"
I yelped and jumped over a rotting log, hiding in sparring stance for whatever had answered me. I twisted around, slowly backpedalling away with narrowed eyes. It sounded close, but where….
Oh shit.
…That ain't no grizzly bear.