The Beast
Thomas Brea looked at the mansion. Directly in front of him, past the iron gate was the central block, nearly fifty-feet tall and fifty-six feet across. Flanking the sides were two, long rectangular blocks covered with ashen windows. Historically they would have been stables and servants quarters. The house could have been attractive; if the windows were sparkling, the paint refreshed, the lawn green, and the sun out. Otherwise it was desolate.
Thomas looked at his watch: seven forty-six. In a little over an hour it would be dark, and he would be hopelessly lost. But what even made him think something in that structure could help him? As far as he could tell, nobody had so much as looked at this place in awhile. Still…it couldn't hurt to at least look around. The structure, if anything, was historically and architecturally intriguing. The statues in the font lawn and bricked exterior suggested Baroque influence. Quite peculiar, considering Europeans weren't spotted in the area until around the late-seventeen hundreds just as the Baroque period was dwindling down. Even so, he sincerely doubted the first colonists built a massive Baroque monument in the middle of the woods. And it was better than sitting in his car looking at a map of Canada for the next half hour.
So, tipping his head to one side he pushed against the gate. It turned on its hinges with a rusty grind. Thomas stepped carefully over the threshold of crunchy, beige grass and proceeded towards the mansion. As he walked and walked, it seemed as if the house never got any closer. Looking ahead he could see it clearly several feet away, but it's figure remained fixed. At one point he turned around to gauge the distance between him and the gate to see if he had even moved, but it too seemed fixed. Troubled, but unwilling to give up his mission, Thomas pressed forward. At last, just before the sun fell under the horizon he reached the statue guarding the entryway. The sun's last murderous rays pierced the air to hit the twisted statue: it was the most disturbing piece of art Thomas had ever seen. It was a woman, her face tilted towards the sky, a serious mouth pursed in pain. An arm grabbed towards the stars, its fingers bent in agitation. This itself was a moving, passionate piece: what disturbed him was the tall figure behind her, seizing her waist, and the smile on the plaster face revealing elongated canines, angled towards her perfect neck. The girl's other arm reached up to cradle his head. The statue was bathed in blood red light.
Thomas felt his heart falter. Swallowing he moved past and headed towards the doors. He was able to reach them much quicker than before. Reaching for the brass handle, he recoiled: what if, contrary to the appearance, someone did live here? Thinking it wouldn't look good to be caught in a stranger's house, his hand picked up the knocker and rapped it three times. Stepping back, he waited. The sun fell completely over the edge, dimming the world. A wolf cried somewhere in the night, making Thomas shiver. Perhaps he try again, just to be sure no one was here. Thomas knocked again, louder this time. He was answered by a squeak. The door swung in towards darkness.
"Hello?" the door opened wider. "Is anyone there?" A stray wind wandered out and wrapped its chilly fingers around him, nudging him towards the darkness. Panicked at so strong an improbable sensation Thomas dug his heels into the concrete. The wind was unable to move him and consented to billowing past him in the direction of the house—almost as if pointing out the way. The battle continued on until Thomas heard another wolf scream, sounding as if it were waiting for him at the car door just outside the iron gate. Hurrying in, Thomas heard the door softly swing shut behind him. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to shake off a cold dread and panicking heart. When he felt as if his heart had ceased rapid fire, he called out again:
"Is anyone there?" No answer. He let out a gush of air: it was all in his mind. His sleep deprived and anxious mind had created a phantasm of air. How silly! Laughing at himself he looked around the mansion. He stood in the middle of a large black and white tiled foyer. To his right was an antiquated side table with a tortoise-shell snuff- box and a silver-faced clock. To the left was a matching table with a vase of fresh yellow roses. So someone had been here recently. Peering through the thick dimness he thought he could discern a grand staircase straight ahead. Maybe he should try calling from the bottom of the stairs: perhaps they were sleeping. In which case he would feel like a terrible imposition. But which was worse: being woken up by a stranger calling for you in the foyer, or waking up and finding a stranger walking around your foyer? Carefully placing one foot in front of the other he stepped towards the staircase. But suddenly an agitated air stream pushed him off course. Staggering from shock, Thomas fell sideways. While trying to regain his equilibrium the wind pushed him from behind. Compelled to go straight he stumbled onward, letting the wind guide him.
The wind led him down a hallway buffed by intricate Persian rugs and lined with beautiful tapestries. Yuan dynasty vases (judging from the calligraphy on the sides), bronzed statues, and jeweled boxes sat strikingly on tables. Interested, Thomas tried to stop and examine the items, but the wind insisted they keep moving. By the time they arrived at a black door, Thomas had become use to the wind guiding him along, and trusted it. Of its own accord the door opened and the wind gently prodded Thomas in. A flash of orange blasted through the room, illuminating a gorgeous ebony table laden with various silver dishes. Blinking twice, Thomas tried to quickly adjust his eyes to the firelight, least he miss something. But he couldn't see anyone or anything that might have suddenly lit the fire in the five-foot fireplace.
Baffled, he allowed the wind to steer him towards a highly decorative chair to the right of the head. He sat down, his mind screaming the improbability of it all. The wind didn't seem to care about its probability of existence and started to serve Thomas from one of the many silver platters. A host of wonderful smells invaded his nostrils and seized his attention—he hadn't eaten since stopping for lunch back in Detroit. Looking down his eyes jumped: before him lay the most fantastic feast he had ever seen! Whole legs of pork, dozens of quail eggs, mounds of potatoes, heaps of bread, and every other thing you could imagine at a king's banquet. Without scruples, Thomas dug in relishing the taste.
He ate until he thought it might all come back up. Everything he had eaten was incomparably delicious, melting on his tongue and dancing around his taste buds. Glancing around anxiously, he wondered whom to thank; but no host presented themselves so he settled on nodding to the air and saying 'thank you' aloud. The wind immediately picked up and swept him out of his chair and out of the dining room. This time it led him back towards the front door. They cantered all the way back and made their way to the right side of the grand staircase. Weaving through several doors and hallways, Thomas discovered himself in one of the wings. The carpet, a deep, plush vermillion, reminiscent of an opera house, clothed the floor. There were no expensive knick-knacks on this side of the building: only practical appliances and one or two landscape paintings. About half way from the entrance to the wing, another door opened on Thomas' left and the wind steered him in. A flash of white revealed a modern style bedroom outfitted with electric lights. A king size bed pressed against the right side of the wall, directly across from another functional fireplace. Two tiny tables flanked the bed as well as an armchair near the fireplace. Straight ahead Thomas could see a full moon rising behind a dusty coat of glass.
The wind nudged Thomas towards the bed and started to blow up his shirt. Giggling at the tickling sensation, Thomas crossed his arms at his stomach to keep the wind out. The wind kept insisting though and eventually managed to whisk his shirt off and replace it with a long, soft cotton nightgown. A fire sparked to life with a crack in the fireplace, causing Thomas to start. His jumpy attitude soon wore off though and left him feeling warm and sleepy. He shouldn't have drunk wine at dinner. The wind had no problem taking his jeans off. Getting drowsier and drowsier, climbing into the smooth sheets was almost a dream. And as the wind pulled the sheets up to his stubbled chin, he began to drift into a dream.
Thomas was awoken first by the smell of bacon and then the sunlight. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes he lamented morning's early arrival. He had not had such a good sleep since before his wife died. By the time he cleared his eyes of fog, the wind had brought to his lap a silver tray laden with crackling bacon, steaming eggs, buttery toast, and pulpy orange juice. Less spectacular than last night's feast, it was by no means less delectable. Thomas finished the entire meal. At it's completion the silver tray floated away and the wind shooed him out of bed to redress him in clothes freshly pressed. What service! He thought with a laugh as his old, beat-up shirt slid over his head. Still it was all very peculiar: invisible hands, meals without an origin, lack of personnel to speak with. Yes, it was strange indeed.
Falling into the first stage of sleep last night, he had had an epiphany that answered all the peculiar questions regarding the mansion. Obviously a reclusive, wealthy genius had the house built following the schematics of Seaton Delaval Hall in England. And to keep strangers at bay he had devised the world's most ingenious tour guide system. The halls and rooms had to be lined with motion-sensor air-jets. You walk by and the air-jet puffs out a stream of air to 'steer' you to a designated area. The more off-course you got, the stronger the air blasts. Though he couldn't figure out how objects such as platters and clothes moved of their own accord, he had no doubt there was a logical explanation. Thomas had to meet this genius and generous host face to face. The things he could discuss with another inventor! Determined to meet a peer, Thomas strode towards the door with a beaming face. Out in the hall the air jets started again, pushing him towards the end of the corridor where it connected to the main house. Thomas let it guide him along toying with the notion that it would lead him to its creator. So, when it forcefully pushed him out the door, the vision vanished. Upset, Thomas turned around and sharply knocked on the door with the brass knocker. No one answered. He knocked again. Nothing. Annoyed more at himself for not resisting the air-jets sooner, Thomas stalked down the steps and was taken aback by the sight of his car. Someone had brought it up from the gates. Curious, he approached and plucked off a piece of paper caught between the windshield and the wiper.
It would be to your advantage to leave the woods before dark.
Thomas spun around and looked at the mansion. Who was in there? What genius had locked himself away from the world? He had to find out. He had to let him know that he also was another misunderstood intellect who only wanted to talk. He had to meet this man. Or woman. Perhaps there was another entrance around back. Determined to find this contemporary, Thomas trekked around the eastern wing towards the back, following the sun's lead. It seemed to take hours before he finally reached a ten-foot stonewall, draped in ivy, surrounding a patch of land behind the mansion. It had to be some sort of garden. Thomas cursed his luck, as he walked the perimeter looking for an entrance. Fate obviously did not want him to meet this other inventor. After walking the length and width of one side (which took him until the sun hit zenith), Thomas finally found an entrance at the corner where the width and length met. It was a small oak door, inlaid with dark iron, nestled amongst the ivy. Invisible if you weren't looking for it. He tried the handle and to his great astonishment it opened: he was expecting a struggle. Pleased and confident at this small piece of luck, Thomas crept into the garden.
At first he couldn't believe his eyes: the entire garden was behaving as if it were a pleasant May day instead of a chilly October one. The grass was springy and emerald, carpeting the ground beneath the heavy pomegranate trees. Delicate, porcelain lilies danced in the wind as simple daisies kept time. A small pond lay in the middle waiting for the vegetation to creep down towards it. He would have taken a few more steps in except the back wall of the garden captured his attention.
Thomas tread softly towards the wall, his face covered in awe. Upon the back wall was a sort of rose shrine. Rose bushes clustered before the wall as the rest climbed up it. Crimson, cream, coral, and cadmium all peeked their heads out, to see the sun. How was it possible that roses were still thriving at this time of the year? Thomas looked at them, his mouth agape. They were so beautiful. If only Amara, his youngest daughter, could see them. She loved roses. Maybe if he picked one and kept it in the water bottle in the car it would survive the drive home. She would be delighted to have one last rose before winter came. Thomas looked around to see if anyone was there. No one. Well at least now he could say he took it without asking because no one was there to ask. Bending down carefully, he lightly grasped the stem of a golden rose and snapped it downwards.
A noise, caught between a hiss and roar, resounded throughout the garden causing Thomas to fall backwards. A train of clouds thundered towards the sun, blocking out its warming rays and turning the world stormy. Lightening exploded against the sky illuminating the garden. The wind began ripping the leaves off the trees and blowing them in Thomas' face. Sputtering he tried to stand up but couldn't. A light sparked and Thomas screamed. A figure! A dark, tall man was looming before him. Where had he come from? Thunder cracked overhead, nearly giving Thomas a heart attack. The light flashed again: the man was still there.
"Hello?" Thomas called weakly.
"You insolent old fool!" The figure boomed, his voice low and dark. "How dare you take my rose! After the kind and generous reception I bestowed upon you, you dare take the only thing that gives me joy? You impudent old man!" Thomas threw his face towards the ground and held out his hands in a show of prostration.
"Please! Please forgive me! I did not mean to trespass! It's just my daughter, she loves roses, and yours are so beautiful, I just thought…"
"You thought what? That you might take advantage of my hospitality further? You will pay for your insolence."
"Please, forgive me! I did not mean to!"
"For your impertinence you will die." Thomas felt his heart contract and squeeze tight.
"Please," he gasped, "please sir! I have daughters at home who depend on me! Don't rob them of their father."
"Someone must pay for this crime,"
"I'll do anything you wish," Thomas choked, the tears running down his face and blinding him. "Please, just let me see my daughters one last time." The lightening ceased, the wind became a breeze, and the thunder was reduced to a soft cackle.
"Anything?" Thomas did not like the sound of that at all, but he couldn't go back on his word after he had already disproved himself in front of this man.
"Yes,"
"Give me one of your daughters,"
"What?! No! Leave them out of this," Thomas cried.
"You're the one that brought them into this,"
"I would never turn one of my daughters over to stranger to do God-knows-what to her!"
"She would come to no harm," the man reassured, walking casually around to another rose bush. Thomas strained to make out his face as he bent to smell a large bud, "It is only that I am in want of a companion. Someone to talk to. This is a large house in the middle of the woods."
"Then take me! I will be your companion."
"Old men do not nearly have the same plasticity as young women do." Thomas' face blanched. "You would like to see your daughters again wouldn't you Mr. Brea?"
"Yes," Thomas mumbled, his heart sinking.
"Then go to them,"
"Oh thank you! Thank you!" Thomas cried, rising to his feet.
"But," the figure interrupted, moving closer to Thomas, "You must return to this place by the next full moon. Either by yourself, or with one of your daughters." Thomas scrutinized the figure.
"Who are you?" The figure chuckled, a sound akin to a wolf's bark.
"I'm not sure you want the answer to that, Mr. Brea," as he spoke the lightening lit the sky, perfectly illuminating the tall, dark man before him. The man was smiling wickedly, two perfect, tear shaped canines grazing his bottom lip.