The Riddle House

In the village of Little Hangleton, the locals all called it 'the Riddle House', despite the fact that it has been many years since the Riddle family lived there.

It still stood on a hill that overlooked the village, with its windows now boarded, tiles missing from its roof and ivy being spread unchecked over its face. It was once a grand and fine looking manor, easily being the largest and grandest building for miles, but now the Riddle House was damp, derelict and abandoned.

All the Little Hangletons universally agreed that it was 'creepy', though.

This was because around half a century ago, something both odd and horrible had happened. Something that was to be discussed among the older inhabitants when other topics for gossip were dried up. The story had been picked apart so many times, even embroidered in so many places, that no one was sure what the truth was anymore.

But every version of the story started the same way: that around fifty years before, during daybreak on a fine summer's morning, when the Riddle House was still well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room and found all three Riddles dead. The maid ran, screaming at the top of her lungs, down the hill and into the village, rousing as many people as she could.

"Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!"

Naturally, the police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton seethed with shocked curiosity and ill disguised excitement. No one really bothered pretending to be sad about the Riddles, as they were very unpopular.

Both Elderly Mr and Mrs Riddle were rich, snobbish and rude, and their grown up son, Tom, was even more so.

All the villagers really cared about was who murdered them, mainly because three seemingly healthy people don't just drop dead of natural causes all on the same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, had a roaring trade that night, with the whole village turning up to discuss the murders. They were all rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles' cook had arrived dramatically in their midst, announcing to the suddenly silent pub that someone named Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

"Frank!" Several people cried . "Never!"

Frank Bryce worked as the gardener for the Riddle family. He lived by himself in a run down cottage among the Riddle House grounds. He'd come back from the war with a really stiff leg and a real dislike of crowds and loud noises, having worked for the Riddles ever since.

There was a real rush to buy the cook some drinks, wanting to hear more details.

"Always thought he was odd." She told the eagerly listening crowd after she had her fourth sherry. "Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't."

"Ah, now…" A woman at the bar said. "...he had a hard war, Frank, he likes the quiet life. That's no reason to -"

"Who else had a key to the back door, then?" The cook barked at her. "There's been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping…."

All the villagers exchanged dark looks.

"I always thought he had a nasty look about him, right enough." A man at the bar grunted.

"War turned him funny, if you ask me." The landlord said.

"Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn't I, Dot?" An excited woman at the corner said.

"Horrible temper." Dot said as she nodded fervently. "I remember, when he was a kid…."

By the following morning, there were very few who thought that Frank didn't kill the Riddles.

However, over at the neighbouring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank stubbornly repeated over and over again that he was innocent, and how the only person that he saw anywhere near the house on the day the Riddles died was a teenage boy, an absolute stranger who was dark haired and pale. Of course, no one else in the village had seen this boy, and the police were sure that he had invented him.

And as things started getting serious for Frank, the reports came in on the Riddles' bodies, which changed everyone.

It had to be the oddest report the police ever read. A team of doctors had examined the bodies, coming to the conclusion that one of the Riddles were poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated or (as far as they could tell) harmed in any way. The report even continued, in real bewilderment, that the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health, excluding the fact that they were now dead. The doctors did note (clearly determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had looks of terror upon their faces, but whoever heard of three people being frightened to death?

With no proof that the Riddles were murdered, the police had no choice but to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, their graves still being objects of curiosity for a while.

And much to everyone's surprise, among a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage in the grounds of the Riddle House.

"'S'far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police said." Dot in the Hanged Man said. "And if he had any decency, he'd leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it."

Yet Frank didn't leave. He stayed to tend to the garden for the next family who would live in the Riddle House, and then the next as neither family stayed for long. Maybe it was because of each new owner saying that there was this nasty feeling with the place, which, in the absence of any inhabitants, now started to fall into disrepair.

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House nowadays didn't live there or even put it to any use, resulting in those in the village saying that he kept it for 'tax reasons', though no one was very clear about what they were. The wealthy owner would continue to pay Frank to do the gardening as well. Frank neared his seventy seventh birthday now, being very deaf and his bad leg now stiffer than ever, though he could still be seen pottering around the flowerbeds in fine weather, even with the weeds starting to creep up on him.

Weeds wouldn't be the only thing that Frank had to deal with. Boys from the village started making a habit of throwing stones through the various windows of the Riddle House. They'd ride their bicycles over the lawns that Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. And once or twice, they'd even break into the old house for a dare.

The boys all knew how devoted old Frank was to the house and grounds, which is why it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, himself, believed that these boys were tormenting him because just like their parents and grandparents, they thought he was a murderer.

This was why when he woke up one night in August and saw something very odd at the old house, he naturally assumed that the boys went one step further to punish him.

Frank's bad leg was what woke him up that night, as it pained him more than ever in his old age. He'd get up and limp downstairs to the kitchen, deciding to refill his hot water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee.

When he stood at the sink and started filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in the upper windows. He just knew what was going on. The boys have now broken into the house again and based on the flickering of the light, they had started a fire.

He didn't have a telephone, and considering how deeply mistrusting he felt towards the police ever since he was taken in for questioning about the Riddles' deaths, he couldn't call them.

So he put the kettle down at once and hurried back upstairs as fast as he could with his bad leg and was soon back in the kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old keep from its hook by the door. He also picked up his walking stick, which was propped up against the wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Riddle House had no sign of being forced, not even the windows. Frank limped his way around to the back of the house until he reached a door that was almost entirely hidden by ivy, took out the old key and put it into the lock and opened the door without making a noise.

He entered the cavernous kitchen, which he hadn't entered for many years, and it was very dark, but Frank remembered where the door to the hall was. He groped his way towards it, his nostrils now full of the smell of decay and his ears were pricked for any sign of footsteps or voices from overhead.

He finally entered the hall, which was a bit lighter due to the large mullioned windows from either side of the front door. Frank then climbed up the stairs, blessing the dust, which was thick on the stone, because it muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

When he reached the landing, Frank turned right and saw where the intruders were: at the very end of a passage was a door that stood ajar, flickering light shining through the gap and casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor.

Frank now edged closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. When he was several feet from the entrance, he saw a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire was lit in the grate, which surprised Frank. He now stopped moving and listened intently, hearing a man's voice from within the room, sounding timid and fearful.

"There is a little more in the bottle, my Lord, if you are still hungry."

"Later." Another voice said, also belonging to a man. This one, however, was strangely high pitched, and as cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. It made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."

Frank turned so that his right ear faced the door, which was better in terms of hearing. He heard a chink of a bottle being put on a hard surface before hearing the dull scraping of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor.

Frank also caught a glimpse of a small man, whose back was facing the door, pushing the chair into place. He wore a long black cloak and had a bald patch on the back of his head. He then disappeared from sight again.

"Where is Nagini?" The cold voice asked.

"I - I don't know, my Lord." Wormtail said nervously. "She set out to explore the house, I think…."

"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail." The cold voice said. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."

Frank furrowed his brow as he inclined his good ear closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause until Wormtail spoke.

"My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?"

"A week." The cold voice replied. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."

Frank had inserted a gnarled finger into his ear, rotating it. Thinking it was the buildup of earwax, he heard 'Quidditch', which he is sure is just a made up word.

"The - the Quidditch World Cup, my Lord?" Wormtail said (Frank still dug his finger into his ear). "Forgive me, but - I do not understand - why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"

"Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait."

Frank now stopped trying to clear his ear out. He had clearly heard the words 'Ministry of Magic', 'wizards' and 'Muggles' clear as day. Each of these expressions were clearly meant for something secret, and Frank could think of only two types of people who'd speak in code - spies and criminals. Frank now tightened his hold on his walking stick, still listening in.

"Your Lordship is still determined, then?" Wormtail said quietly.

"Certainly I am determined, Wormtail." The cold voice now had a note of menace in it.

A pause followed before Wormtail spoke again, tumbling from him in a rush, like he was forcing himself to say something before losing his nerve.

"It could be done without Arthur Pendergast, my Lord."

This left another pause until….

"Without Arthur Pendergast?" The cold voice said softly. "I see…."

"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!" Wormtail said as his voice rose squeakily. "The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard, any wizard, the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while, you that I can disguise myself effectively, I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person -"

"I could use another wizard…" The cold voice softly said. "...that is true…."

"My Lord, it makes sense…" Wormtail said, now sounding relieved. "...laying hands on Arthur Pendergast would be so difficult, he is so well protected -"

"And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder… perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?"

"My Lord! I - I have no wish to leave you, none at all -"

"Do not lie to me!" The cold voice hissed, a lot like a snake. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me…."

"No! My devotion to your Lordship -"

"Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?"

"But you seem so much stronger, my Lord -"

"Liar." The cold voice breathed. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!"

Wormtail, who spluttered incoherently, fell silent immediately. For a few seconds, Frank didn't hear anything other than the fire crackling. Then the cold voice spoke again in a whisper, sounding a lot like a hiss.

"I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail - courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort's wrath -"

"My Lord, I must speak!" Wormtail was now panicked. "All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head, my Lord, Bertha Jorkins' disappearance will not go unnoticed for long and if we proceed, if I curse -"

"If? The cold voice, now Voldemort, whispered. "If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has disappeared. You will do it quietly, and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition… come, Wormtail, one more obstacle removed and our path to Arthur Pendergast is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us -"

"I am a faithful servant." Wormtail said, his voice containing a trace of sullenness.

"Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfil neither requirement."

"I found you." Wormtail said with a sulky edge to his voice right now. "I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins."

"That is true." Voldemort said, sounding amused. "A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail - though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?"

"I - I thought she might be useful, my Lord -"

"Liar." Voldemort said with cruel amusement more present than ever. "However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform…."

"R - really, my Lord? What -?" Wormtail sounded terrified.

"Ah, Wormtail, you don't want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end… but I promise you, you will have the honour of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins."

"You… you…." Wormtail now sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone dry. "You… are going… to kill me, too?"

"Wormtail, Wormtail…" Voldemort said silkily. "...why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns…."

Wormtail had muttered something so quietly that Frank couldn't hear him, though it made Voldemort laugh, sounding mirthless, just as cold as his speech.

"We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail."

Out in the corridor, Frank was suddenly aware that the hand that gripped his walking stick was now slippery with sweat. Voldemort has just admitted to killing a woman, and he was talking about it with no remorse, instead with amusement. This meant that he was dangerous, an absolute madman. And he planned to kill again. That boy, Arthur Pendergast, whoever he was, is in danger….

Frank now knew what he had to do. He had to go to the police. He'll creep out of the house and head straight to the telephone box in the village… but then Voldemort's cold voice spoke again and Frank remained where he was, frozen on the spot, listening with all his might.

"One more curse… my faithful servant at Hogwarts… Arthur Pendergast is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet… I think I hear Nagini…."

His voice changed, making sounds that Frank had never heard before. He was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought that he was having some kind of fit or seizure.

Then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passage. He turned to look and was paralysed with fright.

Something slithered towards him on the dark floor, drawing nearer to the sliver of firelight. He realised with a shot of terror that it was a gigantic snake, one that had to be twelve feet long.

So transfixed with horror, Frank stared at its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the tick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer, and he didn't know what to do. The only way to escape was through the room where the two men were plotting a murder, but if he stayed where he is now, the snake would no doubt kill him -

However, before he could make a decision, the snake was now level with him and it actually slithered past him, following the spitting hisses that Voldemort made behind the door, and within seconds, the tip of its diamond patterned tail vanished through the gap.

Sweat now covered Frank's forehead and his hand on the walking stick was now trembling.

Inside the room, Voldemort's voice continued to hiss and this was when Frank realised something that seemed impossible… the man could talk to snakes.

He didn't understand what was going on. All he wanted now was to be back in bed with his hot water bottle. The issue was that his legs didn't function, like they didn't want to move. He just stood there, shaking, trying to master him right as Voldemort's cold voice abruptly switched back to English.

"Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail."

"In - indeed, my Lord?"

"Indeed, yes. According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."

Frank didn't have a chance to hide as footsteps approached the door, which now flung open.

A short, balding man with greying hair and a pointed nose and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, looking fearful and alarmed.

"Invite him inside, Wormtail Where are your manners?"

Voldemort's voice came from the ancient looking armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn't see him. Then there's the snake, which was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some kind of travesty of a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. While deeply shaken, Frank took a more firm grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the room, casting long, spidery shadows on the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair, the man inside clearly being even smaller than the servant, as Frank didn't see the back of his head.

"You heard everything, Muggle?" Voldemort's cold voice asked.

"What's that you're calling me?" Frank asked defiantly, as he now inside the room, he had come for some sort of action, feeling braver, as it was in war.

"I am calling you a Muggle." Voldemort said coolly. "It means that you are not a wizard."

"I don't know what you mean by wizard." Frank said, his voice growing steady. "All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning more! And I'll tell you this, too…" He added, with new inspiration. "...my wife knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back -"

"You have no wife." Voldemort cut him off with a quiet tone. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows… he always knows…."

"Is that right?" Frank roughly said. "Lord, is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners, my Lord. Turn around and face me like a man, why don't you?"

"But I am not a man, Muggle." Voldemort said, now barely audible over the crackling flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However… why not? I will face you… Wormtail, come turn my chair around."

A whimper was made by the servant.

"You hear me, Wormtail."

And slowly, with a screwed face, like he'd rather do anything else than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forwards and turned the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

Then when the chair faced Frank and he saw who sat in it.

His walking stick fell out of his hand with a clatter and he screamed so loud that he didn't hear the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand.

Then there was a flash of green light, a rushing sound and then Frank Bryce crumpled, now dead before he even hit the floor.

Hundreds of miles away, the boy named Arthur Pendergast woke up with a painful start.

This is easily one of my favourite chapters in the books. The atmosphere alone is brilliant. And it feels like one of those true crime stories where the murder is under strange circumstances.