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Monsters: Chapter 2

Curtis makes his arduous journey into St Argent, unaware that the torrential rain around is more than a simple bad omen.

By Sam Averre Published 3 years ago 17 min read
1

The rain drummed heavily against the windshield of the large truck that sped down the country lane, the heavy droplets echoing within the vehicle and filling Curtis’ ears with an unrelenting cacophony. He had been warned by his sister before he left that a storm was coming through Washington from the Pacific, but he did not realise the magnitude, and now wished he had waited until the following morning for it to pass. His journey across state had been delayed multiple times due to road closures and flood warnings, causing him to detour through long and dubious country roads that had caused his shoulders to stiffen and his body to slump.

He was getting close to the town of St Argent now and could feel the familiar ache in his right kneecap taking affect, which had started an hour or so ago with a slight jab in the centre, slowly spreading until it was now a constant throb of pain where the two leg bones met. Over the last half hour, there had been multiple times his pain had synced up to the hammering rain, almost pulsing with agony at every heavy gust that drench his windshield from top to bottom. Curtis hated his injury, but not for the pain it caused him. In his eyes it was a weakness. A wall that stood in his way from reaching his true potential. Every sting his knee rang out with was almost like a step backward, away from his real dream of becoming a professional football player.

He tried to push the pain aside for a moment and focused on the road ahead, being narrow and one-laned, and seeming to stretch into the darkness like an endless ribbon flowing on forever. He gazed down at the map on the passenger seat and focused on the last landmark that he could make sense of, being a tall, wooden-carved statue that stood at the entrance to a famous woodland walk that took hikers toward Pacific Falls. His eyes narrowed on the icon that represented the famous waterfall, before letting his gaze follow the small, intricate lines that stretched out like tree roots to the many towns that surrounded the Argent National Forest. He quickly found the markings on the map that indicated the road he was currently driving on and estimated that he only had another twenty minutes’ drive before reaching St Argent.

Though many travellers often made their way into the isolated town in search of historical landmarks and civil war monuments, Curtis personally thought the town to be too big and too empty for his liking, having visited St Argent when he was younger and finding the old ‘Queen Anne’ style houses to be an eye sore. The Washington weather also didn’t help either as the town was frequently hit with brutish storms and violent winds that tore paint from walls.

He then focused on the time, seeing that it was already coming close to nine o’clock. Anger flooded through him, cursing the delays and distance he was having to travel for his new job. A job that his sister had gotten him through word of mouth from her friends who had heard of a very old family in need of a gardener.

Gardening was something that helped Curtis take his mind off his knee and was particularly therapeutic when his thoughts of a constantly darkening future began to arise. He also thought the constant movement and slow garden walks might help his knee recover enough so that he might one day walk without a cane, or maybe even play in the Spokane football team once again.

Curtis was less than impressed with the location and distance from his home at first, but after hearing about the pay his new employers were willing to give him and the offer of a permanent residence in which to stay at, he practically jumped at the opportunity and was fully packed within a day of being hired. Now his enthusiasm was faltering, the rain seeming like a bad omen. As he thought this, his knee almost replied to the notion, biting at his knee joint once again.

Curtis rubbed at the sensation and tried to sooth the building pain but knew it would not subside until he stopped and rested his leg. His injury was the result of a football accident that had happened a few months ago, having been tackled awkwardly and making his leg twist in an agonising position. It angered him to feel so weak and powerless. He wanted the thrill of running across a pitch, ball in hand, with bull-like players at his heel as he closed the distance between himself and a touchdown.

Curtis wanted to be the best. He was for a short time, and was close to becoming nationally recognised, but it seemed destiny had different plans for him. Now he was enslaved by his pain, forced to sit on the side lines as others stole his dream and ran to the hills.

Curtis’ heart suddenly gave a swift jolt of excitement and broke him from his thoughts. Staring out of the windshield, he could see his headlights slowly revealing an old wooden sign ahead, barely illuminated by overhanging lights reading, ‘Welcome to St Argent! Population 7000.’ He had finally made it to the isolated town. He felt a swelling amount of euphoria erupt within him, as he knew his trek along miles of country roads and treacherous, uneven lanes were coming quickly to an end. The road then began to climb, at the top being a clearing amongst the trees that offered a view of the whole town of St Argent, the bright streetlights shining off into the dark cloudy abyss in the sky.

“Thank god,” Curtis chuckled.

He pressed his foot to the accelerator and watched as the droplets of rain fell faster and faster past his window, but as he did so a pair of bright headlights quickly appeared behind him in his rear-view mirror, at first looking like two small fireflies hovering in mid-air. The lights rapidly became brighter and brighter until the glare almost blinded Curtis. He swerved the truck and brought his arm up to cover his eyes, feeling the chassis sway on its wheels as the car sped quickly past.

“Ass hole!” Curtis cried, as he recovered the vehicle, his fist waving out the side window at the old black mustang which was already far in front darting speedily into a side street and disappearing. “What a dick,” Curtis fumed, pressing harder on the accelerator with the fury that now pulsed in his veins.

His journey through the town of St Argent took him almost no time at all, Curtis’ anger swiftly replaced with a building excitement once again as road signs began to read ‘Turn left for Maudite Estate,’ And ‘Stay true for Maudite Mansion,’ meaning he was nearing the end of his long and arduous journey.

Curtis let out a quick sigh of relief as his truck slowly approached the front gates of the Maudite estate, nestled secretly at the side of a country lane. He rolled the window down and felt the damp chill of the air gust in violently, along with large droplets of rain that bounced off the interior surfaces of the truck. He quickly pressed the buzzer on the small intercom and hesitantly waited for a reply, feeling his clothes slowly dampen from the invasive rain.

“What is it?” Came a deep and husky voice from the other end of the intercom.

“It’s Curtis Bristol. I’m the new gardener from Spokane. We spoke on the phone a few days ago.” Curtis was almost shouting against the heavy wind, and it seemed like his voice was almost stopped mid-air by the curtain of rain that poured down.

There was no reply for a long moment and Curtis wondered whether the person on the other end, who he assumed was Dr Maudite due to the sound of his voice, had heard him. As his hand reached back for the small button, the gates began to slowly creak open with the help of large, pressurized cylinders around the hinges. Curtis faltered for a brief moment, a strange sensation of danger enveloping him. Then, with an unsure hand, he placed the truck into first and rolled apprehensively down the long, twisting lane.

On either side of the truck were small waist-level lamps that illuminated the black tarmac, beyond them lying thick bushes, a few shaking leaves suggesting he was being observed by many small, intrigued creatures. As he drove further and further, Curtis realised why exactly they had needed to hire a gardener, as brambles seem to reach out into the road like clawed hands and uncut and unkept bushes that sat like large, shaggy dogs along the roadside. Above him were overhanging trees, the branches visible for only a few metres before they too disappeared into nothingness. Some had been left too confident, dipping down from their nest in the canopy and threatening to scratch at his roof. Luckily, the sound of grinding paint work never came, Curtis letting out a deep sigh of relief as he drove on further.

The darkness was different here, Curtis could feel it. His hand automatically went to the doorhandle and pressed the lock button, hearing the doors around him click with security. He didn’t know why he did it, but he felt a lot better when he did. It was as if the darkness was swallowing him up from the world. Wherever he looked he had to squint, trying to make sense of objects through the haze. Even his headlights, which were turned on full blast, were being devoured by the night, going no further than a few metres in front of the bonnet before dissipating.

Eventually, he was met with a light that shone out from the end of the black lane and it was in the form of an old white structure, its large windows like the beaming shine of a lighthouse, guiding him from danger. He began to hear the grinding of gravel beneath his tires and saw the lane widening into an open courtyard, a large white mansion sitting right in the middle.

Curtis felt his mouth fall open as he let his eyes wonder from detail to detail, the large house featuring many illuminated windows and even more dark ones. It must’ve had at least 60 rooms altogether. Possibly even more, for Curtis could see the house stretching back around the corner of the east wing, maybe even having more of the property behind that he could not see.

He cut the engine and unlocked his door, stepping out into the courtyard as a gust of cold night air swiftly catching in his mouth and lungs, leaving him breathless for a short moment and with an icy chill in his chest. He then noticed that the rain, which had been torrential for the past few hours had now calmed to a gentle patter, the air seeming to clear as if he were in a different land altogether. He could even see small patches of brightly speckled sky, tiny stars gleaming brightly down at him.

He then looked at mammoth house in front of him, noticing the windowsills were all ornately designed with engravings set deep in the wood and there were many high windows with stained glass which even in the darkness seemed to shine with a certain magnificence. Curtis had never seen a house so beautiful. He looked out across the courtyard and saw a large stone fountain, flowing with fresh clear water and artistically shaped to look like the mouth of a wolf, poised to snap at the night air with sharp fangs protruding from its mouth.

“Mr Bristol?” Came the familiar voice from the intercom.

Curtis turned to see a large and broad-shouldered man standing at the head of the stairs to the mansion. He was dressed in a black silk gown that hung down to a pair of brown loafers on his feet. His face was squared and full of beard, with thin whisps of hair hanging down from the rest upon his head, which was combed back with precision. The man’s face was oddly menacing, and his eyes pierced through Curtis’ like a knife.

“Yes, but you can call me Curtis,” Curtis walked forward and extended his arm out to the meet the man who stood above him.

Dr Maudite stared at the hand left in open air with displeasure, making Curtis slowly retract it and diving the scorned hand into his jean pocket. He felt a jolt of pain in his knee once again and tried to hide his slowly sagging leg which would buckle soon if he did not retrieve his walking stick.

“Welcome to Maudite House. You will follow me to your residence. Leave your keys in the truck and I will have the butler drop your car to you later this evening.” Dr Maudite had said this all matter-of-factly and had already walked down the stairs and toward a small path at the edge of the courtyard, leading down a grass verge and into the dark wall of trees at the bottom.

Curtis hobbled back to the truck and retrieved his cane from the back seat. Dr Maudite was already halfway down the path by the time Curtis caught up to him, every step feeling like someone was kicking him in the shins.

“You will be working from nine to five on weekdays as specified on our phone call and will be allowed two days for designated time off. If you require holiday…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Curtis interrupted, though immediately wished he hadn’t due to the stale glare he received over the shoulder of Dr Maudite.

“As I was saying, if you require holiday then I will need two weeks’ notice and the dates in which you shall be leaving and returning.”

“Understood.” Said Curtis, feeling more like a new cadette arriving at military school than an employed gardener.

The two then walked silently along the path, it sometimes straying on the edge of large fields that swept along the landscape and occasionally down to the large river that ran along the bottom of the valley the estate was situated on. Curtis thought to himself how much time it would take him to cut back all the trees and hedgerow along the pathways of the property, trying to keep mental notes but feeling as if he was being swept away by the huge workload ahead of him.

He gave up keeping track when the two reached a secret garden, circular in shape and overgrown with more bramble and bushes. He resigned to simply tracking where everything was and imagined himself dropping imaginary breadcrumbs with every tap of his cane.

Eventually the two made their way down a dark tunnel of trees, coming out into what used to be a garden sitting around a small cottage. It seemed to have been fashioned in the style of old thatched houses in England, having a thick layer of long, brown straw for a roof and rough stone which stuck out in odd shapes and patterns under a layer of white paint. Curtis loved it and felt like the house was made for him specifically. The stone was uneven and bumpy beneath the paint and the roof was in a little need of restoration, but to Curtis, it almost mirrored himself in a way. Broken but with a promise of revival.

“This is where you’ll be staying, Mr Bristol. You will be focusing on this garden first and then from there you are free to dedicate yourself to whatever aspect of the garden you see fit to tackle next. But I must warn you, we have strict rules that you must abide by to the letter and your contract will be terminated immediately if you fail to do so,” Said Dr Maudite, who spoke with severity in his voice. “You are not to enter the mansion unless given permission to do so. The house on the other side of the estate, situated close to the botanical greenhouse is strictly off limits, and last but not least, you are to not leave your residence for any reason after 10pm. After that time, you must stay within your cottage, or if you are out of the estate, stay out until the following morning. Do I make myself clear?”

Curtis nodded and looked quickly up to the house, trying to break the intense stare from Dr Maudite.

“Absolutely. Trust me, Dr Maudite, you won’t even know I’m here half of the time.” Said Curtis, trying to lighten the mood.

“Good, then I bid you goodnight, Mr Bristol.” Said Dr Maudite, unwaveringly.

Before Curtis could respond the man had already past him and was now walking back down the garden path, his large figure slowly disappearing into the darkness.

“What a welcoming man,” Curtis mused under his breath, returning his gaze back to the house.

Curtis made his way to the front door, which was made of thick, splintered wood and featured a large iron lock with a thick jagged key sticking out of the hole. With his left hand, Curtis gripped the round doorknob, its stiffness causing him to grip tighter until his knuckles turned white. He shouldered at the door, feeling its solid frame brace hard against his force and making his whole body vibrate with each shove. Eventually, with one final heave, Curtis barged through, the door giving way briefly before stopping short in an ajar position.

“Metal grease is definitely on the shopping list then,” He said through gritted teeth, rubbing his shoulder which now too throbbed.

He looked out across a sea of darkness inside the small cottage, a few shapes and odd objects being visible through the moonlight which now streamed through the small gap in the doorway. Curtis fumbled across the wall until his hand reached a switch, flicking it on and letting the room flood with light. He was blinded for a second, his eyes so used to the dark he had been in for the past few hours. As his vision returned, he could now make out large heaps of furniture which rested under a layer of thin sheets, looking like a cluster of mountains, some short and some reaching almost to the ceiling.

He closed the door, the motion easier now that it had been forced open for the first time in what must have been a decade. The front door sat in the kitchen, which was now noisily coming to life with the sound of a kettle whistling tunefully on the hob of the gas cooker. Curtis made his way slowly around the room as the kettle boiled, exploring the many heaps of furniture and finding priceless chairs and an old but comfy settee which featured intricate upholstery designs of exotic red and white flowers.

Curtis had also found a large grandfather clock, the glass which displayed the clockwork beneath crystalline and patterned to look like waves were cashing against the woodwork around the face of the clock. By the time he had finished unsheathing all the furniture the clock rang twelve, and the pain in his leg was now reaching a crescendo. He collapsed on the sofa, forgetting all about the boiled water that lay waiting on the stove.

He was slowly drifting into a sleep that would carry him not only across the night but also through much of the next morning. But as his eyelids collapsed in on each other, a deep sleep taking him, his ears filled with the dreadful sound of howling.

Fantasy
1

About the Creator

Sam Averre

An aspiring writer with a love for the occult and everything gothic. I am currently writing a novella called Monsters and I write new chapters for the story every week.

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