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Lord Harringtons Secret

Husha Husha

By JBazPublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 11 min read
7

1913 Victoria B.C.

If walls could talk, you ask. What would we say?

Perhaps we would explain what happened here last night, perhaps we would tell you a tale that led to this incident. Perhaps we would share what we endured.

We could try to warn you.

Even now we see your baffled expressions, the horror in your eyes as you try to piece together a story of your own. To somehow make sense of it all.

It would be wrong.

We listen in on your conversation, hoping you discover the truth, because if you do not, then you leave us with little choice.

Detective Maxwell stares out of the window of the turn of the century home, peering through the tiny, separated panes of glass, held in place by intricately designed woodwork. “In all my years on the force, this is …., who found him?”

“The house-keeper sir, She arrived at six a.m. sharp.”

“Did she touch anything?”

“Would you have?”

The elder detective shoots the younger man a scornful look. “I wouldn’t have asked if I assumed differently.”

Shamed for being reprimanded, the constable replies. “She thought he was dead sir, we all did. Until they lifted his body onto the gurney and his flesh separated from bone….. my god the screams that came out of him. They dropped him and ran out, I had to drag them back in to rush him to the hospital.”

Watching the model T Ford ambulance bounce down the street, he couldn’t imagine it was a comfortable ride, especially for the patient. “The stench is unbearable, we’re done here for now, lets go.”

Pointing to the wall opposite of the grand fireplace the younger detective states. ”It doesn’t explain this, not fully sir. What do you think it means?”

Wiping his face with his handkerchief the Captain stares at it before he tosses it into the fireplace and proceeds to leave. “Well, as terrible as this is, accidents happen, drunk perhaps, there is the empty decanter.”

The young constable follows taking one last look around, shaking his head. "I don't know boss, something ain't right."

Before they step outside, the house begins to shake….

The two officers are tossed violently to the floor, “Earthquake!”

For thirty seconds the home shakes, the chandelier comes crashing down, walls crack, the floor opens revealing the cellar below. Then all is quiet. The constable stares into the gap, eyes widen. He stumbles to his feet, heading to the basement.

Dusting himself off the Captain calls out, “Where you going? We need to get out of here.” Unhearing, the young man disappears below.

A voice cries out, “Captain, get down here.”

10 Hours earlier:

Lightning flashes, the foundation shakes as an explosion of thunder tears open the night skies. Somehow an eerie silence hovers inside. Blood splattered walls and dark red stains on the floor dominate the room and draw an eye away from the beauty of the Victorian home.

A quietness invades the spacious home. Nooks and crannies, lay within the shadows of the hand crafted dark wooden panels. The arched ceilings and door jams scream craftsmanship with their curlicue trim. While the entrance and front room are enhanced with a grand fireplace and graceful newly installed electric chandelier, framed in by a beautifully dominating staircase. A doll house appeal from the outside, what transpired within took away any innocence it once had.

The walls vibrate, echoing thought. ‘This is wrong.

In unison the home answers back. ‘Agreed, once again we did nothing.’

We tried.’

A sound from below echoes throughout the home.

A deep sorrow fills the air, ‘He makes us hide his secret. We can do this no longer.’

The wall shudders with relief. ‘We know what to do.’

As one. ‘Agreed.

Below in the cellar, Lord Harington tosses the trowel into a bucket. Stepping back, he admires his work, as always, perfect. This elation is quickly followed by a sense of regret and shame, and just as quickly dismissed. For over a decade he has been stuck in this back water city, with little culture or sense of who it is. No fine dining or proper women to curb his appetite. He longs to return to his home in London with cobble streets, brick, and stone buildings not these crumbling shacks of wooden planks slapped together. In fairness it has the makings of a fine city one day. His house and streets were one of the few delights, it at least has a semblance of high society and proper gentry.

He was not pleased with the result of tonight. It had not gone according to plan. Had he not placed wedges under the exit doors, she would have escaped. He still did not know how she broke out of the room. He shudders when he remembers how she stood so defiant as he cornered her in the front room. Like she was better than him rather than the street urchin she was. He was still a little shocked at what she did. but it is no different than a rat in a trap chewing its own limb off. But, now there was the mess to clean up, that was most unfortunate.

Humming to himself he pauses as he hears footsteps above him, but he is alone. Light steps padding across the floor.

Picking up his coat he proceeds up stairs, when a chill wind blows through the dank room and blows the candles and lanterns out, engulfing him in darkness. Fumbling for a match to relite the wick, a moaning sound emanates from the very walls, swirling around him then dissipates. Striking a match, the torch flares to life, Harrington spins around for the source of the noise. There is nothing but plaster walls and rocky flooring. Hastily he makes his way to the wooden stairs each one creaking under his weight. The planks bend under his feet, groaning with each step he takes. A cold breeze once more blows through, extinguishing his light. A moan whispers in his ear.

'Lorrrd Herrringtonn.'

He feels his way up the stairs, suddenly his leg breaks through a board, his chin smashes into a step as he is splayed out on the staircase, leg dangling in the air, he feels fingers tugging at him.

"Who's there?" He cries.

Balancing himself he once again lights up the lantern. Shadows dance in the dark, waves of deformed shapes flicker in and out of his vision. Below a voice calls up to him. In the hazy light he sees a hand reaching for his leg, falling back he lands on the hard packed dirt and stone floor, the lantern falls out of reach, spinning around and around. Incoherent words float in the blackness.

‘Ring-a-ring-a rosies, pocket full o' po…’ The voices trail off.

Laughter from under the stairs floats on the air, followed by sounds of someone racing up the steps, the door slams shut.

Jumping up he runs up the stairs, smashing his face into an unyielding locked door. The stairs creak below him. Each step coming closer. Again and again, he throws himself at the door until it breaks, falling he sprawls out on the floor. Kicking the door shut he scrambles to a sitting position against the wall. His breath is ragged and quick, heart beating so hard his chest feels like it is rupturing. Lord Harrington, ambassador for Great Britain eases himself up and reaches for the switch on the wall, with a quick turn of the knob the chandelier lights up the room. Stumbling to the cabinet he pours a large brandy, it goes down like air, so he inhales another. The liquor warms and calms him immediately.

'Pocket full o' Posies...'

A tapping sound from the basement grows louder. Creeping toward the cellar door, he yanks it open. The stairs are whole, no broken step. Slamming the door once more he leans on the frame. “It’s the brandy, I drank to much earlier.” Consoling himself as he giggles and pours himself another glass.

The moonlight seeps through cracks in the curtain, the Lord walks to the fireplace, tossing fags on the flame, to add warmth and light. Lifting the glass to his lips he downs the contents once more as his eyes fall upon the smeared wall, dried rivulets stain the wooden panels. Knowing it must be cleaned before morning, he fetches a bucket of soapy water.

Cursing the girl for making this mess, he cannot understand how she could do such a thing. At least the spray was confined to this one wall and part of the floor. As he dipped the cloth into the bucket, a groan weaves throughout the home, as if the house is settling. He sways slightly. ‘Too much brandy.’

Focusing on cleaning, scrubbing, and dipping, scrubbing, and dipping, the water turns dark. The wall remains stained. Puddles form at his feet. He scrubs and scours, slowly his hand moves in circular motions, around and around. The wall begins to blur, wavering, and still he scrubs, around and around. He watches his hand disappearing, slowly melding with the wall, sinking deeper and deeper. He can not pull away, his arm folds into the panel, up to his elbow, his shoulder, he presses against the wall with his other hand, it too sinks into the oak. He feels himself being sucked in, his flesh tears as it passes through the wood, his whole body absorbs inside, he tries to scream, then all goes black.

Lord Harrington finds himself inside the wall, pressed impossibly between the plaster boards. Darkness, no light. He can’t breathe, his lungs fill with dust. Unable to move, he cannot even wiggle. His body is forced into a painful position, head pressed against the rough wooden slats. Walls squeeze tighter and tighter. A cool breath of air blows down his neck, soft singing whispers in his ear.

Husha.. husha.’

His lungs spasm as stars form before his eyes, his body feels liquid like, squeezing through a funnel, he flops on the floor. The wall remains intact, words written in crimson. We all fall down.

Children’s laugher reverberates all around him.

Calling out. "This isn't real, I'm not afraid." He lies.

His voice sounds different, glancing in the mirror over the fireplace he sees the young girl, mirroring his actions. From the corner he sees a shadow rushing toward him chasing him, as he chased her. His heart pounds in his neck, running he reaches the door trying to escape, it refuses to budge. His head yanks back as strong hands grab his hair, holding him tight against the shadows body. He is too small to fight back. A knife presses against the tiny girls throat... his throat. His mind races, he knows what happens next, but cannot stop it. ‘ Husha, husha…’ The child leans into the blade, sliding her neck down the edge. He feels the slice as his tendons severs, his skin opening as blood pulsates out of her tiny body. Trying to scream he chokes on blood filling his throat, he can only gurgle. Before his eyes go dark forever he expels into his own body, holding the lifeless child in his arms. The room spins and he is now staring into the mirror, an image of himself laying on the floor.

We all fall down…

Lights flicker, then turn off. Only the glow of the fireplace illuminates the room. At one time that would have been enough, but at this moment Lord Harrington needs light. Scrambling up, half crawling knocking over the bucket in his attempt to stand, dark liquid pours out, staining the expensive Persian carpet. Standing in a pool of water he turns the light switch, an electric current flows through the wires entering his body, throwing him away from the wall.

The great lord staggers back in shock, his arm is numb yet tingles, his ears ring with a high pitch scream. Disorientated, his feet tangle in the damp rug, pitching back he lands into the fireplace. The flames flare to life, roaring higher than ever before, engulfing him in an inferno of burning flesh, he finally screams.

Staggering out, collapsing onto the floor, his skin glues itself to the rug. Sizzling sounds fill the air as glowing embers and burning pieces of wood are embedded into his flesh. Gazing into the mirror he sees his charred body reflecting down from above, as he stares a vision wavers into existence. The last thing he sees before his eyes melt and pop from the heat, is the little girl staring down. Silhouettes forming around her, then all goes dark, his skin crackles in time with the flames. There is only pain, as his seared lungs inhale scorched flesh.

Pouring rain continues to pound down while thunder cracks the blackened skies, drowning out his cries.

'For all the little ones.'

Next day the Daily Colonist runs a front-page article about the gruesome discovery of thirteen bodies buried in the walls of the Victorian home. All appear to be children. The suspected culprit is one Lord Allan Harrington, consulate for Great Briton. Who, while sustaining severe burns over ninety percent of his body, will live to face trial.

If walls could talk, what would they say? We would say, we answer in our own way.

‘Ring-a-ring-a rosies…’

I thank you for reading my story: Although Victoria has a colorful history, this one is fiction.

Jason

Fireplace Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash

fiction
7

About the Creator

JBaz

I have enjoyed writing for most of my life, never professionally.

I wish to now share my stories with others, lets see where it goes.

Born and raised on the Canadian Prairies, I currently reside on the West Coast. I call both places home.

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  2. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

  3. Expert insights and opinions

    Arguments were carefully researched and presented

  1. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

  2. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

  3. Masterful proofreading

    Zero grammar & spelling mistakes

  4. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  5. On-point and relevant

    Writing reflected the title & theme

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Comments (6)

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  • Harmony Kentabout a year ago

    ‘… we answer in our own way.’ … oooh, I love this line. Great story, JBaz! 💕🙂

  • Ash Taylorabout a year ago

    Fantastic story, love the horror elements. Great interpretation of the prompt!

  • KJ Aartilaabout a year ago

    A fascinating story. Captivating and heart- breaking.

  • Oooo, I love the fact that he's still alive to face trial. He needs to suffer until his death. Death is a liberation and he doesn't deserve it! The walls were soooo creepy! This story was so suspenseful and fast-paced. Excellent storytelling!

  • Cathy holmesabout a year ago

    This is excellent, Jason. Bloody well done.

  • Heather Hublerabout a year ago

    Oh wow!! This was fantastic horror! I love how the house was finally able to fight back, and they gave it to him good!! Great descriptions of the house and attention to detail with all your little time specific word choices. Loved it!

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