Grimsby Manor
Chilli gaped in shock at the man she’d run into. He was so tall that she had to twist her head backwards to meet his cold gaze.
The man’s gaunt frame was stooped at the shoulders, making a deep hollow in his scrawny chest. He looked like a funeral undertaker.
“I’m... I’m s... sorry.” Chilli stuttered. “I’m... I’m looking for my lift. Someone is supposed to meet me and take me to Grimsby Manor” she babbled.
The man narrowed his eyes and regarded her sourly. Chilli’s first impression that he was a funeral director came from the black uniform hanging limply on his cadaverous body. Judging by its dull sheen and loose threads hanging from its sleeves and collar, it was very old.
The man’s thin lips were those of someone who never smiled. His eyes were deeply set in a grey face, its skin stretched tightly across a bony skull. Large ears sported long lobes, and the bush of grey hairs sprouting from them seemed almost comical.
Silence hung between the two of them as they eyed each other. Only the distant sound of the ocean filled the dark corridor. After a brief eternity, the man drew a noisy breath through his large nostrils and spoke.
“Good evening, Miss Rachel. I am Buckley, Lady Hecubah’s chauffeur. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Chilli doubted that very much. The tall man bowed his head stiffly and doffed his cap at her.
“H... hi,” Chilli replied.
“I have been sent to take you to Grimsby Manor. I apologise for your wait, but it seems the train was remarkably early this evening. May I take your bag for you?” he asked, reaching out his hand. Chilli noticed his yellowing fingernails were unusually long for a man. She shrank back from the outstretched fingers.
“N... no, thank you, er... Mr Buckley, I’ll... I’ll carry my own backpack.” Deciding this was as good a time as any to get the formalities over with, she continued: “Please call me Chilli, not Rachel. Just Chilli”. With every word she could sense the chauffeur becoming more impatient with her.
“As you wish, Miss Chilli” he said, emphasising her name with no small amount of sarcasm. “However, I must insist that you refer to me as Buckley when addressing me, not Mister Buckley. M’lady insists on maintaining standards.”
The sinister man spun around on his heel without waiting for her response and headed toward the station door, expecting her to follow. Chilli noticed that he walked with a heavy limp in his right leg. In his wake trailed the fetid smell of decaying things mouldering in dark corners.
She scurried to keep up with him. Her shorter legs had difficulty keeping pace with the long strides of the driver as he limped out of the station building.
By now it was almost completely dark, and the parking lot was poorly lit by a few dim streetlights. Under one of the lights stood an old car that could have been mistaken for a hearse.
Whoa, thought Chilli, I think I’m in the land of the living dead! Maybe the Warthog lives in Frankenstein’s castle!
The car must once have been a very impressive vehicle. But now it looked like an old woman desperately trying to hide her age. The glint of the remaining patches of black paintwork shone bravely in the weak light, but no amount of polish could hide the dents liberally scattered on its bumpers. A cracked headlamp and windscreen finished the sad tale of a once-proud vehicle. Its owner was obviously someone who didn’t have money for repairs.
Buckley strode up to the car, opened a squeaky door and stood silently aside, waiting for Chilli to get in. The irritated tapping of his foot on the gravel let her know that he had no time for this inconvenient visitor. She climbed into the car and slid ungracefully across the highly-polished leather seat, almost bumping into the opposite door.
Buckley unceremoniously slammed the door shut and got into the driver’s seat. He pushed the starter button and the car coughed into life, letting out a plume of black smoke as the ignition finally took.
Grrruuunkk. The gears grated as the chauffeur slammed the car into first gear and turned into the village’s main road.
The car’s suspension was perished and Chilli hung onto the door handle to stop herself from sliding from side to side. She did, however, manage to catch glimpses of the village as they passed through it. Apart from curio shops displaying the odd animal pelt and carved wooden mask, she was disappointed that there were very few signs she was in Africa. Instead, there were the same English names on the shops and hotels as those back home.
Then, something curious caught Chilli’s eye. As they passed the small village square, she could swear she saw the outline of a large dog sitting near the harbour wall. It looked like Just Nuisance! But she wasn’t about to ask Buckley to stop the car to check. She’d decided she wouldn’t speak to him, even if her hair caught fire!
Buckley turned the car off the main street and they immediately began climbing a steep hill, the road growing narrower and narrower as they climbed higher and higher. Behind them, Chilli could see the village’s lights growing smaller and dimmer as they continued their ascent.
Just when it seemed they were almost on the crest of the hill, they slowed down and veered off onto a dirt road towards an imposing set of wrought iron gates. Chilli caught sight of a faded coat of arms above the gates. It was badly weathered, but she could make out a shield in the claws of two gryphons, the fabled monster with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. Under the shield in weather-beaten gold lettering was the word ‘Veritas’. Probably means keep out, Chilli thought sourly.
As the road grew bumpier, the car’s weak headlights picked out ancient, gnarled oak trees lining a gravel road leading to Grimbsy Manor. That thought filled Chilli with both a sense of relief and dread at the same time; relief at finally having reached her destination, and dread at the thought of meeting the Warthog.
Without warning, Buckley suddenly swung the wheel sharply, sending Chilli hurtling against the car door. You did that on purpose! But you won’t get the better of me, you old corpse! she thought angrily. The driver then jammed his foot on the brake and the car came to a crunching stop on the gravel driveway, almost throwing Chilli over the front seat. She gritted her teeth, refusing to give the dour old man the pleasure of seeing her get angry, and grabbed her backpack.
But Chilli’s defiance drained away when she looked up at the house. It loomed darkly over her, as though it had risen out of the stony ground it stood on. Only the silhouette of its turreted towers against the moonlit sky gave any hint there was a house there at all. Overgrown rose bushes and ivy clung to the walls, squeaking as they scratched the window panes as though they were clawing to get in.
Weak light glowed feebly through a window on the ground floor, but the top storey was in complete darkness. A teasing moonlight allowed Chilli to catch a glimpse of the tightly shuttered windows lining both stories of the house. It was as if the house was saying: Go away, you are not welcome here! A chilly evening breeze brought with it the same fetid smell of decay that surrounded Buckley. It was unmistakable – it was coming from the house!
Harrump! Buckley noisily cleared his pleghmy throat as he stood in the Manor’s doorway, impatiently waiting for Chilli.
She quickly walked into an entrance hall feebly illuminated by a solitary oil lamp. Ignoring her, the driver lit three candles on a silver candelabrum. He picked it up, and started climbing an enormous winding staircase without a word or backward glance.
Chilli was doing her best to keep her nerve, but everything about the house reminded her of something from a horror movie. The flickering candlelight cast a feeble glow that licked the panelled walls and dark corners, making them appear and then disappear.
Without bothering to turn and look at her, Buckley’s dry voice issued instructions. “M’lady abhors wastage, and you would do well not to use electricity unnecessarily.” His voice tapered off and echoed into the void that was the dark stairwell. He carried on climbing the stairs with his uneven gait. He did not expect, nor want, a reply.
Chilli’s quivering knees barely managed to carry her weight as they ascended the stairs to the first floor. Against the wall she could make out heavy oil paintings of long dead relatives, their disapproving glares following her every footstep. Home had never seemed so far away.
The chauffeur finally stopped outside one of many heavy doors lining a long, narrow passage. He reached out and pushed the door open. Chilli was relieved to see that someone had, at least, lit a fire in the small fireplace for her.
“Your room, Miss Chilli. Breakfast is at 9 o’clock sharp. Don’t be late!” With that, the chauffeur turned abruptly, taking the candelebra with him, leaving Chilli alone in the dark hallway.
Chilli dashed into the room and slammed the door behind her. She could feel a knot rising in her throat as she threw herself on the bed. She quickly reached into her backpack and pulled out Huggermugger. All she wanted to do was to climb under the blankets and sleep; at least in sleep she could hide from this terrifying world.
She hurriedly pulled off her shoes, slipped into bed fully-clothed and lay Huggermugger on the pillow next to her. With a quivering finger she prodded the bear’s little heart, making its lights twinkle. The blinking red lights gave her mind something to hold onto as she drifted off to sleep. Her last thought before she dropped off to sleep was a sigh: Granny, I wish you were here.
As Chilli fell asleep, she was sure that from somewhere deep inside the house she heard a low growl. Her last terrifying memory of that night followed her into her dreams.