Snip, Snip

Snip, Snip

Daybreak comes with renewed motivation. For the past few weeks, I have been tirelessly sending out resumes, following up on said resumes, and, in general, spending my days job hunting. I was desperate, but my hope was still high. Freshly graduated and filled with a sense of vigor that only those still naïve and in their youth seem to hold. Today was another day, another opportunity to “get out there.” As was good practice for any good businessman, I searched the paper’s classifieds for my calling. The usual catalogue of wanted handymen and sales pitches greeted me, none of which I was qualified for or had any desire to do. I was going to work my way up in a company like my father did, as his father did, and his father’s father. My uncle had branched off to be a door-to-door salesman, which was looked upon poorly, and I knew I could do better than sales. I just had to meet the right person with the right connections. As my father would say: “Opportunity will come knockin’ when you prove you were lookin’ hard enough.” And I took that to heart.

It was a regular July morning when I would continue to test that advice. Dressed in my finest, I strolled towards the east end of town, towards the waterfront where those of means frequented. If ever there was an opportunity in this town, it would be there.

The seaside was, as it always was, sandy, sunny, busy. This early in the morning, the heat had not yet pressed its heavy folds onto the city. Great whoops and hollers from children by the shore sounded over the bay. Gulls looked to tourists for their next meals, and women in their pressed dresses yelled at their children between gossiping with each other. As I approached Clark and Clark Accounting, armed with my briefcase of resumes and letters, I promptly collided with a tall figure coming out of the revolving set of doors.

“Pardon me.” I politely inclined my head towards the person. They were a tall woman in dark funeral garb, an unusual sight, and an old practice. She was a slight, innocuous sort. Perhaps they were a secretary for Clark and Clark. “My condolences, madam.”

The veil obscured her face, but I could just make out a puzzled expression before it morphed into something like understanding.

“Thank you, sir. My, don’t you look quite handsome today. Might I inquire why you are here?” Her voice held the hint of age with an unfamiliar accent. I briefly pondered which nation it was from. It wasn’t quite Germanic, nor was it Italian- just, in between.

Regardless, I felt a sense of pride well in my chest at the compliment. I had worked hard for this suit. A dark gray ensemble that had cost a pretty penny, including my savings from my short tenure working as a newspaper boy in my teens. “Madam, I am searching for good work. I just graduated from our fine local college here, in business. Do you know of anyone in need of a man in accounting?”

The woman cocked her head sharply for a moment, as if listening, but then quickly adjusted her veil as if that were all she was intending. She was odd, but her clothes were finely made, tailored to fit, which meant she was a woman of means.

“Not accounting solely, no.” She replied. Nodding once, I took a step towards the revolving door. “However,” she added, stopping me in my tracks. “There is a job that my sisters and I could use some assistance with. The pay is quite good, $50 a week plus room and board. You seem to be a strapping young man eager for a promising opportunity.”

The shiny glass doors of Clark and Clark in my peripheral called to me, but the offer of $50 a week, plus room and board? That was a fine deal indeed, and not one readily passed up. Currently, living at the boardinghouse was fine, but I was used to a different lifestyle. The refined quality of the women’s clothing told a story of wealth that, as my father would say, “opportunity had come knockin’”.

Stretching out my hand towards the woman, I responded, “The name is Henry Hilbert III. This sounds like a grand opportunity. What does the job entail?” She did not take my hand, only politely waving it away with her gloved one.

Her white teeth glinted in a grin beneath her laced veil while a shiver ran down my spine. “It is quite simple. You would just be cutting some strings.”

What an odd description. I thought to myself. It was probably an analogy from where she was from. Those Europeans had some unusual phrases. I assumed “strings” meant papers, perhaps from her late husband. It seemed impolite to bring up such manners as death on a day this fine. I knew I would be more than qualified for the position, regardless, so I asked nothing further.

“That sounds just fine, I am sure that I can meet your needs.”

As I spoke, the woman began to walk towards a beautiful black car, nodding her head along for me to follow. As we grew closer, I realized it was a 1949 Rolls-Royce, and boy, what a sight she was. It was the type of car you didn’t see very often in these parts, but I knew just from looking at its dark frame that I needed this job. There was a driver who elegantly exited from the driver’s side and held the door open for her, looking solidly ahead.

“I am sure you will be quite capable.” She continued, as though there had been no break in conversation. She sat smoothly onto the leather seat before turning towards me. “My driver will be by your residence to deliver you to Cypress Hill Manor tomorrow morning at 9. Where are you staying?”

“Geraldine’s Boardinghouse, ma’am,” I replied. She nodded, and with that, the driver closed the door. My eyes never left the car, tracking it down the road until it was out of sight.

That night, as I was packing, I belatedly realized, I never asked the woman her name.

****

Cypress Hill Estate was a sprawling mansion within the confines of a dark forest outside of the city. We entered through a wrought iron gate that seemed to stretch on and on through the forest. The mansion, a Victorian monstrosity with dark towers and stone columns accentuated by sharp edges, sat in the middle of a lush garden. There were stone statues amongst the flora, none of which I had ever seen. Muted flowers and ivy clung to every surface it could find, while plump fruits in deep red and purple hues hung heavy on knotted branches. A worn stone path wove its way out of the garden, leading up to the front door, where I was led by the driver. He hadn’t spoken a word, which was quite fine by me. It left me time to watch out the windows and take in the passing scenery.

We enter through the foyer in silence. It is a beautiful Victorian Gothic building; stained deep oak walls, a crystalline chandelier, and gold gilded paintings greeted me. I took a moment to breathe in the marvelous sight. This era of décor had been out of style for quite some time, but it suited the manor and its surrounding gardens. Footsteps echoed from the top of a staircase, I looked up to see a butler walking swiftly down, dressed appropriately in a tailored black suit and pressed dress shirt.

“Mister Hilbert, I presume?” He lulled apathetically.

“I am,” I responded. He beckoned me to follow him up the grand staircase and down a hall filled with portraits and grotesqueries. I thought it was an odd collection to keep inside, but I wisely kept that to myself. Finally, we stopped at the last door, which was a deep burgundy color with an opulent golden knocker carved into the face of a lion. The butler tapped the knocker firmly once, and the door obediently opened a sliver. The butler stepped back, allowing me to enter.

The room was, surprisingly, a conservatory. After the low light and narrow halls, I had to blink at the sudden onslaught of light and greenery. Colorful plants dotted the room, large windows stretch across the walls, and the domed glass ceiling above showcased heavy gray clouds rolling by from between the fronds. A round bistro table with four chairs sat in the middle of the room. Noticeably, the only piece of furniture in the whole space. Feeling unsure of what to do, since the staff were not very forthcoming with instructions, I took a seat. Not a moment goes by before another door opens at the opposite end of the room, though with all the plants obfuscating whoever had entered.

I stood quickly to greet them and saw three shadowed figures coming towards me. A feeling of unease prickles at the back of my neck, which I thoroughly ignore. It was quite warm in the room after all. I deduced that these are the sisters my mysterious benefactor had mentioned yesterday. All three sisters were dressed in the same funeral garb as their sister. I spotted her in the middle, recognizing the pattern of black lace along her veil. The woman who offered me this position yesterday was in the middle. The other two, on either side, are similar in their tall statures and slight figures, though their features are hard to distinguish from their veils and the cloudy day.

“Good morning. My name is Henry Hilbert III. Remembering how the woman yesterday declined my handshake, I smiled at each of them in turn.

“Welcome, Mister Hilbert.” The woman on the right says in the same unplaceable accent. Her voice cackled with age and creaked like worn leather. No one else introduced themselves, and I cleared my throat to hide my discomfort. “Apologies, I didn’t get your names…” I began, but at that moment, the burgundy door opens, and the butler enters with a tray of tea and a platter of fruit.

“You must be hungry.” The woman from yesterday says as she waves a gloved hand towards the table. “Eat, please, it was grown in our garden.”

The woman sat, but did not remove their veils or gloves as the butler set the table. Perhaps, I thought, another strange custom or a display of grief. I sipped the tea, despite not usually being a tea drinker. The blend was floral and creamy with a cloying flavor left behind, but it was palatable, so I drank it politely. The plates held assortments of fruit I could not identify. Orange-like slices with red streaks running through them like veins, purple discs with concentric golden circles, and a small, tear-shaped fruit that is amber in color. Reminding me vaguely of pomegranate seeds. I took each of the fruits, erring on the side of caution. I tried them in order of presentation. Each tasted like fruit only in the vaguest of senses; the veiny orange slices were a burst of tartness followed by a sickly sweetness. The discs had an earthy quality that melted in the mouth like chocolate, and the amber fruit reminded me of black pepper. Each of them, however, carried the unmistakable aftertaste of iron.

“What sort of fruit is this?” I finally asked after a couple of bites, curiosity at last got the better of me. My mother herself was a keen gardener and had a fair collection of awards for her prized roses, so I had seen my fair share of fruit and flora. The conservatory and outside gardens here were indeed beautiful, but not a single plant was recognizable and growing well despite the dry July heat.

The woman on the left beamed with excitement, palpable even under the covering of her veil. “Ah, yes! They are a unique variety,” she exposited happily. Her voice was melodic and young, contrasting sharply from the other sister’s aged one.

“They truly are remarkable,” I graciously complimented her. “I have never seen plants such as yours before. Now, pardon me, but may we discuss the duties my position will entail?”

The sister on the right stood, the other two following suit, “If you could follow us, Mister Hilbert, we will show you the way to your work room.” All three leave out the burgundy door in sync, and I hurry to follow their steps, surprisingly nimble for as old as they seem. I wonder to myself what could be so complicated about this position that they had to show me the details themselves. Perhaps, as women of the house, they had no way to properly understand what needed to be arranged in terms of paperwork. We followed the hall and up another flight of stairs, which were soot black from age and sagging dangerously in the middle. A drastic change of scenery compared to downstairs, before I could question the poor upkeep, I am ushered into a room with a simple wooden door. As I enter, I am immediately taken aback by the setup, confusion, and anger rising in me. The room itself takes up the whole upper level, but inside it is filled with ethereal white strings. They cover the floor and ceiling; packed so tightly, I feared I would not be able to get through. They remind me of spider webs. Millions and millions of webs. My heart starts beating frantically. An overwhelming sense of unease and dread twisted in my gut.

“What is this?” I demand, though my voice quivers with unknown fear.

The woman on the left pushes her veil back with a flick of her wrist. I choked out a scream at the sight. Her skin is paper-thin and pulled so taut that her skull is clearly outlined. Her hair tumbled out in matted gray waves, falling over her body. A vivid image of a large spider crosses my mind, looking at the ghostly figure in terror. I am frozen in place, my feet refusing to move, even when she reaches into the sleeve of her gown to pull out a pair of shears. Instinctively, I flinch, a crooked grin consumes her face, and sharp teeth glint in the light of the room.

“Your job, young man. Cut the strings, only the black ones.” When I do not take the shears, she grabs my wrist with unbelievable speed and strength, forcing them into my hand. As soon as my hand touches them, I can’t let go. Panic starts to rise again as I desperately try to pull them off. But it is as if they are permanently affixed to my hand. Another sister grabs my bicep, forcing me to walk with her. I have a thought of stabbing her with the shears, but as soon as it crosses my mind, I hear the last sister cackle across the room, saying, “It’s a nice thought, dear, but it won’t work.” How she knew what was in my heart, I do not know. The sister finally let go of my arm, yanking me down by my neck to look at a black string. Not just black, it looked dead, containing none of the pure light radiating from the others.

“See this one? It's ready, cut it.”

I hesitated, but the longer I watched the black string, the more I felt a painful ache in my chest, growing worse by the second. “Cut it quickly,” she hissed in my ear, “or you will suffer the same pain they do. It will only get worse the longer it stays whole.”

I open the golden shears, cutting the black string. It withers, curling in on itself before turning completely into ash and floating away. “What if I cut a white one?” I ask, unable to help myself.

The other sisters, now right behind us, answer as one. “Then an innocent whose time is not yet up, will die.”

“What?” I shake my head, stumbling from them, desperately searching the walls to find an exit. “Let me out! This isn’t what I signed up for!”

In unison, they respond, “Sorry, young man, you ate the fruit, you can never leave.” Their cackling laughter follows them as, one by one, they turn to leave through a door I could not see. The middle sister paused just before stepping through, turning slightly towards me, “Congratulations on your lifetime employment,” she crooned.

The last words I hear are one of them singing, “snip, snip.”