The Sentinal's Warning

It is the third manor I am to visit this week. Traveling in the height of summer in no easy feat, and my shirt is sticky with sweat as I haul my valise down to the platform, hazy and thick as the sun reflects off the old brick. Upper Bilgewood. My last stop before reporting back to headquarters. Upper Bilgewood is a quick stop, and the train begins panting on its way, steam swimming through the already saturated air. I head down the platform to the station. Without the heavy sighs of the train, the platform is quiet. I had been the only passenger to alight.

No one had gone to represent the Institute of Finer Education here in years. I'm itching to prove myself capable of converting even the most pompous of the aristocracy to public education. The Institute, despite being publicly funded, provides first-rate governesses for young children. These young women all meet the highest of educational standards, naturally.

I walk through the station and step into Upper Bilgewood. It is not a large village. The station on the village square, which also houses the post office, town hall, and a grocer. The center of the square is dominated by a large stone fountain, topped with a weatherworn statue that looks to be commemorating some battle. I worry that this has been a grave miscalculation on my part, and I would be late returning with nothing to show for it. I grit my teeth in determination. Nothing for it, I may as well persevere in the face of despair. Or rather, in the face of dilapidation, as this village seems to be in serious need of public funds.

I cross the dusty cobblestones, heading towards the post office for directions. I glance up at the statue for a closer look. The stone is gray and tired, covered in water stains and bird droppings. Most of the detailed work is lost to time, but as the picture becomes clearer to me, I fight back a wave of nausea. It is no battle scene. What I had taken for small soldiers are in fact three children, a boy and two girls, gruesomely murdering a gentleman. The boy is shoving two fingers up the man's nostrils while pulling his hair back at a sharp angle as if attempting to snap his neck. One of the girls is driving spikes into the man's feet with a mallet, and the other is carefully carving out his heart with a small knife. The children are all three smiling beatifically, content with their tasks. By chance at where I am paused across the square, they are all three looking straight at me. I am suddenly chilly in the thick summer heat.

I turn my back on the monstrosity and hurry towards the post office. I am alone in the square, not surprising for the heat of midday, but I find myself rather desperate for human company. The post office is closed, but glancing next door, I see the door to the grocer's open and a shadowy figure through the window.

With one hand clutching my valise handles, I fish out the piece of paper with the manor's name on it. The entrance to the grocer is under a raggedy-looking awning, and the produce boxes beneath are swarming with flies. One of the melons seems to have an infestation of maggots, and my nausea rears up yet again. Stepping into the dim interior, I call out.

"Good day, sir! I am looking for Bilgewood Manor," I say, touching my hat brim. He is a short, bulbous man, with yellowing teeth and a deeply receded hairline. His small eyes peer at me with suspicion, and even as I look at him, a large blue bottle fly perches upon his forehead and is still. The grocer makes no effort to swat it away.

"Bilgewood Manor?" his voice is as slimy as the rest of him. "Been a while since folk came asking about it." He curls his lip, and I realize he is attempting a smile. I try to respond in kind.

"Yes, well, now here I am. Could you direct me, please?"

The grocer leans in across the blackened counter. "Hasty, hasty. All you outsiders are at the start, eh? Until the country air takes you in." He chuckles as if it is some kind of joke. "Take the lane to the left of the post office. It's maybe half a mile, not far."

"Thank you, kind sir," I reply, immediately turning to leave the depressing hovel of a grocery. A thought strikes me - "If you don't mind, what is the purpose of such a statue?"

The grocer looks taken aback. "Why, showing how we around here have strong family values, of course."

Turning back to the statue, my stomach freezes. What I see is a gentleman, three children holding hands and gazing up at him adoringly. I shake my head to clear it - obviously, the heat is getting to me. How could I have imagined such a grisly scene?

"Yes, thank you, of course." And with that, I leave the horrid shop and head down the road to Bilgewood Manor.

---

The walk is uneventful. The fields on either side of me are dry and brittle, and the trees lining the path and demarcating property lines are twisted and creeping. Finally, I see a turn-off and an iron wrought sign - Bilgewood Manor. A return to society, at last.

I walk up the path, turning a slight bend, and before me is the manor. It is incongruous with the landscape - while the fields are brown and dry, the house looks gray and damp. It's as if the architect couldn't decide which style to go with, or changed plans numerous times in the middle since towers and balconies all pile on top of each other to cast all the lower levels in perpetual shadow. Removing my hat, I step forward and grab the brass knocker, which is in the shape of a large teardrop. Thud. To my surprise, the door swings open immediately.

I almost drop valise in shock. It is a girl, and for a moment, she looks exactly like the girl from the fountain statue. But, to be fair, most young girls made in stone look alike. She is neatly dressed in a simple frock and pinafore, and her blond hair is plaited in two.

"Good morning, young lady," I say, attempting to cover my unease at this gross impropriety. Where is the butler? Or at least a parlor maid, good gracious! "Is there a member of staff, or perhaps even the master of the house that I may speak to?"

The girl, who can't be more than five years of age, looks at me closely. Her eyes are dark, and she never quite meets my eyes. She nods, and a voice cries out.

"Who are you?" a matronly woman is spilling down the stairs. She is dressed all in black, so she must be the housekeeper. Or, perhaps the governess and I hope this isn't true, since then this bizarre visit would be for naught.

I bow slightly at the waist, intent on a good first impression. "Good morning, madam. I am Mr. Siecle, from the Institute of Finer Education. I would love to speak to the person in charge of educating this young lady here, or any other children - "

A bark from the woman cuts me off. "Emma!"

The girl has been edging towards the door, but the housekeeper's voice is like a whip, and the girl straightens as if a mechanical and walks purposefully down the hall into the darkness. I hear a door slam. The woman returns her attention to me, a wide smile splitting her face. One that doesn't quite meet her eyes.

"I am sorry, Mr. Siecle. I am Ms. White, the housekeeper. Do come in. But, you will soon see that we have no need of your Institute here. The children are receiving the finest of educations already. I shall be happy to show you around so you can see no intervention is needed." She stretches out her arm in a welcoming gesture. "Please, you may hang your hat and set your valise in the cloakroom."

The interior of the house is no less damp and dark than the outside. I deposit my hat and bag in a small, musty closet, and she beckons me to continue with her. The Persian rugs are threadbare and curling at the edges, and cobwebs cling to the lamps on the ceiling. As we walk deeper into the house, my opinion of Ms. White sharply declines. What a state this house is in.

"So Ms. White, are we to meet with the master or mistress?" I ask, breathing through my mouth as the scent of something earthy permeates the air.

"Oh no, they aren't in at the moment," she answers. I find myself wondering how we are still walking - this hallway seems to go on forever. I glance back over my shoulder, and for a moment I can't see the foyer through which I came in, but I blink and it swims into focus. Looking forward again, I see that we have only gone a few doors down. My head is beginning to hurt. I wonder if I can make the earlier afternoon train rather than the evening one. A sense of unease is settling in my chest.

"Perhaps I should call another time?" I try. "When the master or mistress is in? I'd really like to discuss how the Institute works, and how it really is more economical than-"

Ms. White stops suddenly and speaks in a low voice. "We have more wealth than you could know in our children." Her eyes turn to meet mine. "Our children, Mr. Siecle. Our children."

"Yes… they are precious aren't they," I stammer. "How many children do you have here?"

Ms. White goes as….well, as white as a sheet. "Too many," she whispers. There is raw fear in her expression, the last thing I expect to see.

"Ms. White," I begin firmly, but she abruptly turns to the door to the left and opens it with a key. "Through here, Mr. Siecle. You'll see the angels soon."

Before I can protest, a firm hand presses on my lower back and guides me inside. It's a small sitting room, but all the furniture is covered in white dust cloths and the thick, velvet curtains are mostly drawn. There must be some mistake. I turn back to Ms. White, but the door shuts in my face, and I hear the turning of a key.

---

I have been in this room for hours. The sun has begun to set, and I've pulled and banged on the door and tried the windows to no avail. The window is old and painted shut. I have a splitting headache. I need water. But mostly, I just need to get out of this place. This visit has been cursed from the start. The house is pressing in on me, that unease on my chest becoming a physical pain that I cannot ignore.

As the sun disappears, the furniture in the room transforms into beastly silhouettes. I curl up on the floor next to the door, hoping to hear footsteps. I do not know how much time passes. And suddenly… a sound.

"A….B…..C…." the young girl's voice snakes under the door.

I sit up sharply. "Em…Emma?" I cry out. Not exactly the help I am hoping for, but perhaps she could fetch help. I turn and press my ear to the musty carpet. I cry out again. "Emma! Emma, it's Mr. Siecle, the gentleman from before, can you fetch someone to let me out, please?"

"A…B….C…" the voice comes again, but more distant. A giggle.

"Emma, please!" my voice desperate. A floorboard creaks behind me as if in response and I whirl around to face the sitting room, but there is nothing.

"It's open, mister!" the whisper is next to my ear and I jump to my feet. Perhaps it is Emma, her voice carrying through the humid atmosphere of the house. Desperately I grab the door handle and pull it open, and it swings open with no resistance. I stumble out into the hall and into more darkness. No lights, and I can't quite remember which direction is the front entrance. There - light under a door. At the very least I can find someone to get me out of this madhouse. I run up to the door and throw it open, ready to rage at whoever I saw at the injustice of it.

Nothing. Darkness. But there, again, a strip of light under a door. I shake my head to try and clear it - this must be some kind of strange dream. And then I hear it. A giggle, then another to join it. "A…B…C…"

Enough of this. I run to the light under the door and open it. The same again. Darkness, and a light under the door. The laughter is getting louder, so perhaps I'm getting closer to…something. Again and again I try, and I realize that I am now crying with rage. Or is it fear? My voice calls out again. "Ms. White! Ms. White, Emma, anyone!"

I burst through the next door, and am blinded by brilliant white light. I throw my arms up to cover my face, preparing to do battle.

"Why, Mr. Siecle! I was just coming to get you!"

My eyes blinking furiously, I realize I am in a sort of classroom. Ms. White is standing at the front, chalk in hand with the board behind her. There are three children all seated at small desks in front of her, and all of their faces have turned to stare at me. Two girls, and one boy. They show no surprise at my violent entrance, despite the fact that I must look a picture with tears streaming down my face, my clothes soaked through with sweat.

"What is the meaning of this?" I try to calm myself. The scene before me is too normal for what I just went through to be real. Despite the fact, of course, that it is the middle of the night. And yet… I look up at the large window, sunlight streaming in. How long was I running through the halls for?

"Mr. Siecle, are you quite alright?" Ms. White has a manner of asking the question as more of a statement that I am alright, and should start acting like it.

"I…" My throbbing head is almost insupportable now. "Yes, I'm so sorry."

"Please feel free to observe our lesson, and you will see that we need no interference here," Ms. White commands. She turns back to the board and begins writing out the letters. The children bend over their primers and begin copying diligently.

My brain cannot seem to catch up with my sudden change in circumstance, so out of habit I walk up to the children's desks as Ms. White continues the alphabet.

I bend over Emma's desk to examine her writing. She is meticulous in her handwriting, and the graphite pencil leaves thick trails on the page. I am about to move on to look at how the other children are faring, already thinking that perhaps they are too old for this particular lesson, when I freeze. What is she writing?

"A….B….C…" Ms. White begins again. I watch as Emma smoothly writes out the letters. "S….O…..S…."

My breath catches. A sick joke. I look across her page. It is covered in letters, all of them "SOS". I walk around to look at the boy's primer, then the other girls. The same on each. My head is about to explode, and I register pain in my feet. I am too tired for this nonsense.

"Ms. White," I breathe. Ms. White doesn't pause, and instead starts saying the letters louder and louder. No, this isn't right. I am finished with this. My feet are screaming at me, my head is splitting. I move to go towards the window, not wanting to risk the hall again, and find that I can't. I look down to see what is stopping me.

Emma is looking up at me with her angelic face. She is holding a mallet, and she has driven a spike through each of my feet. I am nailed to the ground. My mouth is a silent "O" of horror, and I look up to see if Ms. White has noticed, and I see that she is still writing the alphabet on the board, her hand shaking so much that the letters are almost unrecognizable. I start to bend down to remove the spikes, but something is holding me back. The boy - he is standing on his desk and pulling my hair, and now I see it. The final piece of the puzzle, the other young girl approaching with a penknife.

"Ms. White!" I scream, my neck snapping back as the boy reaches around with two fingers and gropes for my nose. I try to shake him off but my body is feeble. I have no strength. The young girl with the knife pulls up a chair and climbs up and stabs the knife into my heart.

---

It's a summer day. I have been here for centuries. I like it when the birds land on me, and I don't mind how they disrespect me. There is an innocence in them that I miss. I am waiting, waiting for the day I come back through that train station, hat perched on my head and valise in my hand. I am waiting to try again, just one more time, to break this useless cycle. I am waiting. But I know that I cannot, because every time I have the chance, it seems I don't have the heart.