WE ARE YOUR MASTERS

Warning: Highly sensitive topics including depictions of physical violence and substance abuse.

Montgomery Lewis awoke instantly in his usual state of ritualistic despair by a continuous thrashing at his front door. His sleep had been restless and dreamless, and the sheets were damp. After several grunts and heavy sighs, he glanced at the alarm clock atop the mahogany bedside table to his right.

8:12

Flurries of rain water danced against the windows as if they were being targeted by sprinklers, and the wind howled and wailed like a child who stubbed their toe at the edge of the bed. The thunderous knocks echoed in short intervals through the walls, like the nearing of a giant’s footsteps. ‘What on earth!’ he muttered to himself angrily, as he snatched at the quilt and flung his feet to the floor in two loud stomps. He took a deep breath and glanced at the two bottles of brandy resting beside the clock, one was empty and the other was half-empty (both bottles had been full two nights ago). They seemed to stare back like the crystal eyes of silver-tongued devils. He slipped his feet into a cozy pair of slippers that sat neatly at the side of the bed atop a shaggy rug. He used both hands to support himself as he made a feeble attempt to stand. As he made his way to the hallway, he reached for the dressing gown hanging upon a coat hook mounted onto the bedroom door and found it was rather damp - in both complexion and touch. Another loud thrash rocked the foundations of the house, making it whine and groan (or perhaps that was just Mr. Lewis). ‘Alright, I’m coming!’ he barked, then briskly paced along the landing and his fingers whistled along the wooden rail. He glanced down to the living room and the furniture somehow seemed to have been organized, compared to it’s usual arbitrary layout. ‘Miss Grady,' he grunted irritably. Miss Grady had been at Mr Lewis’ service for the better part of twenty years: Since his wife had been found murdered twenty-five years ago. After intense and extremely thorough interrogations by the police throughout his detainment, Mr Lewis had been deemed innocent. The case had never been solved. Mr Lewis had been on a business trip to London, when he came home after a long night of heavy drinking to find a gift-wrapped present waiting for him in the living room. He opened it curiously and found her decapitated head inside; who greeted him with her mouth drooping open and her tongue protruding toward her chin; and her eyes were bloodshot and bulging, as if she had been viscously strangled beforehand. A small, dark, crimson pool glimmered below her severed head with measureless barbarity. She wore an expression infinitely worse than terror, but there was also surprise embedded in the photographic stills of her final moments. Miss Grady was a short and plump middle-aged woman with pursed lips and a stern brow, who demanded that Mr Lewis clean up after himself regularly and maintain a degree of his dignity about his living standards. The stairs responded to the heavy footsteps and they echoed as if they had released old memories. He scanned the living room, no Miss Grady. ‘Dammit, where is that woman!’ he grumbled. The house was magnificently large, and had been left to him by his wife through her last will and testament (which was of course the police's immediate suspicion regarding a possible motive). ‘The house is yours Mr Lewis. Do with it as you solely desire.’ The distant memory flooded back to him like a blow to the head, and he did not know why he had forgotten it. There stood a silhouette outside the door, whose head turned regularly like clockwork, and whose body moved stealthily, like a buoy in an ocean. He felt the sudden eeriness of déjà vu and it startled him. He reached the final step and took another quick look around the room. ‘Miss Grady?’ he called, in a way that maintained a fine line between shouting and asking politely. He hoped she had not been present, as she would not have taken kindly to his tone. Still - no sign. He sighed and reached for the door handle.

He stepped outside and a gust of rain blasted his old, disheveled appearance which added to his morning misery. He peered through squinted eyes and saw nobody, as heavy droplets of rain greeted him a good morning. The faceless silhouette had seemed to simply vanish into miniscule particles, then ascended into the wind like the spreading of a loved one's ashes. He began to amble forward to take a look around the sides of the house, when his feet kicked against something particularly rigid. He glanced down and noticed a large, square package sitting defiantly at his feet. It had his name and address written in black felt tip across it’s face:

Montgomery Lewis, 1088 Crawfordsburn Road, Newtownards, BT23—

He stared at it suspiciously, with a subtle glimmer of dread. He was not expecting any deliveries - especially not on a Sunday. He lifted the package and carried it inside. He observed the handwriting and deducted the possible friends (he didn’t have any), family (pffft), and old colleagues (mostly dead) that could have sent him the package. He didn’t recognize it, but his guts felt like they had been turned to stone and suddenly his stomach felt very tight. He set the package down upon a highly valuable, antique coffee table with extravagant engravings artistically carved on it's surface. He flipped the box and began to rip off the packaging like a child on Christmas morning. There was a large cardboard box covering whatever was inside, and he opened it at once. The nature of a vicious hound descended upon him, making him feel rabid for reasons he could not fathom nor interpret. Inside the cardboard box, was a tall, wooden chest. The top of the chest rose and curved down again, like the top of a bowling hat. He stared at it flummoxed and pondered whether to open it or not. He looked up and scanned the room once more, ‘Miss Grady,’ he called again, this time had been the loudest of his previous attempts.

Silence.

He observed the chest again and from all angles. Then he lifted it and put it to his ear. He shook it gently and he heard faint whispers from a silver tongue, then dropped the chest to the floor in shock. He felt perplexed and then groaned as he moved to lift it in a scramble, instantly forgetting about the faint whispers in his ear. He picked it back up and it rested on his palms, before he gently put it back on the coffee table. He glared at it intently and with deep intrigue. Who? Why? Where? He searched the cardboard box and there was no delivery docket placed inside. There was only a small piece of folded paper that lay at the bottom of the large box, like a small child that accidentally fell to the bottom of a dark well and shivered with hypothermia in the fetal position. There was also a mortise key. He picked up the paper gently with his fingertips and held it in his palm. It was no bigger than the piece of paper inside a fortune cookie. The key in the box was twirled and twisted in it's design, like overgrown (or extra terrestrial) roots. He peeled one side of the paper back and squinted at what was written inside. It simply read in one small sentence:

WE ARE YOUR MASTERS, MONTGOMERY

He felt bewildered by the whole scenario and stood for a minute, then rushed upstairs as fast as his brittle old legs could support him. He reached for the half drank bottle of brandy on the bedside table. The empty bottle seemed to grim crookedly at him, and he turned his face away in disgust. He opened the bottle and tilted it until it was at a vertical alignment with his mouth - which was pointing toward the ceiling. He felt a warm, smooth burn travelling down his throat and into his chest, as he began to chug like a fish on any liquid that remained. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his body shuddered at the tingling sensation that surged momentarily through his body. He glanced at the bottle and saw nearly a quarter of the bottle still remaining. He winced and carried it downstairs, continuing to sip in short intervals then he rested it on the coffee table beside the chest. He turned to the chest and put one hand on it for support, while leaning over to observe it further. There was a keyhole entry nearing the bottom of the chest. He moved to his right and picked up the key that sat at the bottom of the box. He looked at the strange-looking mortise key in the palm of his hand. A key that in time, would unlock the unimaginable horrors within.

He placed the key inside it’s logical companion and twisted it carefully. He heard a clicking noise that sounded like time and space had both began and ended simultaneously. The sound of the chest unlocking echoed throughout eternity and circled back again, smacking the back of his head as it looped in it’s entirety. He scratched the white hair on the back of his head and peered toward the chest. He took his hand and placed it on the chest, with his thumb (which acted more like a trigger finger at this moment) underneath a small space on the lid to lift it open. A stench of something spoiled or molding attacked his nostrils and taste buds, and he dry heaved until his face turned purple and warm. He began to sob and he thought about putting it back where he found it (he gave it invitation, now he would simply revoke it). But something kept pulling him closer, a strong gut feeling. Like somehow, he knew exactly what was inside the chest. He could picture it’s contents and he was uncertain as to why. He felt a violent case of déjà vu which rocked him to his very core. His heart began to pump harder and harder, and his chest began to convulse. It began to roll inside his chest like a giant ball of fire, rolling at high speed toward an unfortunate and unsuspecting village. His finger tips slipped from the lid due to the excessive amount of sweat. He took long, deep breaths and attempted to focus. He lifted the lid slowly and an invisible thick green fog of odour escaped, as if it were it’s only chance for freedom before the guards caught them and shot them in the back. He blindly lifted the lid fully open and peered inside. He thought of the two empty bottles resting upstairs with their silver tongues that whispered sweet nothings into his ear every night and then floated away with the morning breeze, leaving him with the feeling of being whirled around viciously inside a tornado. He began to weep when what his heart knew was true, then his eyes and brain had joined simultaneously in agreement. He glanced back at the bottle and saw only a small puddle of liquid wetting the bottom. He tilted the bottle and drank until it was completely dry. He stared at it through what seemed like condensation on a window, and it stared back disingenuously with a grin. He looked back at the contents inside the chest.

'Miss Grady,' he sobbed, as she glared back at him in silent horror.

The sentence replayed in his mind like a song played backwards that revealed something spine tingling, and he thought of those two silver-tongued brandy bottles:

WE ARE YOUR MASTERS, MONTGOMERY.