The Tale of the Cooks

There was something about the town of Fallkirk that Corrin Akermane had found peculiar since moving there. Something about the way the people seemed to always be looking over their shoulders, despite how safe and happy they appeared to be. Something about the way parents would hold their children close whenever they strolled down the streets.

The they in question would of course be the Cook family. They were the ones who ran this town. Tybalt Cook, the patriarch of the family, was the owner of a shipping company called Sailstar, which brought in most of the trade and revenue in the small seaside town. The Cooks lived in the huge manor home on a small island a ten minute’s boat ride from the docks. It was understood, it seemed, by everyone in the town that they were the ones in charge. Even the mayor seemed to fear them. 

Corrin had heard some peculiar things about Fallkirk. Primarily, that there were disappearances that occurred around the same time every two years. As a thriller writer, that theme had drawn Corrin to the town. She had a plan: stay in the town for a few months, learn what she could about the town, the disappearances, and write her next bestselling thriller novel.

Her stay in Fallkirk changed the day she met the notorious Cooks. She was in the bathroom of the Javawocky Diner, a diner hailed as the best in town. She looked at herself in the mirror; she had pulled up her ice blonde hair into a crown braid around her head, held into place by several silver hairpins in the form of lilies. After drying her hands, she exited the bathroom, and was taken aback when she saw who was waiting outside the door.

Corrin, though she hadn’t met any of the Cooks personally, knew what they looked like. Because of that, she recognised the auburn-haired woman standing before her as Elise Cook, the eldest child of Tybalt Cook. The woman was wearing blue jeans and a cropped brown leather jacket, which was left open, revealing the black Rolling Stones shirt she wore beneath.

“Cute hair,” Elise said to Corrin, as she passed her and entered the bathroom.

“Uh, thanks,” Corrin replied, though Elise had already closed the door. She wasn’t scared of the Cooks, like everyone else in the town, but she figured that if the family warranted such a reaction from those people, there must be a reason for it.

Shaking Elise out of her mind, Corrin walked over to where she had left her things at one of the booth tables in the back of the diner. She sat down on the right side of the booth, her laptop, headphones, and notebook where she left them. She put on her headphones and played some music in them as she opened her laptop to the research page about the history of Fallkirk that she had left it on. 

A couple minutes later, a waitress arrived at the table with a plate that had an omelette, sausages, and bacon. “You Javawocky omelette, dear,” the waitress, an older lady with kind eyes, said as she set the plate down next to Corrin’s laptop.

“Thank you,” Corrin said, pausing her music but not taking off her headphones. She unwrapped her fork and knife from their neat napkin wrap and took a bite of the omelette. It was fantastic, filled with gooey cheddar cheese, mushrooms, and red peppers. “That’s amazing,” she told the waitress.

“I’m so glad you liked it,” the older lady said, smiling. “I haven't seen you around before. You new to Fallkirk?”

“Yeah,” Corrin said. “I’m writing a thriller novel and thought this town would be the perfect place to use for inspiration.”

“Interesting,” the waitress said. “Well, I think you’ll find that our town has the perfect potential for a thriller story.” She grabbed a coffee pot from another waitress and refilled Corrin’s cup. “I’m Margret, by the way. The diner’s least busy around ten, perfect time to get some writing done. They’re early risers, our town.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Corrin said. She offered Margret a smile as she caught a figure approaching the other side of the booth from the corner of her eye.

It was a young man, no older than Corrin. As he sat leaned against the booth, Margret’s smile faded and her body stiffened. Corrin, however, wasn’t fazed by him.

“Can I help you?” Corrin asked.

The young man grinned. “Margret, could you leave us?”

“Cause no trouble,” Margret warned the young man, trying to sound assertive, but unable to hide a hint of fear from her voice. Then, the waitress walked away to help another customer.

“Do you know who I am?” the young man asked as he sat down across from Corrin. He had short, straight auburn hair and piercing hazel eyes. The young man wore a white cable knit turtleneck sweater and brown corduroy pants. As he folded his hands on the table, Corrin saw that his nails were painted black.

“Montresor Cook,” Corrin replied. Montresor was the second-born child of the Cook family.

“Please, call me Monty,” Montresor said.

“Why?” Corrin asked, returning to eating her omelette. “We’re not friends.”

Montresor’s grin widened. “We could be.” When Corrin ignored him and continued eating, he said, “So, a writer, eh?”

“What’s it to you?” Corrin asked.

“My family is quite attached to this town,” Montresor said. “I wouldn’t want our beloved town to be misrepresented in what I’m sure will become a bestseller.”

“What you’re sure will become a bestseller?” Corrin repeated. “You don’t even know me. I could be a terrible writer, for all you know.”

“I doubt that,” Montresor said. He had a honeyed voice, but Corrin had the feeling that it covered something much more monstrous. “I can tell from your demeanor when you write how passionate you are about your craft. Passion like that usually leads to remarkable results.”

Corrin raised her eyebrows. “You were watching me?”

“I’ve been watching you write here for the past two days, actually,” Montresor said. “You’re new around here. We don’t get many outsiders in this town, let alone a writer. Forgive me, if I find you intriguing.”

As Montresor finished speaking, Elise returned from the bathroom and approached the table, crossing her arms as she reached her brother.

“Monty, leave this poor girl alone,” Elise said, dragging Montresor up from the booth. “It’s clear that she has no interest in you.” Before they left, Elise turned back and said, “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He finds outsiders too fascinating.”

“It’s fine,” Corrin said, offering the other girl a small smile.

“Good luck on the book,” Elise offered, leading Montresor out of the diner.

***

Corrin almost went the rest of the day without encountering another member of the Cook family. She was walking down Charles Street, the main road of Fallkirk, when she saw something peculiar happening in the alleyway between a shop and doctor’s office.

Corrin peaked down the alleyway and observed three figures – two young men and one young woman – standing in a semi-circle before an older man, the three preventing him from fleeing the alley. Corrin could hear them talking, but couldn’t make out any words. Then, one of the young men lunged at the old man. Blood sprayed from the old man, and he fell to the ground as the two young men kicked and slashed at him. Corrin let out a small sound of surprise, covering her mouth quickly, but not before she caught the attention of the young woman.

Terrified, Corrin quickly turned away and walked down the street fast. A couple minutes later, one of the young men from the alleyway walked in front of her.

“Where are you going?” It was Montresor Cook. He was wearing the same clothes he wore in the diner, with blood now splattered across the sleeves and front of his white sweater.

Corrin tried to turn and walk the opposite way, but Elise Cook blocked her way. “Hold on, writer girl. Can’t let you leave just yet.”

“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” Corrin promised. “I barely saw anything anyway.”

“We can’t be sure you’re telling the truth,” Montresor said. “You’re an outsider. You don’t yet know how it works here.”

“Leave her alone,” a third, male voice said. It was the other young man from the alley. As he stepped into the light of the streetlamp, Corrin could see his features. He had darker hair than Elise or Montresor; dark brown with auburn highlights. He wore a black overcoat that he buttoned up, and Corrin could see the light glinting off brass knuckles over his right fist. She recognised him as Cyril Cook, the third child of Tybalt Cook.

“We don’t know what she might tell people,” Montresor said.

“I said leave her alone,” Cyril said.

“Cy, Monty has a point,” said Elise, “let’s at least take her to the manor.”

“I said,” Cyril glared at both his siblings, “leave her alone.” Cyril approached Corrin and firmly grabbed her shoulders. “You know who we are, correct?” Corrin nodded. “Good.” His voice was husky, his tone much more serious and dark than either of his siblings. “You are going to leave this town. You are not going to tell a single soul what you saw us do tonight. And most importantly, you are not going to speak to a member of my family again. Do you understand?”

Corrin was so shaken by Cyril’s demeanor that all she could do was nod. He spoke with authority, but not harshly. It made her want to listen to him.

“What’s your name?” Montresor asked as she began to walk down the street away from the Cooks.

As Corrin turned back to look at them, Cyril said, “Don’t answer him. Just keep walking.”

For some strange reason, Corrin did as Cyril said, and didn’t look back once until she reached her hotel room.

***

The next day, instead of leaving town as Cyril had ordered her to do, Corrin packed her laptop and notebook in her brown leather satchel, grabbed her headphones, and went to the Javawocky Diner.

As she sat at the same booth where she sat the day before and ordered the same omelette as she did the day before. As she waited for her food, she tried to write, but her mind was taken elsewhere. Memories from the night before flooded her mind. She could very easily ignore what she saw the Cooks do to that old man in the alleyway. As a thriller writer, Corrin had seen and heard many horrible things throughout the years. She’d written about worse than simple murder. What she couldn’t ignore was Cyril Cook. His words rang in her mind, and even now the temptation to follow his orders found her. How could one man have such an impact on someone?

As Margret arrived with her food, Corrin forced herself to smile and push away all thoughts about the Cooks and Cyril.

“Mornin’, dear,” Margret said with a smile. “Got your food here for you.”

“Thanks,” Corrin said, taking the plate of food.

As Corrin took a bite of her omelette, Margret said, “You look like you had a long night.”

“You could say that,” Corrin remarked. She knew she shouldn’t say anything, but she couldn’t help herself. “Hey Margret, what do you know about the Cook family?”

Margret stiffened. “Why?”

Corrin shrugged. “I was planning on basing some characters in my story off them, seeing as the Cooks seem to have quite the reputation in this town.” She took another bite of her omelette, attempting to hide the fact that everything in her was screaming not to say anything. “They seem to pop up a couple times in the town’s history, too.”

Margret sat down next to Corrin in the booth. “Listen to me, dear.” As Corrin looked at her, she could see the seriousness in the older lady’s eyes. “The Cooks are very powerful people who don’t like outsiders much. Best to just avoid them, even in your research.”

Ignoring Margret’s warning, Corin asked, “What about Cyril Cook? What can you tell me about him?”

Seeing that she wasn’t going to dissuade Corrin from this line of research, Margret sighed and said, “Cyril is the third-born child of Tybalt Cook. His older siblings seem to listen to him and follow his orders. Honestly, it’s like he holds some strange authority over them.”

“Interesting,” Corrin muttered.

“Why are you asking me about him?” Margret asked.

Before she spoke, Corrin hesitated. She could feel her body trying to clamp her mouth shut. As if someone else was in control. “I … had a run-in with some of the Cooks last night.”

Margret flinched. “What kind of ‘run-in’?” she asked slowly.

“I saw them doing something … unsavoury,” Corrin said, straining against her vocal cords. “At the end of the encounter, Cyril ordered me to never speak about what happened to anyone. He ordered me to leave the town.”

Margret’s eyes widened. “And you didn't?”

“Should I have?” Corrin asked.

Margret chuckled softly, as if in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anybody resist Cyril’s orders before. When he tells you to do something, most people find it impossible to resist his commands. He has a strange control over people. It’s what sets him apart from the rest of his family.”

“Hello,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the table. Corrin snapped her head to look at his source. It was Cyril. He gestured to Margret. “Might I have a moment with our friend here?”

Slowly, Margret rose from the booth. “Be kind to her, will you?”

A small grin found its way onto Cyril’s face. “I will.”

After Margret had left the table, Cyril sat down across from Corrin. “I’ve always liked Margret,” he said. “She’s afraid of my family, but she’ll still try to protect people from us.”

“Why would people need to be protected from you?” Corrin asked.

Cyril’s grin faded. “You saw what my siblings and I did last night. That’s only the beginning of what we’re capable of.”

Corrin, trying to pretend that Cyril’s oppressive presence didn’t bother her, took another bite of her omelette.

“I thought I told you to leave Fallkirk,” Cyril said.

“You did,” Corrin said.

“And yet, here you are.” Cyril leaned closer to her. “Most people heed my orders.”

Corrin met his eyeline. “It doesn’t seem like they have a choice.”

Cyril scoffed, leaning back in the booth. “You’ve been researching my family,” he said. “Tell me, Corrin Akermane, what have you found?”

“How do you know my name?” Corrin asked.

“Answer my question,” Cyril demanded.

“I found that your family has been linked to a series of disappearances,” Corrin blurted, unable to stop herself from speaking. “Four people go missing from Fallkirk every two years. All are always outsiders. In each investigation, something is found at the scene of the crime that links a member of your family to the disappearance, but no further investigation is ever done.”

Cyril observed Corrin. “My father has invited you to our home for dinner tonight,” he said, “do not come. Leave the town. Don’t come back.”

“Why are you so insistent that I leave?” Corrin asked.

Cyril stood up. “Because the people of this town are right to be scared of my family. And I don’t want another outsider to get involved with us.”

“Is this about the disappearances?” Corrin asked.

Cyril placed an invitation on the table. “Leave this town.” He walked away without another word.

***

Hours later, Corrin gasped for air as she ran through the halls of the Cook family house. She saw no one as she looked over her shoulder, but she could hear Montresor as he chased her.

As she reached the front door, she hit a wall and collapsed. No, not a wall. Cyril Cook.

"Hurry," Cyril whispered, leading her out the house.

He led her to the rowboat at the dock of the family house, guarded by a tall man.

"Percy will take you back to the town," Cyril said. He shoved a small stack of books into her hands. "Read these. They'll explain everything."

"What are you people?" Corrin demanded.

Cyril's skin rippled and the right half of his face turned into burn flesh and pearly-white bone. "Nightwalkers."

Cyril grabbed her and forced her into the boat. "Go!"

Corrin had never been filled with so much fear as she sailed away from the island.