Good Sort Of People

I did odd jobs for Mrs. Maplewood. Mowed her lawn, raked her leaves, minor household maintenance and repairs. I have been doing these jobs for her for the past five years, started just before her husband died in that car accident.

I was twelve years old and delivered papers at the time. Mr. Maplewood was sitting on the front steps waiting for me one morning. He asked me if I would like to do some odd jobs for them as they were getting older and could not keep up with it all. He offered to pay me so much more than I was getting delivering papers, and it was all normal chores I did at home.

He told me that he asked around about me and learned that I was a good sort of people and that they were hard to find nowadays. It seemed a bit strange, but he was old, and I had dollar signs in my eyes.

My first job for him was some landscaping. Spreading a load of dirt around to create a garden space for Mrs. Maplewood. He did not get all the soil delivered at once though. There seemed to be a small pile waiting for me every morning when I came by. Mr. Maplewood was involved in making cement steppingstones for a path through and around the garden.

I have never worked with cement myself but there seemed to be more empty cement mix bags in the trash pile then there were crafted pathway stones. But hey, I was getting paid well to help out and the place was looking nice.

I remember one thing that struck me odd during the first couple weeks working for them. Mr. Maplewood had me carry some heavy boxes into his basement before I went home one evening. As I was leaving, I could hear him lock the basement door behind me.

The next day when I went to finish up the yard work, he had me dispose of the now empty boxes piled neatly in by the basement steps. There were no changes I could see in that basement, but he somehow emptied six heavily packed boxes inside that small space, and I could not see what was new or moved.

It was a week or so later that the car accident happened. Poor Mrs. Maplewood was a wreck. I spent even more time over there helping her through her rough time. I took on the vacuuming, dusting, and even some cooking duties during those few weeks she was lost in her grief.

Eventually she made her way through the seven stages of grief and got back to her old self again. She kept me on, and it became almost a full-time job. On three or four occasions over the next few years, Mrs. Maplewood would have me cart heavy boxes into the basement and dispose of the empties a couple days later.

As odd as it all was, I never really thought much about it. They were good people who always gave me respect. They never once treated me like a servant or the help. Hell, since Mr. Maplewood passed away, Mrs. Maplewood became almost like family to me. I still could not bring myself to call her Margaret though, no matter how many times she would insist.

The Maplewood’s had kids of their own, a son and daughter, but they were not the “good sort of people.” I do not know what happened to cause the estrangement. I just know that the kids never visited, and the Maplewood’s did not talk about them much. When they did, it was with sadness.

…

So fast forward a few years to when Mrs. Maplewood fell down the basement steps and broke her hip. She ended up in the hospital for a bit because of the severity of the break. I would visit every day, bring her the mail and whatever treat she had asked for the day before.

I was checking on the house and gathering that day’s mail when a shiny black luxury car pulled up the driveway. A middle-aged thin man unfolded from the car. I knew right away that this was the Maplewood’s son, he was the spitting image of his father. If his father was a cruel man.

He rudely asked to know who I was and why I was creeping around his parents’ house. Looking at me like I was some sort of criminal that did not deserve his attention. Once I explained who I was and what happened to his mother, he demanded that I pass over the house keys and leave.

Of course, I said no. I did not know this unpleasant man and I was not about to give the keys to some stranger without Mrs. Maplewood’s okay.

I had an unreasonable dislike for this man and his attitude as soon as I saw him. It only got worse the longer we argued.

Eventually he got the point and stormed off with some very impolite language and something about taking this up with mother.

By the time I got to Mrs. Maplewood’s hospital room, their confrontation must have been over, and the bad man was gone. Mrs. Maplewood looked visibly upset and there was a well-dressed portly gentleman standing by the bed, holding her hand, and talking quietly.

I learned that it was indeed Vernon Maplewood I encountered at the house and that under no circumstances was I ever to allow him, or their daughter Victoria, access to the house. She did not even want them on the property but there was not much she could do about that.

It turned out that the well-dressed gentlemen was Theodore Stockwell, lawyer, and long-time family friend, who happened to be there to discuss legal matters when Vernon burst in to confront his mother.

He did not even ask how she was, he just argued about what he felt entitled to and what was owed to him as a Maplewood.

I did not understand half of what Theodore and Mrs. Maplewood were talking about. Not wanting to intrude on their conversation I was preparing to leave when they both stopped me. They explained that Vernon and Victoria were involved with some dangerous people and were no longer a part of the family. Something about family heirlooms worth some money and family legacies.

It felt like they were giving me the cliff notes while leaving out the important stuff. Stuff that would have been good to know when Mrs. Maplewood asked me to stay in the house and watch over it. Stuff I would find out about later that week on my own.

So that is how I ended up staying at the Maplewood house as a caretaker slash security guard.

That is how I was in the position to find the secret room Mr. Maplewood built in the basement.

…

Over the next couple of days, I noticed Vernon’s shiny black car driving past the house slowly to see if anyone was there. Each time I saw the car a chill of disgust and unease slipped down my spine.

I double, and even triple checked the doors and windows to make sure they were locked and secured. On the third day I remembered that the basement had narrow windows that someone could crawl through if they were not overweight and were determined enough. So, I made my way down to the basement to make sure they were also locked up.

One of them was not.

Not only was one window open, but the window was also just hanging there by one hinge.

I quickly searched the basement. No one was there. I did a thorough search of the house only to find that to my knowledge, nothing was missing or disturbed. I seemed to be the only one inside.

I went back to the basement and repaired the broken window frame and made sure it was locked tight.

While putting the tools back I happened to notice one side of the wooden shelf of jams and other preserves was pulled out from the wall a couple of inches.

I picked up a hammer and went over to the shelf to investigate. There was a soft blue light seeping out through the space between the wall and the shelf.

I gently tugged on the side of the shelf, it moved effortlessly, the gap widening and letting more light escape. Intrigued, I pulled the door disguised as a shelf open even further. I was amazed to find a fair-sized room, about half the size of basement, full of shelves and shelves of old leather-bound books and other odd looking knickknacks.

This is where all the dirt for the garden came from and where all the extra cement went. Mr. Maplewood put a lot of work into making this little secret room.

On the floor in the middle of the room, was a shocking sight. The half-eaten body of Vernon Maplewood. I say half-eaten because there was a thick leather-bound book with many long sharp teeth chewing on Vernon’s midsection. All that was left was his torso, right arm to the wrist, and left leg to the knee. The book creature thing was doing an excellent job of disposing of the interloper. There was not even a pool of blood on the floor.

My shocked gasp alerted the feeding book, who paused mid bite and turned to look at me. It had big yellow eyes that bored into me like a well-trained guard dog. I was terrified. I gripped the hammer tighter, wondering if it was going to do any good as a weapon.

After a few seconds, the creature’s facial expression softened, and it flew across the room towards me so quickly that I did not have time to raise the hammer. The creature knocked me back as it kept jumping up and licking my face.

I screamed in terror. It took me a minute to realize that it was not eating me. It was friendly. At least it liked me.

Eventually it went back to disposing of Vernon and I slowly closed the shelf door and went back upstairs.

…

I told Margaret what happened. Yes, it was Margaret from that day on. No more Mrs. Maplewood for me. She explained to me that the room is full of mystical texts and artifacts that need to be kept safe from some people. The wrong sorts like her children and the people they work with.

So, I was safe from the creature and trusted with all the secrets because I was a ‘good sort of people.’

You will need to protect these things when I am gone son, because you too are a good sort of people.