A writers’ group, a year or so ago, had an assignment: write something gothic about a sentient house. So I wrote the following scene, which hopefully someday will be part of a short story or novel. The main character is Samantha Ponsonby, who’s also the protagonist in the novel I’ll next publish serially on Substack: Hauntings of Claverton Castle.
A Sentient House
This mansion was unfamiliar to Samantha, who had only been a guest for a few hours. It was her first night, and as she traversed the dark, silent hallways and carried a candelabra, she struggled to recall the direction in which the servant had shown her to her bedroom. She reached a turn in the corridor and heard an eldritch creaking in the distance. Raising the light higher, she widened her eyes, stood entirely still, and peered in the general direction of the noise.
Samantha heard not a sound. She waited before lowering the candelabra… and heard the creaking again. She internally chastised herself. The house was four hundred years old and bound to make noises from time to time. It must surely be the sound of—
BANG!
Samantha gasped and jumped, her heart racing. One of the candles blew out in reaction to her movement.
That loud bang came from the same direction as the creaking. Samantha stepped forward and—as silently as possible—padded down the corridor toward the noise. As she walked, she had the oddest sensation that the house itself was watching her. The back of her neck prickled. The house seemed to be watching, listening to her, and waiting.
The house felt menacing.
Samantha gave her head a little shake as she proceeded down the hallway past portraits of ancestors wearing wigs and lace jabots. She reminded herself: the house is an inanimate object. A work of art. It could not have consciousness—that simply wasn’t possible. The idea suggested she was perhaps going mad.
Samantha often noticed, especially in the month of October, that the very air around her after dark felt eldritch compared to the same locations in daytime. She once commented on this to Margot over tea, and Margot sat back and smiled in her habitual insouciant manner, with utmost confidence and without showing any teeth. Of course, this was Margot, who almost always exuded calm, even when she was preoccupied with banishing demons. Samantha still marveled at Margot’s level of calm and confidence.
But that creaking noise began again. Floorboards? Samantha reached the end of the corridor. At the very end was an arched door that resembled all the other arched doors down this corridor and the previous one. She knew she was far from her own rooms, but curiosity drove her to search for the source of the peculiar noises.
Yet all fell silent.
Samantha exhaled and stepped closer to the arched door straight ahead of her. She pressed her ear to the door. Still silence.
She knelt and peered into the keyhole. She saw only darkness. She began to back away from the keyhole, when she thought she saw gray mist floating in the room. She brought her eye up closer.
An eye appeared in the keyhole.
Samantha rose, scrambled up from the floor, limbs tangling in her muslin skirts. Grateful low heels were in fashion, she charged back down the hallway. All the candles in the candelabra blew out. She held the silver stem more tightly, as though holding onto the candelabra for dear life. She ran as fast as she could—heart hammering—until she reached the turn in the corridor.
As she kept running, Samantha saw a glowing sconce beside a closed, arched door. It was almost at the end of the corridor. She knit her brow, thinking it looked like it might be her bedroom door. As she neared it, sure enough: beside the door was a painting of a lady in a white satin gown whose hair was piled high and topped with not a sailing ship—a peculiar style, Samantha heard, designed by the Duchess of Devonshire. Instead of a ship, the structure atop the lady’s wig was a manor house… that resembled this house.
Samantha halted directly in front of the door. She reached out and touched the wooden panels of the door. It was solid and ordinary. Why did I not notice this door earlier? It was almost as though the house hadn’t wished her to find her room.
Chapter 1 of The Vanquished & the Surviving:
Chapter 55:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/the-vanquished-and-the-surviving-781?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 56
Vincent stepped down from the barouche emblazoned with the Montmorency coat of arms and scanned his surroundings. He observed uniform rows of flat-faced shops with large, many-paned windows on the ground floor and taller, slender windows on the upper floors. It was an ordinary London scene.
He had slipped out with the coachman and now glanced back at his family’s coat of arms before heading toward the bookstore, Hatchards. He belatedly wondered if he should have hired a cabby for the sake of anonymity. Ever since escaping his imprisonment, he had been wary whenever he wasn’t under the roof of his estate or in his parents’ house. While Sensitive Corrections occupied England, he couldn’t be too cautious.
Indeed, he was given to understand the only reason he was allowed in society was because Sensitive Corrections believed he was no longer a Sensitive or at least, not one with his deadly power. The notion struck him as preposterous, but he preferred they believed that. Vincent reminded himself: surely Marshals could find no harm in his entering a bookshop, and surely his feelings were those of paranoia. Therefore, he threw back his shoulders and entered Hatchards.
To his left was a counter behind which a bookseller stood, speaking to a customer. Otherwise, the room contained a dark wooden staircase ascending in the center of the front room and a great many tall bookcases filled with enticing books. Vincent made two more steps, away from the threshold, before he stood still to inhale the aroma of new books.
He headed toward the aisle that he recalled featured new novels. He was soon pulling off the shelf Cesario Rosalba, or The Oath of Vengeance, by Ann of Swansea. Scanning the title page, he assured himself his intention of disempowering Fawlkin’s ministry and Fawlkin himself wasn’t for the sake of vengeance. It was for the sake of transforming England back into his England, not this oppressive version of itself.
Vincent espied movement out of the corner of his eye, as someone rounded a corner. He turned to behold the painter, Endymion Radcliffe.
“Lord Whisperwood, dear boy! How delightful to see you!”
“The delight is mutual, my fine friend.” Vincent observed a cardboard tube tucked under the painter’s arm and wondered if the artist had arranged to sell illustrations at the bookshop. “I trust you have been well.”
“Couldn’t be better.” Radcliffe calmly looked about the bookshop before he passed his tube to Vincent. “I’m certain you’ll put these to good use.”
Vincent smiled faintly and sensed the tube must contain rolled-up handbills drawn by the artist himself. Considering Radcliffe’s talent, he surmised they must be impressive. After some more amiable conversation and an exchange of farewells, the painter left the shop, and Vincent continued browsing.
Content with his purchase and the new handbills, Vincent tucked a bundle of books under the arm that was free of the cardboard tube. He stepped out of the bookstore and trod down the sidewalk toward the studio where he intended to continue posing for his portrait. He only had a few steps to walk before he reached the entrance to the portraitist’s studio. Vincent sprang toward the door and was about to open it.
“Look, there he is!” a youthful soprano murmured nearby. Vincent felt a flutter of panic in his chest and froze with his hand on the door handle. He wondered if Marshals were following him, before he reminded himself: They believe I no longer have Sensitive powers.
“Do excuse us, milord,” another voice said. This was a gentle and polite female voice, not a Marshal shouting orders to drag him away. Vincent exhaled, lowered his shoulders, and turned to the pedestrians.
One was perhaps a few years older than Vincent. She was diminutive and had skin the color of coffee, thick black hair mostly gathered in a bun at the top of her head, medium brown eyes spaced wide apart, a turned-up nose, and straight and thin eyebrows. She was somewhat pretty. Her companion was more striking in appearance, with a mass of dark brown curly hair falling to her waist and wide, black eyes. Her skin was medium brown, and Vincent surmised she was Romani. Both girls wore dark and sober cotton clothing. They didn’t appear to be members of the upper crust, so Vincent felt surprised they accosted him on the street.
Vincent raised his eyebrows and stuck his nose in the air. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.” Though he wished to come across as aloof, he sensed their energy was harmless and they were on his side, not that of Cornelius Fawlkin. The Romani girl scoffed, clearly unimpressed with his attitude.
The darker girl opened her mouth to speak. “Begging your forgiveness, milord. This is Fanny Poyntz, and I’m Tsura Buckland. We mean no disrespect—”
Fanny took a step forward. Her smile was crooked. “Pray forgive us, your lordship, for pestering you like this. We don’t wish to vex you, but we recognize you from your image in the print shop.”
Tsura clasped her hands together and stared at Vincent. “We have to say thank you from the bottoms of our hearts. I declare, milord, word has spread: we know you’re dedicated to taking away the power of…” She glanced up and down the street. “The Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.”
Tsura explained, “My great-aunt and two of my sisters are powerful enough Sensitives that they’re imprisoned. Fawlkin has done it to them—sent Marshals to drag them from their caravan. He doesn’t care what class people come from anymore.”
Vincent stared off into the distance and knit his brow. “He formerly only targeted aristocrats. He seems to have become bolder.”
Fanny said, “Now it is anyone with considerable Sensitive powers.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows again and exhaled. “Before long, the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections might target those with weak Sensitive powers. Hopefully it will not come to that before we topple the ministry. Only a matter of time.”
Fanny scanned their surroundings, presumably for eavesdroppers. “Frankly, your lordship, I’m a mite surprised you’re wandering the street on your own like this. Even the walls have ears, as they say.”
Vincent gave a rueful smile. “I’m a bit surprised myself. My parents don’t know I slipped out with only the coachman.”
Tsura nodded curtly. “You’d best be careful, milord.”
Vincent nodded. “Alas, the entire country had best be careful. I’m concerned about much more than my own safety.”
Fanny rubbed her hands together excitedly. “Our neighborhood plans to help with the toppling.”
Vincent scanned the walkway and any face within sight before turning back to the girls. “What are those plans?”
Tsura winked. “You’ll find out soon enough, I reckon, milord.”
“In the meantime.” Fanny glanced about and held a pamphlet out to Vincent. “please read this.”
Vincent scanned the cover as he reached for the pamphlet and took it from Fanny. The title was How to Overthrow the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections, Being a Manifesto on what is Wrong with the Government and why it Must be Stopped, by Anonymous. Vincent smiled and looked up from the pamphlet. “Thank you ever so much. This brings hope to England.”
#
After passing tall and slender Neoclassical houses packed together, Tsura Buckland turned off Henrietta Street and soon rounded a corner. She stopped at Covent Garden Market to buy what vegetables she could afford. She counted her pennies carefully before handing them to the farmer, who passed her a paper bundle of onions, turnips, cabbage, and potatoes.
Tsura was heading away from the market, with its various food stalls, wheelbarrows and wagons from the country loaded with produce, and loudly haggling customers. She used both arms to carry her bag of produce down Russell Street and, eventually turning a corner, espied the Magistrates’ Court on Bow Street. She thought the edifice was losing some of its elegance, what with wooden boards in the windows. She nearly laughed at the building. Glancing about and seeing a few pedestrians, she told herself to move on.
Hours later, after Tsura brought her purchases home and prepared and ate a meal, she headed back out. In the darkness of night, she carried a lit torch while trudging down the sidewalk past many other pedestrians. They appeared to be mostly working-class individuals in threadbare and utilitarian garments, or the rising class in simple but comparatively elegant clothing. Numerous pedestrians headed in the same direction carried torches, like Tsura. Some of them caught her eye and gave her a slight, grim smile or even a nod. Occasionally a man doffed his hat to her, and she nodded back.
Tsura kept steadily walking, shoulders thrown back as she made long strides for someone wearing an ankle-length skirt. Another torch-bearer, a dark, middle-aged woman with a baby on her shoulder, stepped from a side street, nodded at Tsura and joined her, walking by her side. They exchanged nods and recognition with their eyes yet remained silent.
London seemed eldritch at that hour, with only the light of fire and sporadic gas lamps. The sky was too overcast for the moon or stars to contribute much light. Tsura kept walking down narrow cobblestone streets, the hard and bumpy surface pressing into the thin soles of her cloth shoes. While she walked, the stench of sewage and the aroma of burning torches assaulted her nose.
Other torch-bearers joined Tsura and her companion, one or two at a time. Each time, an individual torch-bearer stepped out of a side street, nodded at those who were already part of the pack, and proceeded to walk behind Tsura in utter silence, except for the sound of their shoes pounding the cobblestones, their breath as they walked swiftly, the hiss of the flames emanating from their torches, and the rustle of their skirts.
Tsura arrived at the meeting place, an ancient stone wall behind the enormous, sprawling Westminster Hall, the seat of the government. She only knew parliament assembled at Westminster Hall and portions of it were the original medieval castle. Scanning the crowd, she noticed individuals handing out what appeared to be clubs or unlit torches. She felt a flutter of nerves but told herself this was for an important cause.
Tsura admired the impressive and enormous medieval façade of Westminster Hall. It looked like a castle out of a fairy tale, her favorite literature. As a child, she dreamed of being a princess and living in such a place. But it was so old, she now reflected, it would cost a great deal of money to keep it in good condition and prevent the ceiling from dripping every time it rained. She knew not when she became so pragmatic.
Soon Tsura found herself walking with a large group of people, some quiet and serene, others excited and chatting as they all headed down the cobblestone street in the general direction of the Magistrates’ Court. Tsura didn’t talk, though if someone had caught up with her and started a conversation, she would’ve been happy to converse. Her family didn’t know she was involved in this. Her mother and sister remained in Manchester. She would’ve liked to have brought her sister.
Tsura was out of breath by the time, still surrounded by others, mostly using the clubs as torches, headed from Henrietta Street, back to Covent Garden. All around were tall stone buildings and a wide cobblestone square where Tsura customarily saw the market, but now the produce carts and wagons were gone, closed for business for the night, and the crowd passed a row of two-story shuttered shops.
The Magistrates’ Court was a short distance away, Tsura knew. The crowd around her kept pouring through the square and into the streets. This sea of people seemed to be pushing her, and if she were to stand still, they could trample her. She followed the crowd around a corner, where carriages and hansom cabs halted, with horses whinnying and drivers shouting at the torch-bearers.
As Tsura peered toward the court, she was astonished to see a great many flames bursting from the windows in one part of the building. The Ministry of Sensitive Corrections, she realized, was on fire! She inhaled as the shock hit her. This seemed extreme—she hoped such drastic measures were worth it. Edging closer, she noticed many cloaked figures on the front steps of the Magistrates’ Court. Some carried buckets, presumably to quench the fire.
Several feet away from Tsura, Myrtle, the former herald, gazed up at the regal neoclassical building with flames leaping from numerous windows. Myrtle heard the sharp shattering of glass and the hissing of flames. She watched panes, fragmented into many jagged pieces, fall out of a ground floor window. She smiled faintly.
Myrtle had no regrets about quitting her employment with the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections. She did so the day after she took Vincent home from his imprisonment. Now she recalled her parents and elder brother chastising her for losing her means of income, and how they had failed to trigger guilt or regret on her part. The Viscount of Whisperwood was Myrtle’s inspiration, the reason she ceased working for the Organization.
Sometimes while Myrtle was at the milliner’s working on hats, she thought back to that night when Vincent scathingly pointed out to her she shouldn’t work for such an organization. Whenever she remembered his disgust, she felt ashamed.
She knew she could never have become his friend—he was a viscount and therefore lived in a far different social circle than she. Yet she frequently imagined meeting him again and either feeling profoundly ashamed and embarrassed, or having a charming conversation. She admired him… and knew he despised her. If he only knew she had quit that work and joined the resistance, he would surely be proud of her! It sometimes occurred to her that he had no notion what it was like to be desperate for money, to need money for a place to stay and a hot meal— that was the only reason she had worked with the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.
Starting this fire hadn’t been difficult, and she had rather enjoyed it. She took a certain satisfaction in destroying the office of her former employer. Unlike the average Londoner, she knew the precise location of Cornelius Fawlkin’s office and the courtroom used by the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.
She shuddered, recalling a walk in Hyde Park during which she witnessed Fawlkin consuming someone’s soul. As though his treatment of Sensitives wasn’t bad enough, her former employer was a Soul-Eater!
Myrtle heard a throat cleared to her left and turned to see her old friend Tsura standing with a young woman she knew from the milliner’s shop, Fanny Poyntz. They exchanged greetings as though nothing untoward was happening.
Fanny smirked at Myrtle. “Was this your work?”
Tsura gasped. “That’s hardly a discreet question, silly girl!”
Myrtle smiled faintly and turned back to gaze at the burning building. “Not discreet in the least.”