"Crimson Manor" by Andrew Nicolle

Crimson Manor

by Andrew Nicolle

     When his date appeared in the doorway of his study, Ethan Morris rose to greet her, extending his hand.

     “Glad you could make it, Lucille.”

     She nodded. “Likewise, Ethan.”

     They had met at the charity gala last month, and Lucille’s stunning looks and sparkling wit had captivated him immediately. There was also an aura of mystery about her. Before the night was over, he knew he had to invite her to the manor and get to know her better.

     “Shall we tour the grounds before dinner?”

     “That sounds wonderful.”

     Ethan turned to retrieve his coat. From the corner of his eye he noticed Lucille rummaging in her purse. When he turned back, he felt an icy bolt of fear. Lucille was holding a small pistol, pointed directly at him. Before he could utter a word, she fired three shots into his stomach and chest.

     Ethan fell to the floor, toppling the coat rack and landing on his side. “But why?” He croaked.

     “To deliver a message from my employer,” she said, placing the muzzle of the pistol against his forehead. “Rot in hell, you bastard!”

     She pulled the trigger, and everything went black.

     Ethan awoke to muffled voices and gasped for air. He wheezed and coughed, feeling like he’d been drowning and had finally surfaced. A damp coppery smell filled his nostrils. He had the mother of all headaches. His thoughts were a mad jumble as he struggled to piece together what had just happened.

     “... awake?” A voice said.

     Squinting, he made out the blurry face of his butler, Bernard.

     “What’s happening?”

     “You’ve been shot,” Bernard said. “But the good news is we’ve apprehended the assassin.”

     Ethan blinked and the room came into focus. He carefully lifted himself up and scanned his surroundings. He laid in a pool of blood on the floor of his study. Memories came flooding back. A sudden sharp pain ripped through his stomach and he fell back to the floor, gritting his teeth. Waves of nausea swept through him.

     “Easy there, Sir. You’ve lost quite a lot of blood. Shall I call an ambulance?”

     “I’ll be fine,” Ethan said.

     Bernard rolled his eyes.

     The nausea soon passed, as Ethan knew it would. His body was rapidly healing, despite his recent death and resurrection. He still felt pain, of course. He was no different biologically-speaking than any other man, but he owned something others did not: his house possessed miraculous healing properties. While it could revive him from death, he had come to learn over the years that the manor craved pain and suffering. It was easy in his line of work to satisfy its cravings.

     Ethan sat up. Already the pool of blood had begun to seep into the hungry floorboards. Soon there would be no trace that anything untoward had ever happened.

     After shedding his blood-soaked garments and showering, he had Bernard fetch him some clean clothes.

     When Bernard returned, Ethan spoke through the doorway. “Send her up. I want to find out who sent her and why.”

     Minutes later, his hot date turned cold-blooded assassin entered the room, cuffed and flanked by two of his bodyguards. Her eyes widened.

     “So the rumors are true,” she said.

     Ethan beamed, cigar in-hand. “Death is but an inconvenience.”

     He took another drag. “Let’s dispense with the chit-chat, shall we? Who sent you?”

     Lucille shrugged. “I don’t know. The caller gives me the target, money appears in my account, and I take care of the problem, no questions asked.”

     Ethan wasn’t terribly surprised; hired guns were an occupational hazard. He’d become more of a recluse in recent years for that very reason. A decade ago he’d come close to death. An assassin’s bullet had pierced his neck whilst he’d been at the opera, and he would’ve died if he hadn’t insisted on being brought back to the house. He wasn’t completely certain of its healing properties back then, but his rapid recovery from that near-fatal injury left no doubt in his mind. Only he and Bernard knew the truth. His bodyguards thought he’d just been incredibly lucky.

     “Very well,” Ethan said. “Take care of her out back and send a gift-wrapped box containing her head to her employer.”

     “Wait! I know some history about this house.”

     “Oh?” Ethan’s curiosity was piqued. He’d picked up the place for a song back in the early 2000s from the estate of a Hollywood starlet who’d met an untimely demise. The deed gave a construction date in the 1920s, and his investigations revealed it had passed through the hands of various wealthy owners roughly every 20-30 years. He thought it curious there had been no quick flips.

     Ethan motioned to his bodyguards to leave the room.

     “You probably already know this, but the house won’t let you die,” Lucille said.

     Ethan sighed. So the cat was finally out of the bag. This would make his life more difficult from now on.

     Lucille continued, “My employer knows all about its construction and remarkable powers. He said you’ve kept this old place well-fed over the years. In his words, ‘A steady diet of blood, bone, and pain are exactly what the old girl needs. You couldn’t ask for a better tenant.’”

     Ethan stared. “Exactly how does your employer know all this?”

     “My employer is the original owner. And he’s returning to reclaim his property.”

     At that exact moment a deep rumble passed through the room, causing Ethan to stumble backward. He heard distant shouts and breaking glass. The door to the study flew open, and his bodyguards burst in.

     “We need to evacuate now, boss. There’s a gaping hole in the wine cellar, and the kitchen floor just collapsed.”

    Lucille grinned, revealing unusually long canine teeth. “If I were you, I’d run. My employer tends to be a little cranky after long naps!”