As part of the Haunted House theme,
it is time to visit the place where that most famous of literary
monsters was born … if you can’t remember the name of the house,
the anagram at the end may nudge the old memory cells …
‘Oh but this is hopeless!’ fumed
Mary, stabbing at the paper with her quill, ‘He is so nice, nice,
nice!’
‘Having difficulties, dear?’
‘Shut up.’
‘You don’t have to participate, you
know,’
‘Be quiet.’
‘It’s not as though his lordship is
bothering to do much after all.’
‘His lordship is an idle shirker who
deserves a kick up the proverbial. Now go away!’ and she launched a
heavy tome of Gibbon’s Fall of the Roman Empire at his head. He
ducked in time, annoyingly,and the book ricocheted off the mirror,
causing it to hang sideways, before coming to rest at the foot of the
coffee table, causing it to lurch perilously.
‘Naughty,naughty,’ he mocked as he
darted away.
‘Get out! Get out, get out, get out,
before I relieve myself vomitously in your general direction!’
She glared at the book lying on the
floor.
***
The doorbell clanged again.
‘Freddy? Would you mind? Only I’m
up to my ears in correspondence from my followers, and I haven’t
finished editing my lecture notes …’
Frederic tweaked his cravat, checked
his hair in the mirror and skated over to the door.
‘Afternoon, madame,’ he said.
‘Who is it?’ came the call from the
study.
‘It’s that mad female with the
notebook again,’ yelled back Frederic.
‘Freddy, manners, please,’
remonstrated the giant, shuffling through in his slippers. He smiled
benignly down at the mad female.
‘My dear, how perfectly charming to
see you again – what can I do for you?’
‘It simply won’t do!’ she
shrilled back at him. ‘Here I am, attempting to pen a gripping tale
of man’s isolation and inborn woe – a mad scientist and his
creation – and what do I find? His creation goes around being civil
from the word go! I won’t be able to sell a copy! Nobody will
believe me! Do something monstrous, for goodness sake!’
The gentle giant’s brow creased in
thought. ‘Ah. Having difficulty with your editor again, are you,
m’dear?’ he rumbled benevolently.
‘He’s driving me mad. And what is
worse… there’s a competition.’
‘Oh dear. Now, I am not somebody in
favour of competition, on the whole. I appreciate the motivating
element behind it but it does seem to cause more friction than
creativity … who else is taking part?’
‘Oh, the usual – that over-wheening
bag of wind Byron, his valet, that idiot of a husband of mine …’
‘Ah, a domestic,’ drawled Frederic,
clattering in with a tray of steaming coffee and sandwiches. He
tripped over the carpet and sent half the sandwiches flying.
‘The boy’s a fool,’ lisped the
gentle giant quietly as they picked up the sandwiches, and winked.
‘But we make allowances – awfully good with the electrics, you
know.’
‘The … electrics …’ Mary stared
at the giant.
‘Yes, that’s how we keep the lights
on all the time without using gas. Clean energy. Bathsheba is very
keen on clean energy – well, with her lungs, poor dear …’
‘Bathsheba ?’
‘My wife? Ah, but she was out when
you last called, yes, I remember now – giving a talk to the local
Women’s Guild on the properties of mercury. There she is – come
in, my dear, come in and join us for tea.’
Bathsheba, another giant, only this
time in a voluminous dress and with an ostrich in her turban trod
weightily in, likewise slippered. ‘Oh bless you, Franky, just what
I need.’
‘Sugar?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘And how were the gals today?’
‘Oh, we’ll get there in the end.
Can’t expect miracles in these early days of Enlightenment…’
There was a clatter from the hallway.
‘Er, Freddy – why not leave off
polishing the brass until tomorrow ?’
‘It won’t polish itself, you know,’
came the petulant reply from the hall. Bathsheba rolled her eyes and
then smiled at Mary. ‘Franky tells me you are a writer – how
terribly interesting. One of the Romantics, he says. Journalism, is
it?’
‘Well, originally – then a bit of
poetry, now I’m trying to write my first gothic novel.’
‘Her editor is giving her a hard time
– competitions and such like.’
‘Ah, yes. I know about editors.’
Bathsheba turned to her husband. ‘What do you think, dear? What
about showing her Freddy’s latest? Might give her some ideas…’
Franky looked at Mary. ‘How you feel
about going down to the cellar, m’dear?’
***
‘Well?’ Lord Byron leaned back in
his chair. ‘Who’s next?’
‘I think you have a bit of a cheek,
considering you haven’t finished anything,’ retorted Shelley. The
storm was in full force outdoors, a bolt of lightning lit up the room
briefly.
‘And have you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, Polidori, my man, looks like
you win, hands down. Unless Mrs Shelley ….?’
‘Came in soaked to the skin – I
suggested a hot bath, don’t think she’ll be joining us yet…’
‘Mrs Shelley has finished her
ablutions, thank you very much,’ commented Mary, marching through
the door, grasping her bulging notebooks tightly. She sat down by the
fire and looked sternly at the company. Byron shifted slightly
uncomfortably.
‘Dear,dear, not in a pet, are we?’
Shelley drew in his breath sharply.
‘You’ll wish you hadn’t, mate, you’ll wish you hadn’t…’
‘Quiet, you reprobate rogue, who
can’t even string a sentence together to save his own skin – and
as for you, Shelley – where are my slippers ?’
‘Uh….’ Shelley was taken aback.
‘Why. By your bed, dear?’
‘Quite right. And what are they doing
there when they should be on my feet? Fetch them, if you please.
NOW!’
Another flash of lightning lent her an
every more terrifying aspect – surely her hair had been singed ?
‘You are, er, exceptionally lively this evening, dear…’commented
Shelley.
‘It’s the enlivening company I have
been keeping. Quite superior to the intellectual desert I have been
putting up with here. One more game of Pope Joan and I should have
committed violence. Anyway, I have my story.’
‘You have?’Byron sat forward, eyes
glinting. ‘Well? Are you going to read it to us?’
‘Hmmmm. Do you know ….’ Mary
looked out of the window at the lake, the thunder and lightning, and
smiled. ‘I might just do precisely that. Gather round, ye timorous
pugs. I shall have given you the Terrors before this night is out ….’
***
The rest is literary history. But
can anyone remember the name of the house where she wrote it?
Here’s the anagram: Did
I avail lot
Happy Haunting !
B.Lloyd
Ungentle Sleep, a ghost
tale
Haunted House Tour Full
Schedule : http://authorsanonnews.wordpress.com/2012/09/12/314/
Ungentle
Sleep
B.Lloyd
Genre:
paranormal/historical fiction
Publisher:
Captive Press
ASIN:
B008VIJFLI
Number
of pages: approx 69
Word
Count: 13,146
Cover
Artist: B.Lloyd
Book
Description:
1930
When Aubrey
Marchant's engagement to Eleanor Maydew was announced to his friends,
he received mixed blessings.
‘The
Maydews are a bohemian lot – not many servants, even before the
War.’
‘Keen
on brown bread and vegetables – don't expect too much in the way of
creature comforts.’
‘Brave
chap, I am sure you'll find the country air bracing.’
‘And
Eleanor comes of good stock, too. Never mind the burst water pipes.’
Aubrey
managed to shrug off most of these under a jocular guise. One of his
closest friends however, let slip something that would come back to
him later.
‘I
wouldn't mind the rest of it – only I believe it may be a House of
Spirits. Hope you can sleep all right at nights.’
Aubrey
laughed at the time. ”
A
crowded house party – with more guests on the way. Despite
instructions to the contrary, the older part of the house is opened
up . . .and something is inadvertently let out, to wreak mild havoc
and insanity on the Maydews and their guests. That nasty incident
involving Eleanor, followed by unpleasantness over Penny’s dress,
and what is it Aubrey can hear, on the outer edge of his dreams?
Hysteria,
missed cocktails, and something nasty in the attic.
Snrrip,
snrrip. Snip, snap.
Even
the rats run away.
A
ghost tale, almost not quite long enough to qualify as a novelette,
created in celebration of M.R.James’s 150th
anniversary.
About
the Author:
A
Bustle attached to a keyboard, occasionally to be seen floating on a
canal …
After
studying Early Music followed by a brief career in concert
performance, the Bustle exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts
i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.
Her
inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions
of the Web, and appendaged to good people’s works (for no visible
reason that she can understand).
Twitter:
@AuthorsANon
Authonomy.com:
http://www.authonomy.com/writing-community/profile/c1be064a-a4fd-4ad0-b217-f4e29c07cfdd/b-lloyd/
Thank you very much for hosting me and my tale on your cheerful site - it's been fun! :)
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