Gad

I must warn you that this tale is not a happy one. It might spawn a smile, it can compel one to cry, and it could even make one mad. This is a rather long tale, but worth telling to all who will listen. For this is my tale - of the Labyrinth and the horrors within. But first, we begin with Oliver.

Oliver was travelling to the North of Scotland due to the passing of his Aunt Josephine. Although her death shouldn’t have been a surprise, since she was reaching her eightieth birthday, the stubborn old woman could have powered on for at least another decade if it weren’t for her weeping heart that constantly grieved for her husband.

He sighed as he looked out of the window of the rushing train.

His interest in the unfamiliar countryside waned quickly before he reached for the newspaper purchased only hours before. There were no interesting headlines and a quick skim through the paper revealed nothing new to him. The only thing that was interesting was the date. It was marked the 26th of January 1847, but today was the 27th. Disappointed with the lack of stimulation for his sombre mind, Oliver set the newspaper down and turned back to the window.

He never really liked trains to begin with. The thundering bits of metal that filled the sky with black smoke. Every one of them only reignited the consuming flame of a traumatic memory. As the train rushed on, it brought into view a field of rabbits that rested in the sunlight without a care in the world. Their fragile peace could shatter in an instant with the appearance of a fox. Oliver looked up before the rabbits were torn from his view and watched the clouds drift by in the sky until he fell asleep.

He started awake as the train came into the station. The platform was crowded with people rushing to get to other destinations, whether it was to board another train or a coach. As he disembarked, he glanced at one striking couple strolling down the station platform. The man looked like a high-class gentleman in his early sixties, not uncommon in this area. His companion was a woman, who was evidently dressed to attract in a bright orange dress that was shockingly revealing. The doll’s intent was noted, as she clung tightly to the older man’s arm. Oliver’s eyes started to dart around from person to person. Nearby was a small boy, who looked about eight years old. The child was clearly an orphan living on the streets. He wore tattered rags that smelled terrible but were warm enough to endure the frequent drizzle. He was peering through the trash for anything he could eat, drink, sell, or wear. A sailor passed by him with a skip in his step before disappearing into the mingling crowd. There was a girl that wasn’t too far from him and looked related to the rummager with similar rags. She was trying to sell tiny snowdrops that she must have picked that morning on the way to the station.

It was strange to see all of the people buzzing about on the platform. They all acknowledged each other, and then almost instantly forgot every passing face. It was a world so busy that people grew fearful when they were forced to sit and do nothing. On the other hand, there were always a few that took advantage of being anonymous in a frantic crowd.

As he headed for the exit, Oliver cursed when he realised that he had left his umbrella on the train. Just then the whistle blew, announcing to the people that the train was about to leave the station. He patiently waited for the scolding followed by a chuckle that used to pursue him when he travelled. It never came. The only sounds that Oliver could hear were the fast footsteps that surrounded him. He knew the noises should be loud, but for some reason it seemed quiet.

Outside the station, he grabbed a coach. Oliver thought about what he needed to do in order to get back to London as quickly as possible. First and foremost, he needed to settle the will, then clean and sell the house on behalf of his family. Only then could he go back to the place he called home.

Repeating the internal list in his mind increased his anxiety; he had one week to sort everything out. There would be trouble at work if he couldn’t make it back in time. His career as a chef was challenging, but it was met with his passion. The great house was becoming famous for meat that would melt in your mouth, fresh, perfectly seasoned food straight from the farm, and the convincing smiles of the waiting staff. Every aspect was an imitation of France. It was also infamous for exploiting its staff with long work hours. Although the shifts were hard, they weren’t as bad as most expected it to be. It just took time to get used to it.

As Oliver’s carriage headed towards the outskirts of the city, he stared out at the streets, whose buildings were gradually thinning out. It was far less crowded than his hometown, Manchester. The workshop of the world was overflowing with dreamers who’ve convinced themselves that the sweatshop was the pathway to success, rather than fieldwork. Tiny homes, frequent crimes, and inevitable workplace injuries; everything was endured for the hope of a brighter future. Even children clung to the idea of promised riches whilst working hours that were much harsher than Oliver’s renowned place of work in London. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. If his father hadn’t been a physician, then he would have most likely been one of the many children who worked for mere pennies. Times were changing. Even now the streets were decaying from sickness and waste. Its people accepted the putrid smell of the city as well as the polluted rivers, not to mention the smog that temporarily blinded everyone it touched.

Oliver recalled a letter that his sister, Alice, had sent to him a couple of months ago. A fire had spread around the provenance where she lived with her husband and her daughter. The damage was beyond imagination. They had been lucky to be unaffected, but the frightful blaze forcefully evicted hundreds from their shared homes. Gazing out at the sparser buildings made him homesick. He said a little prayer that he could return home quickly.

God had clearly not answered him as the coach stopped in front of a dilapidated, granite cottage. Although the nearest neighbour was half a mile away, the quaint, well-kept cottage surrounded by blooming flowers was a good indicator of what Aunt Josephine’s home should have looked like. His heart sank. The front garden was wild with weeds that concealed the pathway. All of the windows were dirty and a couple of them were smashed with slapdash repairs to keep out the worst of the weather. On the roof, there were tiles missing near the unkempt chimney, which implied that there was water damage inside the house. How could she have lived here by herself for so many years? If he hadn’t known better, he would have assumed that it had been abandoned for some time.

Beyond its dilapidated appearance, the underlying aura of the home also made Oliver nervous. Although he couldn’t place exactly why it unsettled him, he was still hesitant to approach the troublesome place that was now his temporary home. A breeze slithered across his neck causing goose pimples to arise from his skin.

It took him some effort to open the creaky, old front door. The inside of the cottage was considerably worse compared to the outside. Looking down the hallway, he could see that the interior walls were in dire need of a fresh coat of paint and suffered a few cracks, while the exterior walls appeared to be rotting on the inside. Taking a step into the unfamiliar house caused a floorboard to creak in objection to his presence. It alerted the mice that danger was afoot. A thick layer of dust caked most of the pieces of antique furniture. The rare items that were somewhat exempt to the grime showed the echoes of Aunt Josephine’s life. She sat in this chair, she ate from this spoon, she read this copy of the bible, and she was found in this bed. It will be a miracle if he managed to meet the harsh expectations bestowed on him by his family.

After a solid day spent cleaning the house, Oliver sat down and waited for his crude broth to finish simmering. He was just beginning to drift off when he heard a noise. It was faint, but it sounded like something small had been knocked down in the room next door. Assuming that it was either the mice or his own tired imagination, Oliver ignored it. It sounded again.

He jumped up from his chair, grabbing the candle that was on the work surface, and held it out. Oliver peered into the darkness; he was searching for a sign that there was something lurking in the shadows. A different noise began echoing through the decaying house. It took a second to place it, but it was definitely the sound of children’s footsteps coming from the floor above him.

Little rascals, Oliver thought to himself as he got up from his chair. He presumed they were the children from the neighbourhood that had decided to investigate the spooky and supposedly abandoned home. They were going to get a fright, but not from the departed. His theory strengthened when he heard a shrill giggle that seemed to belong to a young girl. Candle still in hand, he walked towards the creaky staircase before calling up to the little monsters, telling them that the game was up and that it was time to go home. The footsteps increased in speed as if the children were looking for a place to hide; it wasn’t unreasonable, he would have done the same. Sighing, he ascended the stairs, dreading the game of hide and seek that was to come.

By the time he had reached Aunt Josephine’s bedroom, the noises had ceased. Oliver rationalised that the children must have found their hiding places and began to search for them in silence. Whilst looking under the bed for his uninvited guests, he heard footsteps again. There was a significant difference with them having a bulkier sound that a child couldn’t produce. There was someone downstairs. A burglar? Oliver suddenly felt fear prickling his spine, which made it difficult to gain the courage to stand up. Trapped upstairs and not wanting to try his luck going out the window, he decided to take his chances going back down and into the kitchen where the knives were kept. The thought of having a familiar tool brought comfort and confidence to his mind and released his heart from the confines of fear. Oliver blew out his candle. Unlike his intruder, he had learned how to navigate the house after working all day in the protective darkness of the blocked windows.

He caught his breath as he stood at the top of the stairs, trying desperately to fight his nerve so that he could descend down to where his intruder lurked. The footsteps had stopped a few moments ago, but there was no doubt that he was still in the house. With each step towards the bottom of the stairs, he thought about going out to get some help, but the neighbours were too far away. Who knows, maybe it was one of them in the house.

With a little bit of luck, Oliver managed to sneak into the kitchen undetected and pulled out a meat cleaver from the sink. In a house of deterioration, he was thankful that he had found and sharpened it for his use in the kitchen. It filled him to the brim with confidence, as he clutched the tang while peering out into the darkness. His body grew tense. He waited for anything to happen. Neither the children’s footsteps nor the heavier steps returned while he remained in the kitchen.

Time slipped by like sand through an hourglass, as Oliver felt the fear fading from his system. He decided to take his chances and light a candle. Afterwards, he gripped the cleaver until his knuckles turned white. It took him a moment to find his nerve, so he could creep out into the darkness. As the sitting room began to illuminate, he saw muddy footsteps covering the room. In disbelief, he set the candle on the table. There were footsteps on the furniture, walls, and even the ceiling. From what he could make out, there were three sets of footprints; two belonged to children with different shoes, and a man had made the other. Oliver tracked one of the children’s footsteps in his mind before coming to the conclusion that it went under the bookshelf. Every set ended up there.

After examining the bookcase, he felt a breeze coming from behind it. Oliver shuffled it aside to reveal a damaged door. A quick flick of the wrist revealed that the doorknob wasn’t locked. Feeling fear creeping back into his system, he opened the door slowly to find a flight of stairs going down.

The wooden stairs were rotten and slightly damp. Oliver could see little patches of moss growing in the corners of the staircase. Thick layers of cobwebs had been carefully crafted in the inner corners of the doorway. At first there was a sickly smell coming from the staircase, but it quickly diffused throughout the house. Wondering who was upstairs a moment ago, Oliver fetched his candle before gulping down the fear he had. He moved one foot forward into the darkness.

Thank you for reading the first chapter of Gad. From now on, two chapters will be released every week on Wednesday and Saturday, 11.11 PM JST.

If you can’t wait, you can purchase the full novel on Amazon. https://a.co/d/0a2GhKK6

You can also get a sneak peak of the next six chapters over on Patreon. https://patreon.com/Fubbel

You can also refresh your palate with my comedy: I Don’t Want to Start a Story! The complete novel is available for free on Inkitt.