The Curse Of Corbyn House [Fiction]

"Clement! Oliver! Behave yourselves," Miss Haveridge sternly warned the boisterous boys. "Make sure you stick together. You wouldn't want to get lost in this mansion."

The teenagers were excited to be on an excursion to the Corbyn House, a three-hundred-year-old stately mansion in Welwyn Hatfield with two teachers as chaperones: the stern, forty-six year old Miss Haveridge and kind, thirty-six year old Mrs Harris.

The fourteen year old teenage boys had boasted they would explore every corner in the mansion, particularly the old basement that was rumoured to be haunted. According to the tour guide, no one had gone down to the basement for over a hundred years since the Earl's only daughter died there.

Oliver, hands tucked into the pockets of his black cargo trousers, whispered to his friend, Clement, "time to begin my adventure into the basement."

Clement grinned mischievously. "Not a good idea. Ms Haveridge will be unhappy and I will tell."

Oliver rolled his eyes and frowned at him. "Don't be dumb. She won't even notice I'm gone." Clement shook his head in mock sympathy.

As the group stopped to admire a large painting of the lady of the mansion hung in the Great Hall, Oliver glanced at the two chaperones and tour guide whose attention was fixated on the painting before he stepped back lightly and turned back the way they came. He crawled underneath the stanchion ropes used to barricade the old creaky stairway to the basement.

Heavy musty smell greeted Oliver as he gently took the stairs one at a time into the basement carved from cobblestones. He pushed the heavy door open a bit to accommodate his body and sneaked in. It was dark inside the basement but for a stream of light from a slit in the wall. Oliver pinched his nose. The odour was suffocating.

Then the door groaned and snapped shut like it was a trap.

Oliver jumped and gasped simultaneously as his eyes captured a human figure seated in an old reclining armchair in a corner. The figure was male, old or more like ancient, skin terribly wrinkled and droopy. Dressed in a dirty-white tunic that stopped mid-thigh with no trousers underneath, Oliver tore his eyes away quickly and gazed at his bald head that showed off a few strands of grey hair at the temples down to the closed eyes.

The old man's eyes snapped open in a blink. Oliver yelped and blanched in horror. The eyes, almost blind with cataracts, stared at him from head to toe.

"Aah, a visit at last," the ancient man whispered hoarsely. The hairs on Oliver's nape and arms stood erect. Every part of him quivered at the eerie sight.

"A-are you the ghost that haunts this place?" Oliver stuttered.

A snort. "If I look like one, then I must be the one. Are you afraid?"

"No!" Oliver replied defensively and took two steps forward but his hands shook slightly. Then his eyes caught a dusty miniature replica of the mansion sitting on the desk beside the old man. He pointed at it. "Whoa, is that…?"

The old man did not move any part of his body but Oliver was sure he gave a slight nod. "If you touch it, your eyes will be opened to see things as they were."

"As they were…? Who are you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, young lad?"

Oliver did touch it and found himself outside the mansion in a different time.

"My lord, my lord!" Oliver found himself shouting at the top of his voice. He froze and looked at himself. He appeared taller, like an adult, wearing a white shirt with a Windsor cut, a grey tie and a black waistcoat on black trousers. The formal dressing of a butler! What?

A young, good-looking man stood, admiring the fountain that stood as a centrepiece in the circular driveway. He held himself like the lord of the mansion. Right then, Oliver felt an overbearing rush of anger and jealousy towards this young man who had everything and did not seem to appreciate it. It was discomfiting.

"What is it, Thomas?" Dixon, Earl of Corbyn, asked, noticing the strange way Oliver glanced at the surroundings.

Oliver blinked and shook his head. He was called Thomas. A rush of memories including the reason why he stood before Dixon filled his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. Mr Edwards is here to see you about…the…the..." He struggled to stifle the next words from coming out of his mouth, "...the matter of the loan, sir."

Dixon's face immediately crumbled in dejection. He sighed heavily and hung his head. "Dear Thomas, you have been my confidant for many years now. How do I pay back Mr Edward's money? He's threatened to expose me to society! That would be an utter shame and my undoing."

Thomas felt the anger and jealousy inflate to an almost bursting point. But he maintained a calm façade as expected of a high-class butler. He cleared his throat. "I'm awed that my lord trusts me with sensitive matters and you know I'm always here to help...May I suggest you give Mr Edwards the deeds to Corbyn House…?"

"What?"

"My lord, hear me out. Insist it's just for a while until you pay his money."

Dixon was quiet for a long moment. He nodded. "You have a good head on your shoulders, Thomas. Great idea. It will buy me time to sell some of the family heirlooms and pay Edwards."

Oliver sat on his haunches, dizzy with the abrupt shift in time and scene. He stood gently, realising the vestibule of Corbyn House was a little crowded with some female servants wiping their teary eyes. Lady Lydia, Dixon's sister and their mother held onto each other while trying to convince the three police inspectors not to arrest Lord Dixon. One of them apologized and handcuffed Lord Dixon, taking him away.

Lady Beatrice, Dixon's mother, turned hateful eyes at Oliver. "You are a horrible man, Thomas. We trusted you but did not know you wanted this house to yourself. How could you fraudulently take it from us? Colluding with Mr Edwards?"

Oliver watched in horror as it dawned on him what Thomas, the butler, had done. The heartbroken mother pointed her crooked fingers at him. "I curse you to Corbyn House. You may subject my son and daughter to societal shame and penury but you will remain alone for as long as this house stands."

Instantly, Oliver appeared back in the basement. He staggered until he gripped a metal pole tightly, trembling in fear. "You-you are Thomas?"

The old man stared at the miniature replica instead. "Now you know," he answered mournfully. "It is my curse…"

Oliver turned and wobbled out of the basement right into the crowd of his classmates and teachers who appeared worried. Thomas's last word echoed in his head. "Come visit me some other time, young lad."

I hope you enjoyed reading this short story. It is my response to The Ink Well's September contest inspired by the word "ancient".