The Silver Bottomed Staircase

[Degorram]

It was an old house, to be sure. And Violet was not quite settled yet with her own opinion as to whether she liked that or not. But it was well built, and the walls kept out the misty draft of the marshes that surrounded the high ground upon which it was built. The doors were all straight and strong, and not a single wall was cracked from a slipping foundation. The furnishings and decorations of the house were old yes, but not so ancient as to make her feel like the house was not worth still living in. Yet an age pervaded over it all, a quiet, the kind that she had often felt around the soldiers who lay dying in their beds in the infirmary that she had so often worked at before her father sent her away for her health. It was funny that she should find herself in a house that reminded her so much of the work she had been told to cease.

 

Violet's father was a general in the army -- a good reason for her to find work in the infirmary. And so often had her tiny, soft hands been of good use to the surgeons that she had been asked to stay on as a regular aid. She had helped many men regain their health with both her skills and her cheerful disposition. She had also seen many men die, in fact had been at their sides as the life vapours poured from their breasts to poison the air of the camp. This constant atmosphere of pain and suffering had caused an affliction not on Violet's spirits, but on her peace of mind. Many times she had woken from sleep seeing cold, pale eyes staring out at her from among shaggy silver hair; these dreams of death in human form (for that is what the young girl interpreted it as) caused her so much distress that her physical being also began to suffer.

 

And so her father had sent her to live with a distant aunt, a Ms. Ventner, that she had met only a few times in her life. The lady was a pleasant woman, very kind and full of hospitality, but sadly she was quite older than her brother, and did not understand the younger generation. As well as this she had been recently widowed, and was not often in the spirits for conversation. Therefore Violet found in her a comforting host, but a rather poor kinsman. Being thus left to her own devices to entertain herself in the country side, Violet often took to walking in the gardens of the house on pleasant days, and exploring the many rooms and passageways on days when the weather was damp, which it was most of the time. Ms. Ventner had given her leave to explore any part of the house she wished, so long as she was on time for dinner and was careful in all old passages. Though she might have been neglected in reference to company, Violet was neglected in no other manner, and her health improved greatly as her stay increased. Her nightmares continued for a time, and soon became so scarce as to only startle her from sleep every other month or so.

 

Violet woke one morning to find that the sun was hidden by a thick layer of fog, and that the frosts of the coming winter had frozen some moisture to her windows in a rather bitter manner. It was so dreary outside that she pulled an extra shawl over her shoulders and, after eating a simple breakfast as was her custom, began to explore a passage that had she had been forced to abandon earlier in the week because of the lateness of the hour. There were many doors along it and, poking her head in each, Violet found them to be all either rooms for the housekeeper's use or draped up storerooms. She was rather disappointed by this, and so turned to the rest of the passage bent on discovering something sublime and exciting. There were no doors left on the hallway, and so she would have normally given it up and sought another one. Today, however, she was certain that she must continue, and so walked down the hall until she reached the end, at which there was....nothing.

 

She was rather startled by this fact. Why on earth would one extend a hallway only to have it end with no doors and rooms? She puzzled over this for a while and stared at the single painting that hung on the flat wall without really seeing it until a creak behind her caused her come to her senses and whirl about. Of course, there was no one there, and the creak had been caused simply by the breathing in and out of the house as it absorbed the moisture of the day, as old houses often do. Chilled, but not deterred, she turned back and observed the painting with more attention to detail: it was a fine portrait of a young man. His features were high and proud, and his gaze pointed down to the bottom right corner of the painting, as though he were contemplating some dastardly deed. His hair was so blonde that the painter had taken liberty to color it almost silver, and only at the points where the light of the foreground shone on it could she see that it was indeed a sort of gold-ish blonde. His arms he clasped behind him, and he leaned on his left leg as most men of noble birth did in their paintings. He was shrouded in a gray hunting suit, but the cape that hung from his shoulders was a deep sable. The man cut quite a handsome figure, and for some time she could not look away, for the detail of the art was quite astonishing. Eventually she grew tired of looking, however, and turned to her right to head back to find another, more interesting corridor.

 

A door. How strange that she had not seen it before! It was a rather cramped looking door, she thought, made of quite a dark wood that was unlike the rest that adorned the house. She grasped the handle and peered into its contents, perceiving a staircase that was dusty and cobwebbed. Making a note of the time, Violet reasoned that a quick look would give her plenty of time before dinner called her into the presence of her aunt, and so she descended without another thought except to be sure to have a hand on the wall lest the steps prove treacherous.

 

The cobwebs gave her no trouble, and Violet was not the kind of girl to shrink away from spiders. She felt for each step with a tentative toe, never minding the occasional scuttle of an unseen insect. Slowly she descended, so slowly that the steps passed her by uncounted and she began to worry that perhaps she had indeed come too far and would be late for dinner after all. Yet even as she began to consider turning back her feet came down on the firmness of the landing and she found herself encased in blackness. The room was so dark that she could barely discern its corners, though she did get a simple idea of its vertical vastness. Whether or not it was a wide room, it was certainly tall. Indeed...yes, she now discerned the back wall vaguely. There was nothing in the room except for a small drain-grate in the center of the floor, and a few sacks of unknown content leaned lumpily against the wall.

 

Over her own breathing Violet felt she heard a sigh, or an intake of breath, and her shoulders crept up in fear. "Is someone there?" she called out, in a quite normal voice, for she had often found that speaking in a frightening situation was more use to one's nerves than staying silent. There was no answer in words, but this time she distinctly felt that there was another being, somewhere in the room, breathing as if it had held its breath for a long time. The sound was far off, though, and so she thought perhaps that the origin lay beneath the mysterious grate. She began to feel around the walls for a sconce in order to light the room and found, to her great relief, a candle stick placed in an ancient metal holding. She groped in one of her skirt pockets for a match, found one (for a practical girl was never to be caught without a match upon her person) and struck it. The sudden light flared up and cast warm shadows about everything, blinding her for the instant before the candle's taper caught light. A moment later and the candle burned brightly, forcing the golden flickering to turn into a single sphere of light. She held the candle out and observed the room. As she had guessed, it was indeed a small, square room with very little in it. The bags, now cast into light, seemed to be filled with hard, jagged objects, for their contrasts were sharp and defined under the flame. The floor was smudgy and dark in areas with great amounts of unknown grime smeared here and there where a pitiful attempt had been made to clean it. She raised the candle higher so that she could see the rest of the room, and as her light fell over the ceiling a cry of surprise and fear escaped her lips and, dropping the candle, threw herself back up the stairs.

 

For the thing which she had seen was a man, wrapped up to his neck in a thick burlap sack which was suspended from the ceiling by its back. His hair had grown shaggy and fell into his eyes, covering most of his face. As the light had touched his face, he had lifted his drooping head and looked at her piercingly through the silvery locks, gazing at her with pale eyes that sent daggers of malice and a fiendish curiosity her way, all tamed by a coldness that she had only seen in the eyes of the dead.

Edited October 11, 2009 by Degorram

[Degorram]

Violet shut the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily from her long run up the stairs. The initial fright had worn off before she had reached the upper landing, but a fearful doubt still gnawed at her chest, and she covered her eyes with a shaking hand. She was unsure whether what she had seen were real or not. Surely there really wasn't a man tied up in the bottom of the house...but she had seen it herself. She shuddered fitfully and stepped away from the door, as if she could hear the man's breathing even now. Curiosity combined with good sense flooded her with determination to discover the truth. She was not, however, prepared to descend into the dark room so soon after discovering it. She would ask her aunt about it at dinner. Delicately.

 

She spent the rest of the day trying to read a book in the parlor, but found herself far to distracted to pay it any proper attention. Outside a cold rain had begun to fall and its drops collected on the leaves of the pines like little jewels adorning fine ladies. It would begin to snow soon in this deserted part of the country. There sitting by the fire, Violet began to feel a cold that was not related to the weather trace its delicate fingers down her arms.

 

Dinner was served quietly -- the weather had managed to subdue everyone's spirits, and Ms. Ventner had sunk into one of her temporary melancholies. Violet attempted to lighten the silence several times with idle conversation, but failed at each try, and so finally broached the subject which had preyed on her mind all afternoon. "I was exploring as I like to earlier," she said quickly, spearing a vegetable with her fork. "And I found a rather interesting painting in the eastern hallway..."

 

Ms. Ventner looked up and fixed Violet with an odd stare. "A painting? In the eastern hallway?" She shook her head a little. "Good heavens child, there are no paintings on that side of the house. I do not add decor to the parts of the house that are not lived in. The eastern hallway hasn't been walked upon, I daresay, since my great grandfather owned this place. I would not suggest you visit it very often...it is so old that it may be dangerous."

 

Violet looked back down at her food. Ms. Ventner did not seem to have any more information other than that. None that she was willing to give, either way. The hall was indeed old, but dangerous? She felt that she was being told an excuse, or a falsehood, and determined once more to discover whether her encounter had been all nervous imagination.

 

The next day had not broken before Violet found herself treading softly down the easy hallway's carpet. Unable to sleep she had thrown a robe over herself and lit a candle for her journey. The night was late and the rain that had been falling lightly all day had begun to torrent outside, bringing with it a wind that lashed it against the windows in gusty droves. Down the same dismal path she walked until the light of her candle fell upon that painting of the young man. Again she stopped to observe his features, his silver-golden hair, his pale eyes filled with some strong emotion she could not place. He was a mystery....just as the bottom of the staircase was. She turned to look at the dark door and shivered as the cold fingers touched her shoulders.

 

Quickly Violet grasped the knob and descended into the blackness, her light a tiny glowing orb. At the last curve of the steps she paused, holding in her breath, before she walked boldly into the room and raised her candle high.

 

There he was, wrapped as before in the strange cloth sack. She observed him more closely now, and noticed that the sack was also bound in leather straps and metal chains. It was through these chains that a huge metal hook attached the man to the ceiling. He raised his face to her and her light, not even wincing at the golden flame, and she now saw also that a mask of leather covered his mouth.

 

The two stared at one another for moments that seemed to stretch forever to Violet. His eyes captured her and held her still, pale and full of a thousand different thoughts. Finally he blinked, showed movement in his features, and spoke.

 

"Who are you?" His words were muffled by the mask, but she could still make out his meaning.

 

"Violet..." she said softly. "Who are you?"

 

The man closed his eyes and lifted his head, breathing in deeply. "Anton Jeremiah Valor Trebone," he said without opening his eyes.

 

"M-may I ask...." Violet began, but the man cut her off with a sharp look and the words: "Why I am here, suspended in a sack that is restrained with straps and chains and beneath bound with cloth? Why my mouth has been covered, and my arms prevented from moving?" He tilted his head as he looked at her so that his hair pulled away from the left side of his face and she glimpsed a scar that traced from his ear to beneath the mask over his mouth.

 

Violet nodded feebly, her knees shaking. His voice was horrible, yet musical, a beautiful instrument tainted with anger.

 

The man stared at her a little longer, until he let his head hang limp again. "You are young and full of life. Go back to where you belong."

 

"Mr. Trebone," Violet cried. "You cannot stay down here! Surely if Ms. Ventner knew you were here, she would rush to aid you!"

 

He lifted his head at the mention of her aunt, a strange glitter lighting his eyes. "Of course, you cannot free me yourself," he said coyly.

 

Violet took a step back. "Sir....seeing as how I am unaware...of the...the situations, and prospects of your being here....I am not sure how to handle the situation...Mr. Trebone."

 

"Anton."

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"Anton. Do call me by my first name, Violet, and not the dead, broken name of my father." He looked at her again with the piercing gaze of before. "You can free me, if you give me your heart."

 

Violet took several steps back. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"Go back to where you belong," Anton repeated, his eyes now cold. "Go back."

 

"Mr. Trebone, I don't...."

 

"GO!"

 

Violet turned and ran back up the stairs, pausing a few landings up to catch her breath. As she paused, she thought she heard the sounds of a choked weeping.

Edited October 11, 2009 by Degorram