BY MAX H
The semi-tattered flag waved heavily in the nipping wind like a soggy page of paper. The ceaseless raindrops, each one frosty sample of winter, smashed relentlessly into failing umbrellas and, for the less fortunate, into sodden mops of hair. I knocked again, hoping to be relieved of my icy fingers and single nostrilled block nose, only to once again be staring at the lifeless eyes of the cherub knocker for what seemed like a solid two minutes. I knocked a third (and final, if nobody answered!) time, and to my sheer relief, I managed to glimpse a hint of movement behind the frosted glass. A light flickered on and off in a frenzy, and you could almost hear someone inside mutter ‘the bloody thing’. Soon enough, the crimson door swung inwards to reveal a tall, sullen figure holding a gleaming flask of scotch and a half-spent cigarette. With yellowed smoker’s fingers, he beckoned me inside without uttering a single word.
The housemaster’s ‘private side’ at first glance did not seem to match his character at all: extravagant, velvet furniture seem to sit proudly in the middle of the room like male pheasants in mating season, while marble of an eggshell white laced the azure walls like a Westwood goblet. A crackling inferno like the pit of hell in the middle of the room lathered its honey-like orange across the walls and floor, camouflaging the brown butts of cigarettes rubbed into the redwood floor and the spillages of golden whiskey spread across the glass tables like lakes. having paused to admire, I completely missed the haughty impatience radiating from the tall figure, which by now had already climbed to the top of the steep mahogany staircase. Adjacent to him, there remained a small, green door with ‘BOYS’ plastered over the front.
Like beacons in the darkness, blue doors with worn handles and kicked in bottoms lined the first corridor. Abruptly, the house master shut the door behind me and left me startled in semi – darkness, with the only lights coming in from the dirty windows. However, this light was not sunlight; the clouds only let through a grey tint. Sniffing on the choking, stale air, I hesitantly flipped the light switch that I had managed to discover by feeling my fingers on the splintered, wooden walls to either side of me. The stark, blinding white light made its way slowly down the corridor, as if inspecting every bulb along the way with a slight flicker. The lack of boys in the house meant it was completely silent except for the creaking of the houses structure in the strong gale. The winter holiday had only just begun, yet nobody left any trace of themselves behind for my mind to ponder what kind of holiday the wealthy parents had planned for them. My lack of thought did indeed trouble me until I recalled the main purpose I was here for in the first place.
I felt uneasy having to switch the lights off and climb the spiralling staircase in complete darkness, as I could not even make out my own hands in front of my face. There was a noticeable draft which was coming in from the floor above, and it was a relief to flick the lights on once I reached the second floor. This particular corridor was lined with sports photos. As I mase my way down the gallery, I caught sight of gold medallists with genuine smiles, silver medallists with forced smiles, and bronze medallists with frowns. Chuckling to myself, I slowly pushed on my nephews door.
After having collected his forgotten clothes and shoes, I dragged the burgundy suitcase out of the room. The corridor was somewhat chillier than before, but I did not think much of it because of the strange warmth of my nephews room. Once again checking that his favourite books for the winter were in the suitcase, I turned around, then proceeded to venture my way back up the corridor to the stairs that I had ascended from the first floor. I heard three distinct knocks behind me. With my brows furrowed, I dropped the suitcase and tried to pinpoint where the knocks had come from. When I had done that, I looked up at the name tag on the door. It was my nephew’s room. As if by instinct, I tried the door handle, but somehow it was locked. My face felt numb as I backed away. I grabbed onto the suitcase and started to pace down the corridor. As I sped up, the knocks became more frequent, and by the time I reached the stairs, the knocks were accompanied by scratches and shrieks. Without switching The light off, I leapt down the stairs two at a time with the suitcase on my back, feeling as if I was being followed.
I reach the little green door. It was locked. Dreading what I would see, I turned around. I watched the stairway with my peripheral vision, but my main focus was a white – skinned boy standing on the end of the corridor, watching. He had no eyes, just two dark beads the size of thumb tacks. With a student Trotter, one paralysed with fear and the other merging in and out of the grey but came in from the windows, approaching with each disappearance. I felt the door give in behind me, and I fell backwards into the housemaster’s home. Without acknowledging the tall man, I whipped my head around to glimpse the ‘boy’, but he was no longer there.
We awkwardly stumbled back towards the entrance, both startled at what we had witnessed. For him, the sight of a grown man practically scared for his life, and for me, the ’boy’. Once again, he spoke not a single word until I was outside his house, standing in the doorway.
“Cigarette?” he rasply questioned.
“Don’t smoke.”
“Shame.”
With that, he forcibly shut the door. Once again, I was staring into the beady black eyes of the cherub-knocker. They were the size of thumbtacks, and they were very much full of life.