Knock Knock Knock. The door shook as the sound of the heavy iron door knocker hitting the painted oak of the door reverberated through the home. Mortimer lifted up from his comfy red armchair with apparent effort and groaned slightly in the back of his throat. His heavy boots dragged slightly as he crossed over the wood floor, creating a grinding sound with the rocks stuck between the treads of the sole. Mortimer reached the coat rack and grabbed for his black traveling cloak. To be seen in his home attire would have been dreadfully embarrassing, so he wrapped the cloak around the mellow blues that made up his nightshirt and pants. He dredged over to the door looking shrunk like a cat doused in water. He had not bothered to run a hand through the flat black mess that was his hair.
He reached the door and raised a hand to the eye-shaped peephole. Closing one eye Mortimer looked through into the darkness of night. Only gas lamps lit the street outside and many of them had either never been lit or had gone out somewhere through the night. Mortimer lowered his gaze down to try and find his late night visitor but only saw the top of a frilly, bright yellow hat. The contrastingly vibrant color confused Mortimer for a second as it bobbed back and forth against the night on the other side of the door, not appearing to belong to any person standing on the porch. Mortimer backed away from the peephole and began to work on the expensive locks that intertwined at the edge of the door like some grand sculpture of painted silver and gold. Creaking, the door opened slightly as he tried to catch a glimpse of his colorful guest. There on the cement steps stood a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve twirling a bright yellow parasol even though the weather was clear and there was no sun to speak of. Her eyes darted back and forth between the corners of the door and the street as if she was immensely impatient. Her feet reinforced the idea as she tapped her yellow slippers lightly on the gray ground as if she was keeping tempo with an inaudible orchestra.
Mortimer swung the door open and the little girl jumped in surprise while letting out a little yelp before covering her mouth with her white gloved hands.
“What do you want?” Mortimer raised an eyebrow at the little girl and entered into his normal aloof state.
The little girl looked up at Mortimer’s face and took a deep breath before grabbing the hems of her sun yellow dress and curtseying clumsily as a child normally would. “I am Lucille Breen and I would like to find a certain Mortimer Grae.” Her eyes focused on the darkly clad man in front of her.
Mortimer’s expression turned sour and he began to dismiss the little girl in his mind. “What business do you have with him?”
The little girl puffed out her chest and spoke as if she had rehearsed the line over and over again. “I would like Mister Grae to do a job for me.”
Mortimer closed the door immediately without saying another word and turned to go back to his drawing room, but was interrupted by more loud banging at the door, this time accompanied by the yells of the young girl. Mortimer groaned again and turned on his heel stomping back to the door before slamming it open and yelling, “What?”
Lucille’s expression was timid from the sudden outburst by Mortimer but her lips set into a slight pout as she regained her composure and lowered the fists she had been hammering on the door with. “I would like to at least speak with Mister Grae on the matter.” She picked up the parasol that had dropped to the ground when she had begun hitting the door.
Mortimer sighed and dropped his head slightly at the little girl’s antics. “I am Mortimer Grae if you must know, and I have no intention of serving the fancies of some brat who heard tell of what I do.” His eyes looked on at the girl with the sharpness of daggers and he began to close the door a little bit slower this time.
“Wait,” Lucile took off her shoe and pulled a small purse from the inside before opening it up and presenting it to Mortimer, “if you are Mister Grae please accept my job. I intend to fully compensate you.”
Mortimer looked into the flower designed purse and was surprised to see a large sum of money stuffed into the small pouch. With little hesitation he reached out and took the purse from the little girl’s shaking hands. “Very well.” a smile started to creep across Mortimer’s face transforming his usually handsome mug into a devilish and creepy rendition of a normal expression. “Come in and we will discuss your job.”
Lucille stepped over the threshold and into the dimly lit house. Despite the lack of good lighting and the cold demeanor of its occupant, the house looked cozy. Pictures of smiling people hung from the walls but none of them seemed to feature the gloomy resident. Mortimer began walking towards the parlor room. “Please put your hat on the rack.”
Lucille walked over to the rack and tried to place her hat on the highest rung before realizing she didn’t have the height to do so and instead placed it on one lower down.
Mortimer walked over to his red armchair and fell like a rock onto the cushy exterior of it. “It’s Monsieur by the way. Not mister.” His body relaxed as it slid into the usual position when sitting on the chair.
Lucille walked into the drawing room from the entryway with a confused expression on her face. “What do you mean?”
Mortimer sat up a little bit in his chair so that he only looked half asleep. “Earlier you addressed me as Mister Grae. It’s supposed to be Monsieur Grae.”
Lucille stared at him for a moment and then her cheeks suddenly turned bright red and she stared at the floor. “I apologize Monsieur Grae. I didn’t realize you were French.” She bowed her head slightly in apology.
“It is perfectly fine Miss Breen.” Mortimer said the word Miss as if it were spelled Mizz. His subtle French accent betraying his usual facade of a perfect Englishman due to the weariness he felt at being woken so late in the night. Mortimer was perfectly used to late night calls, even preferred them to daylight ones on occasion, but he liked to be informed of such an event before the caller was knocking at his door. Even so, a paying customer would always be enough to lift him out of any stupor.
Lucille brought her head back up and walked over to the fireplace. The flames had all but died out during the night and there was little left but embers still burning, but even so Lucille had removed her gloves and began to warm her hands up off the heat of the dying fire. She turned her head to look at Mortimer as he took a sip from a glass that had been sitting on a nearby table. “I can not say I expected you to look as you do.” Lucille put her gloves back on and walked to the front of the coffee table centered in the room. “I pictured you to be more……..”
“Menacing?” Mortimer interjected. His face a placid mask as he spoke with the air of a man who had corrected the mistake many times before. “I can assure you that one does not need to be a shadow of a man to do what I do.” It was quite true that Mortimer Grae did not appear to be a frightening human being. At only the age of twenty three years old his face still shared some of the softness that came with adolescence, although he still had the rugged look of a working man. His black hair curled in strands and looked like waves of oil coiling atop his head as he made any movements, and despite his French-English heritage his skin looked darker than the average Englishman, as if he had been singed by the sun. Mortimer looked up and down his guest with his emerald green eyes, absorbing the information of what the young Lucille looked like. “You’re hardly the type of folk I see around here either.” His hand flew up and gestured to Lucille at the last word.
Lucille seemed a bright contrast to the darks of Mortimer’s appearance. Her blonde hair fell straight down and looked as fine as spider silk when it was separated from its golden mass. As the parasol earlier had indicated, her skin was fair and seemed to glow like water reflecting the light of the moon. She looked quite small as she stood in between the furniture of the house. Mortimer thought that she reminded him of the pixies seen in fairy tale books he’d had as a child.
Lucille stared at Mortimer for a few seconds before he realized he should start talking again. “So what brings a young lady like you out here in the middle of the night?” His left eyebrow raised as he finished the sentence.
Lucille narrowed her eyes at Mortimer as if he had told a lie. “I thought this was supposed to be a no questions asked business.”
Mortimer looked at her with an intrigued expression and pointed a finger directly at her. “Right you are young miss. I’m sorry for invading your privacy.” Mortimer raised from his chair again and shuffled over to a door opposite the entrance way. “Shall we?” Lucille nodded at the words and joined him as he opened the door and walked through.
The door led to a wooden staircase leading down into the basement. As Mortimer stepped on each one they creaked and let off a cloud of dust even though they had been trodden very often. “Watch your step,” Mortimer cautioned as his feet hit one step after another without effort. Lucille, on the other hand, had to half hop down the steps as her legs could not reach from one step to the other without ripping her dress. As they both stepped off the final stair they started walking into a stone walled cellar. Candles lit the corners of the rooms, though Lucille had no clue how they could still be burning if the fire upstairs had been nearly out. The walls bore shelves holding up lines of countless objects in jars with labels on them, some appeared to have gemstones in them even though Mortimer took no heed to the shiny rocks. Mortimers attention was focused on the floor. In the center of the room the stone floor was etched with symbols that Lucille did not recognize. Mortimer however had seen them hundreds of times and had used them in practically every job he had ever done. Mortimer didn’t even have to think about what the symbols meant but instead had their meaning ingrained in his mind. To Lucille it was random. To Mortimer it was the schematic to making a living human.
Mortimer turned to look at Lucille. “What do you want to create?”
The instant Mortimer asked Lucille’s head dropped down as if she were thinking the best way to phrase her answer. “I want to bring back someone important to me.”
Mortimer’s excitement at making a new creation vanished instantly. He had done jobs for people like this before, family members driven by grief of a fallen relation to the point where they would do anything to get them back. Mortimer didn’t enjoy these kinds of jobs, in his experience they always ended with more heartbreak than they began with. Mortimer instead desired the jobs such as when politicians died before completing a major event and needed to be brought back for a limited amount of time. Those jobs were simple, create them and then let them get killed off in a different way by the people who paid him. Emotional jobs, Mortimer thought, were the opposite. He let out a sigh and ran through his mental checklist of things he had to do, settling on the task of warning his client. “I should tell you now that whatever we create will never be your loved one.” Mortimer saw no reaction from Lucille and went on. “The person we bring back might have their face but they will simply be a doll with your memories placed in their head.” Mortimer punctuated the sentence with a quick jab to his temple.
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Lucille nodded along as Mortimer spoke and finally piped up at the end. “I understand how this works.” She looked annoyed as if Mortimer had just called her an idiot. “I obtained plenty of information from the person who directed me towards you.”
Mortimer looked at her funny as she finished speaking. “You seem oddly mature for someone your age.” He began walking to the shelves then paused. “How old are you again?”
Lucille made a tsk tsk sound at the question. “Whatever happened to no questions asked?”
Mortimer laughed at Lucille’s words, which sent shivers down her spine. His laugh sounded dark and ominous. “Just making some polite small talk.” The laugh petered off and left a tense silence between the two.
Mortimer grabbed an obscured object off one of the shelves and stepped closer to Lucille. “I am going to have to gauge the personality of the person you want to ‘bring back.’” He said the last word with a very heavy hint of sarcasm. Lucille began to speak but was cut off by Mortimer waving his hand. “Since I don’t trust you to remember what you had for supper tonight, I hardly trust you to give me an accurate description of their personality.” He held up the object in his hand. It appeared to be some kind of crimson, and viscous fluid that had been poured in a jar. Mortimer pointed at himself. “I will extract that information by my own means.”
Lucille recoiled at the words and stared at the fluid. “May I ask what that is?” She pointed to the jar with visible effort.
Mortimer worked to unlid the jar as an unbearable odor pierced the air around the two of them. “The less you know young lady, the better.”
Lucille once again formed her lips into a pout and feigned insult at the informal address. “I would prefer if you referred to me as Miss Breen.”
Mortimer looked up in amusement at her as he dipped his fingers into the jar and pulled them back up dyed red. “Then I shall refer to you as that, but I do love a bit of scandalous small talk between strangers.” He took a step closer to Lucille and raised his hand. “It livens up the mood in my experience. Now please look up and don’t move. I don’t want to have to redo this.”
Lucille raised her chin as Mortimer told her to and stared at the dark stone ceiling of the basement. Mortimer brought his finger to rest on Lucille’s forehead and began to move about in seemingly random directions. “What are you doing? That smell is horrid.”
Mortimer didn’t stop his task and briefly chided her. “Don’t move.” The brushes of Mortimer’s fingers began to grow lighter on Lucille’s skin as he drew the strange pattern to a close.
Lucille began to raise her hand to the new markings on her forehead but was stopped halfway by a sideways death glance from Mortimer. “Please don’t do that either.” Mortimer walked over to the wall and placed the jar back on its previous shelf. He turned back and lifted his hand straight out as he walked forward as if it were being raised on a puppet string separate from the rest of his body. “This may feel a little odd.”
Lucille looked at him with distaste as he placed his hand on her forehead again. “What will?”
Mortimer’s face was down and his eyes shined through his dark hair with the a light that could only be described as a spark of madness. “This.”
The room disappeared around Lucille and her body felt weightless against the black void that had taken its place. As quick as the darkness descended it was then blown away by a flash of blinding light. Lucille tried to squint her eyes at the bright colors but realized she was not able to do much more than stare at them as they seared into her mind.
The light finally faded and Lucille found herself sat at a dinner table. Her eyesight bore none of the dots and marks that often invaded her vision after staring at a bright light. The table itself was a coarse wood that had an unrefined look as if it had come out of the lumber mill. The corners were ragged with splinters poking out and the only saving grace of the awful mess was the bright diamond shaped cloth covering the edges of the table. The rest of room shared the gritty and rough look with the table. It was sat in the middle of the room and only two chairs were set round it, one being sat in by Lucille. The room was mainly barren and only decorated with a few small blankets on the ground or hanging on the walls. No embers stirred in the fire and the room’s temperature froze Lucille to her bones. Lucille looked down briefly to see if her dress was alright when she realized she was no longer wearing the bright yellow clothing. In its stead she wore plain gray garb with patches sewn in where holes and tears had been made. I remember this dress. Lucille’s thoughts darted back and forth in her confused mind before they finally managed to click into place. Lucille sat in her old home, wearing her old clothes, and felt the nostalgia cut through her emotions as she began to feel tears come. But they didn’t come. Lucille tried to wipe at her eyes with hem of her sleeve but her arm just sat there as her fingers played with the itchy cloth.
“Are you ready Lucy?” A voice called from behind the corner and her head involuntarily turned to look for the voice's owner. The voice sounded familiar to Lucille as if it were an old friend who she had not seen for a while. It made her feel warm and happy.
“Of course I’m ready.” This time the voice escaped from Lucille's mouth as if it had been ripped from it. It was followed by a short giggle. The kind that schoolgirls without a care in the world made. She hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.
“Close your eyes Lucy.” The voice called with it’s pleasant floaty tone and her eyelids shut even though Lucille wanted to keep her eyes open. Footsteps, light and slow, echoed across the floorboards and stopped in front of Lucille.
“You can open your eyes now Lucy.” Lucille’s eyes flew open and darted around the room and towards the person standing in front of her. Gold blonde hair which only shined a shade darker than hers. Tanned skin from long days out in the Summer sun working. Threadbare clothes and scars up and down every inch of his visible skin. His hazel eyes were fixed on Lucille as he held up a small gift box towards her. “Go ahead.” His smile lit up the previously bland room as it spread out on his face.
Lucille’s hands sped to the box and tore the top away from the gift. Inside sat a blue ribbon neatly placed with care in the center of the velvet cushion. “I thought the ribbon was supposed to go on the outside of the box.”
The man raised his hand to his hair and scratched the back of it. “Don’t tease me Lucy. Here I’ll show you how to put it on.” The man bent down and lifted her hand with his as he gently plucked the ribbon from the box with his spare hand. His fingers began to work on tying the ribbon to Lucille’s wrist. “It isn’t much, but unfortunately this is all your big brother can offer you.” He backed away and let his hands fall.
Lucille stared at the ribbon. It looked new but it was about as plain as can be. When she looked at it her heart leaped with joy even though the gift was quite dull. “ I love it Michael! I really do.”
Michael Breen’s smile spread even further and images of him laying sickly in an unkempt bed flashed in Lucille’s mind. His face was now replaced with one of intense pain. Lucille’s mind recoiled. This was not how the day went.
Michael looked straight at her and his eyes spoke of immense sorrow. “I love you, little Lucy.”
Another flash of light and Lucille blinked as tears streamed down her face. She had regained control of her body again but now wished to stop crying more than anything as the pitying face of Monsieur Grae loomed over her.
Mortimer himself would have cried had he not seen the same story played out time and time again. He had cried the first time, but could no longer muster up the tears of sympathy he once let loose so easily. “That was quite a pleasant memory.” Mortimer stepped back over to the shelf and pulled a washcloth from in between the jars. He turned and held out the cloth to Lucille. “I am truly sorry I ruined so wonderful a memory. Here, clean off your face.”
Lucille’s bright eyes pierced through Mortimer. “I am not sure how you saw that, but don’t be sorry, that memory was ruined for me a while ago.” Lucille brought up the rag to her face and wiped off the mixture of tears and the disgusting substance Mortimer had applied.
Mortimer, who had strolled back over to the shelves, began pulling jars from them and placing items on the ground where certain etchings crossed over. “Very well. I now have a good idea of his personality.” Mortimer placed the last of the items in their places and stood up straight. “We may begin.”
Mortimer beckoned Lucille forward with a gesture and she marched forward toward the center of the pattern where a space of blank floor was left.
Mortimer held out his hand. “I need something very important to you.” His expression didn’t waver. It had not changed since he had begun working.
Lucille didn’t speak as she reached under the sleeve of her dress and untied the blue ribbon that had been hidden from sight until then. She held it out and hesitated at the idea of letting it go before releasing her fingers from the vice grip they had been in. The ribbon fluttered into Mortimer's hand and he dropped to the ground in a squat as he placed it gently at Lucille’s feet. Mortimer rolled up his pant leg and drew a knife that been hidden there. “Hold out your hand.”
Lucille did. Mortimer ran the knife across her palm and squeezed her hand as she flinched. The blood dropped to the ground and Mortimer walked to the outside of the etchings as the drops pooled together in a crimson puddle. Mortimer stopped, breathed deeply, and like an actor quoting lines not made by them, he spoke. “Me adducere inanis creaturae. Servite Domino Deo tuo, et in manu ejus, et per ascensionem et descensionem. Sumoneas p.”
Light began to fill the room as the marking glowed blue and seemed to shift under Lucille’s feet. The materials placed on the ground melted into the carved lines and the blood under Lucille shifted spasmodically. Lucille looked down in horror as the blood began to branch out turning the color of ash and fire. Then from the melding form a hand sprang forth. Lucille covered her closed eyes with her hands and tried not to hear the sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh that emanated from the ground. Lucille felt something brush her leg and screamed, her voice becoming her only weapon to fend off the nightmare in the room.
“Stop screaming you imbecile.” The voice came from right behind her head and she recognized it as Monsieur Grae’s. “Open your eyes already.”
Lucille cautiously opened her eyes and saw that the room no longer shined the aqua blue color as it had a second before. She no longer heard the awful sounds that had scared her so. She looked down and there sat her Michael on the smooth floor. He had no clothes to cover his body up and he looked startled and confused. Lucille froze for a second then flung herself against her big brother with enough force to make him rock in his seated position. “Michael, you’re back. Thank the lord.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she clung to his hair and skin.
Michael looked down at his sister with fond amusement and patted her head. “It’s okay Lucy. I’m here”
“I hate to ruin this touching moment,” Mortimer stood aside with a pair pants and a shirt balanced on his palm, “but please put on some clothes.”
Michael took the clothes and began working them onto his body. Lucille, quick as a humming bird, ran up to Mortimer with tears in her eyes. “Thank you so much Monsieur Grae!” Her face looked so intensely happy.
Mortimer placed a hand on Lucille’s shoulder and pushed her to the side slightly. “I’m glad to help Miss Breen, but be careful.”
Lucille looked at him as if he had said something very stupid. “Why would I need to be careful of my own brother?” Mortimer didn’t get a chance to answer her as she walked over to help her brother button up his shirt.
***
It had been four months since the brother and sister had left his house happy and carefree. Mortimer flipped open the paper as he sat in his comfy red chair. He skimmed through most of it before an article caught his eye. Heiress of the Breen fortune found dead in her home.
Mortimer sighed deeply and began to get up with a groan as he heard a knock at the front door. Knock Knock Knock.