The Mystery Guest

“Not anymore,” Gran replies. “Most have been…dismissed. There’s a gardener and the security guard in the watchtower by the gate. Inside the house proper, they trust almost no one. It’s a massive residence, but I’m nearly the only one allowed inside these days.”

“Nearly?”

“The point is the house is not exactly brimming with social activity. The Grimthorpes keep to themselves.”

“It sounds perfect,” I reply.

“You’ll soon meet Mrs. Grimthorpe, who demands loyal subservience at all times, but her husband, Mr. Grimthorpe, is largely invisible these days…except when he’s not.”

An eerie tremor runs through me as I imagine a miasma, a human specter, a partially invisible man. “Is he a ghost?” I ask.

Gran chuckles. “In a way,” she says. “He’s a writer who locks himself in his study most of the time. Mrs. Grimthorpe insists his foul disposition is a sign of artistic genius and that he’s above us common folk. We are to serve him and her both without question. Whatever you do, Molly, do not disturb his writing. I’d advise keeping a safe distance since he’s a bit of a troll, with a temperament that ranges from melancholic to diabolic.”

A new image of the man takes shape in my mind—a stout, hirsute bridge troll with red, beady eyes, a hunched back, and a carnivorous underbite. “And Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask hopefully. “Does she have children of her own?”

“She does not,” Gran replies. “She has devoted her entire life to the welfare of her husband, and to protecting the family’s good name.”

“Does she at least like children?” I ask.

“I highly doubt it,” Gran replies, “but we’re about to find out.”

We have traversed the long, winding path and now find ourselves in front of the immense front door with its menacing brass knocker in the shape of an angry lion’s head.

“Go on, then,” Gran says. I take the heavy mandible in my tiny hand, knocking it twice against the hard wood.

High-heeled steps are heard behind the door, then the knob turns. I hurry back to my safe place by Gran’s side.

The door creaks open to reveal a woman about Gran’s height and age, her face long, her lips a thin, downturned pout.

Gran puts one foot behind the other, lowers her eyes, and curtsies, something I’ve never seen her do before.

“Flora?” the dour woman says, her voice crackling like a scratchy phonograph record. “What on earth is that?”

The woman’s squinty eyes turn upon me as I press into Gran’s side.

“This is Molly, my granddaughter,” Gran says, her voice steady and strong. “I humbly request your permission for her to stay for the day.”

“Stay where?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks.

“Madam, there was an issue at her school today, most unexpected. There’s no one else for her to be with while I work, so I’m begging your permission for her to stay here during my shift. She’s a good girl. She never makes a fuss. She’s…she’s my treasure.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe huffs, then puts her spindly fingers to her forehead as though this news has caused the onset of a terrific fever. “The maid seeking childcare from her employers. Ridiculous in every conceivable way.” She shakes her head. “I’ll extend my generosity for today, but just know, my beneficence has a limit, and that limit is five p.m. today.”

“Beneficence,” I say. “B-E-N-E-F-I-C-E-N-C-E. Meaning: kindness, mercy, charity.” I curtsy and bow my head, just like Gran did a few moments ago.

“What on earth was all that?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks.

“Spelling bee,” Gran explains. “She’s very good at it.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s black-hole eyes drill into mine. “There are rules in this house, young lady. And you shall obey every last one of them.”

“I like rules,” I say.

“Good. Rule Number One: children are to be seen and not heard. Correction: children are not to be seen and not to be heard.”

I nod, afraid to speak since doing so contravenes Rule Number One.

“Rule Number Two: no shrieking, no yelling, no whining, no running, no sound at all.”

I nod again.

“Rule Number Three: you are not—under any circumstances—to disturb Mr. Grimthorpe. He will not take kindly to it, and nor will I. His literary endeavors are of the utmost importance, and his work cannot be interrupted. Do you understand?”

I nod yet again as my fingers tighten in Gran’s hand.

“Molly is exceptionally polite and well behaved,” Gran says. “She will be content to sit quietly in the parlor.”

“And how will she entertain herself?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks. “Idle hands are the devil’s plaything, and I’ll not have her destroying the house out of boredom.”

“I’ll entertain myself with my rich imagination,” I reply, realizing too late that I’ve just broken a rule. I add a “madam,” hoping this cancels out my mistake.

Mrs. Grimthorpe sighs, then steps aside, allowing us to cross the threshold to the mansion.