The Arrival
WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of sexual violence.
I am a killer, a poisoner by trade, and a thief by convenience. Of course, it was not always this way.
After my parents had died in a carriage accident I became the ward of an uncle on my father’s side, a man of higher standing who owned an estate within the city of Dunhill. As I was not of legal age to receive my inheritance it instead went to my uncle and, as such, did the responsibility of my care. My parents, it seemed, had very little, having spent most of it in keeping up appearances, so it was only through his generosity that I was allowed into his home. This was made very clear to me by the stern state matron who delivered me, so I arrived in grief and shorn of pride.
After rattling across the cobblestone streets of Dunhill, our arrival at his home only reinforced these feelings. Gone was the small rural homestead my parents had maintained through my father’s work as a doctor and my mother’s loving attendance. In the heart of the smog choked metropolis was a massive gothic structure, two wings off its central hall, peaked roofs with rounded windows, the smoke stacks appearing more as church steeples than chimneys. From the steady stream of horse and foot traffic on the Dunhill street we diverted through a gatehouse and into the courtyard.
It was much to my surprise that, in addition to two servants, we were received by my uncle himself. I had, in my mind, an image of my uncle that I had derived from my father: Tall and fit, neatly kept, with a trimmed beard and natty clothes. Instead, standing between the gray of the courtyard stones and the leaden Dunhill sky, was a corpulent and pallid man. He appeared as if he had not left the gaslit halls of his own home for quite some time, his pale skin hanging beneath its stubble as if an insalubrious condition had recently caused him to lose some of his ample weight. His shirt was undone at the collar and he wore no coat, his shoes only loosely buckled. He smiled with teeth that were bright and white.
It was perhaps this last quality that convinced the matron to allow me to pass into my uncle’s company. Upon setting eyes on him I could feel her presence go rigid and disapproving behind me, ready to slip me back into the carriage and off to an administrative orphanage. If only she had listened to that iron angel of her nature.
Before that celestial could whisper to her, though, my uncle introduced himself, speaking only to the matron. “As you already know, wise woman, I am the Baron of the house, Daman McDowell.” He then introduced his two servants that stood by him, a man and a woman, as Charles and Gildred. Each was dressed in black and white formal house uniforms. Each was as pale as my uncle, smiling the same white smile, theirs as fragile as porcelain. Prodded by the matron, I introduce myself, muttering, “I’m Cole.”
We all stood their in the cool, wet air of the courtyard until my uncle leaned in and said, “Ah Cole, from the Gaeilge, meaning a pledge. How fortuitous.” I stared back at him, trying to hold my fear in place with the gratitude I knew I should feel. He gestured us toward the house, the servants closing ranks behind us while stablehands pinwheeled the carriage, preparing it for the matron’s departure.
We were led into a vaulted main hall, its center occupied by a massive staircase. It was dim, lit only by a few gas lamps. No one, not a servant or my uncle, offered to take the matron’s coat or hat. In the chill of the house, she did not even remove her gloves.
Nonetheless, the eyes in her stony face becoming marginally less flinty at the opulence of the interior. “This is all very impressive. How did you make your fortune?” As a state matron, such a direct question was not out of bounds.
“Shipping,” replied my uncle, as if access to Dunhill’s deep port were all that was needed for a man to make himself rich. “I spent much time traveling and trading in the West before settling back in Dunhill.”
In anticipation of her many other questions regarding my care, my uncle launched into a speech about diet, education, and discipline. He discussed his adherence to Kessler’s new fashionable diet plan, which kept the body clean from mouth to colon. He detailed his plans for a series of private tutors on everything from proper English to maths, chemistry, biology, and anatomy, as well as many facets of physical education.
The matron had many questions, though, she at no point insisted on leaving the foyer. My uncle made gestures to the doors that went off the main hall, one a room covered in full bookshelves, the others closed or hidden by shadow, until he motioned up the grand staircase and asked, “Would you like to see the poor boy’s room?”
I blushed to the roots of my hair, assuming that my uncle spoke of my financial situation rather than that of my spiritual one. However, the matron appeared pleased with this or perhaps pleased that her duties had been completed enough for her to leave. She said something that ambiguously covered both possibilities and excused herself back to the carriage that brought her. What little light the Dunhill day exuded vanished behind the courtyard door as a rapidly disappearing sliver, leaving me in the dark of McDowell manor.
I felt my uncle’s hand on me in a very territorial manner, his voice calling me to, “Come now, boy.” He turned and gave me to the manservant, directing Charles to take me to my room. His hand was cold as he took my bag, his legs working steadily as a metronome as we ascended the stairs, my uncle’s voice calling behind me that, “I will see you at dinner.” The steps up were as if climbing a mountain, leaning forward so my dark hair might hide the shame in my eyes, and hoping my thin frame could carry my burden of sorrow and shame.
Charles said nothing, but took me directly to my room, set down my bag, and left. Under different circumstances, I would have been pleased with the accommodations: a soft, big bed, bookcases, a chest of drawers for my things. However, my grief and the shadow-stained halls of the manor kept me down.
This was not aided by dinner. Gildred called me down for food, and my uncle did not join me until she served the meal of roast beast and carrots. With little discussion, he at once began to dig into the meal with the ferocity of a glutton, not a man suffering from cachexia. Despite whatever underlying health problems he might have, he made short work of the meal and departed with little more than a hello and goodbye.
I did see my uncle again that evening, though, when he slipped into my room, much quieter than I would have thought him capable. He had waited until I ceased crying, and then some time, but I was still awake. His presence, for a reason I couldn’t define, petrified me and I did nothing as he stood over me. He must have sensed I was awake, though, as he spoke to me, saying only, “Stop me if you wish.”
With no more preamble, he pulled back the covers and fondled me, both hardening and terrifying me, until I ejaculated into my night dress. At this, he only guffawed roughly, saying “I knew that you were that kind of boy.”
I was too ashamed to say anything the next day, either to the servants or to the parade of instructors that came. My uncle was good to his word in the latter regard, my days filled with learning well into dusk, sequestered in his home until I grew as pale as he. My only contact with him came at nights when he would visit my room, his dirty work there growing from fondling me, to him taking my hand and placing it upon his own member, guiding it up and down, then eventually flipping me over and painfully inserting himself. The only sound I made through any of this was to cry aloud with pain or anguish, but the rest quietly wept with shame. I assumed my own hardening and ejaculation meant that my uncle was right, that I was “that kind of boy,” and that I deserved what was done to me. In my darkest moments I came to believe that my parents’ death was my fault, that their demise was providence taking me from them and delivering me to my uncle, the guardian I deserved.
So I said nothing to any of my instructors, even those kind enough and observant enough to make subtle inquiries into my health, some suspecting there was more than grief behind my silence. I said nothing, though, only adhering to my lessons. My uncle said very little, frequently disappearing into the manor and only appearing at night. He would occasionally breeze by one of my fencing or chemistry lessons telling me that I was doing well, and that he wanted me in “tip-top” shape.
At the time, I believed that this desire of his was for his nightly pleasures as well as the pride he took in showing me off to his guests. I was never invited to the table when others visited the home, but trotted out after nuts had been served, typically to recite a litany of facts on New South Dunsany or from the Magnalia Christi Columbia or the properties of sulfur, or some other item that my uncle thought would impress.
I remained my uncle’s show pony until I was old enough that I could have physically bested him, but still found myself paralyzed at his nocturnal visits. Even so after I noticed that he would bring other boys into the manor, often times when he thought I would not notice, frequently shuttling them away into the bowels of the house. It is to my shame that I became grateful for their presence. When they were about, my uncle did not visit me at night. I never saw these boys leave.
I assumed that this was because he spirited them away with even more surreptitiousness than he had brought them in. Too weak to protest against his actions, I began to construct elaborate fantasies about rescuing the other boys from the manor. It was the only substitute I could find for the imaginings of what my uncle was doing to them once evening came to the cold streets of Dunhill.
Read the next chapter here.
See the author’s published work here.
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