Dark December [A Holiday Filled Horror Anthology]

The Listeners by @FinnyH

The Listeners by FinnyH 

"Time, children!" their father called, clapping his hands but once. "Seat yourselves before the fireplace and remain quiet."

"Must we do this every year?" Elijah muttered, though did not dare outwardly object.

"Why of course!" replied his younger sister. "Father says that every Christmas we have to hear a story. It's transition! Isn't that right?"

"You mean tradition," Elijah corrected, as he was often wont to do. "It's also childish. For babies and girls. I don't get scared anymore."

"Now, now," their father continued. "Your grandfather used to tell me ghost stories on Christmas Eve, and his father before him. Now I wish to tell one to you. And I promise -- you have not heard of this one before."

"Father," squeaked Evie, sat side-saddle on the rug beneath her, "you said that last year."

"Perhaps I might have, but this year my story is different. Do you want to know why?"

"Why, Father?"

"Because this story is true."

He turned to me before seating himself in the great leather armchair before his two children. "Noah, if you'd be so kind as to dim the lamps and then hurry along to your quarters, my boy."

I did as the master bid, but took my time in doing so, groaning as I feigned reaching up for the lamps. He did not altogether mind my stalling, but, similarly, he seemed in no hurry either, smoking a cigarette at his leisure before he began.

Christmas Eve ghost stories were my favourite part of the festivities, since the luncheon was none too memorable for servants. I was the only youth in the household who was not permitted to sit and listen to the master's tales, but of course, that did not stop me from hearing them.

With the lamps dimmed and the master's chalice of mulled wine full, the snow built high on the window sills and the candles on the Christmas tree flickering gently in the corner of the room, I at last made my exit. It was their perfect evening. A Christmas card if I ever saw one. Two small silhouettes in front of the hearth at the heart of a Victorian gentleman's reading room ... serving staff dismissed, of course.

But of what the master was not aware was that I knew of the disused adjacent bedroom, and year by year I would sneak in and crouch by the wall, able to hear the resonance of the master's voice through the boarding if I listened hard in the silence.

Careful not to disturb the stillness of the retiring household, I took up my position on the dusty floor as I had planned to do all year. All was quiet to begin with, and the only sound in silence was the distant creak of floorboards and my own light breathing.

"So this story is true?" Evie asked. Something in her voice coloured her unconvinced. "You mean it actually happened?"

"Happens, dearest," their father replied. "But you must tell nobody of it. It is called The Listeners, and it is a tale of unearthly affliction."

"Afflic... affliction," the little girl repeated, testing the word.

"It means general misery," he told her. "And it began in this house, with an artist named Theodore Brome.

Brome, according to local hearsay, was not a fellow who wanted for company. He was a recluse; a small, weathered man one would think a decade older than he was. Why I even remember his sideburns to be grey well before the onset of maturity, and I do believe he never married, but that is beside the point, children. I was but a child when Theodore Brome lived and worked in this house, producing his signature heavy-handed charcoal studies, and I recall him being a queer kind of man, even for an artist.