Chapter #9The Little House in the Twilight Zone by: Nostrum   You study your passport when it is finished—the texture of the booklet, the watermark in the papers, the lettering. It seems very real.
You’re still unaccustomed to see the name you finally settled on—Jeffrey William Harrison. (You were unwilling to part fully with your name, so you and your brother agreed to keep your first names as your new middle names.) The photo in the documents—because, yes, you were also given a fake driver’s license—doesn't make you feel like a new man, despite having your hair brushed back, as it remains stiff and straw-like as it has ever been.
You pack light, even though you’ll be staying for awhile—a single suitcase with enough clothes for a week, and a backpack. Charles vies you a credit card for expenses, asking you to spend wisely but also not to worry about paying him back.
Jet lag hits you hard, for your flight takes you from Montana to London via San Francisco and Tel Aviv. While you slept some, it was a light sleep due to the discomfort, and weariness lays heavily upon you. Though the afternoon is waning when you disembark, you consider spending the night in London. But in the end you force yourself to take a shuttle to Oxford.
It is deep dusk when you arrive at your destination, which might be why it gives you pause when you clap eyes on it. It is a two-story cottage in the countryside, surrounded by a low wall, under a pitched roof with tall, gloomy chimneys. The front is dark, with but a single dim light glowing dully through the curtains of a window by the door, and the branches of the trees that press up to its walls droop with yellowing leaves. The gravel walk is thin and trampled into the dirt, and though the wooden chairs on the front stoop have withstood the rain and fog, their surfaces are rough and weathered, and their seats cracked.
It might have been lively place once. But on this autumnal night it looks bent and bowed with age.
You rap on the front door, and quail a little at the sound of heavy footsteps trampling in answer within. A towering mountain of a shirtless man opens the door and looks down at you. He is bald, with an immense gray beard peppered with red, and his suspenders strain to restrain his massive, hairy chest and belly. His meaty forearms too are tufted with thick hair. "Yes?" he asks in a strong Russian accent with a wary frown accented by his bushy brows.
"Uh... I, uh... Ch-Charles sent me here?" you quaver. "I... um... I’m supposed to see Margaret Dillon?"
The frown evaporates instantly from his face, and he beams at you. "About time you have arrived!" he bellows, and drags you bodily over the threshold, as though you were a bag of golf clubs. "Come, come! We were expecting you, young man! Was long trip, yes?"
"Y-yeah?"
"Sit!" He shoves you into a deep, plush chair with a high back. "I bring you refreshment!" The wooden floor buckles beneath his heavy boots as he trods from the room. "I'm afraid is not tea time!" he shouts from behind a wall. "So the kettle is cold! Is it good for you to have orange juice? I can also make coffee if you want!"
"Just water please."
There seems to be something wrong with the chair. the cushion is so deep it feels as though you are bottoming out in it, or as if it is swallowing you alive. Or is it just you? Your arms feel fastened to the armrests of the chair, and you doubt you could lift them even if you wanted to. But why would you want to? Something is pushing your eyelids shut, and your chin is sinking toward your chest.
"I will give you one better!" You jerk your eyes open as the Russian reappears with a fizzing glass of brown cola. "Will make you feel like home, yes?"
"Uh..." With an intense strain of will, you lift your hand to take the glass. Somehow you get it to your mouth, and gulp it dow gratefully. "Thanks." The Russian catches it before you can drop the glass, and sets it on the end table—its varnish long gone and its wood worn and splintered—at your elbow.
"Must be long trip! You look tired!"
"Yes, I— Oh!" It is a struggle to speak. "Yes, I don’t think I could see Mrs. Dillon right now."
"Miss!" he corrects you. "And she would not see you at this hour anyway! For now, tell me a bit about you!" Everything he says sounds like a shout.
"Hmm? Oh, I... I ’unno what I could tell you."
"Name, youngling! Oh, but if I do not tell you mine, how you will tell me yours?" The giant extends his massive hand toward you. "Fyodor Grigorovich Chernomyrdin, at your service!"
"Oh, uh..." You flop a limp hand of your own into his. "Will— I mean, Jeff Harrison. From the United States."
"Is obvious! You Americans, you are all alike! But worry not! No need to fear for dyádya Fyodor! Even in old times, no hard feelings for Americans!"
You manage to focus on his face somehow, and note the deep wrinkles in what bare skin there is between the top of his thick beard and the top of his brow. "Sorry to ask, but how old are you?"
His reply is enough to startle some of the sleep from you. "Old enough to fight against Thule Society! Ah, but when Cold War happened, Fyodor knew it was time to stop fighting anymore! But enough about me! Tales of my youth can wait for another day!" He grimaces at you. "Bozhe moy, but what are they giving you to eat where you live? Were you not at Charles’ house?"
"I... Yeah."
"And did Missus Laverne not feed you? You are eating well, yes?"
"I..." You’re puzzled by his reaction. "Yes!"
"But look at how slim you are!" The house quakes slightly as he tromps back to the kitchen. "Worry not—dyádya Fyodor will serve you nice, hot, big meal! Full of meat, for building of muscle! Then, you will take good rest, and tomorrow, you will meet Margaret!"
—
"Uncle Fyodor," as he told you to call him, wasn’t exaggerating when he spoke of "big, meaty meal," and though you were very hungry, you had to push back third helpings of Beefs Stroganoff—for he added not just a nice, thick filet, but also some venison to it—and a hefty portion of parsnips and wild rice, even as he went for his fifth helping. He looked puzzled by your rejection. "Even in worst moments, the boys did not reject third helping! There is something wrong with you!"
The boys. He probably means Frank and Joe. "It’s alright," you assure him. "I'm stuffed." Better than stuffed, in fact. You feel revived. The weight hasn't fallen from you, but you feel strong enough to fight it now.
"But growing young men need lots of food to grow even stronger!" Then Fyodor groans. "Oh! You are the intellectual type, it seems! But ladies will like the good-looking intellectual, with big muscles to go with slim spectacles!"
You want to laugh, and you do. "No one ever called me an intellectual, sir. And if you want to give someone thirds, my brother—"
"I was not told you have brother!" Fyodor's spoon drops to his plate. "You hold him very close to heart? That is good!" But then he frowns at you. "Or is it like Giuseppe and Franz, who call themselves—?"
"No, he’s my real brother. But he's, um, supposed to join the Stellae too."
Fyodor's eyes narrow. "Your twin?"
"No. He's three and half years younger than me."
"Ah! But he is to join us? Good! It is rare to have families work for us. There are the Duggans—Miranda and Michael and Andrew." A hint of wistfulness appears in the jolly giant’s eyes. "But most of us live lonely lives."
You think of your own parents, and feel yourself doubting the truth of the old adage about better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
"But!" Fyodor exclaims, dispelling that mood, "that is why we are big family! Soon, you will learn to rely on us, and we will rely on you in kind! We help each other stand up!"
"Just like Charles said."
"Yes!" Fyodor brushes his beard with thick fingers, and looks puckish. "First time you must have seen him, you thought, ‘Is it Ded Moroz’? No, as you call him—Santa Claus?"
You nod, and he bellows with laughter.
—
Sleep quickly overcame you again after Fyodor led you into a small room and put you into a bed with down pillows. When you wake, sunlight is pouring into the room. You feel as though you have slept for ages, so long and deeply that for a long minute, as you peer with sleep-heavy eyes about the room, you wonder if you pulled a Rip van Winkle. The air is so bright and hot you wonder if the roof has collapsed, and it seems as though mossy trees and shaggy bushes have invaded and eaten up the room. When you rub your eyes, though, the illusion vanishes: the twisting branches and fluttering leaves are a design in the wallpaper.
Fyodor feeds you a hearty breakfast, then leads you to Margaret’s room, at the end of claustrophobic hallway. The whole house feels warm and oppressive—no wonder it almost put you to sleep when you entered last night!—but that feeling intensifies as you approach her door. Fyodor knocks, then pushes it open and gestures you in.
Heavy drapes blot out the noontime sun, sinking the whole room into a charcoal darkness. It is stifling, too, so that the air thickens and swims with heat. Both the heat and what little light there is seem to emanate from a grate in the far wall, before which, in a large wooden chair, hunches a tiny woman. As Fyodor pushes you toward her, she turns a small, wizened face—like that of a mummified kitten—toward you. Her enormous spectacles magnify her eyes into black saucers. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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