Don't Open the Box - Part 2

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Henry ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the bath, as he stared at the contents of his wardrobe. He refrained from looking over his shoulder to check if Richard was still lounging, inappropriately, on his bed. He knew he was.

“I expect you’ll want the use of my clothes,” Henry said. Richard seemed to expect the use of everything else—his spare bathrobe, his house, his body. He held onto his irritation. It was better than feeling responsible for what they’ done—what he’d let Richard do in the bath.

If Richard was offended by his tone, it didn’t show. “Will you be arranging for a tailor to visit to make the alterations?” Richard asked.  

Henry frowned as he turned to let his eyes sweep Richard’s larger form. He conceded that there were some—differences.

Richard continued, “Whateley used to hire a woman from town known for her discretion—among other things—but she was not long for this world then, and I doubt you’d be willing to take the necessary steps to secure her services now.” His tone was teasing, but whether his purpose was to humor or to unsettle was unknown.

“This is going to prove difficult.” Why was there never a favorable option? Neither bringing a stranger to meet Richard, nor leaving Richard to his own devices in the house, seemed remotely safe. But he couldn’t let him wear only a bathrobe forever.

“But I am flattered that you will go to such lengths just to have me wear your clothes,” Richard said. “I wasn’t aware you were sentimental.”

Henry stilled. “There’s nothing sentimental about refusing to share a home with you while you wander about in a state of undress.”

“I could wear my clothes.”

“I was present when you materialized. You brought nothing with you.”

“Whateley purchased a variety of garments for me over the decades I resided with him.”

Henry turned his attention back to the wardrobe, giving himself a moment before he spoke. He’d gotten rid of all of the trunks of clothing that had been in the house when he’d moved in. He’d had no reason to suspect that some of them belonged to someone else, and that one day he’d have to explain their loss. For the first time he imagined what it would be like to be Richard, to come from another world with nothing of his own, and then to have what little possessions he did amass over the years disposed of by a stranger.

Feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic toward the demon, he did his best to frame the loss in a positive light. “If Whateley was in charge of procuring your wardrobe then I’m certain all of it will be too outdated to look anything but suspicious. It was most likely even outdated at the time he purchased it. It’s obvious he shunned anything even remotely modern if this house is any indicator—” Henry looked at Richard and frowned at a thought occurred to him. “Only, didn’t you appear to him as a woman?”

“You remembered that quicker than I thought you would.” Richard smiled.

Henry’s sympathy was gone. “Then they would be entirely useless, wouldn’t they?”

“And even less likely to fit than yours.” Richard moved to stand beside him. “Whateley, however, was close to my size. So I could—”

“I got rid of them.”

“Unlikely.”

Henry opened his mouth to argue, only to close it again. He’d been prepared to defend his actions, not respond to blatant denial.

“Of course, I did,” he said finally, and before Richard could further refute him he added, “I was there when the charity came to haul them away.”

“Of course,” Richard echoed with a nod that was probably supposed to be placating, but wasn’t. “What I meant, was that due to Whateley concern for thieves, he kept his better attire hidden.”

Before Henry said anything else, such as to argue that Whateley had no understanding of “better attire,” Richard ran his hand down the side of the wardrobe where it met the wall. There was a soft click, and the furniture swung away, the entire piece operating as a door.

Henry stepped back to avoid being hit, and when he looked up again Richard had disappeared into the passage behind it. Henry hesitated for less than a second before he followed him.

“This wasn’t on the blueprints,” Henry said.

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

It wasn’t a large area, little more than a closet. Shelves were lined with bottles and boxes of assorted sizes. There were a few odds and ends like a pocket watch, and several pairs of shoes. Trunks were stacked one atop another against the back wall.

Richard opened the top one to reveal men’s clothing. They were musty, but in good repair.

“These will need to be washed,” Richard said. “I don’t suppose you’ve made arrangements for that?”

“I’ve been preoccupied,” Henry said dryly.

Richard smirked at his tone, and Henry looked away.

“Help me carry this out of the room,” Richard gestured at the top chest, “and I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Henry froze. “What do plan on doing while I sleep? I can’t have you wandering around in my house unsuper—”

“I have lived in this house far longer than you.” Richard fixed him with a look. “No harm will come from me reacquainting myself with it.”

“But you’re a de—”

“And I can leave you in peace while I see to my clothes, or I can stay here with you,” Richard’s eyes deliberately strayed from Henry’s face to more alarming anatomical locations, “without them.”

Henry took a deep breath to quell the reaction he had to Richard’s innuendo. It would have made things easier if he had been less attractive.

“Fine.” Henry moved past him to take one end of the chest.

Richard took the other, and together they managed to get it out into the hallway. Richard returned the panel to its ordinary position, and made as if to leave.

“Wait one moment,” Henry said. He removed a pair of his pants, braces, and a shirt that had always been a little loose from his own clothes. He didn’t bother to get a vest or jacket, since he knew they would never fit, and while the pants might be a little short, they would work temporarily.

He handed them to Richard. “Just until yours are clean.”

An expression crossed Richard’s face, possibly surprise, but it was gone too quickly for Henry to be sure.

Richard nodded. “Of course.”

Henry left him in the hallway, and tried not to think about what nefarious deeds he would wake up to. His house would likely be in shambles.

#

In the morning, Richard’s nefarious deeds had nothing to do with to the house.

Henry shifted, still mostly asleep. He became aware of Richard’s mouth on his neck, nuzzling and leaving a hot, damp trail with his tongue. He tried to decide if his need for indignation or for release was more pertinent, and opted to take a “wait and see” approach.

Richard moved down his chest, his expression concealed by locks of hair that fell, sleek and dark, across his face. Henry’s fingers ached to be buried in them, but whether to push him away or to tug him closer he couldn’t be certain. He folded his arms beneath his head to prevent himself from giving in to the impulse.

Richard seemed unoffended—and undaunted—by the lack of reciprocity. The heat of his mouth moved lower, and Henry made an involuntary groan. He set his jaw to stifle any further sounds. It wouldn’t do to have Richard think he approved of the situation. It was bad enough that he knew Henry enjoyed it—after all, he was obviously feeding on something.

But when warm hands worked in tandem with the demon’s mouth, Henry’s hips pressed upward in silent encouragement. Richard responded, giving him more of what he wanted, and Henry produced another needy sound from his throat. It was hopeless. He was terrible at remaining silent. He told himself that it meant nothing. He was simply—making the best of the situation until a solution could be found.

And for the next little while, he found his mind was incapable of making much out of anything at all.

Afterwards, when Richard left the bed, Henry saw he wore the clothes he’d been given.

“Now that I have decent light I’m going to spend some time assessing the house,” Richard said, in what was an unintentional, but effective, bid to destroy Henry’s afterglow.

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Assessing it for what?” His home would not be a hotbed of demonic activity, a conduit for portals to netherworlds, or host to any other damnable plan Richard could conceive. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Richard spoke first.

“I am informing you so that you won’t be alarmed by my wandering.” The corner of his mouth tugged upward as if Henry’s (understandable) trepidation was amusing. “I’ll leave you to go about your routine.”

He hadn’t answered his question. But before Henry could protest the bedroom door closed and he was alone.

With a mixture of annoyance and dread, Henry prepared himself for the day as quickly as possible.

When he found Richard he was in, of all places, the mudroom. It had been used for storage and as a workshop when Whateley had lived there, and Henry had seen no reason to restore it to its more basic function. He paused before making his presence known, not wanting to sound out of breath. But when he moved into the doorway his plan to remain calm and collected was abandoned.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Henry said.

Richard was using a hammer to pry a board loose from the wall where it connected with the floor. He paused, but offered no explanation other than to raise an eyebrow.

“You can’t just go around destroying things.” No sooner had Henry made the accusation than it occurred to him that destruction might not be the end goal, that instead, something might be concealed behind the board. 

Rather than answer, Richard used his free hand to brush small bits of wooden debris off his knees as he stood.

Henry glowered at his impudence. “Give me the hammer.” He jutted his hand out toward the offending object.

Richard stared at it for a moment before his demeanor visibly—and inexplicably—relaxed. “If you would prefer to be the one to address the problem of the infestation, then by all means,” Richard offered him the hammer, “you may proceed.”

Henry accepted it, only to turn it over in his hands with a frown as Richard’s words sank in. “Infestation?”

“It happens in these old houses. Vermin are always fighting to get in.”

“Vermin?” Henry felt his face go slack. “You don’t mean rats?”

Richard’s expression stilled. “That’s not unheard of.” His eyes, however, had become bright.

“In the walls?” Henry’s eyes went to the partially removed board. He noticed it was damaged, and pieces of wood were missing. Perhaps it’d been gnawed. “Did you see one?”

“I had insufficient time to look.” Richard moved as if to leave, and so that he was no longer in between Henry and the holes. “But I’m sure you’ll do an admirable job of checking for signs of their existence. Do be careful to keep track of any removed nails so they can be put back in place when you’re through.”

“Wait.”

Richard didn’t.

“I haven’t spent much time maintaining older houses.” Henry tried to sound gracious, as if it was a logical division of labor, and of little consequence to him. “I will defer to your greater experience.” He offered the hammer to Richard, but he didn’t take it.

He did, however, pause. “I wouldn’t want to go about destroying things.”

“Take the hammer.” It was all Henry could do not to grit his teeth. “Please, I insist.”

Richard finally took it, and Henry was careful not to take note of his expression lest he discovered any smugness lurking about. He said nothing else, and left Richard to his search while he went to the kitchen for breakfast.

#

Henry discovered over the next few days that sharing a home with a demon was a very different experience from what he’d imagined. He’d assumed, not unreasonably considering the involvement of a sex demon that derived all nourishment through intimate congress with Henry’s body, that his life would be upended—that he would be dragged to his bed on the hour, and ravished with wanton abandon while his life, his strength, his will—where steadily sapped away.

Instead, he was mostly ignored. The only contact between them was a bit of one-directional groping and Richard’s rather far-reaching and exotic kisses, but even this happened only in the mornings while Henry was mostly asleep. It was as if Richard was intentionally minimizing their interactions. Limiting them to when Henry’s body was most receptive—and his mind the least resistant—so he could be fed and done for the day. Richard was then free to perform the bafflingly mundane tasks he preferred, such as doing minor repairs, taking inventory of everything, and doing god knows what in the library at night.

Some sex demon.

Not that Henry wanted to spend time with his uninvited guest, but since his existence prevented him from having any other visitors or from leaving the house himself, he was feeling bored. And trapped.

Which was why, when he found Richard organizing contents of the pantry that he could never need nor possibly want, he took the time to tell him just how annoying the entire arrangement was. Not that Richard had responded in any meaningful way, but at least his displeasure was known.

But that evening, as Henry was preparing to eat his meal of assorted canned goods and semi-hard bread scavenged from the now neatly arranged pantry, he was surprised when Richard took the seat across from him.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked. He watched as Richard set a manuscript, some parchment, and a quill—of all archaic things—out in front of him on the small kitchen table.

“I’m being sociable.”

“Oh.” There was a lengthy moment where Henry avoided looking at his companion, before he shifted his attention to opening one his tins. He’d never been particularly adept at using the sickle-style opener, and Whateley’s was sharp enough to risk the loss of a fingers. The awkwardness of the moment didn’t make the process any faster. Once he finally accessed the contents of the can, he was disturbed to find it contained creamed corn despite the outside being clearly was marked as “peaches.” He shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing was ever as it seemed in this abominable house.  

Disinclined to put out any further effort, he opted to eat the corn straight from the can with his spoon. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

Richard had taken no apparent notice of his struggles or predicament. Of course, he didn’t eat—anything from a can at least—and Whateley was unlikely to be a shining example of any human habit, so Henry’s lapse in manners was likely unnoticeable.

Henry watched as Richard carefully dipped the quill into an ink well, already needing to refill it even though there was barely anything written on his paper. It was a remarkably inefficient process.

“I have pens.” The words left Henry’s mouth before he realized he’d thought them.

Richard didn’t look up. “You must be proud.”

Henry paused. “What?”

“Of your collection.” Richard glanced at him, and there was just the suggestion of amusement on his otherwise placid features. “To consider them a conversational topic worthy of your fine dinner.”

“There’s no reason to insult me.” Henry glowered at him, more annoyed than he should have been. “I was simply pointing out that you may as well help yourself to my writing utensils since you help yourself to everything else.”

Richard said nothing, but he set down the quill to give Henry the entirety of his attention.

“It’s your fault that I have to eat like this,” Henry said. “I can’t hire a cook or a housekeeper because I have no way to explain you.”

“There’s no reason you couldn’t claim I was a distant relative, or a friend from the university.” The reasonable, even tone of Richard’s words irritated Henry. He wanted him to be as frustrated as he was.

“No one would believe that.” Henry crossed his arms over his chest.

“Would they not?”

“It’s obvious you aren’t human.”

“Obvious?” Richard was looking at him in a way that was hard to decipher.

“Look at how you’re dressed. You look like you’re rehearsing for some historical play. You don’t sleep, and they would notice if you never took time for meals, or if, when you did come to the table, you just sat there without any food and made flippant remarks.” Henry knew he was exaggerating, and a small—often ignored—voice was urging him to stop, to take it back, because it wasn’t wise to anger a supernatural being.

Richard’s tone, however, was sympathetic. “I apologize.”

Henry blinked at him. He opened his mouth, only to close it again.

“I wasn’t aware that by abstaining from eating,” Richard paused to let his eyes travel slowly down Henry’s body, and he smiled, licking his lips, “I was causing you distress.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I meant.” His pulse quickened as Richard stood up.

“I am perfectly willing to feed,” Richard leaned over him, tilting Henry’s face to meet his, “for your sake.”

Richard’s breath ghosted over his lips, but Henry didn’t pull away.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” Henry said, but he was certain Richard knew he was lying.

“Ok.” Richard ran his fingers through Henry’s hair, and hot, 

prickles of sensation fanned out in every direction at his touch. He gave one gentle tug, before he returned to his seat.

Henry took a moment to breathe, letting his body adjust to the lack of the demon’s proximity. After a moment he allowed his eyes to slide, surreptitiously, toward Richard, but the demon was working on his manuscript as if he had never moved at all—as if he had no intention of doing so again.

Henry was not disappointed. He wasn’t.

#

The next day, when Richard again joined Henry for his evening meal, Henry did not remark on his failure to eat, or any other topic likely to provoke him. And if there was a part of him—a very small part—that was tempted, he banished it to a place in his mind incapable of speech or action.

“What are you working on?” Henry asked, nodding at the manuscript.

“I’m determining if there are any areas affected by the infestation that have not yet been sealed.”

Henry was careful to keep his tone neutral. “Was it rats?’

“No, a type of wood boring beetle.”

A small sigh escaped Henry before he caught himself.

Richard smiled at him, and strangely it seemed less judgmental and more—fond.

“I have a copy of the blueprints for the house, if that would be easier to work with,” Henry offered, and was surprised to find himself being so charitable.

Apparently so was Richard from the way he looked at him.

Henry broke eye contact. He fiddled with the bread that had gone beyond stale to the stage of utterly inedible. Despite the futility of it, he began to cut away the outside layers to see if there was anything salvageable in the center.

“Thank you,” Richard said, “however, the blueprints do not contain enough detail.”

Henry looked up with interest. “Wait, so that document shows more than the blueprints do?” And in this house he knew it wouldn’t be the mere locations of every nail and screw.

Richard stiffened. He hesitated for a moment before giving a guarded nod.

Henry leaned forward, his bread forgotten. “Is the hidden closet on there?”

“It is.” Richard sat his papers on top of the manuscript as if to conceal it.

“What else does it show?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Henry slapped his hand down on the stack so that Richard would damage the papers if he attempted to pull them away, and slid them toward himself. He’d spent a fair amount of time examining the plans for the house when he’d had the plumbing and electricity installed, and his eyes scanned quickly for differences.

“There’s the closet.” Henry pointed. “And there’s another one in the library.”

Richard was silent, his discomfort obvious.

“What are these boxes here?” Henry gestured at the items in question. “Cabinets? Safes?”

“Safes, although they are unlikely to contain anything of monetary value.”

“I wouldn’t presume to be so lucky.” Henry grinned. He wasn’t sure if he was more pleased by the discoveries or that it was Richard squirming for a change. “And these?” He pointed at two small circles. They appeared to be inside the hall closets and directly above one another.

“Hatches. They conceal folding ladders to the floor above or below.”

“Left over from the War?” Henry shook his head before Richard could answer. “No, if I know Whateley they were in place long before that. But what’s this?” Henry ran his finger across the object on the last page. His brow furrowed. “This is far too big to be a closet.”

“It’s a sub-cellar.” Richard’s voice was tight.

“A sub-cellar?” Henry paused to look at Richard before his attention was drawn back to the page. “I had no idea there was another cellar beneath the main one. What was it used for?”

“Storage,” Richard said in a way that indicated that wasn’t entirely true. “Mostly,” he added after a moment, confirming Henry’s suspicions.

“I want to see it. Who knows what might be down there? After dinner we could—”

“No.”

Henry jerked his head to stare at Richard. “What? Why not?”

“I will take you to the other places, although you will need to be cautious, particularly in regards to the room in the library. But you mustn’t go in the sub-cellar.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Henry tossed his napkin on the table, and stood up, his enthusiasm dampened—but only into determination. “If you don’t want to go that’s fine. I know where it is.” 

Richard was quick. He blocked Henry’s path, and his hands gripped Henry’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“You will never enter the sub-cellar.” Richard’s voice was low and firm, “Is that understood?”

Henry refused to be intimidated, or at least, to let it show. “I am the owner of this house, in case you have forgotten, and it is my right to access anywhere within it that I so choose. Is that understood?”

Richard’s eyes searched Henry’s face before his expression settled into a deep frown. “There are things in that place that are far worse than a creature that feeds on your pleasure. It is best to leave that room sealed.”

“I don’t believe you.” Henry twisted out of his grasp, giving him a sharp glare in case he was inclined to take hold of him again. 

“Whateley would have warned me about something like that. He warned me about you.” And while that warning had been a single useless sentence, he’d still taken the time to make it.

Richard didn’t reach for him again, but he didn’t move away either. “It is unlikely to matter, since Whateley was careful to keep the door locked. You will have no way to get in.”

Henry thought about demanding to know the location of the keys, but he suspected Richard wouldn’t tell him whether he knew or not. He exhaled loudly, and dropped back into his chair. His appetite was lost, which was just as well considering the unappealing condition of the bread and mystery cans.

Richard was still looking at him, as if he was trying to find the solution to a problem that was proving especially elusive.

“Or maybe you don’t want me to go in there,” Henry said, “because that’s where I’ll find the secret of how to get rid of you.”

Richard’s expression darkened, but his tone was calm. “Believe what you want.” He collected his papers and supplies in preparation to leave the room.

Henry made no acknowledgement of him when he left.

#

The worst part about the sub-cellar, something that almost made Henry regret his present course of action—or at least his inability to delay it until daylight—was that it was only accessible from the outside of the house.

The thin sliver of the moon did little to illuminate his path, but he wasn’t willing to light his lantern until he was out of sight of the house. He’d been careful to wait for Richard to become engrossed in whatever it was he did all night in the library before he began his venture. There was no reason to risk discovery now through a poorly timed glance out the window.

He unlocked the storm doors, and folded them outward. He tried not to think about how it looked like he was stepping into a trap, one that would spring the moment his feet touched the bottom stair. He lit the lantern, and held it out in front of him. Straightening his shoulders with a confidence he didn’t actually feel, he began his descent.

He left the doors open behind him, even though doing so raised the risk of detection, because the notion of doing anything that would hinder his escape, should the need arise, was suddenly unbearable.

He found the entrance to the sub-cellar concealed among the wooden planks of the floor. He lifted the panel to expose another, heavier door. He took a set of three keys from his pocket. They’d been concealed inside a hollowed out book on mathematics in the hidden closet in his room. Since the majority of books were kept in the library, its location had been suspicious. Richard needed to learn to do a better job of hiding objects that were supposedly so important.

The metal of the lock was tarnished and worn, but after a few minutes of jostling, and coaxing, it clicked open. Henry lifted the door, and braced it with the attached bar to stop it from falling shut again.

The air was fetid. There was a thickness to it, as if particles of disease hung in suspension, and the mere breathing of it would pull illness into his lungs. He had no intention of staying in here for long. There was only one thing he needed to do, and then he would be gone.

He saw signs of damage from the beetles on the stairs, which was something Richard would want to know about when he stopped being so unreasonably stubborn about the whole thing. Henry was careful to keep his feet away from the dark holes as he climbed down. It wouldn’t do to fall through a weak spot, and become injured or trapped.

At the bottom, half-rotted crates were haphazardly stacked. He ignored them, because, despite what Richard thought, he knew better than to touch anything. He had learned that lesson. But he still had a right to be here, which was why he intended to make a copy of the keys before he put them back. And after a few days when nothing horrible happened from his venture, he would tell Richard what he’d done. He looked forward to seeing the expression on his face.

It was time to complete his exploration. The manuscript had depicted something small, such as a supply closet, at the back of the sub-cellar. He located it, and found it was barred and padlocked on the outside. The third key on Richard’s set was a perfect fit.

Oddly, the closet contained only a single, small statue. It was squat and fat, and he wasn’t sure what species it was supposed to resemble, or even if it was an amphibian or a reptile. It was unsettling. He had no idea why anyone would want to preserve its image through sculpture.

He was done. It was time to sneak back into his room before Richard discovered him and spoiled the pleasure of the reveal. He placed his hand on the door latch, but snatched it away when he saw movement near his feet. He jumped back, his eyes scanned the ground, but he saw nothing. Not even what should have been there.

The statue was gone.

The revelation was lead in his stomach. He turned, holding his lantern out—nearly dropping it in his haste, and infinitely grateful that he didn’t because that would have been a catastrophe with all the wooden crates and boxes—as he turned to look for the figure.

It was by the stairs, and it was moving. Its legs scrabbled in a broken rhythm, snapping and jerking in a way that made him nauseous. He had to stop it, to catch it, but the idea of touching it was so revolting he had difficulty even forcing himself to approach. By the time he did, he only had time to watch it disappear into one of the dark holes. The thought of reaching in after it was rejected as soon as if formed.

Henry stared after it for a long moment, before he mounted the steps, locked the door to the sub-cellar, and made his retreat to the house. He was careful to refill the lantern before putting it away, the notion of regaling Richard with his exploits no longer appealing. He crept up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed in darkness, and tucked the keys under the mattress before he climbed into bed.

Sleep, however, proved elusive. The one thought tumbling through his mind was that he had, once again, unintentionally unleashed a supernatural creature into his home.

At least this time it was small.  


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