Welcome to Paradise

Welcome to Paradise



The pest control agent arrived soon after four o’clock. The house wasn’t what she had expected it to be at all; she had in her mind a little cottage in the country, however this was far from a cottage, it was like a mansion. A long gravel drive snaked its way between tall oaks and chestnuts, next to the lake an old willow dragged its branches in the water, the way a child plays with water in the sink. Sitting next to the lake was a well-kept lawn, including its own sunken Italian garden. The drive curved round now and found itself at a roundabout, well it was a raised fountain with the drive going all the way around it, directly in front of this were five steps leading to a large yellow front door, complete with pillars, shining brass handles and knocker. White wrought iron banisters led they way to the door, beckoning you to enter.
Agnes Whiff knocked on the brass knocker. Silence. She knocked again. Still silence. She turned back to look at her van, the model cockroach still wobbled on the roof. She turned round and knocked again. The door opened, short stubby fingers came to great Mrs Whiffs hand, the owner was wearing a black tailed jacket, this was worn over a clean white shirt crowned with a neatly tied black bowtie. Shiny shoes lay under a fold of grey material, this material made up trousers, with a freshly pleated front. Above all this sat a head. The face was freshly shaved, the chin slightly pointed and dimpled. The lips dry and pursed shut. The nose rather resembled a ski slope, however it was somewhat pinched at the tip. The eyes were set into the skull, rings of black spread out from them, giving the impression of bruises. The skin was tight and slightly tanned. The hair was neat and scraped to the side, rather like the old Hollywood icons. The man in front of Mrs Whiff was one she recognised, from where she wasn’t sure, but it was a face she would come to dream about until the night she died.
Tobias the Butler greeted her and introduced himself. He had worked for the household for many years and he had taken over his father’s position. He led Agnes into the lounge where the owner of the house waited, although Tobias referred to him as “The Master”.
The interior of the house was lavishly decorated; burgundy wallpaper with gold detail was fenced in by clean white coving. A chandelier dug its wiry claws into the ceiling, like a limpet does to a rock, however, as golden sunlight streamed through the floor to ceiling windows, and hit the crystal drops of the chandelier, (acting like prisms) the drops flew rainbow coloured beams of light around the room. A figure stood staring at the jumping flames of the fire, if you stared long enough fiery forms would take shape and dance together. The figure raised its head, acknowledging their presence. Tobias swiftly left the room and shut the door behind him. “The Master” slammed a fist onto the mantelpiece, and began to finger the carved beast head that the mantelpiece sat upon. Silence boomed around the room.
A clock struck five and a chime resounded through the lounge. Finally the silence was broken. Agnes began to speak but “The Master” held up a hand in protest, he moved towards a door at the far end of the room. It led into the greenhouse, the warm smell of flowers and water wafted its way into the lounge, Agnes obediently followed the strange man, the greenhouse was filled with mist. Orchids and ferns grew in pots and vines grew along the glass roof, it was a lovely sight, vivid colours, exotic smells and this man, an absurd man. He was tall, much taller than he had appeared in the other room, he had a small beard that seemed to frame his pale face, his eyes were wide and watery. His hair was thin and receding, and small liver spots were blooming on his forehead, and upon his outstretched hand. They shook for a moment, brief introductions were made, his name was Henry, Henry Ismay. He seemed friendly, although a little supercilious. He looked about fifty, although his wild eyes said differently, he couldn’t be over thirty.
Agnes was told that the house was large and most rooms although impressive were in need of de-bugging, apparently the stairs broke once when a chamber maid was taking the bed pan down, she fell straight through, lost hold of the pan, and over it went, sadly it went over her. Mr Ismay gave a short chuckle, although it more resembled a witch’s cackle. He began talking to Agnes more, little jokes were made and life stories given.
Despite the many questions she had Agnes was shown to her room. She was to stay for at least a night; the job would take a while. Her room was mediocre, it was small and cramped in places, for example, the large gilt framed picture of a woman dressed in a flamboyant gown made of pink silk and her little puppy dog that stared lovingly into its mistresses eyes watched over her bed. A small vase of flowers sat upon the dresser, the mirror adding two or three extra posies to the cluster. It was now reaching eleven, dinner had been served at seven and they had dinned jovially until about ten thirty. Agnes was now in her pyjamas, she was a kind woman, but stern when she needed to be. She was strong willed, and pushed the boundaries of woman’s rights in this time of dull oppression. She was married once, however this didn’t last long as her husband had liked woman and got a taste of for her best friend, sadly the two were found face down in a ditch not far from her house, the police never found the killer. These brutal memories of mistrust and pain played on her mind while she lay in her bed. Or was the bed the problem? It’s mattress was lumpy and hard, springs began to break each time she moved, she was plump although she thought she had not enough fat on her bones to break springs. She at last began to drift into the arms of sleep when a dog growled. Agnes sat up straight. More springs broke. She looked at the clock on her bedside table, one minute past twelve. The growl resounded around her room again; she rolled her head over the side of the bed and checked the dark beneath. Nothing. She sat back leaning against the headboard. She must have imagined it. Suddenly an enormous bark filled the air and something tugged at Mrs Whiff’s hair. She jumped up; hundreds of strands broke or tore their way from Mrs Whiff’s head. She scrambled to the end of her bed, kicking the covers onto the floor. The so-called puppy dog was half way out of the painting, its jaws dripping bile, its eyes filled with hatred most evil. The beautiful woman still sat still, however one outstretched arm pointed to Agnes, terror flooded her thoughts, making her shiver. A thunderbolt cracked outside the window, filling the room with an eerie glow, Agnes turned for the door, but stopped dead in her tracks. The woman had not been pointing at her, but to a message. Flash. Another bolt illuminated the scene, the message read as follows:

“One Hundred Years, One hundred minutes, One eternity of misery, One life, One night”

Agnes breathed faster, her heart slammed into her ribs, wanting to explode into the chilling air. She left her room and ran down the corridor; other writings were scribbled on the walls, deep red blood oozed out of the letters and then slithered down the walls and began to form puddles. They began to seep into the thin, dirty carpets, their colour gone. Agnes flew down the stairs, they were cold on her feet, she could see the next floor, it wouldn’t be long until this nightmare was over, or so she thought. She reached the next floor, looking around she thought it was all over, candles burned softly in the holders, there was no writing here either, she was safe. She looked up the stairs she had just descended, blood rolled over the edge and turned the white marble into a thick red waterfall. Something dripped into her hair, she glanced up, through the broken floorboards she could see the corridor she had just left, the blood was running through the cracks. She glanced about her again, the candles still burned, but the wax was now red, trickling its way down the candlestick and onto the floor. Agnes began to shake, was this real? Whether or not, she thought she need to get out, she need to survive, her heart pumped the hot liquid around her body, reaching every muscle in her veins, drugging them with adrenaline. She couldn’t see any stairs, the corridors we so different now, the colours were gone, the wallpaper was faded, curled and torn. She found the nearest door she could. She flung it open, bundling inside, it was a bathroom, the tiles were yellowed and missing in places, some were shattered on the floor. Next to the sink stood a man, it was Tobias the Butler, she began to screech at him in high speed, telling him what was happening, he didn’t react. She went up to him and screamed. Blood was spattered against the mirror, the thick red liquid absorbed itself into his shirt, his neck was cut with a razor, blood discharging itself from the cut. Images of newspaper headlines and endless articles zipped across her memory forming a silent movie, she locked onto one image, “Many dead at Party” pictures of some of the victims were spread about her head. Tobias was one of them. She left the room and sought safety in the corridor, she ran past paintings, loosing more hair to reaching hands: moulding tendrils of the past.
She saw at last the main stairs; blood ran down from other corridors that met this one, trickled down her neck and into her pyjamas. She threw herself forward, and stopped at the top of the stairs, she looked down and gasped. Blood lay inches deep on the parquet floor, half bodies dragged themselves through it, bodiless limbs torn from other guests lay broken and tattered. Something caught her leg, she looked down, a face looked helplessly into her eyes, croaking it tried to breath, blood ran from its eyes, sick began to dry over its chin, forming a crust, it was reaching out to her for help, it was wearing what remained of a maids uniform, its hand clung onto Agnes’s calf, its eyes filled with darkness, any hint of life was now exhausted, the ember had lost its oxygen. Mrs Whiff’s eyes filled with tears, the salty taste brought her back to the here and now. She shook the being off her leg and sprinted down the stairs, she slipped on the bloodied floor, grabbed the main door handle, and gave it a frantic wrench, it was locked.
A dog appeared at the top of the stairs, big black and ferocious, its barred teeth were yellow and stained, rotting flesh and hair was wound within the gaps of its teeth, it had obviously gotten a taste for its prey. Her. Their eyes locked, a momentary thought that she had not come this far to die; she had killed and could kill again. The dog now began to have its starter, it tore into the flesh of the maid, ripping at her scalp revealing her skull, it tossed the carcass aside, and headed on down the stairs for mains.
Agnes found herself in the lounge, the chandelier hung in pieces, crystal drops littered the floor, the windows were dirty, the fire was the only thing still living, it was burning, throwing heat into the room, flames licked the furniture, blackening them. The mantle was broken in two, leaving the carved beasts licking their blackened lips. The clock read twelve twenty; a large piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, taking some of the wiring with it, hitting the furniture they both turned to dust. She headed for the greenhouse only to find that it was jungle, the ferns and orchids bloomed everywhere, but only in one colour. Black. However it was not surprising to find the flowers so big, the misting was still on, it was nice for Agnes to feel cool water on her face, she touched her face and licked her fingers, the water had a slight iron taste to it. She picked up a plant pot, and threw it into the wall of glass. It shattered, she ran through the gap taking in deep breaths of the cool, clean night air. She headed for her car, but soon changed her mind, perhaps it was safer to travel on foot, seeing that the giant plastic cockroach was no longer a model, it’s legs were flailing wildly, denting the roof of her van. Behind this peculiar image she saw one that was worse, far worse. The moon made it easier for Agnes to see it; perhaps it would have been better if it were a cloudy evening. The fountain was working, however the water was running red. Mr Ismay had been impaled onto the fountain; his jaws wide open, expelling the water, blood and his innards. She began to retch, she turned back to look at the house, its shell was decomposing, rotting from the core it was a vision from a nightmare, the steps were broken and the wrought iron now took peculiar shapes, the door was flaking, the brass fittings were dull and the knocker was now a dogs head, its face turned up in an angry snarl.
She ran, down the gravel drive, avoiding the plants that sprouted from it, the Italian garden was virtually destroyed, although limbless statues began to move and try to break free from their pedestals. The willow by the lake now was dead, its branches hanging loosely from the hollow trunk.
Agnes reached the gates, the ironwork here was odd too, they had taken the shape of roses, heavily thorned roses. She slammed herself into them. Her flustered hands fiddled with the lock, she tugged and pushed. At last they gave in and opened, she ran through and out onto the dark road, she looked back, the gates were shut, she could see the gravel drive, there were no weeds, the willow, was leafy and alive and so was Agnes Whiff.