The Monster in the Manor

Chapter 1

one

. . .

peony

The morning fog makes it hard to see the little dirt road ahead as I trundle along in my sedan.

I’ve never been out this way before, so I drive slowly and turn my headlights up to brights, hoping I don’t hit a deer.

The last thing I need right now is a totaled car when it’s already held together by zip ties.

When I come to an intersection, I stop to study my paper map. Mr. Castle told me my GPS might not work, which is fine, because I don’t have a phone anyway. I had access to a landline when I lived with Andy, but he claimed we couldn’t afford for me to have my own cell phone.

With a sigh, I turn right like it says on my map. I printed it out at the library and marked it up with Mr. Castle’s spoken directions so I wouldn’t forget how to get to the estate. This time I’m going to do everything in my power to get this job and keep it.

The directions take me into the woods, and I’m surprised I still haven’t seen a sign of any kind.

The deeper I get into the trees, the narrower and rockier the road gets.

I thought Mr. Edgewood was supposed to be a millionaire.

Or a billionaire. Whatever, some dude who has a shitload of money.

But with the sorry state of this road, it’s like he doesn’t want anyone to come here.

Eventually, just when I’m starting to wonder whether or not I’ve ended up in the next state over, the trees give way, and a huge, grassy hill appears. At the top is a bigger mansion than anything I’ve ever seen.

Edgewood Manor, states a stone sign alongside the road. The manor is a great brick beast with white shutters on the dozens of windows that span to the east and west. The front door is north facing, so all of it is cast in shadow.

Odd choice, when there’s a whole big hill here to build on.

I drive up to the carriage circle, where a tall man with silvery hair stands waiting for me. The man raises one hand as I approach, so I put on my brake.

“Ms. Austin?” he asks through my open window.

“That’s me.”

As I step out of my car, he offers me his palm. "Keys, please."

What does he need them for? But I want to make a good impression, so I drop them into his outstretched hand.

“Are you Mr. Castle?” I ask.

“That’s me,” he answers in a smooth voice, with just a hint of a Southern accent. “Wait inside, and I’ll be with you momentarily.”

I’m about to nod and agree when I remember that all my supplies are in the trunk. “Oh, one second.”

I head around to the back and dig out my vacuum, caddy, and pail from among my clothes and pillows. Once I have it all sitting out on the sidewalk, Mr. Castle nods.

“Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.”

Huh. Guess there aren’t any minions around to do work like valeting a car. Maybe he’s the only one working for Mr. Edgewood.

Once Mr. Castle has driven away in my car, I head up the stone stairs that lead to the big front door, lifting my vacuum from one step to the next. The door is white with a brass handle and an enormous knocker in the center.

The knocker’s face is… monstrous, really. It has a broad, flat nose and a snout like a dog but the mane and fangs of a lion, with sharp horns curling up from its head. The eyes are deep inset. What an odd thing to put on a modern house.

I try the handle because Mr. Castle did tell me to let myself in, and the door easily opens. At least I don’t have to use the weird knocker.

Dragging in my vacuum, the caddy, and the pail, I pile them all up in the entryway. Further inside is a grand staircase with a wide-open gallery and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

That will be a pain in the ass to clean.

I haven’t been cleaning long, but my mother did it while I was growing up, so I know some tips and tricks. Most importantly, you never use something that could leave behind fibers or streaks when you’re cleaning windows.

Newspaper, actually, works great.

There’s artwork on all the walls, but it’s very generic: hunting dogs chasing a fox, an abstract piece with earthy colors, and up the stairs, a pair of circling koi fish.

I wonder what Mr. Edgewood is like. My great-aunt didn’t have much to say about him when she gave me the referral to be his housekeeper.

She could have given me enough money to afford a down payment on an apartment—rather easily, I might add—but that wouldn’t “teach you the value of hard work and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.”

Great-Aunt Stella has always been kind of a bitch, and never helped my family when we needed it, so I should have known what to expect. I’d been about to hang up the phone when she’d said, “But I can maybe get you a job.”

And that’s how I came to call Mr. Castle and get this interview. This is my chance to make enough money that I could, theoretically, save up for a deposit and first month’s rent. I just have to play it slim for a while.

I don’t know what said interview entails, but at this point, I’ll do just about anything if it means securing this gig.

When he described the job to me—cleaning, cooking, and laundry—it boiled down to a lot of hours, which is good.

I can lose myself in hard work and the time goes by fast. I was always happiest in the kitchen when it was a busy Friday night and the work didn’t stop.

Finally, the front door opens, and Mr. Castle steps inside behind me. It started raining, which isn’t that odd for autumn, but not usually in the morning. Something about it feels ominous, but I try not to read into it too closely.

He brushes the rain off his suit jacket and glances down at my pile of supplies, squinting. “Mr. Edgewood owns a vacuum, Ms. Austin.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does!” I smile brightly as I pull my emotional support vacuum close to my side. “But I know this one inside and out, and she does a great job. I would really be more comfortable with her.”

“Her?” Mr. Castle repeats. With a sigh, he waves a hand over his shoulder. “Whatever you like. All the supplies are in the supply closet on the second floor, next to the linen closet, at the end of the west hall.”

I try to commit this to memory as he talks rapidly.

“For your interview, I would like you to clean the manor.”

I pause, then blink a few times. “I’m sorry? The entire manor?”

Mr. Castle nods. “You’ll be paid, of course. Consider this your trial run, Ms. Austin.”

That sounds fair enough, though it might have been nice if Mr. Edgewood had introduced himself, but maybe he’s not around. A billionaire is probably too busy to be meeting with the hired help.

“All right.” I glance up. “Do you have a ladder I could use, please?”

While Mr. Castle is fetching the ladder, I take a quick tour of the house, simply walking the halls and peeking into open doorways to get a sense of its size.

It would take an army of maids to clean this entire place in one day.

It will take me five days, probably, if I work ten hours each day.

I would push it to twelve, but the work’s going to be hard on my body as it is, and I need to survive longer than just the first week.

I have to show I can do this job for the long term.

“You’ll also need to cook Mr. Edgewood’s meals,” Mr. Castle reminds me as I put on my gloves and set up the ladder beside the chandelier so I can get up to dust it.

“Do you want me to do that for my interview, too?”

I pause to peer down at him, and Mr. Castle clears his throat.

“Yes. The only things Mr. Edgewood can’t eat are onions or leeks.”

It’ll be a bit of a trick to cook without onions, but I can do it. Customers have asked for stranger things.

“All right,” I say amiably. “Should I draw up a grocery list, or do you want me to use what you have?”

“A grocery list, if you would.”

I come down the ladder and pull out the tiny notebook I keep for taking notes while I work. In the restaurant, I used it whenever I had a great idea. I scribble out what I’ll need to make meals for the next three days, and Mr. Castle takes it with a grunt that sounds a little like a “thank you.”

Once he’s gone, I can finally get started.

I make quick work of the chandelier, then dust all the baseboards in the main room and along the stairs.

I start my deep cleaning on the ground floor, which is all empty sitting rooms, dens, even a piano room.

In each one, I vacuum up the considerable dust, clean dirty windows, and empty out fireplaces.

I even manage to find where the wood is stored outside the side door of the west hall and bring more in.

By the time dinner rolls around, I’m famished, so I break into the bread Mr. Castle has bought and dip it in some fancy olive oil I find in the cupboard. The kitchen is stocked with everything I could possibly need, as if someone who knows how to cook quite well lives here.

Is that Mr. Edgewood? And if it is, why doesn’t he cook for himself?

Maybe it was the last housekeeper.

I decide to put together a basic steak, vegetables, and sauce, not knowing Mr. Edgewood’s tastes.

I let the steak come to room temperature while I work on cleaning the kitchen, salting both sides so it seeps into the meat.

It looks like some basic counter wiping has been going on, but no one has deep cleaned in ages, and there’s dust and crumbs gathered in all the corners.

I wonder how long it’s been since someone properly took care of things around here.

Around six, Mr. Castle finds me putting the finishing touches on dinner. He bought some fresh rosemary when he went shopping, so as a flourish, I put a sprig on top of the steak after drizzling the sauce on it.

“I have one for you, too,” I say, sliding another plate across the island toward him. Mr. Castle’s brows rise high on his forehead. “Should I take this to Mr. Edgewood, or will he be joining us?”

I still haven’t seen or met the master of the house yet. I thought surely we’d be introduced, but perhaps not until my interview is over.

“I will take it,” Mr. Castle says quickly. “I’ll eat when I return.”

He slips the plate onto a silver tray, then covers it with a matching cloche and vanishes.

Most odd. Perhaps Mr. Edgewood simply likes his privacy. I’m a little insulted, because I do like watching when people appreciate my food, but I’ll get over it. This is a great opportunity, and I’m going to look at it that way.

When I’m finished eating my portion of dinner, I clean up the kitchen. Eventually, Mr. Castle returns and helps himself to his meal. He even unties his bowtie, and I’m glad he feels comfortable enough already to let his hair down a little.

“You won’t meet Mr. Edgewood,” he says as he finishes his last bite. I turn around from where I’ve been cleaning some wine bottles.

“At all? Ever?”

“All business will be conducted through me. You will clean Mr. Edgewood’s quarters on previously agreed-upon dates, when he won’t be in.”

I gape at him. I can’t decide what level of rude that is. I’m in his home, but I’ll never meet my employer? I suppose the hired help is too far below him to be bothered with meeting. What a creep.

“Fine,” I say, replacing the bottle I just dusted. “As long as he pays me.”

Mr. Castle nods agreeably. “He will, and on time.” There’s a note of desperation in his voice. “If you work hard and choose to stay.”

“I can work hard.” I dust the next bottle quickly as if to show him. “And I won’t so much as look at Mr. Edgewood’s window.”

A rather pitying smile crosses his face. “Probably for the best.”

rupert

I watch as the new housekeeper leaves later that night. The lights are all off in my study, so I know nobody down below can spot me if I lean against the window. Ms. Austin waits with her hoover and caddy of supplies while Kellen retrieves her vehicle.

The keys exchange hands, then Ms. Austin loads her cleaning supplies into her car and drives away. The vehicle looks to be fifteen, maybe twenty years old, and a good amount of duct tape is holding the front bumper on.

Hmm.

She came highly recommended by my neighbor, Stella Austin—one of the more annoying Americans I’ve met since coming here.

My grandniece, she had said. She’s in a pickle and needs a job.

Good timing, as it’s been nearly three months since the last housekeeper left.

Word must have gotten around, probably via the country club, that Mrs. Quill had stormed out of the house.

She likely got another job with one of my neighbors and spilled her story about the picky, reclusive cunt who lives in the Edgewood Manor.

Ah, well. Eccentric billionaires aren’t uncommon.

When the car is gone, I remember Ms. Austin’s unusual shape—rather like a pear, but with full breasts under her loose work shirt and trousers. It’s too bad we’ll never get to meet. I would like to get a closer look at her.

I stare down at my hands and open them wide, extending my claws. Why, if I so much as touched her… I’d tear her to ribbons.

Curling them back into fists, I sit down on my red silk sheets, which I’ve shredded many times while I slept. My dreams are always disturbed.

Just like me.