Parsons was knackered. A warming glass of whiskey and bed his only ambition now.
Nice little job they’d pulled off–at least half a million quid a pop.
He slipped off his boots, poured himself a drink and downed it in one. A permanent smile on his frostbitten face.
Sleep soon set in.
Almost conked out, his phone rang. Christ, what now?
It was MacClese.
“I went back,” he said.
“What!” Parsons snapped. “Why?”
“Had to, Jim. Had to.”
“But it was textbook, couldn’t have been a cleaner job,” Parsons protested. Frustration bursting forth, fear rising. It was just a matter of time now.
“Don’t worry about it, Parsons,” MacClese assured him. “No trace leads to you.”
Parsons’s breath steadied. He didn’t know MacClese that well, but he’d always seemed solid, reliable.
The only thing that bothered him was how secretive he was.
What was it he’d said the first time they met when Parsons asked him about his family?
Oh, yes: “Never ever ask me about my family–they’re none of your business.”
Parsons recalled that’s the only time he’d seen MacClese lose his cool.
Odd man, he’d thought, but nothing else.
But if MacClese was hiding something, then going back almost made sense.
Maybe he should go back too.
“If you say so, MacClese,” Parsons muttered, half resigned. “I just hope you’re right, that’s all. Cheers.” He hung up, downed one more whiskey and called it a night.
But sleep now escaped him.
MacClese’s strange behavior gnawed at him. A tingling crept up his face.
What if he’d gone back to frame him–plant his fingerprints, cover his own?
Bloody MacClese.
The bastard had set him up!
Thought he could put one over on Jim Parsons, did he? Thought I was born yesterday, did he?
He leapt out of bed, donned boots and jacket, strapped gun around waist, and went out into the wintry London night.
He’d make sure MacClese’s double-crossing didn’t stick.
⁂
The house was dead silent.
Maybe he’d made a mistake coming back?
He slipped through the French windows at the back, same as a few hours before.
Everything looked OK. Lord Usher still sat quiet, bound up to his armchair, head tilted right. Not a child’s worry on his face.
Parsons chuckled at his own wit.
As he crossed the drawing room, he froze.
A shadow sat on the sofa–shadowed by the English oaks outside.
“I knew you’d come back,” it said, flat and low.
“MacClese?” Parsons whispered. “Fuckin’ hell! You scared the daylights out of me! What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Sit down,” the shadow said.
“No,” Jim countered. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re not stitching me, you filthy–“
The window flung open. A freezing gust of wind blasted inside.
“Sit,” another voice commanded, deep and dark, like an empty well.
Parsons gasped, his knees gave.
How is it possible?
Lord Usher stood before him–feet off the ground, ties snapping, unbinding, as if aided by invisible hands.
Parsons sat, without knowing.
“Parsons,” the shadow on the sofa spoke again, soft. “Impatience, fear, has brought you back–”
“–What the fuck are you on about?” Parsons barked. “Show me your face! I know it’s you! MacClese–you bloody cunt!”
The wind blasted again.
This time the house shook. Windows rattled, papers scattered, books fell.
As Lord Usher’s feet descended, ash fell like snow.
He stood at the center of the room, moonlight stroking half his face.
Parsons fell silent.
The sight was ghastly.
Lord Usher was supposed to be dead–he’d strangled him himself.
Then, who was this ghoul…
…this wasted, fleshless spectre before him?
Parsons’ lips trembled, teeth gnashed, jaw sagged, eyes bulged.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Jim,” the man on the sofa said after a while. “But you did.”
He got up slowly and walked over to Parsons—a blank canvas of a man.
He helped him up gently, then led him into the cellar.
A thick mist drifted inside, as if to escort them.
A moment later, a scream ripped through the house.
When MacClese returned alone into the living room, Lord Usher was writing at his desk.
From his warm, pink hand, MacClese took a black-sealed envelope.
“See you in three months, Stewart,” Usher said.
“Yes, my Lord.”
⁂
Outside, the sun had started to rise; MacClese smiled, the cold air grazing his cheeks.
This would see his family over the winter.
This “newsletter” is for free, but upgrading to paid helps me stay away from panhandling outside malls and churches or having to go back to work for people who couldn’t care less about me. Thank you in advance! You can support at any of the following levels:
Aaah lovely! I've made such a mistake, reading this just before bed, I shall be haunted; parts of this feels like it could be an episode if the magnus archives.
Anywhomst I look forward to reading more of your stories! I love finding more fiction writers