Cornelius on the Bluffs

Experimenting with an unreliable narrator in this one...

Cornelius on the Bluffs

The storm continues this morning. Sea winds whistle through gaps in my home’s age-old windows, and, from up in the third floor attic, a moan rises and falls with each sweeping gust. It haunts me, that moan. I hear it clearly, from all the way down here in the first floor parlor. Resting my hand on the arm of a wing back, I feel something fuzzy. Pulling back, I note the shocking amount of dust clinging to my hand, and the clear handprint I left on the chair. Wow – Mrs. Henge is really slacking. 

I turn from the parlor’s cold, dark hearth, and my heart seizes. I’m in a room, but it’s not the parlor. A strange chamber I’ve never seen before. One that doesn’t exist in this house. It gives me the creeps – the small, arch-ceilinged chapel, sprinkled with at least a hundred candles, their flames shivering in unison.

“Cornelius, what’s this?” I shout, my voice ringing off the walls. They feature ten keyhole-shaped stained glass windows, each depicting richly colored scenes of unimaginable horror. If I had to guess, I’d say Hieronymus Bosch designed them, though I know he didn’t. A pitch black, inverted cross hangs above the green marble altar.

I close my eyes and pray. Dear God, deliver me, I intone aloud. The scents of wax, and of distant hints of incense smoke, suddenly vanish, and I’m back in my parlor. My heart begins to slow, but my pulse still remains elevated – a side effect of my new eyedrops.

Turning from the hearth, I jump a second time in less than a minute. Though I never heard his approach, Haskins my butler stands nose to nose with me. His pale, deeply lined face unnerves me, and I could swear he’s not breathing.

“Morning, Sir,” Haskins says, his gray eyes twinkling, and then, for the first time in quite a while, they blink.

I take two steps back and regroup.

“Morning, Haskins. Breakfast nearly ready?” I choke the words out, my voice trembling.

“I’ll attend to it, presently, Sir. Fifteen minutes, in your study?”

I nod curtly. Since moving here last month, I’ve done my best to give suitable impressions to the home’s three servants. How was I to know Cornelius came with servants? I’ve never had live-in hired help before. What to say to them? I fear they think me a fool.

And what possessed me to buy a house with a name? Street addresses and house numbers are fine. But a house named Cornelius? Not a good idea. Of course, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

Still, Cornelius is magnificent. Snow white, with blue shutters. He perches atop a high bluff overlooking the sea. On the day I moved in, the wind was roaring. I stood atop the bluff – my bluff – and gazed, mesmerized, across an endless expanse of foam-capped waves, both the sky and the sea rendered in somber shades of gray.

“Anything else, Sir?” Haskins says. I shake my head, and he walks off for the kitchen.

The sky outside grows brighter, and, despite the dark furnishings, I have to squint – another side effect of my eyedrops. They dilate my pupils for several hours, but they’ve been a miracle in treating my chronic lazy eye condition.

Off I go, toward the spiral staircase that leads to my study. I round a corner and nearly walk straight through the maid.

“Oh, excuse me, Missus Henge!” I say.

The short, squat, tough-as-nails housekeeper looks up at me, her face expressionless, her milky blue eyes as calm as a mirror-smooth pond. She holds a feather duster in one hand and regards me coolly. I’m not at all accustomed to servants, so I struggle for something to say.

“How’s the library coming along?”

“Fine, Sir. Only four more shelves t’ go, and the place will be fit for King George ‘imself.”

I’m relieved that she actually has a sense of humor. The first time I’ve glimpsed it.

“Very good. Oh, and by the way, have you noticed anything… strange around here lately?”

“Strange, Sir?”

A loose shutter starts banging somewhere off in the distance.

“Any rooms that suddenly appear one way when you enter the first time, then quite another way , just minutes later?”

She stares at me, unblinking.

“No, Sir. Never seen nothin’ like that. Not anywhere I ever worked.”

She and the rest of the house staff are early birds. By the time I come downstairs for breakfast each morning, they're already about their chores. They work quite efficiently, for they're gone by one or two PM, my dinner already prepared and cooling in the ice box, for a quick re-heat at tea-time.

“Carry on, Mrs. Henge.”

I walk off with an air of feigned confidence. Soon, I’ve ascended the spiral staircase and unlock the door to my study – my favorite room in the house. The study is octagonal in shape, with windows on four alternating walls, and large bookshelves against the others. This is my Eagle’s Nest – atop the heights of Cornelius, with an unobstructed view of the sea. 

As I pull the door open, I teeter on the edge of a vast, black abyss. Beyond the door jamb yawns a terrifying, lightless silence. I nearly fall through, then reel back, and catch the wrought iron railing so I don’t tumble backwards down the stairs. My heart pounds in my chest, my face flushed and hot. I slam the door shut, lean back against the immense slab of dark-stained oak.

“Dear God!” I shout. “What’s going on? Cornelius, what have I done to earn your wrath?”

No reply.  Then a cool draft blows through the door’s keyhole, and I smell my own pipe tobacco. I muster what little courage remains and open the door a second time. My study has returned. 

And what a perfect, beautiful study it is. Cornelius’ secluded coastal location, as well as this octagonal chamber, were my reasons for moving here. The estate nearly exhausted my inheritance, of course, and if I can figure out what’s behind these strange, paranormal occurrences, it will all have been worth it.

The rich aromas of coffee, eggs and sausages waft from the room, and I see that my breakfast tray already rests on the side table. How could Haskins have brought it here? As with everything I experience here, I’m unnerved, but this is a small matter when compared to the terrifying, void I nearly fell into.

In truth, I’ve considered fleeing Cornelius for weeks now. All of it has terrified me, depressed me – strange knocks on doors and behind walls, furniture that moves silently from room to room during the night, and rooms that change from one reality to another in the blink of an eye. Throughout it all, neither Haskins, Henge, nor Carstairs the gardener ever have any idea what I’m talking about when I hint at my uncanny experiences.

But there’s still hope. My lifelong friend John Dickson, a physician in Brighton, is set to arrive later today. Only three days ago, I confessed how tormented I’ve been since moving here. It happened during a late night phone conversation over a large glass of brandy. John was so disturbed by my predicament that he set off the next morning. At long last, I will have an ally in my struggles!

---

By the time a loud knock sounds at the front door, I’ve been awake for several hours. I took a long, hot bath, dressed comfortably, and put in my eyedrops. Then I sat down for breakfast, and, within the hour, heard an unearthly chorus of male voices singing from inside the kitchen’s ice box. My pulse began to race, my face flushed, and my reddened ears felt as if they might catch fire.

After eating, I retire to the parlor until the knock at the door, and, less than a minute later, John calls out to me from the main atrium. I shout out for Haskins to take his coat and bring him to me immediately, while I continue deep breathing exercises to calm myself. 

I’m slouching in the plush wing back chair beside the hearth when, at long last, my friend bursts into the room, his black physician’s bag in hand.

He kneels before me and commences to examine me at once. After taking my vitals, he looks quite concerned.

“Your pulse is through the roof! How much coffee and tea have you had today?”

“Just one cup, an hour or so ago,” I say.

“What medications are you taking?”

“Just my eyedrops. The ones Rollins prescribed for my lazy eye.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Where’s the bottle? Hurry – show me at once!”

I tell him it’s on my bedside table, and he bounds up the stairs in search of it. In less than a minute, he’s back at my side, the bottle in hand.

“How many drops are you using each day?” he says.

“Seven.”

“What?” He stares at me, wild-eyed. “Seven? You should only be only be using one drop per day!”

“Look at the bottle,” I say. "The prescription says seven drops, all when I first wake up.”

John re-examines it carefully.

“Your doctor’s pen slipped a bit as he wrote that one on the label. I can see how, with your weak vision, you might mistake it for a seven. But listen – seven drops at once is quite dangerous! I’m surprised you’re still alive!”

"That sounds preposterous. Simple eyedrops can cause all that?”

“These drops contain atropine,” he explains. “Overdosing on them causes racing heartbeat, high blood pressure, nervousness, and hallucinations. I’m helping you up to your bed. I can give you an injection that will help counteract the atropine.”

“Hallucinations?” I say. “You mean – wait… Could that be the cause of my terrifying –“

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“John, get Haskins to help you get me back upstairs.”

“That’s another thing. I’ve seen no one else here at the house. The place is filthy – the kitchen stacked with dirty plates, and so much dust on everything that I’m surprised you’re not choking on it.”

That’s when I, a grown man, burst into tears. For as my own reality crumbles before my eyes, I know this – my salvation is at hand…