THE KEYS TO MIDNIGHT MANOR

[hilsbilly]

THE KEYS TO MIDNIGHT MANOR

Des Maguire is a writer. A writer of fiction. A writer of erotic fiction. A writer of erotic sneeze fetish fiction. He writes for a forum that specialises in just such an exclusive genre.

On this particular afternoon he has accepted an invitation from the owner of the forum to go to London and join him for lunch at his club.

Des has corresponded with Richard, being the forum owner, on many occasions over the internet and, more recently, over the telephone. But they never had met. Until today.

Having never previously met, they had sent each other photographs. Des was looking at the photograph Richard had sent and wasn’t really paying too much attention to where he was going, which is why, when he went through the door of Richard's club, he bumped into someone who turned out to be a young lady of some twenty-eight summers. She had long, straight, blonde hair and impossibly brilliant blue eyes. She was wearing a white trouser suit, and her touch sent shivers of electricity down his back.

“Oops. I’m sorry,” he managed to stammer.

She flashed him a smile that hit him straight between the eyes, travelled down his legs, out through the bottom of his shoes and to the bus stop across the street.

“No, it was my fault,” she said as she patted his arm reassuringly and then turned and walked out into the street.

Des was still watching, awestruck, when an amused voice behind him said, “Hungry?”

Des whirled around and recognised Richard instantly from his picture.

Richard's demeanour was as distinguished as his voice. He was a grey-haired man in his late sixties. He wore a blue blazer and charcoal grey trousers, and he had a port-sodden, pop-eyed pomposity that Des found amusing yet reassuring. Des thought Richard had the face of a person you could happily bank with.

“Where'd you get that accent from, Richard?”

“Eaton, old sausage.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d stop eatin’ old sausage.”

Lunch passed uneventfully and they retired to the smoking room where the conversation turned to Des’s writing.

Richard was rolling a cigar absently between his fingers as he spoke. “I just feel you should be developing your audience more. Not restricting yourself to the same subject all the time,” he said.

“You could be right,” replied Des.

Richard continued, warming to his theme, “Not a bad idea to change direction now. It’d certainly be the right time to do it as far as increasing your popularity on the forum is concerned.”

But Richard noticed that Des wasn’t really listening. The blonde was in the room talking to two men and poring over papers they have strewn on the table in front of them. She is smiled the smile that was already engraved on Des’s heart. Richard wondered what her sneezes would sound like.

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me. Love at first sight.”

“No. Just feeling horny, that’s all.”

Richard smiled, sagely, “I might have known I’d get an answer like that.”

“I believe in being realistic about these things,” countered Des.

“Well, falling in love is very realistic,” said Richard, “people do it all the time.”

“Not in my stories they don’t. I don’t believe in it.”

Richard paused, lighting his cigar. “Mmm. Seems to be the current trend among you young writers.”

Des was now actually warming to this philosophical discussion, so much so that he was prompted to tear his gaze away from the smiling blonde

“Well, it’s the age we live in,” he replied.

“Don’t I know it. When I think of Tolstoy, Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens... Where are they now, I ask myself?”

“I think they’re dead, Richard.”

“You know what I mean. They dealt with people. Human passions on a grand scale.”

Des straightened up in his chair. “People have different behaviour patterns now. They just don’t go around acting like they’re out of Wuthering Heights.”

Richard, a confirmed classical novel lover, was deeply shocked. “Are you trying to tell me that Wuthering Heights, with all its brooding intensity, isn’t as involving and as real as a contemporary novel?”

Des was determined to stick to his guns and defend not only his generation, but his genre. “It’s over-the-top. I mean anyone can write one of those things. It’s just a question of letting your imagination go bananas. Jesus! You want that kind of story? I could knock one off for you in twenty four hours.”

Richard blew a smoke ring into the air, “That I don’t believe.”

Des was never a man to leave a thrown gauntlet on the ground. “Ten thousand pounds!”

Richard eyed the young whippersnapper squarely, “Oh, come now!”

But Des was insistant. “Ten thousand pounds. I’ll bet you!”

It was Richard’s turn to sit bolt upright. “Des I really-”

He upped the ante. “Twenty thousand pounds! All I need is somewhere I can have total isolation. And, above all, atmosphere.”

Richard thought momentarily, “Well, there's this friend of mine who’s got a property in Wales. It’s in the process of being sold. How do you fancy an old manor house? Hasn’t been lived in for years. It’s certainly in the country; and as for atmosphere…”

Des continued to radiate enthusiasm, “Sounds great!”

Richard leaned closer, “Now, hold on, dear boy. I mean it really has been empty for over forty years. I should think there’ll be no electricity!”

Des was in no mood to be put off. “Even better. I’ll make sure I have spare batteries for my laptop and I can type by candlelight.”

“You’re joking!”

“It sounds perfect for what I’ve got in mind. I’m telling you, Richard. Fix it for me, will you?”

Richard gave in. After all, he stood to win twenty thousand pounds. And if Des was foolish enough to… “You’re mad. Still, if that’s what you want, I’ll give him a ring and try to arrange it just as soon as I get back to the office.”

“I can’t wait to get started,” said Des.

Richard decided to lay the ground rules. “Twenty four hours, remember. Now that means you deliver me a completed story to me here no later than er...” he looked at his watch, “allowing you travelling time there and back … by, say at three o’clock Saturday afternoon? “

It seemed to Richard that Des was ready to agree anything if it meant getting his point across. “I’ll be here.”

“The name of the place, by the way, is…” Richard paused and took out a pen and a small notebook from the inside pocket of his blazer, “ah, I think I'd better write it down.”

Des looked down at the note Richard had given him. It read ‘Ballyddpaetwr Manor.' He had a stab at pronouncing it. “Blide Pater?”

Richard smiled indulgently, “I did tell you it was in Wales. The nearest I ever got to pronouncing it was Bald Pate. Bald Pate Manor.”

Des decided to set off for the manor late the following afternoon. He wanted to write his story through the night, as he considered it would create the ambience that would give him the inspiration he needed to develop the idea he already had.

*

Des marvelled at the rolling green beauty as he drove down the country tracks of North Wales, but his elevated spirits were suddenly dampened by a loud clap of thunder. He looked up at the sky in time to see the sun blotted out by a huge purple cloud.

He pressed the button that operated his electric sun-roof which only just closed in time to prevent him from being drenched by the sudden downpour that ensued. Within a couple of minutes, it had become dark. It reminded him of when he was a kid out playing, when it seemed to go dark in a blink of an eye and he would invariably get on into trouble for coming home late. He had the same sense of grim foreboding now. The directions Richard had given him the day before suddenly seemed totally unrecognisable. He was hopelessly lost.

The scenery outside his car that had seemed so welcoming just a few minutes ago was now unwelcoming and, frankly, hostile though his confidence was raised slightly by the sight of an isolated building that loomed out of the darkness.

The rise in his confidence was only temporary as, whatever the building was, what it wasn’t was lit up. Then an enormous flash of lightning revealed a sign on the building that said “Ballyddpaetwr Station.”

Des got out of his car and rushed through the rain into the station. It was in complete darkness but he could see that he was in a square shaped waiting room. In one corner there was a crumpled blue water proof sheet out of which protruded two pairs of legs.

“Er, good evening,” he ventured.

A hand pulled down the sheet revealing two young ladies. All he could see in the dark was that both had black hair. One short. One long. What he also saw was a brief glimpse of bare flesh before the girl with the longer hair hurriedly closed her blouse.

The girl with the short hair was the first to speak. “Nice to know we’re not the only ones.”

Des was still discommoded by the sudden brief sight of the long haired girl's breast, “Excuse me?”

The short haired girl continued, seemingly unabashed, “We’re waiting for a train that doesn't seem to exist.”

The, the girl with the long hair spoke for the first time, “We've been sitting here in this filthy dump since four thirty!”

Des could tell from their accents that they were both English.

“According to the time table,” said the short-haired girl, “there was supposed to be a train at six.”

The girl with the long hair kicked the sheet away from them. They were both wearing anoraks and shorts. “Hmmph. Six in the morning, more like!”

“I'm sorry. I don't know anything about that,” said Des. “I was looking for someone who could help me. Only, I seem to be lost.”

“Hardly surprising in this Godforsaken part of the world,” said the girl with the long hair, “I’ve almost forgotten what civilisation's like!”

As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, Des could see that both girls were very good looking and, under ordinary circumstances, he would have certainly hit on the pair of them.

“Why don't you ask the stationmaster?” suggested the short-haired girl. “He might be able to help.”

Des looked about him into the gloom. “Station master? I didn’t see any… I mean the whole place looked totally deserted.”

“There was certainly one here when we arrived.”

Then a petulant Welsh voice caused him to whirl around.

“What’re you doing? If you want to catch the train, you’ll have to buy a ticket.”

The stationmaster was like a throwback from the nineteenth century. He wore dark baggy trousers and a matching dark waistcoat. His head looked like a pickled walnut with a peaked cap and a beard.

Des managed to pull himself together, “No no. I don't want to catch the train. I’m looking for a Bald Pate Manor.”

“Never ’erd of it.” The Stationmaster turned his back on Des and walked into the ticket office. Des followed him.

“Perhaps it’s the way I pronounce it .Maybe if I showed you how it’s spelt? Here. I have it written down how to get there. It’s just being dark an’ all…”

The Stationmaster took the note from him. He pulled a pair of wire-framed spectacles from the breast pocket of his waistcoat, perched them on the end of his wrinkled nose and read, ‘Balde Patoor Manor.’

“That’s the one. I was hoping you could help me.”

“Nobody lives in Ballyddpaetwr Manor.”

“I know that.”

“Nobody would want to live in Ballyddpaetwr Manor.”

Des was beginning to feel that the Stationmaster was being deliberately obstructive. “Well, I don’t know about that. All I know is that I have to get there as quickly as possible, if you know where it is.”

“I know where it is,” said the Stationmaster, ominously.

Des tried hard to keep his patience. After all, this gat-toothed inbred might be his only clue as to where the Godforsaken place might be. “Do you think it’d be asking too much if you could direct me there? Please?”

“It’s a cursed place.”

“Yes. I’m sure it’s drenched in evil.”

The Stationmaster persisted, “Cursed.”

Des eventually tired of this bullshit. “Full of things better not spoken of. Yes, I saw the movie. Now, please, I have business there and I am in a hurry.”

The Stationmaster eventually relented, “Will you be travelling by foot?”

“I have a car.”

“Turn left outside the station, drive two mile, turn right at the crossroads, and just go straight on. Ballyddpaetwr Manor will find you in its own good time.”

*

And so Des headed back out into the storm. He followed the Stationmaster’s directions but the Manor steadfastly refused to reveal itself.

“ ‘Turn right at the crossroads, and just go straight on. Ballyddpaetwr Manor will find you in its own good time,’” Des muttered irritably to himself. “Why don't you fuck off and find a job you like, you miserable cantankerous old bastard. Come on, baby. Where are you?”

At that moment, there was a sudden flash of lightning that illuminated ahead of him the spectacular majesty of Ballyddpaetwr Manor.

The manor was an enormous white gothic affair, all turrets and windows.

Ludicrously, Des was transported back to his Beano reading childhood, his favourite being Little Plum. “My, God,” he whispered, “who left um mansion there?”

He climbed out of his car, his hair lashed with rain and struggled with the ancient key. Eventually the lock gave way and he creaked open the huge oak and iron door. It closed behind him with a clang that echoed throughout the manor.

The manor was full of sheet-covered furniture and ominous, forbidding statues. He tried a light switch and nothing happened. “Perfect,” he said.

He climbed the huge ornate staircase and found that one of the bedrooms had an escritoire. He decided he could work on that. There were a number of candles on a dressing table. He selected one, lit it, put it in a holder and placed it on the writing desk. He dumped all of his things on the bed, opened his laptop bag, and placed it on the escritoire by the candle. He’d brought some cheese sandwiches wrapped in foil and they too found a place by his computer.

The laptop screen ultimately flared into life and he began to type…

‘ THE HOUSE OF LONG SHADOWS

There was nothing unusual about his arrival in the country’

Then he stopped. Something was nagging at him. Something was not right. He gave into it, lit another candle and walked round the room.

The manor was supposed to have been empty for forty years, and yet, not only were there a sheets and a quilt on the bed, but they were also clean. He walked over to the mantelpiece and ran his hand over the carriage clock. It was dust-free. He then turned his attention to a water jug that stood in a basin on the dressing table. It was indeed full of water.

He’d checked the first light switch he’d come to when he entered the mansion and nothing had happened. That had just confirmed what he’d been told that the electricity had been turned off. He found it difficult to understand how, among other things, a house of this size could have been cleaned without electricity.

He left the bedroom and went back down to the hall, but froze at the bottom of the stairs as he heard the unmistakable noise of a key being turned in the lock of the front door. It slowly creaked open and in stepped a young lady of some twenty-eight summers. She had long, straight, blonde hair and impossibly brilliant blue eyes. She was wearing a white trouser suit.

She didn't see Des because she was standing in the shadows and because she immediately turned to lock the door. As she did so, Des moved closer towards her. She turned back round and bumped into him. She startled him by screaming and then throwing her arms around him.

Before either could do anything else a door in the wall opened and in walked two women! Had he time, Des would have described them as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. Both were in their late thirties.

One had deep red hair piled up on top of her head. The other had long, straight, brown hair. Both were heavily made up. The lady with brown hair wore a tight, low cut, red mini dress and the woman with the red hair wore a burgundy red silk blouse and a tight blue mini skirt. The surrealism of the scenario was compounded by their both holding feather dusters like choir singers’ candles.

“Who might you be,” demanded the redhead, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Des Maguire. I’m a writer. I’ve been given permission to be here by the owner. Sir Samuel Thornton? The owner? I’m here to write. For a bet. Twenty thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money. And I’ve been told that this house is supposed to have been empty for forty years and I have the only key. So, I might ask you the same question.”

“We’re the cleaners, young sir,” said the brunette.

“So, you see,” said the redhead, “we have a right to be here.” She wiggled her duster for effect. The she fluttered her eyelashes and Des stiffened as her bust began to heave. “Oh dear,” she gasped.

The brunette held her finger under the redhead’s nose. “No sneezing, Corinda.”

This was to no avail as the redhead unashamedly sneezed onto the brunette’s finger, “AHH .AAH NTCH CHUH HHHUUUUHHH!”

They looked deeply into each other’s eyes.

“Finished?” asked the brunette.

“I think so,” said the redhead. “Thank you, Tisbe.”

“Now,” said the brunette, “is this delightful young lady your wife?”

“No. I don’t know who she is. But I mean to find out.”

The blonde was still holding on to him, “I’ve got to talk to you,” she said, “it’s very important.”

“It’s an offer I can’t refuse.” He took her by the hand and led her upstairs and back to the room he had been trying to work in.

“OK, what's this about?”

“Mr. Maguire, you’re in terrible danger. You must leave here immediately!”

“How come you know my name?”

She ignored his question. “You don’t understand!”

Although he did find her attractive, he recognised her as being the girl he’d seen at Richard’s club the day before.Des began to smell a rat. “You’re damn right I don’t. How come you followed me all the way down here?”

“I had no choice.”

“OK. First things first. Who are you?”

“Mary…” she paused, and with the most ludicrous piece of over-acting Des thought he’d ever seen, she rushed to the window and looked though the curtains. “… Norton. I think I saw one of them outside. If they find us together, they'll kill us both!”

Des was beginning to tire rapidly of this nonsense, “Hold it. I’m losing valuable time and I should be working.”

“Have you ever heard of an organisation called OPIT? Organisation for the Promotion of International Terrorism?”

“Like something out of a James Bond film?”

“They’re very real, I assure you.”

“And you’re an undercover agent?”

She persisted with her charade. “I’m serious! Deadly serious! Look. All you have to do is believe everything I say and everything will be all right”

“Ah. I’m not sure I believe that.” Des’s patience finally gave out. “The old mistaken identity plot’s been too over-worked to be convincing any more. I saw ‘North By North West’ too!”

“But you are in terrible danger. You could… lose your life!”

“Worse, I could lose twenty thousand pounds. G’night, Miss Norton. G’night.” He ushered her out.

He gave her thirty seconds and went out onto the balcony. In the gloom, he saw her pick up the telephone at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hello?” she whispered into the receiver, “My name is DeCoursey. Thank you. Hello? Terribly, I’m afraid. Thank you. He just isn’t going for it. I can’t have been very convincing. I’m sorry to let you down. But, you have to admit, it was a little bit preposterous.”

“Richard. The bastard,” Des muttered to himself.

“Well, you know what I think about that. I always thought plan B should’ve been plan A. What really threw me was when the cleaners appeared. There are no cleaners?”

At that point the brunette and redhead re-appeared, still carrying the feather dusters. The brunette put her hand on the receiver. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to use the telephone with asking permission first?”

“Oh don't be mean, Tiz. She’s only young.” And with that, the redhead fluttered the duster under the brunette’s nose.

“Oh, watch what you’re doing with that thing. It’s making me want to sneeze. I…AH TISH OO!!!”

“Oo, bless you, Tiz. That was a good sneeze. I wonder what this lovely creature sneezes like. She’s got such a cute little nose.”

But the blonde turned on her heels and Des rushed back into his room as she made a move towards the stairs. He sat down by his lap top with his best I’m-thinking-of my next-line expression.

And sure enough, the blonde walked back though the door.

“Mr.Maguire. Those people downstairs.”

“Oh yes. Fat Pat and Scary Mary. The two women from OPIT.”

“I’m serious.”

“You mean you weren't before?”

The blonde knelt down and rested her arms on his desk, giving him ample opportunity to notice that the top buttons on her blouse had become mysteriously undone since she had last been with him.

“I’m saying they’re not who they say they are.”

Des paused for effect. “A bit like somebody else I could name. I heard you on the phone to Richard.”

She deflated. “Ah.”

“What was the idea? Keeping me distracted so I wouldn't finish my story in time?”

“It wasn’t meant like that. It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Just because Richard’s not taking this seriously doesn't mean that I’m not. Who are you really?”

She smiled. “I work for Richard. I’m one of the forum moderators, Julie DeCoursey. Listen. I’m sorry for…” she paused, seemingly embarrassed, “you know. Better not disturb you any more.”

All of a sudden, Des didn't want to lose that smile. “Hey,” he stammered, “Er, why don't you hang around a little? I mean, where are you gonna go?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “Find a hotel to stay.”

“I just thought we could’ve travelled back together in the morning.”

“A few minutes ago, you were throwing me out into the storm.”

“That was when you were Mary Norton, counter-espionage agent. How come the phone was working anyhow?”

Her smile was beginning to cause Des’s heart to flutter. “Richard had it…” but she paused. Her breath came in slow, deep gasps and her eyes began to flutter. She waved her hands in front of her face and cupped her hands in front of her nose. She seemed to Des to be like an angel in prayer. But the moment passed. “Oh. I nearly sneezed then.”

“The phone?”

Again she regaled Des with her unnerving smile. “Richard had it re-connected so I could let him know how I was getting on.” Again she cupped her hands in front of her nose. “Oh, it’s no good. I’m really gonna have to sneeze now. AH. AHH HUMPH HUH! Oh, dear. OH DEAR! AH TSHMPFF!” She rubbed her nose vigorously with her finger. “That’s another thing. Those two women downstairs. They’re really weird. They keep making each other sneeze using some kind of feather duster. And I’m sure there's something going on between them. When one sneezed, the other one kissed her. On the lips! And they kept… rubbing up against one another. And, the one with the red shirt. Her buttons came open and I could see part of her nipple! The other girl must have noticed and I’m sure she made it happen on purpose!”

Des hadn’t seen that, stood on the balcony and in the dark.

“Then they tickled my nose with their duster to make me sneeze. And that’s why…I’m…snuh…sneezing nuh…now …AH CHUCH NUEWWW!!! Why on earth would they want to do that?”

“I have no idea” he lied. He was still convinced this was a conspiracy to stop him from writing his story and winning his bet, and he was convinced that she was part of it. “Look, they’re obviously harmless. So long as they leave me alone and keep the noise down…”

“I just want to get out of here now.” She put her left arm around him and placed her right hand on his chest which caused his spine to tingle. “I’m frightened. Why don’t we just find a hotel? There must be one around here somewhere. You could write just as easily there.”

Des had to admit that her use of the word ’we’ interested him.

“But I didn't see anything like a hotel on my way here. I could spend all night looking for one and then not have time to write. No. Thank you for your concern but I’m staying.”

She continued to cling to him. “But why…Oh! I can feel another sneeze coming! I…” she buried her face in his chest, “AH TUH CHEW! Oh, Des,” He noticed it was the first time she’d used his Christian name, “I’m sneezing! It’s that duster!... EH…ESHOO!!! Oh, and another…AH ESCHEE!!!”

Des began to feel hard and he pulled away, embarrassed. “I’m really sorry, Miss DeCoursey! I meant no offence!”

But she approached him. “It’s Julie. And it’s what I want! I’m really frightened!” She put her arms around his waist and pulled him closer. “Hold me! Love me!”

They kissed hungrily, and his hand sought desperately for her breasts.

But then the room was illuminated by a giant flash of lighting followed by an enormous clap of thunder. Three more huge booms echoed throughout the house sounding like the heartbeat if a giant prehistoric monster.

Julie screamed and flung her arms around his neck. “What was that???”

“It just sounds like somebody knocking at the door.” By now his ardour had vanished, replaced by his restored equilibrium. “I’m supposed to be the only one here, yet this place is like Piccadilly Circus!”

“But, who else could be at the door, and who are those two women downstairs?”

“I want to solve one mystery at a time.”

“I’d rather not solve any mysteries at all. Des. Let’s go!”

“No. I want to find out what’s going on here.”

“But, what about your story?”

“What’s with the switch of loyalties?”

“Oh, don’t make me feel more guilty than I do already.”

“All right, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be swindled out of twenty thousand pounds by this charade. Anyway, the only way out of here is the way we came in so, we’ll have to see who’s at the door whatever we do.”

Des and Julie went down the stairs hand in hand, and Des went to the door and opened it. In from the storm tumbled two ladies under a water proof sheet. Des recognised them as being the girls he’d seen at the railway station.

It was the girl with the short dark hair that spoke first. “Hello, there. Sorry if we’re interrupting. Our train never came. The station was shutting down. And then we remembered the directions the stationmaster gave you. So, we walked here.”

At that point, the door in the wall opened and in came the two women who called themselves Corinda and Tisbe. Neither of the two new arrivals seemed phased by their sudden appearance. Des was intrigued that two people who said they had a right to be there didn't answer the door, but left that to him. They didn’t dress like any cleaners he’d ever seen either.

The girl with the short dark hair continued, “I’m Rikki.”

“And I’m Louise, “ said the girl with the long hair.

“My name’s Des Maguire.”

“And your lady?” asked Rikki.

Julie didn't answer but squeezed his hand and all four women smiled. She was standing slightly behind Des. He stole a look back at her to see she had her finger under her nose.

“AH ESCHEEWWW!!!”

“Bless you!” chorused all four ladies at once.

Des noticed that they didn’t seem interested in the identities of the women who called themselves Corinda and Tisbe.

“Anyway,” said the girl Rikki, “now that we’re here, would you mind if we got out of these things? We’re soaked?”

Des gestured upstairs. “You can use my room.” He turned to Julie, “Since you’re the lady, perhaps you could show them where.”

Julie led the way back upstairs followed by the two girls from the station. Des brought up the rear, determined to make a start on his story. They all went into the room together and Julie showed Rikki and Louise to the en suite bathroom where they could change.

Julie stayed with Des. “You seem to know those two girls?”

“Yes. They were in a railway station where I stopped on the way here to get directions.”

Julie lay back on the bed as Des sat back down to his lap top. But his mind was swirling. Even if he did believe in coincidences, which he didn’t, he would have found it hard to countenance all of a sudden being in the company of five women, all of whom were so generously endowed and at the same time, three of the five seemed so prone to sneezing as well.

At that point, Rikki and Louise joined them. Louise was wearing a tight, low-cut black mini dress, while Louse wore an equally low-cut mauve vest and a dark blue skirt.

Louise was the first to speak. “Oh, are you a writer? How exciting!”

“Yes, but I haven't managed to get much writing done yet!”.

She seemed to ignore his jibe. “Rikki’s an artist, aren’t you? I always tell everyone how artistic you are. How you are a creative artist and all that.” She went over to her and put her one arm around her waist and stroking her breasts with the other, making her nipples stand out. “I’m so lucky to be with a girl who's talented, good looking…” then she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

“Dahling,” said Rikki theatrically, “control yourself.”

“I c…can’t,” she stammered, continuing to rub her nose with the back of her hand. “But…I do need to sneeze though!”

Then Rikki rubbed the side of her nose with her finger. “Something’s making me want to sneeze as well.”

“It must be the dust in here. It…I’m gonna sneeze!”

“So am I!”

“AH ESHOO HUH!”

“AH ESCHOOWWW!!!”

“Oh, Jesus!” said Rikki, “I’m getting so turned on!”

“You just love it when I sneeze don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna sneeze again as well.”

“Oh, God Louise!”

“Rikki, I’m gonna sneeze!

“Oh, God Louise!”

“Rikki, I’m gonna sneeze! I’m gonna sneeze! HUH … ESCHOOWWW!!!”

Whatever might have happened next was interrupted by an ominous beep from Des’s computer.

“Oh, no,” he wailed.

Julie sat up, “What’s wrong?”

“ ‘ Warning’” quoted Des, “ ‘ battery life less than 10%. Connect mains supply to prevent loss of data.’ What fucking data? I haven’t fucking got any! I’ve used the whole of one battery writing a title and one bloody line!”

“But, you must've brought another battery surely?”

“Yes, I did. But that'll only last another four hours!” he looked at his watch. “It’s midnight now. A new battery just wouldn’t last long enough for me to write a whole story even if I started writing now. Which,” he added churlishly, “doesn’t seem likely now does it?”

“Haven’t you brought a mains lead with you?” asked Louise.

“No. I was told there wasn’t any electricity in this place so there didn't seem any point.”

“But,” interceded Julie, “the room those two women downstairs came out of seemed bathed in light. Perhaps they can help?”

“I doubt it,” said Des.

“But, it’s got to be worth a try.”

“Ok,” he conceded. “I’ll try.”

Des went back downstairs followed by Julie, Rikki and Louise. They found Corinda and Tisbe at the bottom of the stairs. They seemed to be waiting for him.

“I don’t suppose,” he ventured, “That there’s such a thing as a computer somewhere in this place is there?”

Des was sure he heard the sound of a man chuckling coming from the room where Corinda and Tisbe had been.

“Computer, sir?” said Tisbe.

Corinda finished the sentence. They reminded Des of Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. “God bless you, sir. No computers here.”

Again he hard the sound of a male voice chuckling.

Then the two ladies then turned on their heels and went back into the room and, to Des’s surprise, Rikki and Louise followed. That surprise was as nothing when Julie gave him a knowing smile and did the same thing!

Des followed. What else was there to do? He’d lost his bet after all.

*

The girl Rikki approached them. “Would you like some more champagne?

“No, thanks,” said Richard. Then turning to Des, he added, “You really did fall for it, didn’t you?”

Des begrudgingly agreed, “Yes, I fell for it. You really are a bastard, you know that.”

“Well, I’m a forum owner. What do you expect?”

Before Des could respond, they were joined by Julie and Rikki . “Hi. I hope your gonna forgive us for our little performance.”

“Yes, I will. It was very convincing. You were great.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Rikki. “We’re all budding actors, you know.”

“How did you all manage all that sneezing?”

They gathered round him and produced small ornamental boxes that they in turn flipped open to reveal their contents: snuff!

“I really believed it.” He turned and looked Julie in the face. “Like I believed you. Like maybe you cared.”

“I wish you were a casting director. What do you think?”

“Oh, I agree.” said Richard.

“Oh, incidentally, Richard’s my husband. I should've said.” That was the final kick in the teeth for Des. He hadn’t thought of Richard having a wife at all, let alone it being Julie. Still, he supposed, that's what money gets you.

“Oh, of course,” was all he managed by way of reply.

Richard mistook Des’s disappointment. “You’re not angry, dear boy?” he asked, concerned.

“No, Richard. Grateful. You really have taught me something tonight. Personal emotions really are... more. Are bigger than anything.”

“I always said you had it in you to write a really great story.”

“I get the point. Trouble is; it rather hurts.”

*

“He had learned his lesson…but, at what cost?

The End”

Des looked at the words on his computer screen and smiled with grim satisfaction. He stretched and yawned and stole a glance out of the window. He could see through the ill fitting curtains that it had just started to become light.

He turned off his computer, put it in its case and picked up what remained of his sandwiches and went downstairs.

He opened the big oak and iron doors, stepped outside and locked them. He walked away from Ballyddpaetwr Manor with little more than a backwards glance and prepared himself for the long drive back to London to keep the appointment he had made to meet Richard at his club.

*

“Twenty thousand pounds! Amazing, dear boy! Absolutely amazing!” enthused Richard, handing Des his cheque.

“Just don’t ask me to do it again.” warned Des.

“Short.” Observed Richard, patting the printed manuscript held under his arm.

“What do you expect in twenty four hours? It’s weird. But, somehow, writing it, I really cared about the characters. Crazy, I mean. It’s just some stupid story about a fetish site moderator who makes a bet with a writer.”

“Not based on anything that happened; naturally.” Richard smiled; his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Naturally. Richard. It may sound crazy, but even with the twist at the end which exposes the whole thing as a joke. I don’t know… it sounds crazy…”

Richard eyed him again but with some concern, “You keep saying that.”

“But, I like it, Richard. Maybe it is the characters. Hell! I enjoyed doing it!”

Richard appeared to relax. “Can’t wait to read it, dear boy. I’m sure it’ll be a popular as all your other stories.”

“Great! But is that what it’s all about?”

Richard flashed him another look of concern. “I’ll give you a ring later.” And with that, he left Des to his thoughts.

He looked at the cheque Richard had given him and ripped it into four pieces and then threw it on the fire.

He was still gazing absently into the fire when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled round to face a young lady of some twenty-eight summers. She had long straight blonde hair and impossibly brilliant blue eyes. She was wearing a white trouser suit and, her touch sent shivers of electricity down his back.

“Sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“N…No,” he stammered.

“It’s just I’ve seen you in here before with Richard.”

Des was still totally disarmed. “Richard?”

“I’m an administrator. I’m Mary.”

“Norton?”

She furrowed her brow. “No, Jamison.”

Des tried desperately to recover his poise. “Hello there.”

“I work with Richard,” she told him. “I usually look after our writers on their visits.”

“Really?” he said. “Tell me, Miss Norton…I’m sorry, Miss Jamison. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

She smiled, and cocked her head on one side.

“Why not?” she said.

THE END

AUTHOR’S NOTE: - The characters portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead is purely coincidental.

Thanks go to Lynne and Capri for proof reading and editing

[Pearlised]

I really liked it!! lovely plot and amusing characters

And the feather duster scene Oh my gosh, you have to do a fic centered on that- it was written superbley!

[hilsbilly]

I really liked it!! lovely plot and amusing characters

And the feather duster scene Oh my gosh, you have to do a fic centered on that- it was written superbley!

Thanks for the comment Bobbletop.

I'm afraid this story probably tries the patience since the sneezing takes so long to happen.

That's why I had to post it in one chunk.

Thanks once again, though

[zneeze]

As I read this, I tried to think of how I would be complimenting it at the end. The only appropriate word I could think of was 'magnificent.' Truly, truly magnificent in all aspects.

[mistahpwn]

Fantastic piece of art.

[BananaTree]

Funny stuff. Hilarious.

[bkeaton13]

I never thought I would ever see a story based on "The House of Long Shadows" (aka "Seven Keys to Baldpate") The writing is excellent.

[hilsbilly]

I never thought I would ever see a story based on "The House of Long Shadows" (aka "Seven Keys to Baldpate") The writing is excellent.

Well spotted that man!

I wondered if anybody'd notice.