As per tradition, it was a dark and stormy night.
The weather was biting; sleet and hail pounded against the windows of the brownstone in waves, raindrops tracing their way down the delicate panes in the aftermath. The sky broiled like a witch’s cauldron-brew, and the wind howled violently.
The lawn was almost indistinguishable in the storm, all dark and muddled. In the northeast corner was a pure white gondala, with two people sheltering inside.
In the exact centre of the lawn, there was a patch of flowers- violets or daisies or some other tripe, he wasn’t certain. What he did know was that they’d cost a pretty penny, and since they’d only been recently planted, almost half had been ripped up by the wind.
They were far more palatable, however, than the tree they’d replaced.
It was a harsh, brutal thing that had dominated the lawn the odd half-century it had been there- gnarled and knotted, a good forty feet tall and completely leafless.
He’d always hated the tree.
Everything he owned, he controlled. When he decided he wanted the upper east wing of the manor all to himself, it had become his. Father had even told him he could do anything he wished to decorate it. And so he had- intricate tapestries from the colonies gave the walls some color, mounted beasts and taxidermized animals gave the rooms some life.
When he came of age and inherited the rest of the manor (only in name, of course- his parents sill held the deed), he took it upon himself to make it as vibrant as possible. The building was to done-over in canary-yellow with white highlights, and the gardens- previously naught but a field with wild grass and weeds- to be renovated.
But when it came to the tree, that eyesore on the landscape…
…there was nothing to be done. His parents expressedly forbade it, and since they still held the deed, there was nothing he could do. It began a pattern of misfortune for him, and he was utterly certain that it could all be traced back to that damned tree.
His house had fallen upon rough times as of late, and to alleviate some of the financial woes he’d gotten himself engaged. With a little one on the way, his parents had finally given him the deed, again with the same condition– that he was never to supplant the tree.
But it would never be said he wasn’t a determined man.
He’d parked himself at this very window that night, wiping away at the frost accumulating on the inside of the glass, watching as the procession of workmen snaked their way out of the mist onto the front lawn, escorted by the help to the base of the tree. Heave! Heave! Heave!
Fifty grown men, it had taken- and these were the strongest workmen to be had in all of London! He’d crow about it to his friends when he next met them, of course. It was truly a sight to see the tree finally uprooted; tendrils of dark hanging like hair from the corpse as it was loaded onto the wagon and removed from the premises. A sight for sore eyes, especially for one who had been distressed by the subject for so long.
He swirled his drink, then took a sip. Rough, acrid, perfectly aged- just as he liked it.
The sounds of the house settling, the rough clatter of the roof-shingles in the gale, the storm outside… it was downright comforting next to all the hubbub he’d had to put up with over the past week or so.
The house had descended into utter chaos the instant they’d realised the tree was gone. His wife had started it all by shrieking her lungs off, decrying whomsoever had tromped about the lawn and destroyed the delicate topiary. Of course, that was easily rectified.
Then everything began to change.
The help were the first to go, claiming shadows danced across the walls in inhuman ways. He’d ignored the first few, but soon the problem grew exponentially. His new bride left with the last of them, leaving him with a mewling babe and not one penny richer for his troubles.
Then his mother had gotten involved.
She was an old woman, all watery and ancient and unable to walk without the assistance of a butler. Her mind was still as sharp as usual, of course, and when she asked to speak with him, he’d known he was in for it.
They sat across from each other in the armchairs in his study, surrounded by manuscripts and parchments and paintings he’d fancied. From the window, the lawn looked bright and verdant without the tree. He wished she could’ve seen how much better it was, but alas- since his father’s death, her vision had mostly faded.
Perhaps she felt sympathy for the tree, being as old and decrepit and obsolete as it was.
“…did you do it?” she asked, finally.
He was silent, staring out at the beautifully manicured lawn sans-tree. It was answer enough.
She sighed, papery white knuckles trembling as she grasped the edge of the armchair. “The tree was meant to be a container. Its power came from your ignorance. In removing it as you have done, you have doomed us all.”
He stopped swirling the whiskey.
“It was a container for our corruption.” She repeated. “Meant to remain rancid, as an allegory for our souls. And you are the only one of us who could have removed it.”
Nothing.
“The darkness contained within will now roam the house as a beast of darkness, destroying all that lay eyes upon it. It will do so until you admit your fault, and the first casualty will be your newborn. Now, are you willing to change your plea?”
After another half-minute of silence, he spoke.
“Is it not more your fault than it is mine?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Admit it.” She pressed, fragile frame creaking as she leaned forward. Her voice grew hard and cold, yet fiery like flint. “Take accountability, and they will take you and not the child, but only if you tell them. Take-”
“Leave me.” He responded.
And that was that.
His butler returned to assist her out of the study. Each step she took was weak, wavering, and . It gave him as much time as he desired to reflect on his actions.
But of course, he would never admit that he’d gotten the tree removed.
He’d never admit he had been wrong.
He’d left the child in the nursery. As he’d walked back to his study he’d passed his mother in the hall, no doubt intending to take a walk in the recently-improved garden. They glanced at each other, and he knew she knew what he intended to do, and that she intended to do nothing about it.
She was as corrupt as him, and he would not be the one to receive her punishment.
A final, immense crack of lightning; a rumble of thunder, no more than half a second apart. The centre of the storm was overhead.
The various clocks all around the house began clanging and clamouring as they were wont to do every hour on the hour. A glance down at his pocket-watch, however, revealed that it was seven past ten. He’d just gotten the clocks in the house regulated that morning.
The babe’s crying cresendoed, such that it was audible from his perch. His mother still huddled in the gondola, the butler begging her to come back inside. She would not, at least not tonight. When faced with either pneumonia or the judgement, she would choose the former.
Then again, so would he.
Wisps of darkness flickered about playfully in his peripheral vision. The flame in the fireplace seemed dimmer, as though obfuscated-
He shut his eyes, throwing his head over the low back of the armchair such that he was facing the ceiling. The faintest impressions of light still danced on his eyelids, though they were few and far between.
Abruptly, the flickers of light were snuffed out. A rising cry abruptly cut off, echoing down the hall to his right. It lingered in the air, allowing him to ruminate on what he’d just done.
Still, he remained.
It was never to be said he wasn’t a determined man.