What Happens at the Gluttonlumps
Stays at the Gluttonlumps

by Georgepat
forum: What Happens at the Gluttonlumps Stays at the Gluttonlumps
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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What Happens at the Gluttonlumps Stays at the Gluttonlumps


        The butler led me into the sitting room of the Gluttonlumps' mansion, and after standing there for an indeterminate amount of time, the Lady of the house finally made her entry.

        "Be seated," she stated simply. I sat and waited.

        "My son," she said, "is different. Much different from anyone you have ever known and needs to be treated with, shall we say, kid gloves."

        "I understand that, Mum, and agree wholeheartedly. He struck me that way from the first. That's way I like him. He's unique, decidedly different, definitely moody and has an oral fixation where he brushes his teeth ten times a day."

        "Yes, I know. Poor dear has so few teeth anyway, I don't know why he even bothers."

        "Must be his fine upbringing, Mum," I replied demurely, as I smoothed my skirt over my knees.

        "You know so little about him," she said, glancing around the room nervously. "He has other… traits that need to be addressed before I'll be comfortable with you being around him."

        "Other traits? Goodness, whatever might they be?"

        "For one thing he, and for what reason I'll never know, likes to spend his time in the horrible little shack behind the stables. It used to be the gardener's years ago, but after his untimely death in that strange accident, Henrick insisted that he be allowed to use it as his own. He fancies himself a writer. A horror writer, no less, and some of the stories he's done, well, frankly, they scare me to death."

        "So, he's a good writer, I take it?"

        "Good!" she exclaimed, "far from it. It's what he writes about that scares me. The many evil ways that he devises to do away with the people that displease him, that ridicule his work or, heaven forbid, make fun of him."

        "Doesn't he have any friends?"

        "Over the years he's had a few, but they never seem to last very long once they discover his true nature. One of them, a writer named Georgepat, made the mistake of using him as a character in one of his stories once and the poor fellow hasn't been heard from since."

        "What happened?"

        "No one knows for sure, but the police suspected Henrick from the very first. They were never able to prove anything, though, and the matter was dropped."

        "I can only imagine what that poor fellow went through," I said, dabbing a tear from my eye.

        "Who, Georgepat?"

        "No, of course not. I don't care about him. I was speaking of poor Henrick. How could they think such a thing of him?"

        Lady Gluttonlump stood and walked to the wet bar, poured a drink from a crystal decanter and then drank it in one swallow.

        "Follow me," she said, wiping off her chin with the back of her hand and walked out of the room.

        She led me around the side of the mansion and towards the stables, where several groomsmen were exercising the Gluttonlumps' line of champion horses. I was going to ask about them, but she dismissed my words with a casual wave of her hand and walked past the stables completely.

        Near a small thicket of brambles and under several old, gnarled trees was a small, dilapidated shack that appeared to be abandoned. There were cracks and open spaces between all the boards and the windows were grimy with dirt and grease. The front door was closed and a wooden toggle kept it shut tight.

        "Is this where he spends his time?" I asked. "Is he here now?"

        "Heavens no, he's not here, and if he were, I wouldn't be here showing you what I'm about to."

        "Where is he?" I asked, as she lifted the toggle and swung the door open.

        "Gone to see if he can find a publisher that's far enough down on his luck and might be willing to buy a story or two, I'd imagine. I really don't care to know all that he does or where he goes. We don't communicate often and when the rare instance occurs, I'm usually met with a sullen, stony look."

        "I think he looks wonderful," I whispered, as I stood in the doorway of his shack, "handsome in his own unique way, of course, but wonderful just the same."

        "I'm sure that you'll change your mind about that, Miss, very, very soon."

        "What do you mean by tha—" I tried to ask, as a hand pushed me hard in the small of my back and I was thrown to the filthy floor.

        The door slammed shut and I heard the toggle fall into place. I could hear through the many cracks in the wall and had no trouble understanding her when she went to the corner of the shack and called to her son.

        "Henrick. Oh Henrick, Mummy's brought you your favorite meal again."

        I opened my eyes wide as the realization struck home, but it was too late.

        "Now be a good boy and come out from hiding and give Mummy a big hug,” she said with her arms thrown wide. “It's not every day that you can eat this well."




copyright 2006 Georgepat.