Keeper of the mechanical.., p.1
Keeper of the Mechanical Insects, page 1
Keeper of the Mechanical Insects
A Novella
K. A. Quinn
Copyright © 2022 by K. A. Quinn
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cover Artist: Cool Cat Game Studio at Pixabay and Alexander Lesnitsky at Pixabay
Additional Art By: Gustavo Ferreira at Pixabay and Gordon Johnson at Pixabay
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
Thank You
Chapter One
In recent months I had become convinced that my house was trying to kill me. In retrospect, I believe that forces within were trying to prepare me for the peculiar adventure that was to come.
Each tiny drip of water hinted of a plague of mould threatening to suffocate me in my sleep. If I should detect a line of tiny ants heading into a crack at the top of the wall, to my mind it indicated larger, more sinister relatives of the carpenter variety ready to gobble up my house and collapse it upon me in the night. And they might very well decide to eat me afterward.
As for myself, in truth I could care little, but I could not bear to lose the last vestiges of my beloved Arthur, from his books to his workshop where he used to tinker incessantly with devices beyond my comprehension.
However, fear lies. My fear of insects doesn't mean that I have correctly forecasted my, Millie Day née Smith’s, eventual untimely end. Life is more cruel than that. Life rips things away from us that we never would have suspected, leaving much undone and unsaid. I cannot even conjure up a larger calamity to make my predictions more accurate— a great temblor much like the one in Lisbon would destroy my house far faster than any rampant neglect or pests, yet it is no more likely.
What was taken away from me was the one I loved most, and in the most common of ways. My husband died in a collision with a carriage whilst crossing a street. I thought that day was the end of me as well. In later years, I certainly bargained that it was the end of my bad luck, that I could take this loss as a sort of penance and be done with misery for life. I shut myself away to make it so. With no friends, no lovers, surely sadness was finished forever.
But fortune doesn't care for our sorrows and woes. When we are at our lowest, and we withdraw into ourselves tightly for protection, we are sent an unlikely event that forces us out once again and rebuilds us into something miraculous and new.
The first indications of something going awry were the unusual noises in the night. I was awoken from a deep slumber by strange whirring sounds and the occasional grinding sound that brought to mind clockwork monstrosities duelling under the floor. The intensity heightened, shaking the bed and causing the window panes to tinkle in their frames behind my heavy damask drapes. At first I shoved a feather bolster over my face and cursed the neighbours, who had until recently been pleasantly quiet. I wondered if one of Arthur's old contraptions should have come alive, but how, if there were no complete machines left in my home? Reluctantly, I left my cozy bed to investigate.
Why was the floor so warm? The moment my bare feet touched the floor, I leapt back onto my mattress, terrified that the floor might be on fire, but surely such a travesty would result in heat more piercing then gently radiating? I smelled no smoke. Then came the green lights from below the floorboards, so unlike golden flames. At that point I knew I couldn't simply wish away my predicament.
Perhaps a typical person would send the call out for the police at that juncture. But even sans my no doubt dubious reputation of eccentric isolation, how could one report being terrorized by green moonlight and gentle warmth in one's own home, without being met with extreme skepticism? I resolved to investigate but found myself quite too alarmed to move for what felt like ages.
Finally, I drew up the courage to rise again. Yes, the floor was pleasantly warm rather than characterized by the frosty feeling more typical of the spring season. I lit the candle and gathered my housecoat around me tightly.
The candlelight caused the shadows to stretch out infinitely, even as its gentle glow was broken by intermittent flashes of unearthly green colour. I tried to rein in any conjecture, but my mind conjured up childhood imaginings of dragon fire. Something unnatural was afoot. The lights and sounds grew more intense as I reached the parlour on the ground level, and I realised they were originating far below. The vibration within the wooden floor tickled my bare feet and a rather ominous thump stopped me cold at the top of the cellar stairs.
I grasped the candlestick tighter with trembling fingers and carefully made my way down, my shoulder brushing against the stone wall for support. The steps were of smooth wood, worn by years of servants treading up and down, back in the old days when my household could afford such a lifestyle. I continued past Arthur’s workbench. The smell of mould made me worry for his books. It had been too long since I had last cleaned down here. I allowed my eyes to adjust the darkness for a moment when another bright flash came from the far side of the cellar, blinding me momentarily.
I realised instantly that the commotion wasn't coming from my own cellar at all, but from the adjoining house, or perhaps somehow from within the wall itself. How could light emanate from within solid brick? I carefully passed shelves of books and my late husband's mechanical parts to press tentative fingers against the wall. Yes, the light was seeping through the mortar itself. I could still see it framing the bricks faintly between bright bursts that left my eyes dazzled.
My inclination, tired as I was, leaned toward returning to bed and leaving it at that. The peculiar event was localised to the neighbour's property, surely no business of mine, and how was I to positively influence such a bizarre disturbance? A ticking rumble crescendoed, and I grumbled. During a lull, I resolved to do something. Even knowing it was rather futile to shout through a brick wall, I bellowed, “Cease that racket and lights immediately!” I sighed, feeling preemptively defeated. At the least I had made an attempt.
To my utter astonishment, my cries worked. After standing still rather longer than necessary to ensure that my mission was accomplished and that I might at last relax, I headed back upstairs for a peaceful night's rest.
The next day, I put the curious incident out of my mind and focused on my needlework, a rather finely embroidered rose upon a pillowcase, if I dare indulge in the sin of pride, and later, rereading my pirate novel for the twentieth time.
Reflecting upon the previous night, I considered that even a typical woman would have been terrified by such an occurrence as the glowing wall, but for my constantly addled self, it was a welcome concrete distraction from the usual fears that plagued my thoughts. I was dearly tempted to peer outside to tut and or even shake a fist at the creator of the mysterious commotion, but I resisted, and my drapes remained shut tightly, not a sliver of light escaping, as they had been for years.
I sat at the piano and dutifully ran through my scales, mentally correcting for the keys that were out of tune, but my eyes kept drifting toward the cellar door. Whatever was happening, I felt certain that my Arthur would have known what to do about it. I wondered if the mechanism beyond the cellar wall was meant to flash in such a way at all or if it had an intermittent failure. Arthur was so wonderful with machines. He would know how to repair it. Or perhaps how to render the bloody thing inert altogether, I thought uncharitably.
However, I hated to impede someone's important work. If I could perhaps gather up the courage, I could instruct the offending neighbour to conduct his experiments only during the day. Goodness knows the house was dark enough already, and even so, the noise shouldn't significantly affect my concentration in the parlour. Yes, perhaps I could send a message.
I sat at my writing desk pondering the correct words when I realised with no small amount of sadness that I had run out of fine writing paper. How many years had it been since I had composed a missive beyond a list for the greengrocer? It had been ages since a check had come from Butterfield, so it wasn't likely that I could afford quality stationery in the near future. Well, cheap pulp would just have to do.
“My dearest neighbour,” I composed before wondering how, in all propriety, “dear” that someone I didn't know should be considered. I didn't strike it out though but carried on. Really, letter writing was such an enjoyable pastime that I ought to do it more often. Perhaps my cousin across the Atlantic could use a letter. Normally I would have very little to write about, but surely nocturnal lights and noises of unexplained origin would strike even an American's fancy.
If not my cousin, then perhaps I could write a letter to the Times. “On strange lights and mysterious clockworks emanating from beyond my cellar,” I thought, then realised it had been so many ages since I had read the Ti
Perhaps I ought to focus on the task at hand.
“My dearest neighbour, I have lived in the residence to the south of you for nearly twenty years.” How many was it precisely? Goodness, more than twenty years had elapsed. I crossed out the word “nearly” and continued. “Never before have I heard such commotion at night nor have I been awoken by strange lights and sounds in my heavily draped house, with the exception of the tragic fire in '81, which was a regrettable occurrence that naturally required the involvement of the exceptionally brave, if cacophonous, fire brigade.” I frowned at the ungainly sentence and decided to carry on. “Noise is an unfortunate necessity when one shares adjoining walls, but I have no comprehension of how you managed to create sufficient light to penetrate brick and mortar that could light my home up to the top floor.
“Although I am certain your scientific experiments are no doubt fascinating, I would like to request that you carry them out during the daytime instead, as I, like most, require silence and darkness in order to sleep. I do think that with the exception of the rather significant vibration, I should be able to endure such commotion between the hours of 2:00 to 4:00 post meridian, rather than ante meridian, or sometime else 'round tea time when I am often occupied in the kitchen. Earlier in the day and I mightn't hear when the grocer or the dairyman rings, and later and my reading time shall be disturbed.”
I regarded the somewhat bumpy paper for a moment, tempted to pen an apology for its lack of quality but decided that the rudeness I'd been paid merited none. “Sincerely, Mrs. Millie (Arthur) Day. Post script: I do wonder how you produced such a lovely shade of green light. Did you employ barium, by any chance?”
I blotted the paper, addressed it to the house next door and slipped it out through the mail slot, hoping that the carrier wouldn't be delayed today. Perhaps the grocer would see the note and deliver it himself along his journey. Wouldn't it be lovely if I could have a pleasant night tonight?
Curiosity compelled me to linger in what I euphemistically called the sunporch, a room entirely made of windows which I had covered up years ago. As I hated going near the home's exit, the place was frankly filthy compared to everywhere else. Roving balls of dust blew along the walls and cobwebs were strewn artistically on the ceiling, all of which could be none other than my fault, so I had no right to complain. I took a closer look and wondered what the grocer must think delivering food to such a neglected place. I anxiously peered around the door frame for signs of rodents, my heart hammering away beneath my breast until I determined there were none. Once I lay awake at night listening for the sounds of skittering in the walls, but perhaps now the rodents would be scared away by that mysterious mechanism. Yes, perhaps there was a positivity to this nighttime predicament I found myself in.
Whilst listening for the post, I uncovered an old rocking chair and leaned back to rest my eyes.
I must have drifted off, because I was shocked by a thump and the sight of a tall silhouette with the glaring afternoon light shining around him like a ghastly apparition.
Blinking, I let out a squeal and nearly hid like one of the rodents I'd earlier been contemplating, but I restrained myself. I froze, one hand halfway to my face, realizing it was simply an uninvited man with long dark hair. Not likely to be the grocer's delivery boy based on his age and fine grey suit. In his hand, he held a letter.
The young man's voice was gentle. “Why, Mrs. Day, I had just come by to apologize, when I found the note addressed to me upon your doorstep. I assure you I didn't mean to intrude upon your privacy, which I can see you dearly cherish.” He glanced around at the boarded windows, and I felt my face redden with embarrassment.
I swallowed hard, suddenly fearful that the remnants of my tea might make a most unpleasant reappearance. For a long moment, I hadn't the slightest what to say, then I managed, “I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir...?”
“Oh, of course,” he laughed lightly, his voice melodious and pleasant, and extended his hand. “Benedict Meriwether Sterling.” He leaned down toward my seat and clasped my own hand gently with his callused hand, then glanced back down at the note I'd written him. “I beg your pardon, but as you know, my house is not so very far. Are you ill?”
I shook my head rapidly. “I don't go out.” Although it was a simple truth, I felt my face burning.
I expected another, harsher laugh at best, but he said kindly, “You must be quite lonely then.”
I rose at once, standing ramrod straight as my father always commanded and wishing I'd tightened my corset to assist in the illusion of confidence. “Certainly not,” I lied, “and may we return to the matter at hand so that you might continue on with your day?”
“You say that I had kept you awake,” he said apologetically.
“You don't seem tired at all,” I accused, forgetting my manners from lack of use.
“I need little sleep. However, it's more important that I clarify something. I am not the one who kept you awake.”
I was taken aback. “Truly? The commotion seemed to be coming from your direction. Unless... I mis-addressed the envelope. In that case, I'm very sorry.”
“No,” he said, “The lights were coming from my direction, but I mean to let you know that I didn't create them.”
I blinked in confusion.
“Perhaps if I were to come in properly for a moment,” he prompted.
His hat was off now, and my letter was in his pocket. The chances of his leaving promptly had diminished to zero. Fascination and manners warred with fluster and propriety, and I managed to say, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Mr. Sterling smiled with cheer and headed through the darkened sunporch toward the main entrance of the house. Just like that with no demurral, he charged right into my home. I did not believe his denials now, after such brash behaviour. He made himself comfortable on my sofa in my very favourite spot, and I tried not to stare as I began boiling water. My carefully apportioned tea leaves would now be dwindled by an extra serving, and I certainly had not put in a change to my standing grocery order to stock up. I supposed that I would be obliged to drink weaker tea for the rest of the week to compensate.
I suppose I was scowling when I brought him his cup because he looked amused. I tutted and sat upon my footstool to gain some distance from the man and to show that I was not about to relax on his account. Upon closer inspection, he was clean shaven, with a bit of curl to his glossy shoulder length black hair, and his grey eyes were young and unlined. I supposed the younger ladies might fancy him.
I began to wonder what I looked like. I only glanced at myself perfunctorily when I brushed my faded brown, once a bright chestnut, hair in the mornings. Good Lord, I might look like a madwoman. I tucked an errant curl behind my ear and tried to smooth my mussed skirts. He smothered his smirk unsuccessfully. “Would you like sugar?” I asked belatedly.
“I'm sure it's quite all right as it is.”
At that moment, I saw an enormous hairy brown spider saunter into the parlour from the direction of the sunporch. I let out a yelp and lifted my feet from the floor. No doubt Mr. Sterling had let it in during his intrusion.
He saw my alarm and laughed. “Really, Mrs. Day, the creature is harmless.”
“You've let the beast in! It will crawl upon me in my sleep,” I said.
“I'll let it out then,” he said with no small amount of amusement, and he scooped it up with one unflinching bare hand.
Shading my eyes, I followed closely enough to make sure he tossed it outside as promised then returned to the parlour. “Thank you,” I said, “Now, I recall, you were denying responsibility—”
“Yes, all that excitement last night,” Sterling said with bright eyes.
“The ‘excitement’ was clearly coming from your direction,” I accused, “and when I shouted, it stopped.” I paused. “And thank you for that. I did rest afterwards.”
“Although I did not start the vortex, Mrs. Day, I did conduct it a bit,” he confessed.
“Vortex?” I asked.
