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I am very old and my estate is worth a large amount of money so it is no great surprise that my son is poisoning me. He thinks that I do not know. He is mistaken. There is little that I can do to stop him, nor do I especially want to. Any possibility of escape from this house vanished a long time ago. They have forgotten my first name in the town, though the family name invariably hangs just as heavily over their heads as it does over my iron gates. Death approaches.
I have always respected the spectre that comes without prejudice or malign intent. But I cannot abide being taken from this world by my own blood seeking nothing more than my free holdings, shadow paintings and silverware. It disgusts me, and it riles in me the pettiness of someone not wanting to be beaten. My son has chosen his poison ineffectively: it works slowly on my eyes and ears. It presses at the infirmity of my body. No doubt he did this to elude discovery. But I know. Thus his weakness can become my strength.
For the last two years, my son has engaged in an extensive process of renovation of the house, doubtless intended to make it more to his comfort following my death. The majority of the staff having been dismissed, labourers now dwell in the servants’ quarters. What my son does not realise is that while the workmen may have been engaged by him, they work for me. I knew the foreman’s father. My housekeeper acted as a midwife at the birth of the two carpenters. When I have been unable to gain command via connection, I have done so via money. I lie, almost blind, in the great bed in my room while outside the renovations progress to my design.
It is in this way I will execute my revenge. The pitch of the roof has been made such that when it snows, a drift will form above the front bedroom, and holes drilled in the pillars supporting the staircase will cause them to begin to fail in around eight months. A pit has been dug beneath the parlour and filled with the spores of the mycelium penumbrae, which I expect will come to maturity in around four years. I call this the early part of my revenge. By this point I will be dead.
In around seven years the house will become a living nightmare. By that point, I intend the crawl spaces to have become occupied and the slow acting substance in the plumbing to have taken effect. Some of the floors will then begin to fail, opening up the spaces beneath. The gates will have rusted shut. The bridge will go out. As I said. Any possibility of escape from this house vanished a long time ago.
R. 1835.
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