The fileman rang the bell, which was answered by the house's butler. "Hello sir, you've been expected."
"Thank you," he replied, as he entered the hall. He looked over to who must be the lady of the house, the woman who had hired him earlier that morning. She looked young, yet not as young as he, but also had the stern look of someone many years older than her lack of wrinkles let on. She dressed in a slim black skirt that fell just below her knees and a soft black top that looked like it was made of silk. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun, with strands falling out over her thick black rimmed glasses. She looked important, but had no idea who she was or what she did for a living. He had been hired that morning to retrieve files from various places (lawyers, the courthouse, various accounting firms, etc.), but lucked out when he googled the woman's name, as nothing appeared in the search engine.
"Mr. Adams, I presume?"
"Yes, ma'am. I have the files you requested." He laid them on the table in front of her.
She adjusted her glasses to fit on her nose better. "Thank you." She looked back down to the papers in her hand. "Please take them down to the octury and put them on the table. Jack will show you the way.
"This way, sir," replied the butler.
He crinkled his nose and paused for a moment. Where did she say to put them? "The octury, ma'am?"
She gave him a look from above her glasses. "Yes. It's down the hall. Like I said."
He smiled. "No, I mean, what is an octury?"
She smiled back. "It's a room. Which is called that because it has eight walls, of course. It's shaped like an octagon."
He looked confused. "Okay. But octury isn't a word. Rectory is a word. It's in the dictionary. But I'm pretty sure octury isn't. Did you make it up?"
She sighed. "Oh dear boy, all words are made up by someone. Now please, go put my files on the table in the room that I just told you about." She dismissed him by turning around and went back to the files in her hands.
He laughed quietly at the way rich people were always shoving him off like he was not on the same level as they were. "Okay." She didn't really answer his question. But that was the way of spoiled rich people. They didn't like being questioned.
He turned around to follow Jack the butler to the octagon room with the funny name. Jack looked all business so he didn't dare ask him any questions, but just as the door opened, he noticed she had not been lying. The room did, indeed, have eight walls, with an octagon shaped table directly in the center. It was immaculate, too, with soft red and dark red vertical striped wallpaper on the walls, which made the room look bigger than it really was. He searched for some indication of what the room's purpose was, other than just having eight walls, but alas, he could find nothing, other than the strange fact that there wasn't a single window. So he placed the files on the table and went back out into the hall, leaving Jack to close the door.
He wasn't convinced that the room was called that due to only its shape. So he approached the lady of the house, once again. "So, if the room with eight walls is called an octury, then would you call a room with six walls a sextury?"
She pulled her glasses off her face and smiled. "Oh, the sextury! That's what we have in the basement."
He wondered if she was joking. "What? You have a six-walled room in your basement?"
"Of course! But that one is filled with whips and chains and all sorts of manners of sex toys. We also call it the sex dungeon," she winked.
Now he knew she was joking. "You almost had me there for a bit," he laughed.
A mixture of amusement and playfulness spread across her face. "What, you don't believe me? Would you like to see it? Though I will let you know that if you enter the sex dungeon, you may not leave until I say so."
The fileman started chuckling out loud. "Oh really now?" This conversation was getting a little out the realm of his paygrade.
The smile fell from her face. "Yes. That room isn't for show. It's for action."
He started to get nervous and his mouth went dry. He cleared his throat and shifted his stance from foot to foot. "Oh really?"
She smiled again and put her glasses back on. "No, I was just pulling your leg, delivery boy. But thank you for playing along." She started to walk away. "You can show yourself out. And thank you for bringing my files. I'll be needing more in the next few days, and for what I pay you, I expect you to be on call."
He let out a sigh of relief, though he wasn't sure he was exactly relieved. "Yes ma'am. I am at your beck and call."
She seemed to like the sound of that and turned to him again with a smile. "Oh and one more thing."
"Yes?" he responded.
"Welcome to Cunningham Manor, dear boy. You better be one to keep his wits about him. The last boy we hired...well, let's just say, he wasn't that kind of person. And now you're the one doing his job. Let that be a warning." With that, she winked at him again, and disappeared into the dark hallway.
Dread seeped into his brain from his stomach. What had she meant by that? But then he remembered who he was dealing with and knew that rich people always had a flair for the dramatic. With that thought, he let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "A warning," he laughed under his breath. "Whatever," he murmured as he turned around to head out the front door.
Before he could open it, an arm shot out in front of him stopping his exit. "It would be wise to pay heed to the lady's words, dear boy. She may sound a bit cuckoo at times, but she knows what she's talking about," Jack the butler softly spoke into his ear.
Wow, everyone seemed to be completely crazy in this house. "Sure, my good man, sure," he clapped the butler on the back. "See you soon!" The fileman opened the door and ducked under the butler's arm and waved back at him as he left.
"You'll see. You'll definitely see, dear boy, they all see. Eventually." Jack's voice came out sounding more silly than ominous, as he most likely had meant it to sound.
The fileman tried not to laugh as he shook his head. He then hopped into his car and started the half-an-hour car ride home. He was going to Google Cunningham Manor later and see if he could find a history about it. These people were beyond strange, but even more than that, the room, the octury, there was something about it that bugged him. More than it should. He didn't know why. And that that bugged him even more.
He stopped to ponder the lady's words for a moment. "You better be one to keep his wits about him..." Was that a warning about the octury? He had no idea why it would be, but he also thought that's exactly what it was about. Was he a man who kept his wits about him? Considering he was obsessing about an eight-sided room, he assumed he was not. But it didn't matter. He needed to know why the word felt so familiar yet so foreign on his lips.
"Octury" he said out loud, all alone in his car, hoping it would break open some long buried memory. "Octury, octury," he repeated again. He began to feel dizzy. Something. There was something to it. So he said it again. "Octury." And again. "Octury!" This time louder. "OCTURY!" he yelled, almost screaming.
For a moment, nothing happened. Just the beating of his own heart in his ears. But then time seemed to stop and the lady of the house appeared next to him with Jack the butler. He looked around to see they were on the property of the manor, in the gardens out front. It wasn't quite reality, but also not dreamlike either. It was somewhere in between.
"He's not the boy," she said to her butler.
"No, he's definitely not the right boy," Jack agreed.
"He's not ready."
"He never will be."
"Maybe one day?"
"No."
"Well, there's nothing we can do with him now. Just send him back."
"Will do, my lady."
Jack snapped his fingers in his face, which was as loud as a firecracker.
The fileman gasped and shot up in bed.
"Jude? Are you okay?" came a voice beside him. "Was it that dream again?"
He looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. Where was he? He tried to shake off the sleep that still pervaded his brain and then realized he was in his room with his wife.
"Yes, my love. I'm sorry, go back to sleep," he reassured her.
"Okay, sweetheart. I'm here if you need me. Just remember," she said with a yawn. "It was just a dream."
He smiled and patted her arm. "I know, I know," he replied.
As he looked around the room again, everything started to look familiar. His nightstand, covered in books. His dresser, covered in cologne bottles and random pairs of jeans. His walls, decorated in music posters of his favorite bands. This was his room, but at the same time, it wasn't. He didn't belong here, did he? No, he belonged in an eight-sided room in a creepy stone manor which resided behind a large rusty gate, outside of Aldeburgh. It was covered in red vertical stripes and housed an eight-sided table in the middle, which was used for...what was it again? It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't reach it, like a dream.
Because yes. That's what it was. It was a dream. It was only a dream. It was all just a dream. At least that's his wife had said, right? That the entire thing was a dream? That's what it had to be then. Nothing more.
Except it was more.
Something in his brain was fighting him on this. Something was clawing at his memories trying to steal them back. So he grabbed his notebook on his nightstand and a pen out of the drawer and drew it. After that, he wrote down everything he remembered happening.
There. Now whatever wanted to steal this from him couldn't. Or it could, but at least it was written down this time. So he'd have to remember when he looked at his notebook again. He could Google it later. See if there was anything out there about an eight-sided room in a place called Cunningham Manor outside of Aldeburgh.
But for now, he placed his notebook into the nightstand drawer and went back to sleep. He didn't dream again that night, but then again, he wasn't really sure he had dreamt anything in the first place.
Read Part Two of Cunningham Manor: The Dinner Here
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