Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [57]
'What do you mean, sir?'
'One day, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, 'I was standing in the grounds of my house - the gardens were quite lovely then - and realised that I still had my old school whistle in my pocket - my lucky charm from my gambling days. I felt a tiny pang of regret for breaking my promise, but it passed like a bout of indigestion. I took the whistle from my pocket and put it to my lips. I had a sudden urge to hear its cheerful trill once more.
'I blew, but no sound came. I told myself that the whistle was broken, but I came to realise that it was not broken but altered; it had become akin to one of those special whistles only dogs can hear. Though I heard no sound, I was aware of some vibration in the air that rippled outwards. The sky clouded over and the temperature dropped. I shuddered, and not only with the cold . . .'
'Uncle?' I said, for he seemed to have drifted into a kind of daze.
'Ah yes,.' he said. 'That was when they began to come: to come in answer to the whistle's silent call.'
'The children?' I asked, looking at the group gathered about us and wondering how it could be that they would hear a whistle my uncle could not and why they would come to its sound. I feared for my uncle's sanity more than ever.
'The children, yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'They are my punishment, Edgar.'
'Your punishment, sir?' I said, wondering what hold these local boys could possibly have over him, though he seemed at ease in their company and had no qualms in sharing the shocking details of his life with them.
'The house is an accursed place, Edgar,.' he said.
'You must have felt it.'
'There is a strange atmosphere, sir,.' I said. 'It is a little cold.'
Uncle Montague chuckled at this and I saw the children flinch.
'A little cold?' he repeated. 'Yes, Edgar. It is a little cold. Is that not right, children?' This was the first time he had addressed them and they became agitated, though they remained silent throughout.
'You have still not explained what these children are doing here, Uncle,.' I said.
'Can you not guess, Edgar?' he asked.
'No, sir,.' I said. 'I cannot. Are you educating the village children to make amends for what happened at your school?'
He smiled grimly and shook his head.
'These are not village children, Edgar. I think that in your heart you know that.'
'Sir?' I said, determined to cling to the rational.
'What do you mean?'
'They tell me their tales, Edgar,.' he said. 'They come to me and tell me their tales. They bring me some token of their story and these accursed objects now litter my house - a house now utterly drenched in a strange otherness that contaminates the walls and grounds and the man you see before you. It is a magnet for creatures of a twilight world, Edgar, a world you cannot imagine. The house calls to them as lamplight calls to a moth.'
'But if the house is so awful, sir,.' I said, doing everything in my power to avoid looking back towards the shadowy children. 'Why do you not leave?'
'Oh, Franz would not like that, Edgar,.' he said.
'And it does not do to upset Franz.'
'But I do not understand, Uncle,.' I said. 'Franz is your servant.'
'Franz used to be my servant long ago, when he was fully alive . . .'
'When he was fully alive, Uncle?' I said. 'But what can you mean? Either someone is alive or he is . . .' I could not bring myself to finish the sentence. My uncle's guilt had clearly unhinged his mind.
'The house has changed Franz utterly,.' he said. 'There is no way he would let me leave, Edgar, even if I had the will to try. He is more jailer than servant now. But it is no more than I deserve. There are many breaking rocks and rotting in stinking jails for far lesser crimes than I have committed.' He paused. 'But strange to say, Edgar, I no longer fear my visitors as I once did. I am at peace. I have accepted my fate. It is my punishment for those years of not listening to my pupils, for