Come stand next to me. That’s Headmore House, number 5122 Post Road. It’s the oldest house in the area, maybe the oldest in the State. It’s nothing like the other houses around it. A homey wooden heart, flanked by solid stone wings on either side, surrounded by plenty of grass and trees, it squats at the end of the block, looking as though its roots are as deep as the oak trees that shade it. Its glory days are long over, and it will take more than paint to restore it, but it is still a proud house. The other houses on Post Road came much later, and Headmore House deeply resents their presence.
It’s the middle of the night, so you’d be forgiven for thinking Headmore House is asleep. The windows are dark, upstairs and down. The front door firmly closed. Even the birds haven’t started their pre-dawn chattering. However, follow me. You and I can go inside.
Let's go upstairs. In the bedroom, there is an old couple who are asleep. With over forty years of practice, Marie and Jim produce a nightly concerto of snores, snorts, gurgles, and coughs, worthy of an entire bass section from her and accented by staccato farts from him. Rusty the cat sleeps curled between them, accustomed to the nightly sounds and smells of their performance. But you are mistaken to think Headmore is asleep. It isn’t even resting. it is preparing itself for grand festivities, full of that zinging tension that happens when you are hosting a big party and the first guest hasn’t arrived.
Back on the ground floor, in the dining room, preparations are in progress. The couch cushions plump themselves up. The doilies move across tables, removing any spec of dust. The wine glasses are in their proper position on the dining table, where the dinner plates have already appeared in their allotted space. The chandelier sparkles over the table, and the curtains march in retreat to reveal windows that give moonlight full access to the room.
In the kitchen, the wooden spoon, worn flat on one side from always being stirred by a right-handed person, presides over the food preparation as it had done for countless years. It raps the handle of the oven door in frustration as the door hasn’t opened fast enough. Custards are a delicate dessert and must be handled carefully. Surely the oven is aware of that! The wooden spoon is indignant that the oven could still be as ignorant as the day it was first lit. On the range, pots bubble, pies cool on the counter, and roasted birds are patiently resting, waiting to be carved.
Exactly on time, the walking sticks in the umbrella stand by the front door began thumping the floor in unison, giving their cue for the formal festivities to begin. The doorknob jumps to attention, twisting open to allow the wide oak door to open, welcoming their honored guests. Once a year, all the staff, all those who for many generations have worked and served in this old house, treat themselves to a grand dinner in their honor.
The couple upstairs, and their cat, know nothing of these festivities, as living ears can’t hear the sounds they make or smell the aromas of the waiting feast. This is a gathering of all the staff who had ever worked in this old house. It is a time for every object in the house to remember and relive how useful it had once been. Pots, pans, windows, doilies, and couches all carry the memory of when they glowed, were cleaned, polished, and revered.
This year’s celebration is more muted than usual. Jordan, the ancient head butler, who was the first butler ever hired to work in the house, sits in his usual place at the head of the table. He gently taps the glass with his spoon to get everyone's and everything’s attention.
“It is a pleasure to see you all once again. Tonight we gather in this house we’ve served and loved. Headmore House has been home to all of us. We honor all of our wonderful tools and the furniture we used with love and care. This is our night to celebrate and remember our service.
Unfortunately, tonight, we also have serious business to discuss. It has been brought to my attention that our house may be in danger. Marie and Jim…”
“Those old coots don’t deserve this house!” yells Sadie, a young kitchen helper known for being very loud and brash. It is said that her unruly behavior may have caused her untimely death. Interrupting Jordan the Head Buttler is very rude. The water glasses titter nervously at Sadie’s outburst.
“Yes, Sadie. We know your thoughts on Jim and Marie, but they are the current custodians of the house. Yes, they are old, and no, they don’t have enough money to run the house the way it should be run. We’ve all known this for years. We’ve watched the house become a rundown ruin, and I know it breaks everyone’s heart.”
Agnes, the old parlor maid, sniffed loudly at the thought of the dust that had accumulated on the bookshelves. That would never have happened in her day.
“Which is why we are facing our current situation," Jordan continued. “Marie and Jim need to sell Headmore House. Marie is the last of the Headmores who built this wonderful home, but she can’t afford to keep it. She has been in contact with someone called a real estate broker. I understand they find buyers for houses.”
The guests at the party reacted in various ways to this explosive news. Sadie emits a pipsqueak scream, Agnes harumphs, and the others you haven’t met yet erupt, each in their way. The chandelier blinks a few times and then steadies itself. One of the wine glasses tips over. The fireplace erupts in sudden flames. The oven door can be heard opening and slamming shut.
“Quiet! Settle down. Please!” said Jordan trying to maintain decorum. “We must discuss our plan of action.”
“Plan of attack!” yells Harold, the old groomsman from the far end of the table. It was rumored that he was the one who killed Sadie after she rebuffed his advances. But neither one has ever spoken of the incident, so it is only natural the story has blossomed with each telling.
“Call it what you will. We must save the house. If the house goes…” Jordan left his thought unfinished, but everyone and everything understood. If the house was demolished, they would no longer be needed. They know they would cease to exist as it is Headmore House that keeps them tethered to this world.
Jordan feels himself begin to fade, it takes a lot of energy to be seen, and he is old, and it gets harder every year. “We need someone to step up and take charge. Who among us has the energy to stay here in the house? To work to keep the house? It is important, but I don’t know how we do this.”
Some of the older spirits were already fading or gone. A compact man who appears to be in his fifties stands up and says, “I can do it. I was one of the last of the hired staff, so many of you don’t know me. I am Sam Ho Finer. And this is my wife, Helen Finer. She can stay as well. We were the very last of the paid servants” Helen, with her sturdy body, vibrant dark hair, and wide eyebrows framing her warm brown eyes, smiled at everyone and everything in the room, nodding her acceptance to Sam’s suggestion.
Danger, the old dog who used to chase rabbits and squirrels on the estate, raised his shaggy head and said, “Find Rupert, the cat. He’ll be in the kitchen. He can help with that living cat they call Rusty. Rupert is ornery, but I’m sure he’ll help us. He’s very attached to the wooden spoon and will do anything it wants.” And with that, poor old Danger lowered his once great body to the floor and faded away.
The wooden spoon, a natural resting place for gossip and occasionally for stirring up trouble, heard itself being spoken about. It stopped supervising the kitchen cleanup and paused to listen to the discussion going on in the living room. A quick glance at Rupert the cat, who was picking through his plate of leftover goodies, saw him prick up his ears at the mention of his name. Rupert stayed focused on his treats, but the wooden spoon could feel there was trouble ahead.
The walking sticks gently thumped by the door, signaling the end of this year’s celebration. As the various spirits faded, they gave Sam and Helen sad smiles, wishing them well.
Slowly the plates appeared in the cabinet, along with the wine glasses. The chandelier dimmed, and this year’s party was over.
In the kitchen, the wooden spoon snuggled into its place in the drawer, and the coffee mug that had been telling hilarious stories to the silverware quieted down and went back to being a chipped old mug.
Good one! Pictured it all, especially Rusty and Rupert!
Excellent!! :)