The Humble Request
by Magpie HershbergThere is something, I feel, holy about the long table of my banquet hall. Under the finest of chandeliers lies a body of mahogany atop expertly carved legs. If I were more a man of religion, I would say this table was crafted by God himself, created not in a broad act of divine will, but meticulously, as if he had taken up the chisel of Michelangelo and decided to make the next David, out of wood, and just for me.
It is the length of about twelve dinner platters, and, beautifully, the width of exactly one large dinner plate. When you are seated at my table, you may look up from your meal to see the walls, which are painted uniformly black, and all the paintings and ornaments which adorn them. You will not see another man’s face, for the table is too thin to accommodate him taking up the same space as you. Your legs would tangle and your plates would clash against each other. That is the beauty of this table.
It is one beautiful part of the beautiful entirety of my home. In eastern Norfolk it lies, nested comfortably within dozens of acres of tobacco money land and connected by one road to the rest of the world. It belonged once to my father, and to his father before him. It is the most perfect land in all of England. One can look out most windows without seeing a single building, only bright grass encroached upon by a peppering of trees.
That said, it would be foolish to mistake the land for the source of this property’s beauty. Indeed, I’ve not so much as opened a window to smell the breeze in at least a few years. And I find the feel of polished stone and fine rugs to be much gentler on my feet than that of grass or cobbled road. Every room contains within it multitudes that are far more fascinating than any of the outside world has to offer. And they are for my eyes only.
I spend every day strolling through the halls and in and out of each room. There were many rooms when I first had authority over the house, and thirty-some years later, there are many more.
As of late, I have been frequenting the oldest of the three trophy rooms. After significant neglect, I’ve found myself making up for lost time. There are heads of great bucks, wolves, and some creatures more exotic—a few lions, a leopard, and many more creatures from all around the globe.
There is a grand fireplace in this room, which provides gentle light in lieu of windows. It always burns just bright enough to illuminate the snarling teeth of the beasts. I have not once touched the fire, stocked its wood, poked it with the iron tools by its side. And yet, I will announce to the empty halls my intention to visit this room, and by the time I arrive, I can feel the fire’s warmth brushing my face and caressing my lungs as I breathe it in. What a fine room it is.
It is a slight walk from this trophy room, but another room I find myself in quite often is the grand tea room. This room, too, seems to anticipate my arrival when I alert the stretching corridors on my way there. I arrive to tea, still hot, warm cookies and pastries, arranged neatly and completely to my liking.
I often take this time to attend to correspondence, what little I have of it to write these days. Occasionally there arrives a letter on my desk, out of thin air, from some random name, distant relative, what have you. Most of them ask to meet, tell me to leave my estate, insist I must be depressed staying here by my lonesome. It is utter nonsense, and I tell them as much in my responses. Rarely am I bothered by someone again after I explain how wonderful my lifestyle truly is.
Most of the letters I write, in truth, are requests. Usually, for extensions onto the manor. I care little for the specifications, I know it is all taken care of somehow. All I need to be happy in this world is the occasional new room to enjoy, and I am blessed with a life that gives me nothing but. I write down a simple concept, leave the note anywhere at all, and within mere weeks there is a new door down some hall.
I never know where the new rooms are, at first. For years, with the slower pace I used to roam, it might take even a month or two to encounter my new room. Now, I must confess, my patience has been wearing thin. It is an embarrassing habit, I admit, that from the day after I request a room, I begin to stalk the halls like a starving cat.
I know it is unbecoming of me. I was not raised to prowl like an animal, to peek behind corners as if hunting prey. In the days after I request a new room I become feverish. I do not return to my bedroom for days, instead taking what little rest I get on the fine furniture of the various rooms I pass. In these times I eat very little, for I know nothing will sate me regardless but a new door, a new chamber. I always find it, in due time. The color will return to my face, and I snap out of my beastliness.
For some time, anyways. I might be ill. I might be dying. I feel I might need these rooms to live. The walls of my home are beautiful, and grand, and perfect, and will choke me, and I love them dearly, and I would never leave them.
I am a man of logic. I am not prone to superstition. But as of late, I think there may be something ethereal bent on punishing me. This manor is empty, but for me. I make sure of it. But in those moments of delirium, the days between my requests for expansion and my encounter of the expansion, I swear I hear them. Footsteps. There is an apparition here, and I tell you, this house does not creak but when it is here, it does.
Footsteps on wood, footsteps on polished stone and marble, footsteps on rug. I hear them. Always in the next hall. To the right, to the left, it walks. There is something in this place beside me. That has not been the case in years. I’ve not once called out for it, I do not know what it wants from me, and I want nothing from it but its disappearance. It does eventually disappear, for some time, anyways. Once I have found my new room, the specter dissipates, not to be heard again until a new room is requested.
I wouldn’t blame someone for thinking I’ve gone mad, hearing footsteps that aren’t there. I pondered the possibility for months. But that is not the case. This time, I’ve seen the spirit.
Just two days ago, as summer hail knocked at my windows, I penned a request. A simple one- a grand greenhouse, brimming with exotic flowers and lined with vines. Because while I do not long for anywhere else, there are a few natural fragrances I have yet to encounter, and I would like to have them at my convenience.
I fell back into my recent routine shortly thereafter. Frantically inspecting the halls at a speed that pushes the limits of my aged form. Every wall is decorated to the utmost, so when I must take a moment to rest, I dare not lean, lest I damage anything.
I live like this now. Night or day are no matter, and there is little difference be tween the halls which are lit and the halls which are dark.
I saw it, by the entrance to the library. A form, pale, humanlike. I could not tell if it were a man or a woman, but I suppose that does not matter, as it was certainly a spirit. It said nothing. I do not believe it knew I was there before it. It traced a hand along the doorframe ever so slowly. It was then I felt something icy climb up my throat and grasp at the base of my tongue. I fled, then, and holed up in a lounging room until the nausea settled.
Again I saw it, by the ground floor’s dining hall. Still as death, it leaned and hovered over the line where the floor meets the wall’s edge. Held taut between its hands was some kind of tape or rope, I could not bear to watch long enough to figure out what it was. It held the strand to the floor and did nothing else.
I am overcome by a sickly feeling simply recalling it, the way that for just a second, it turned its head and flicked its eyes my way. I swear, in that moment, I thought I would die. That my heart would retire or that my entire body would turn to stone. Again, I fled.
I thank god that I did not see it again after that encounter. It inhabits all my waking thoughts, even still. Despite the all-consuming terror that filled my dazed being at that point, I had to continue searching for my new room. There is no choice involved, it is as automatic and necessary as breathing. Over days, my vision began to blur, the subdued colors of every hall swirled together to soak behind my eyes and splash against my brain. Every second torn from the other by candle flicker and clock tick.
In desperation, I searched every other room as well. Each has the same finely crafted lounging couch, the leather unblemished despite years of use. I could not tell the spine of one shelved book from another. Words themselves detached themselves from my mind, leaving only inscrutable letters. The sounds of my own footsteps scraped my ear drums and stirred my stomach. The glass eyes of the mounted trophy animals would melt out of their sockets and down through the floor if I stared too long.
Never had it taken so long to find a new room. There came a point, where, in the same despair a man would consider the barrel of a gun pointed to his forehead, I questioned if the greenhouse had been built at all—if it would ever be built, if any more rooms would be built at all.
In my despair, I took an action that I am still utterly remorseful for. I pray that this perfect, beautiful, home will forgive my transgression and still see my undying love for it.
There is one exit from this manor, the very front doors, heavy and grand. They have gone long unused, though still polished, as is everything here. I was a fool, and let an ungratefulness possess me for just a moment, and opened those doors. Against the wisdom I normally have in abundance, I tried to leave.
I swung open the doors and it was then I saw it. The lushest of greenery, imported from distant lands, bushes and gorgeous flowers, the fragrance of which wafted into my nostrils and calmed my nerves. Beyond the foliage, pale green glass, just translucent enough for sunlight to reach the plants below. A sun of stained glass, a green house.
I realized once again how blessed I have been to have such a home which bends so graciously to my will and in such elegant manner. It is entirely efficient, now. There was no use for the front doors. There has not been use for them in many, many years.
Yes, the greenhouse is the perfect seal. A closed loop, for I and I alone. A precious ship in a bottle, finally corked. I am utterly blessed in my solitude, and I can be certain now that the halls of my home shall stand haunted by no one.