Flaws: a Collection of Short Stories

A Dead Man's Tale

This is what happened. I will tell you the truth and the truth only and believe me, you want to know. Like all good tales, I will start at the beginning. My name is Silas Warner and I am a dead man. And dead men tell no tales.
The story began when I received an envelope from one Charles Remington in my daily post. It was dated the twenty-third of December. The contents of the envelope included a piece of paper with an address and small writing scrawled at the bottom:

Mr. Warner,
    Your presence has been requested immediately. You know why. If you ignore and or decline again, you will regret it. I insist that you be a man and pay the respects that you owe. This is not an invitation anymore. It is a demand. See to it.
               
                            CR

    Unfortunately, I did know why. He wanted to know more about the death of his brother. Of course, I had already told him everything I knew. For Remington, that simply wasn't enough. This was the second letter he'd sent. The first was a cordial invitation, actually a demand rather, to attend the funeral for his brother along with the dinner party immediately following. I'd been invited to stay as a guest in his home. I originally declined the invitation. I felt that it was inappropriate to attend a funeral for someone I didn't have the pleasure of truly knowing. Remington's persistence proved true, though when he got ahold of my number. He pleaded that I attend the funeral and celebration, claiming that he was far too unstable to be there on his own. I sincerely apologized once again and declined for the second time. Christmas is a time to be spent with family. I intended to spend it with mine: my wife Charlotte who was six months pregnant with my second daughter and Agnes, my five year old prized possession. This second letter though made me feel threatened. I felt like I had no choice but to succumb to Remington's demands. So I planned to offer my condolences and leave early the next morning. Unfortunately, nothing works the way we want it to.

A great writer once wrote "war is hell". He must have never been to an international airport on the brink of Christmas. Plane rides are usually easy for me due to my knack for heavy sleeping but this trip was different. It was plagued with nightmares. Granted, the last time I travelled was by train and somebody died.
Boston was beautiful when "twas the season". Lights were strung everywhere, wrapped around trees like vines. The lights comforted me as I spent too long attempting to hail a taxi cab. When the yellow beast finally had been tamed, I rode it to "Remington's Manor".

*            *            *            *

"Mr. Warner! It's a pleasure!" He welcomed me with the stink of alcohol on his breath. I offered a respectful smile.
"The same to you, sir."
"You look like you need a drink, eh?" He said before breaking into laughter. I shook my head and held up my hand.
"I'll have to pass. Thank you, though."
Remington frowned. "Very well. Allow my maid to show you to your room."
I nodded simply, thanking him again. The petite girl avoided my eyes as she led me up the stairs silently. I followed closely behind, fearing I'd get lost if I strayed too far from her. The eerie paintings that coated the hallway walls were difficult to see in the dark but somehow the eyes in every painting shined brightly.
I stepped into my room and thanked the girl. I pulled out my wallet, my pity getting the best of me. "What's your name?" I asked gently. She looked  up at me with wide eyes. I realized that her eyes were not wide with surprise but terror.
"Get out of here as quick as you can," she whispered in a thick French accent, rushing each syllable that rolled off of her tongue. She tugged on her long blonde hair and bit down on her lip, whimpering as she glanced around skittishly. She hurried out of the room, leaving me to question how I would ever fall asleep now.

I woke up with a heartache. It was Christmas Eve and I was not with my family. I dressed for the funeral, looking myself up and down in the mirror. I frowned as I shoved my hands into my pockets. I swallowed my nerves and left the room, heading downstairs. A husky man served me breakfast, seemingly uninterested in the conversation I attempted to pursue.
"Where are the other guests?" I probed curiously. The man had his eyes trained on the floor. "The ones coming for the dinner party, I mean. Aren't they attending the funeral?"
"They come later," he said.
I nodded in understanding, disregarding the fact that I had no sense of understanding whatsoever at the moment. "Are you Russian?" I asked, trying again for a conversation.
He grunted. I assumed that was a "yes".
"How did you come to work for Mr. Remington?"
"Too many questions," he said harshly before leaving the room. I finished my breakfast despite the uneasiness in my stomach.