Puddlebrain

Chapter Eighteen

That was a long time ago. Brimley had seemed to the people of Little Whimsy to have suddenly prospered, something he put down to an old rich uncle from Upper Bibsbury dying and leaving him his estate. Upper Bibsbury was just too far away for anyone to bother investigating, and was renowned for being a town where you couldn't get in if you didn't have quite a good few numbers on your bank balance. As such, Brimley's story was more or less accepted, and most thought good luck to the bloke. He was a decent sort. Money wouldn't change him, and if it did, he'd brought plenty of smiles to the youngsters, so they guessed it was ok.

For a long time, it didn't change Brimley. But money has its own methods and madness, and before too long Brimley had succumbed. He grew distant from his wife, and forgot his Wednesday evening shows. His house grew, but his life, such as it was, shrank in direct proportion. He became, not obsessed, but enthralled by his treasure. He had to check it was still there, hidden away in his vault, on a daily, then hourly, then almost constant basis. He had been a tubby man, well rounded and jolly. He became thin and gaunt. A constant shadow shaded his eyes, as his mind was never far from his prize. His fingers twitched to be holding the purse. In the end, his whole body twitched if he wasn't in its presence.

Brimley didn't talk to it, but he was sure, sometimes, late at night when he lay awake in his bed and long after his wife was asleep, that he could hear it whispering to him. That was at night though, when you could even have conversations with the wind if you felt inclined, or you might want to draw the curtains if the moon was too bright and you were sure it was watching you.

During the day, Brimley was much more lucid. Lucid, yet still under the spell of the bottomless purse. This spell was what found him, as ever, standing before the pedestal, lost in his memories. Somewhere in his mind, tucked neatly away right at the back, it was possible that he missed his old life. It was a simpler time then and he used to smile a lot. But those thoughts, if they existed, were buried, swept away by greed and craving. Without thinking his hand reached out to the purse. He just wanted a few coins to line his pockets. He felt more comfortable that way. It helped him get through the day.

His fingers were inches from the purse. Then, they weren't. The vault door hung open on its great hinges. The moth-like flame still skittered in the lamp. The corridor was dark. The stairs were tight. The purse, font of an endless supply of money, lay peacefully on its cushion atop the stone pedestal.

Otherwise the room was empty.

At the far end of Shadowmoss Lane, at the top of the stairs that led from the witches' bedrooms, the walking shadow paused and rippled. It seemed suddenly larger. More imposing. It moved to the first step and started down to the ground floor.