I like to play around with making up stories sometimes. This is an experiment in writing.

Carnadine House

Chapter 1

"Well has it arrived, or hasn't it?"

Th speaker was a thin woman with a look of permanent boredom etched on her tanned features. She toyed with a string of cheap pearls around her neck with one hand. The tour leader cleared his throat awkwardly, making it difficult to hear him in the quiet but crowded room. Ridgely's Tours of Antiquated Homes was not off to a good start. Mr. Ridgely mopped his shining brow with a sadly wrinkled handkerchief as he tried to assure his customers that the bus would arrive at any moment now, if only they could be patient a few minutes more. The eight people in the front hallway of the inn glanced out at the darkening morning skies and made a point of neither looking at nor speaking to their neighbors. "Jack, dear, I do believe it is going to rain!" a well-dressed older woman whispered to the man at her elbow. He harrumphed and adjusted his bowler hat. "Nonsense! The forecast called for fine weather today!" Mrs. Alsburg patted his arm and smiled wanly. "Find weather, perhaps, if one were a water fowl."

Mr. Ridgely sighed in audible relief when a creaking, groaning, hulk of a bus slowly rolled to a stop on the worn cobblestones in front of the inn. The bored woman from before lost some of her look of ennui and stared at the vehicle, obviously incredulous. "Don't tell me that's the bus!" she cried, dismayed. "Why, we'd be better off walking!" The other members of the tour murmured uncomfortably. "Oh, there's nothing to fear, Miss Dent," the guide said hastily, "It's met all the safety requirements." Reluctantly, they boarded the sad blue coach and settled themselves gingerly on the cracked seats. With a dramatic wheeze, it lurched forward and puffed out of the village. Out came the limp handkerchief once more as Mr. Ridgely dabbed at his rubicund face. "Now then, my fine ladies and gentlemen: shall we begin? If you don't mind, I'd like to make sure everyone is here." From his vest pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper and held it out in front of him. "Do we have a Mr. Algernon Evans among us?" 

Right near the front of the bus, a small man with rather large ears timidly raised one hairy hand. "If it's all the same to you, Mr. Ridgely, I prefer to go by Algie," he said shyly. "Of course, of course," the guide bobbed his head placatingly and read out the next set of names. "Dr. and Mrs. Jack Alsburg, are you present?" The elderly couple who had been discussing the weather nodded primly, never saying a word. Mrs. Alsburg held a small sachet of perfume beneath her nose, looking rather ill. "Ah! There you are!" Mr. Ridgely remarked cheerfully, "Now if we could just find Mr. Windstrum?" He looked about until a young man in rich clothes made a surly half-gesture from the seat beside Mr. Evans. "Oh do get on with it!" he growled, turning to the man beside him. "We're not in school, you know. Why should we call roll?" Very quietly, Evans tapped his neighbor's shoulder. "Harry," he said gently, "I suppose it would be a shame if the tour were to leave without someone who paid good money to attend." "I suppose you're right, Algie," Windstrum muttered, looking out the window. Several seats behind them, a voice called, "Well I think it's a shame that anyone paid money for this tour at all!" It was the woman from before in the cheap pearls and bright green hat. The tour guide was not amused. "Ms. Dent," he sighed, "You are a journalist, are you not? Consider this the beginning of a story you may write and kindly refrain from disparaging my business, if you don't mind."

Three passengers remained. One was a round, cheerful woman with a feathery mass of yellow curls rapidly fading to grey. Marta Heathering nodded sagely, clutching her handbag to her chest. "You really oughtn't speak ill of the tour at the beginning of the journey, my dear," she advised Miss Dent, "The vehicle might suffer!" Beside Mrs. Heathering, her daughter made an unhappy sound and shifted closer to the window. "It won't, Mother. Don't be morbid!" The girl's haggard face puckered into a delicate frown as her mother shook her head decisively. "The road is already going to be dangerous enough. I saw a girl with red hair this morning, Evelyn. You know that's bad luck for a journey!" The other passengers mercifully pretended not to hear the noisy declarations, sparing the Heatherings some embarrassment. Mr. Ridgely cleared his throat and read off the last name on the ledger. "Mr. Creed?"  "Oh! That's me, sir!" a loud voice called from the very back of the coach. A young man waved with a pleasant smile, adjusting his rumpled brown coat surreptitiously. He didn't seem as though he could have paid the rather exorbitant fee involved in taking the tour, and Mr. Ridgely surmised that some rich relative must have paid his way. "Yes, well, that's everyone then." He brusquely shoved the slip of paper back into his striped vest and turned to the driver. "A little more speed, if you don't mind, Carlisle. We've got to be at our first destination within the next three hours!"

He ignored the horrified looks some of the passengers shot each other. They would be trapped in the rusty vehicle for three hours?! Ridgely glanced furtively out the window at the gathering clouds. He dearly hoped that no rain would come: he had spared every expense on the bus, and feared that the roof would leak. And wouldn't Ms. Dent have a field day with that! "Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, hiding his nerves with a boisterous tone, "Our first stop on the tour is the lovely Carnadine House in the mountains! It is abandoned, but the grounds are really quite spectacular!" Near the back, Evelyn smothered an exhausted yawn and beamed. "Well, if it's abandoned, perhaps we'll be allowed to explore a little?" She jolted with a startled little squeak as Mr. Creed abruptly leaned over the back of the seat. "That's what I'm counting on, in any case." Noting her distress, the man smiled sheepishly at mother and daughter. "Oh, please excuse me." He stepped out into the aisle and held out a hand. "Viktor Creed," he said. Marta returned his smile and shook the proffered hand. "Mrs. Heathering," she replied, "And this is my daughter. Say hello, Evie dear." The tension broken somewhat, the other guests began to turn in their seats and converse with each other. In the front, Mr. Ridgely relaxed. They'd had a rough start, he couldn't help but admit. Still, he had a nice route planned and he was sure the customers would be impressed. This tour might be just what he needed to keep the bank off his back!

The bus wheezed and groaned up the twisting road, carrying ten strangers to their first stop of the gloomy day: Carnadine House.