The story posted today was originally published in the Autumn 2024 issue of Scribble, a print and online literary magazine. Enjoy the read. I’m afraid this will be the last short story posted here for a short, unspecified time due to other commitments.

Small Hands, Pale and Fragile.

Nathan had first seen the house from afar and wondered who lived in such a place. A typical Victorian mansion in so many ways, embellished with unnecessary turrets and castellation. Some eccentric had applied so many fantasies of that age on the bricks, stone, and mortar to create a hideous manifestation of bad taste.

It fascinated Nathan. Drew him. When he discovered who owned it, his acquisitive side urged him to act. One day, instead of passing by on one of his solitary walks, he must venture into the grounds, maybe even approach that dark oak, front door. The old lady he’d glimpsed from time to time at a window, looking out at and beyond him, seemed no barrier to his intent to make something from her isolation.

But he’d so far made no move, simply letting the house stand within his familiar landscape and intrigue him with its possibilities.

The girl, for she seemed too young to be called woman yet, appeared a few weeks after he’d first considered knocking on that studded door. Artless, with her flowing locks of gold, high-necked dress of black, her fair, strangely animated face, and slender, she was far too delicate to live in that great empty house alone.

Her ingenuous appearance encouraged him to speak. She tilted her head to the left at his greeting, looked up at him, and rose from the task she’d set herself by the large ornate wrought iron gates. Dead leaves dropped from the hem of her dress. Dark eyes probed him, but a smile of polite recognition spread from her small mouth to the rest of her elfin face.

‘Thank you. Good morning. I am well. And how are you?’ Her voice was soft, musical, lightly tinged with humour. The confidence it showed sat oddly on such young and supple lips.

Nathan found his own voice again with difficulty and muttered a reply that said nothing he intended, tongue-tied by the closeness of this strange, ethereal creature of intriguing beauty and apparent vulnerability.

She cocked her head on one side again and allowed her smile to stay, delighting him with her delicate refinement as she swept unseen dust from one palm with the other. Small hands; pale and fragile. Not meant for work. The hands of a lady; perhaps the hands of a woman who might embroider, but engage in no more strenuous form of art.

‘I…sorry, I often wondered who lives in this house. It’s always fascinated me, you know.’ Though, had he told the truth, he would have admitted the house was now a distant second to the girl.

‘Has it? I inherited it from an ancient aunt. Seven weeks ago.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘I am not. We spoke little. And I now own a rather splendid piece of idiosyncratic architecture. I am Charlotte. Some, of course, call me Lottie.’

Was that an invitation? She had more confidence than her size and age should give her. Though her beauty must have been a source of some assurance.

‘Nathan. Nat to friends.’

‘Well, Nat, you are my first visitor. Perhaps you would like to see inside the house?’

This was more than he’d expected, more than he’d hoped for. ‘I’d love to, Lottie.’

She smiled at his familiarity, no sign of resentment. She lifted the iron latch and opened the gates. No squeaks from the hinges, and he saw, belatedly, an oil can standing by her dainty feet.

The gravel drive remained untainted by the weeds an old lady should have gathered through years of living alone. It crunched with an indefinably disturbing newness beneath his shoes, though her feet seemed to cross the surface without noise, light and almost insubstantial.

The front door stood ajar, and she preceded him inside, closing it behind them. She eased small flat shoes from her feet and left them on worn stone flags. Ancient ancestors glared disapproval from their frames on the walls of the wide hallway. Her light jacket she hung on a brass peg by the door, inviting him to do the same.

‘Shall I take my shoes off, Lottie?’

‘It keeps the outside from coming in, you see.’

He bent and untied laces, placed his shoes alongside hers, and noticed how clean, tidy and well-kept was the space. If the old lady had lived here alone for years, she must have been a demon cleaner.

‘Do you smell that?’ Lottie raised her face, scenting the air, like a Pointer at work with a hunter.

He was aware of her perfume, a subtle mix of some exotic and expensive fragrance blended with her own warm female scent. He smiled at that and then caught the faint aroma of something less attractive, cloying but unidentifiable. He nodded.

‘It has been here all the time. I cannot discover where it comes from nor what it is. Odd, is it not?’ Her bare feet, tiny and white, took her over flagstones dark with age, but free of dust or damage, as she led him from the dimly lit hall. The staircase, wide and shallow, stretched up to floors that must remain a mystery, for now.

The sitting room she led him into was furnished as it had been when her aunt lived here. A fire burnt within the grate, flames licking at logs and warming stagnant air.

‘At first, I thought I should perhaps sell everything in here and use the money to furnish it more contemporarily. Is that a word?’

He nodded. ‘More up to date, eh? I bet this is all original and antique. You’d get a bundle for it.’

‘That was what I thought. The man who came to value it tried to cheat me. I think some people are fooled by my apparent youth and frail looks. But I dealt with him. People must not be permitted to take advantage of my size or age or…sex.’

A warning but also a possible invitation? Did she think he intended to take advantage of those features? He did, of course, but she couldn’t know that.

‘Very wise, Lottie. Loads of people try to take advantage of the unwary and inexperienced.’

‘Well, he will not do it again. May I offer you a cup of coffee?’

He wondered whether her first comment was a warning or a simple statement meaning she’d told him never to return. The question sounded inviting, however.

‘Love one.’

She wandered through the furniture toward another door and disappeared into the room beyond. Left alone, he gazed at the riches on display. Was that an original Constable? The mantle clock was ormolu. The great blue vase, so artfully displaying pampas grass and other dried flowers, may well be Ming. This house must be filled with riches. Perhaps his plan, to take the girl before he took some of her possessions, might be better changed to one of making her his life partner. He need never work again.

Start now. Work on her at once. He followed her through the door and heard her across a wide corridor, in another room. She was in the kitchen, inexplicably changed out of her dark full-length dress into one much shorter and of light soft material that left slim arms and shapely legs bare, her upper body more displayed. Still nothing on her feet.

His socks allowed him to cross the stone flags without sound, but he didn’t want to startle her. ‘Aren’t your feet cold?’

She turned and smiled at him. ‘I never feel the cold. If I am completely honest, I wear this’ she flicked the bodice of her dress, ‘only to prevent your embarrassment. When one lives entirely alone…well, you understand, of course.’

It took a little while for her meaning to enlighten him. ‘Oh, it won’t embarrass me. Please…’

She smiled but continued preparing the coffee she’d promised. He watched, fascinated by her ease and confidence, her grace and elegance. Whatever else she’d inherited from her ancient aunt, she’d surely gathered some of her manner and demeanour from a bygone age. Yet her unconventional attitude to clothing indoors seemed much more modern in outlook.

He watched her put the china jug of coffee on the tray, place two matching cups and saucers with a sugar bowl and milk jug. The plate held a variety of good quality biscuits. As she bent toward the silver tray, he stepped forward. ‘Please, let me. Can’t have such a lovely little lady carrying that weight.’

The pretended accidental brush of his hand across her upper arm brought a thrill of intimacy and he smiled a brief apology. Her dark eyes were unfathomable, but her lips curled into a smile. She went before him into the sitting room and sat in one of the sumptuous armchairs by the fire. With her head, she indicated the chair opposite, after nodding at the small table on which he should place the tray.

He turned and glanced at the chair, noticing again that strange and unexplained aroma of sickly-sweet intrusion in the air. There was something odd about the chair. He stood and looked for a moment.

‘Are you going to sit, Nat?’

That was it: the chair wasn’t as pristine as the rest of the house and its collection. Was that a stain toward the back, where the seat met the rear support? No matter, it looked old and unlikely to mark his clothes. He mustn’t alarm her. Must make her as comfortable with him as possible. He sat.

The dress was short enough to draw his gaze to her thighs, where his mind lingered. He looked up to see her assessing him. Expression neutral but those dark eyes, almost black, studying him with unsettling insight. He felt she read his thoughts, and he quickly pasted a smile on his face to reassure her lust and greed weren’t uppermost. The smile that flickered on those voluptuous lips suggested she’d seen the reality and his attempt to disguise it. But he was unsure whether his desire or her discovery of it was the source of her humour.

‘Do you really believe I could be seduced with such little effort? You think me naïve and inexperienced in the ways of the world, a woman who is easy prey to the designs of a man without principle. Do drink your coffee.’ That last invitation carried such venom that he fancied the beverage might be harmful.

If he didn’t drink, however, he’d make a bad situation irreversible, and she was a beauty worthy of real effort to conquer. He tried to take the cup but discovered his arms appeared to be glued to the chair. Mild panic set in. What had happened?

‘You have long had your eye on this house. Thought the old lady living here would be easy game. I have watched you pass, seen the look on your face, the greed in your eyes.’ She leant forward to collect her own cup from the tray, the movement allowing a brief and tantalising glimpse of her upper curves through the gap at the top of her dress.

‘And now, when you find an attractive young woman in place, you add lust to your list of intentions.’ She held out a hand to stop his protestations. ‘I have no objection to passion. I enjoy it. But your designs do not include my pleasure. You desire the use of my body to satisfy your lust. You wish to ensnare me to obtain my wealth and then to cheat on me with other women for the rest of my life. Conquest is your drive, is it not?’

What to say to her? He still couldn’t move. But there was no physical change in him; he didn’t think she’d drugged or poisoned him. It was an odd situation, but one that might still be turned to his advantage. ‘You’re sort of right, Lottie. I admit I’ve wondered about this house. Thought I’d befriend your aunt and maybe find a way to share in her riches. But when I saw you here this morning and found you’re now the owner, I changed my mind and…well, tell the truth, I fell in love with you. You’re very beautiful, you know.’ The hopelessly-in-love gesture he wished to make with his hands was impossible.

‘So, a liar as well as a trickster, thief and cheat. You would like your coffee? Do allow me.’ She picked up the cup and, staring cold into his eyes, emptied the contents into his lap.

He tried to escape the near boiling liquid, tried to move away, but he was firmly attached to the chair. ‘Bitch! Let me go. If you don’t, I’ll give you what for when I get free.’

‘An interesting threat, but lacking substance.’

‘You’ve scalded me. Down there. It hurts.’

‘I imagine it does. I normally prefer to avoid causing pain, but you gave me good reason. I will go to the kitchen for something to remove the discomfort.’

He watched her leave, the image of light fabric teasing her limbs tempting unwelcome blood to parts he least wanted to respond.

The knife she held on her return was long and sharp with a lethal point. No water to cool his manhood. And her youth had been replaced by the old woman he’d seen before in the house. Lust no longer ruled him. She pointed the blade at the stain on his trousers. Raised it to a spot between his eyes and then knelt to one side of him, so the chair was between her and the fire.

‘You know, I do so long for male company. The enchantment is difficult to sustain in my current state. But you will provide the necessary cure for that. So often in my long life worthless fortune hunters have plagued me. They associate their love of money with lust for my youthful body, but, of course, I will not satisfy such one-sided desire.’ She moved the point of the knife close to him, allowed it to hover at his throat. ‘Still, men of your sort have their uses and I do not intend to waste sustenance when it walks so eagerly into my parlour.’

Cold metal touched his skin, was drawn down his chest, cutting the buttons from his shirt as it descended toward his waist. Would it stop?

‘Look. I was wrong. I’m a fool. Shouldn’t have tried to take advantage of you. I see that. Let me go and I’ll be out of your life straight away. Never bother you again. Really, I won’t do this sort of thing ever again.’

‘No. You will not.’ She dropped the knife into his lap with a careless gesture. The point penetrated cloth and made a small cut in tender flesh. But he had little time to dwell on that, as she pulled open his shirt front. Her hands on his skin were cold as death. The warmth from his body transferring to her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Absorbing your life force, Nat. A little unseemly, but it must be skin to skin, you see. Had you been a better man, we might have shared this transfer in a more intimate and pleasant way. But life, it seems, is full of missed opportunities.’ As she spoke, his consciousness diminished until he was only thinly aware of his life draining away.

‘Enough. We must allow the chair its reward.’

He watched the young dream he’d first seen again rise before him. But this image lasted only seconds as his body sank, drowning, into the chair. His last sensation was of her smiling down at him, displaying all he’d forfeited. The chair devoured him completely, leaving his clothes behind.

Charlotte, who’d never liked being called Lottie, searched for valuables before tossing the garments onto the fire. His wristwatch was good quality and would fetch a small sum from the jeweller down the road. And his credit card would buy a few things before she burnt it. She estimated she had drawn seventy years from him. Add those to the mere dozen the cheating furniture buyer had supplied, and she had close to another century ahead.

One day, during those years, she might find a man worthy of her, a partner to share her life with rather than one to use to extend her own. In the meantime, she had the means to continue her life alone in the free way she had preferred for centuries. She stood before the open fire, basking in its heat, as it fed warmth and relaxation into her renewed flesh.

Please let me know what you think of the story, using the ‘comment’ feature below. Authors always appreciate feedback on what they write. Thank you.