Free Phantom File by Patrick Carman Page B

man sitting at the long kitchen table. He was hidden in the deep shadows, still as death, and though I could not see his eyes, I felt him staring at me. I was terrified, but the man spoke calmly, drawing me into the kitchen with a voice not of doom but of sadness and regret.
    I cannot sleep either. Will you join me?
    I must go back momentarily, to a few hours earlier, for I had met this man already.
    That evening, many terrible tales had been told, darker and more alarming as the hour grew late before the open fire, and I, taking my turn more than once, held my own against the men. There were four people besides myself: Byron, the Lord of the house; my beloved Percy Shelley; Claire Clairmont, who sat closer to Lord Byron than I thought sensible—she wouldn’t be the first to fall under his spell; and there was one other, though he was quiet to the point of rudeness. He was called Rainsford, I knew this much from Byron’s brief introduction, from which no other name or title was offered. Lord Byron called him a quiet old friend, traveling through, and we asked no more of him. After being introduced, Rainsford only brooded by the fire, sipping blood red port and, in turns, staring at the burning flames.
    As I entered the kitchen and sat down across from him, only a candle lay between us. The night was much older now and it was only us two. He was still, as if he might frighten me away, and then he spoke once more.
    You held your own tonight. How old are you? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?
    His flattery put me off my guard, for there is nothing a writer likes so much as to be thought of as a capable storyteller among the giants. I felt a small thrill as I said no, I am younger. My eyes, growing accustomed to the soft light, saw his surprised reaction.
    Really? And such a challenge. Are you worried?
    Rainsford was speaking of the wager that had been placed a few hours before. Lord Byron, ever the gambler, had thrown down the gauntlet: who among us can write the most terrifying tale? My own Percy, certain of his power over words and fueled by too much wine, did more than take up the challenge. He persuaded me to try as well. I was by far the youngest, but I told Rainsford I believed I would fare just fine against the two men.
    I believe you will.
    He fell silent then and I thought our night in the kitchen was through. I sat, staring at the candlelight with no story to tell, not a clue of what I would present when the time came. What would the men think? They would question my intellect and my cleverness. They would assume I was dull, stupid, lazy.
    Rainsford, having sat quietly as I troubled over my dilemma, saw my expression of concern. I expected him to say his good night and be on his way. But that was not to be.
    I wonder, he stammered, nervous in a way he hadn’t been before. I’ve a story of my own. It’s a secret story. And very old. I’ve never told it to anyone.
    My word, what had I done to this poor man? Was I his muse, come from the wood and into the Lord’s house to open his heart? He was, by all accounts, captivated by my youthful innocence (had he known my own story I doubt he would have been quite so enchanted). Well, if he wanted to tell, I was fine to listen. Maybe a thread of magic, a beginning, could be had from this mysterious creature.
    To further encourage him, I got up and sat in a nearer chair. It was the closest look I’d gotten of Rainsford yet, but I still couldn’t place his age. He might have been thirty or sixty—it was impossible to say. His eyes, blue and deep like the sea, were timeless.
    I will do my best, though I’m no Lord Byron.
    I waved him off and told him, lying of course, that Lord Byron was a buffoon, and begged him to begin.
    And so he did.
    This story is about two boys I’ll call Andrew and Howard, who grew up a very long time ago. Their real names are something else, but trust me, calling them Andrew and Howard will make things simpler. These boys were the kind that were