426

Mr. Wells lives a well-ordered life. Nothing ever happens out of the ordinary. Until now.

426

 

As with all accounts of debatable content, one can only wonder if the occurrences set down in the following pages actually took place...

 

Mr. Wells had just finished off a hearty breakfast and was resting comfortably in the luxurious drawing room of his large domicile. Spread before him was the day’s newspaper. He was not exactly reading the paper; he was glancing over it, scanning the headlines for something worth reading. Wells was just about to set down the paper and pick up a book when a soft knock was heard at the door. He leaned over and grabbed a stack of books from a nearby table and spoke a reply to the person who knocked.

“Come in,” he said, only paying partial attention as the knocker entered the room. Wells looked through the books in his lap and selected A Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism�"a massive volume by James Clerk Maxwell, the discoverer of the distribution law of molecular velocities. The visitor was Wells’ butler, Jones. Wells, pretending to be enthralled with the tedious tome, opened his book to a random place near the end, at page 426.

“A letter was brought for you, Mr. Wells,” the monotonous butler said dryly. Wells set his book in his lap and finally gave attention to the butler. Jones quickly handed his master a letter.

“A letter? From whom?”

Wells snatched the letter from Jones’ rough hands.

“I do not know, sir,” the butler answered indifferently, “A young lad of about fourteen said that he was told to deliver it to you. I did not even think to ask who he was or whom the letter was from.”

Wells did not reply; he gently turned the letter over in his smooth, writer’s hands. The letter was very neatly folded and sealed with a wax marking that Wells did not recognize. Not a wrinkle or crease was to be found on it, even though it had�"according to the butler�"been delivered by a young lad. There was no writing on the letter to identify its origin, making Wells all the more curious. After a momentary hesitation, Wells broke the seal and opened the letter, which ran:

 

Dear Mr. Wells,

 

You are invited to 426 West Street at half past midnight tonight. Come alone.

 

Wells turned the letter over as if to seek out a further message written elsewhere on the slip of paper. There was none. Wells flipped the paper over again and again, studying it intently. Not even a stray mark from the writer’s pen had found its way onto the bare sheet. Still finding nothing, he quickly turned to his butler and spoke in an uncertain and distant voice.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to make of this, Jones,” then after a moment of silence, “I declare, what a singular circumstance I now find myself in! What do you suppose the meaning of this could be?” The butler did not answer the question, which he had taken as a rhetorical one. Wells rose to his feet and paced the room for a spell. After doing thusly for several minutes, he turned back to Jones. Wells was holding the paper to his eye, scrutinizing every detail that the letter had to offer.

“Fetch me a magnifying glass, my good man,” he said distractedly, bringing the letter away from his face and then back again to obtain a view of it from varying distances. The old butler quickly exited the room and disappeared down a corridor. Wells stood in the middle of the drawing room, his shiny brow furrowed in bewilderment.

“What devilry is this? I declare…” Wells’ voice trailed off as he examined the slip of paper. There was nothing singular about the paper or the writing or the pen which had written the mysterious words. While not skilled in discerning types of handwriting, Wells ascertained immediately that the invitation was written by someone who had been thoroughly educated and was well-practiced in transcribing letters. Indeed, the calligraphy of the letter was truly remarkable. Of course, this could have been done by anyone, but Wells had a premonition that the writer of the letter was a wealthy, educated Englishman.

“Perhaps,” said Wells, who was now voicing his thoughts, “I have been invited to dinner by some rich man who wishes to make my acquaintance. Who could it be? Why, if he indeed was a powerful or famous man, would he neglect to write his name? And why should he not make his intentions abundantly clear?”

Wells was a prolific writer whose fame had spread throughout all of Britain. Many important writers, actors, musicians, artists, government officials, and more sought audiences with him. It is important to note, however, that at the time in which Wells received this intriguing letter, his fame had begun to decrease and his meetings with important individuals had become very rare. Still, it was not uncommon for him to be invited to dinner by rich people; however, he had never been anonymously invited.

Jones returned with the magnifying glass, but Wells had already seen enough of the mysterious invitation. He took the magnifying glass from Jones and inserted it nonchalantly into his vest pocket. With a feigned air of indifference, Wells carelessly tossed the letter onto a nearby table and pretended as though he forgot about it. Walking back over to his chair, he picked up the physics book again and continued to glance over it. In his peripheral vision, he observed Jones quietly strolling over to the table and picking up the letter. Instantly, Wells flicked his eyes toward his butler, but not wanting to betray his affected attitude, he quickly aimed his eyes at the tome in front of him. After several minutes of absolute silence, save the periodic�"and, I daresay, obnoxious�"rustling of pages from Mr. Wells’ book, the old butler spoke.

“Forgive my asking, sir, but what are you going to do in response to this letter?” Wells continued to stare blankly at the pages of his book and acted as though he were enthralled by the complex equations. Glancing at the page number, he was surprised to find that he was still on page 426. Wells was certain that he had turned several pages since opening the book. That’s odd. Then, realizing that he had been spoken to, Wells replied in what appeared to be a half-focused manner when in actuality his thoughts were entirely centered on the mysterious invitation.

“If the distinguished individual who invited me does not have the decency to declare who he is, I will not have the decency to pay him a visit. Furthermore,” here Wells wriggled further into his chair, signifying the resolution with which he spoke. He then looked down at his book and began to speak in a seemingly disinterested tone, saying, “I will not allow myself to be troubled a single moment by the mystery surrounding this slip of paper. My thoughts shall not dwell for even one minute on that infernal invitation. Some devious soul has made a foolish effort to arouse my intrigue. I will not be so easily tricked! No, my good man, I am going to do absolutely nothing in response to that letter.”

Wells leaned forward, pretending to be closely examining the tome’s content. Meanwhile, the butler silently left the room. At the precise moment in which Jones had passed out of sight, Wells leapt from his chair and hastily grabbed the piece of paper. He read it over and over and over and was still able to make no sense of it. After nearly an hour of perusing, thinking about, and agonizing over the invitation, Wells heard his butler approach. Like lightning, he placed the letter on the table, dropped into his chair, and picked up his newspaper, of which he had only read a line or two. Jones entered the drawing room calmly and spoke in his usual monotonous way. In his hands was a tray of the supplies necessary for serving tea.

“I’ve brought you morning tea, Mr. Wells. I see you are still reading the morning paper. Do you have any plans for the day?”

“No, no, none at all,” said Mr. Wells shortly, in the manner of a boy who is trying to conceal some foolish secret from his mother. “I am certainly not leaving tonight, as this letter is of no concern to me. In fact, I have not even thought of it until you just mentioned that, Jones. So don’t get any ideas about me leaving tonight!”

“And why should you?” The butler coolly asked as he poured his master a cup of tea. Wells did not answer; he took a long sip of his warm tea and stared thoughtfully at the nearby table. His butler turned to leave, and when he did, Wells’ eyes began darting back and forth and his countenance seemed to be a mixture of angst and childlike curiosity.

“I-I think I should like to go for a walk,” Wells said hesitantly. He instantly rose to his feet, cast the newspaper aside and strode toward the door. Before he had reached the door of the drawing room, he turned and spoke to Jones. Wells’ movements were jerky and uncertain, entirely out of character for the writer, who was a generally calm and composed person. The way in which he spoke was forced; like one who was making a valiant effort to appear natural in demeanor.

“You don’t, umm, by chance, remember what the lad looked like, do you?”

“I believe I can recall something of his appearance. Why does this lad concern my master?”

“Well, you-you see,” Wells stammered, “I have just had a thought. Perhaps�"er, oh hang it all! It’s none of your business why I care! Keep your nosey question to your own impertinent self and tell me what the lad looked like!” It was very out of character for Wells to become infuriated over such a trifling matter as this, so the old butler was naturally surprised. Nonetheless, Jones maintained his stable deportment.

“My apologies, Master Wells, I did not mean any harm by my inquiry. The lad was nearly five feet tall with long, curly blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were vibrantly blue and he wore a brown coat. This is, I’m afraid, all that I can recall about the lad, but it should provide you with enough information to locate him.”

Without a word, Wells strode across the room, picked the letter off the table and left the room. Moments later, the old butler heard the front door open then close with a decisive slam.

Wells stepped out into the fresh late-morning air and halted a moment to observe the busy street. With squinted eyes, he scanned the crowd; he let himself hope that he would find the lad who had delivered the letter. Of course, had his thoughts been untainted by the mystery of the letter, he would have recognized the folly of this scheme. There was very little chance of finding one particular lad on the busy streets of London. In addition to this, the lad may not even know anything about the writer of the invitation. The writer.

A man who happened to be strolling past where Wells was standing bid the well-known writer ‘good morning’. Wells did not even glance at the well-meaning man; everyone was a suspect now. Wells even suspected that his once-trusty butler may have even written the mysterious invitation merely to tease or provoke his master. Or perhaps it wasn’t the butler. It could be anyone. It could be the man with the fancy hat which largely concealed his face. Or the man who strolled along in the shadows. Perhaps it was the elderly man, limping and scowling at everyone who passes. It could be anyone. Anyone.

Wells had a faint perception that his butler was watching him through an upper window of the townhouse, which may or may not have been true, and so he firmly departed from his front steps and entered the swirling mass of people. He could not sincerely hope to find one small lad in such a large city, but�"heedless of logic�"he was determined to try. For many hours, Wells traversed many of the streets in the large city. In the afternoon hours, his curiosity had turned to determination. By the early evening, his determination had morphed into obsession. When the sun went down, Wells’ obsession had consumed him and become feverish madness. He had been looking for the small lad for almost an entire day, with no success. The writer was exhausted, angry, and more determined than ever to succeed.

He now limped, clutching his invitation, through the streets. His left leg was weak from the quantity of walking that he had done that day. The sun had been down for many hours now, and he figured that it would be winding around to midnight very soon. He took out his watch and saw that it was two minutes past midnight. Wells was on the East side of the city, and West Street was, obviously, on the west side. In order to arrive at his destination by half past midnight, he would have to take a coach very soon.

“Nay,” he said aloud, “I’ll not be visiting a strange host tonight or any other night. He can wait all night if he wants. I declare, I’m not going!” Just at that moment a coach approached and the driver called out to Wells.

“Hey, you’re that writer fella, aren’t you? The crazy one?” Wells nodded slowly and the coach stopped. The driver jumped out and ran up to Wells. “I’d be honored, sir, if you’d take a ride in my coach. Free of charge! If you’d do that, I’d get better business, ‘specially if you’d say a good word here ‘n’ there about me. ‘Sides, it’d be much better than walking, ‘specially because there’s some odd characters out here at night. Is there a specific place you were heading?”

“Yes,” said Wells hesitantly. His mind reeled, trying to quickly make a decision. “Take me to 426 West Street.”

The coach driver, still smiling, agreed heartily. Wells boarded the coach and they were off. The ride did not take very long, or else Wells was daydreaming. He dreaded and anticipated what he would find at half past midnight at 426 West Street. He took out his watch, which read that it was five minutes before the designated time. The driver stopped the coach and helped Wells out.

“Say, mister, would ya mind using a character like me in one of yourn books? I’d ‘preciate it.” Wells agreed to do so and the driver, still smiling, boarded his coach and was out of sight in a matter of minutes.

Up until this point, Wells had not seen what 426 West Street looked like. As He turned to see it, the loud noise of a gunshot rang through the air. Wells crumpled to the ground and everything faded quickly from view.

 

The invitation. It was to lure me to my death. 426…West…Street…

 

Wells woke up.

 

The entire thing had been a dream. He felt the back of his head, where he had been shot and winced in expectation, but there was no wound. He was alive! He longed to ask his butler if he remembered anything about the previous day; but�"remembering that it had been a dream�"refrained from doing so. In a state of incredible elation, Wells bounded down the stairs and lively strode into the dining room. There, he ate a hearty breakfast and promptly entered the drawing room. Once in the drawing room, he picked up the newspaper and began reading it, although he had read it already in his dream.

After a moment, he set down the newspaper and pondered the things that had occurred in his imagination while he slept. He never had found out who the invitation was from. Perhaps today he would visit 426 West Street at his leisure, for his dream had not given him an opportunity to examine it. There were many things that he never had the chance to see or do in his dream. Alas, he would simply have to forget about that odd, imaginative experience that he had. He was just about to set down the paper and pick up a book when a soft knock was heard at the door. Wells leaned over and grabbed a stack of books from a nearby table and spoke a reply to the person who knocked.

“Come in,” he said, only paying partial attention as the knocker entered the room. Wells looked through the books in his lap and selected a tome about physics, the one that he had been reading in his dream. The visitor, as suspected, was Wells’ butler, Jones. Wells opened his book near the end, at page 426.

“A letter was brought for you, Mr. Wells,” the monotonous butler uttered. Wells’ book slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. With trembling hands extended, he accepted the small letter. He fully anticipated its contents.

“A letter? Who is it from?”

Wells’ voice was shaky.

“I do not know, sir,” the butler answered indifferently, “A young lad of about fourteen said that he was told to deliver it to you. I did not even think to ask who he was or whom the letter was from.”

Wells did not make reply; he gently turned the letter over in his rough hands. The letter was very neatly folded and sealed, without a wrinkle or crease to be found on it. There was no writing on the letter to identify its origin, but Wells was aware of exactly what it would say. After a momentary, fearful hesitation, Wells opened the letter, which ran:

 

Dear Mr. Wells,

 

You are invited to 426 West Street at half past midnight tonight. Come alone.

Author's Note

This is one of the first attempts I've made at short fiction. I covet your thoughts.

- Art3mis

Reviews

[Alden Ward]

Very interesting structure; the cyclic torment, a never ending nightmare of confusion and the unknown, is a fun thing to play around with.

Your writing style is well established, obviously learned in the laws of the English language. I don't often see people use "however" correctly. Try not to use the passive voice; it makes for stronger writing. When you described Wells' obnoxiously turning pages in his book, you created a disruptive narrative by including the word "I." It's out of place with the rest of the narrative. I also felt that Wells' paranoia was a bit unrealistic in that he just started looking for the boy--shouldn't more time progress before he becomes obsessed? Perhaps describing this obsession and paranoia after the paragraph indicating the whole day had passed would be more appropriate.

Overall, an interesting idea backed by impressive writing.