Mr . Rutherford by Steven Lombardi
I inherited the job from my father , who said , “ Mr . Rutherfurd is a cruel master , but the work pays well . Your body won ’ t fall apart like the men on the piers .” I wondered why he offered me the work after all he had done . Was it guilt or to build the family ’ s wealth ? Maybe when he closed his eyes , he saw all the ways he neglected me , and this was his penance . Or maybe he knew about my gambling debts .
Looking back , I was a fool to focus on the intentions instead of his warnings . He said the estate was strange , and to ignore the small movements in the shadows and to push away the anger that would squeeze my heart with every passing day . If only I had the foresight to understand what he was trying to tell me .
Mr . Rutherfurd was waiting for me in his study , tucked away in a deep corner of the labyrinthine estate . I knocked and heard a boar scream of a voice cry , “ Come !”
I never saw a man so old or thin , with pale cracked lips and a head that nodded on a slender neck . And never had I seen anything like the hideous brace that encaged his head . It resembled some sort of medieval torture contraption , with pincers and droppers to keep the eyes pried opened and moist , sponges to keep the cheeks dry .
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