grand hall and the study. This was in
comparison a relatively simple dining
room, the center dominated by a giant oaken table that stretched almost
the entirety of the room. The table
was surrounded by a set of fifteen
chairs. Each chair was placed slightly
askew like someone had been sitting
there just moments ago. The chair at
the head of the table had been leaned
against the wooden dining room set.
Boston was at first ecstatic at the
sight of the dining room. Finally, a
room in this house that was not menacing, potentially filled with something valuable that wasn't carved
into some kind of awful mosaic. This
room wasn't even filled with snakes
or scorpions or anything. It was a
pleasant change of pace. This feeling
lasted for all of a minute before Boston began seeing the table for what it
was. It was an ugly misshapen piece
of furniture. Misplaced in the grandeur of this house, it seemed to be
solidly hewn pieces of wood and iron
bands attached to squat thick legs
bound to the table by iron studs bored
through the top of table.
There seemed to be no true value
inherent in the table. Boston sighed.
It would cost more to remove this
garish piece of offensive garbage than
he could ever hope to sell it for. The
chairs would be a salvageable sale if
he could get them all to go in a set at
auction. Boston put his lamp on the
table, preparing himself with his
small ritual that he would go through
every room in this house. He removed
a small notebook, his page marked
with his pencil. Licking the tip of the
pencil he began to transcribe the
room: ‘Room contains fifteen chairs of
same model, cherry wood, no cushions, spindle legs and arms...’ Boston
went from chair to chair checking
each one for worthwhile carvings, or
any mars that would diminish the
value of the set further. Boston
pulled the head chair back away from
the table and set it evenly on the
carpet behind him. Sitting himself on
the head chair, Boston began to make
the numbers dance in front of him,
loosing himself in a world of dollars
and calculation. It was nice to have
something that actually made sense
in front of him. Numbers worked the
same way no matter how crazy or
creepy a house was. Thunder and
lightning never made sums scary.
They were manageable. Looking up
from his rows of sums, his slim grin
was instantly erased as he looked
down the length of the table.
Stretching in front of him, the table
was gouged deeply as if someone had
been laid across it on their stomach
and had been forcibly dragged off it,
their fingers leaving deep dragging
scratches in the rough uneven table
and even, surprisingly, in the metal
bounds. “What the hell happened
here?” Boston said to the still room,
gently poking at the deep grooves in
the metal with his pencil. There was
no way that such a deep cut could be
done with normal human flanges.
Boston pushed his chair back, eager
to put some distance between himself and this room. There was nothing else of value in here and no
reason to stick around.
nished, pots and pans lined the walls,
and a small table in the center of the
room, lined with two benches, were
the only true furnishings in kitchen.
By all normal expectations this room
was exactly what Boston had thought
it would be. What stopped his breath
in his chest was the family seated at
the table. The mother busied herself
over the stove top, three children
played absent minded with the empty
bowls and bric brac on top of the worn
table. The click of the door opening
alerted the woman of Boston's entrance. Turning her head to look at
the noise, she acknowledged his presence with only the smallest of nods.
She was an unnatural beauty, black
hair, and dark e