Questionable Intentions

The musty room creeps up into Clayton’s nostrils as light seeps in through the half-opened curtain in the crappy room he’s been holed up in for the last three weeks. He coughs lightly as he opens his allergen-irritated eyes and then lets out three heaving sneezes as he sits up in the four-poster ‘luxury framed’ bed that feels no closer to luxury than the dodgy antique salesman his Grandfather had no doubt bought it from.

Ugh, another day. Great.

As a recent divorcé living in his deceased Grandfather’s old house, life isn’t feeling ‘all that’ for Mr. Clayton (Clay) Rodney Reynolds. The house is an 18th Century Renaissance build in the quaint English town of Heather Hills, and let me tell you, the house is definitely more trouble than it’s worth. After Clay’s Grandfather began to develop Alzheimer’s in his older years, he had lost track of keeping up with maintenance, and due to his business coming to a halt and his fortunes dwindling, he could no longer afford to have his ‘trusty servants’ maintain the property. Clay’s father, Magnus, had ceased all communication with his Grandfather around the time Clay was… well, then… how old was he? He can barely remember a time when he ever did spend time with his Grandfather. He must have been very young.

It sometimes makes Clay feel sad to think that his Grandfather passed away alone in this big, old house. He wondered if the loneliness had made him lose his mind more quickly, that maybe if he had visited…

A LOUD CLANG interrupts Clay’s train of thought. What in the bloody…?

He jumps down the stairs, nearly tripping down the bottom two as he lands on a pile of mail on the floor near the front door. How peculiar?

He shuffles through the first few pieces of junk mail until he stumbles across a letter addressed to, well, him.

But nobody knows that he’s here… Nobody except for this father of course, and Toby - I guess Toby would know he was here. That still doesn’t explain who would be sending him mail of all things. He hadn’t received a letter from anyone other than British Gas since God-knows-when.

As he holds the envelope in his hands and looks down at the perfect, hand-written address, he can’t help but feel a sort of power in this envelope. It’s almost as if the letter is staring at him, the words becoming three-dimensional as he’s looking at them. He begins to feel dizzy.

Eesh. That’s what you get from staring at some stupid envelope for too long. What is wrong with me?

Not being able to wait any longer, Clay opens up the envelope and reads the letter. It says:

“To Mr. Clayton Rodney Reynolds,

It is with great honor that I can finally write this letter to you. Your father has always spoken so highly of you and regarded you with such candor and humor. He assures me that your wit, along with your principled and grounded character, will make for an exceptional addition to our alliance.

It is my duty, upon the will of your deceased family member, that I share with you the details of your trust inheritance and your obligations as a committed member of our high society.

Each member, upon initiation into our alliance - formally known as THE INTERNATIONAL PALMS TRUST - will receive a $20,000 down payment to the bank account of their choice from an off-shore account we hold due to the preservation of secrecy and security. We understand that this amount is not exceptionally high, however, please do understand that there are certain obligations that must be fulfilled in order for you to receive your full commissions. This is standard protocol and nothing to worry about, as your affiliates will assure you.

It is with all of this said that I cordially invite you to join me at The Hillbrook Hotel in Heather Hills at 20:00 sharp tomorrow evening, Thursday 4th March, in order for you to sign the contract and proceed with the alliance. I simply cannot wait to make your acquaintance!

I will say, with all due respect, that if you do not show up, this offer will be considered null and void and I will never contact you again. Furthermore, this offer is STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. Any breach of confidentiality, including consulting a legal or financial firm on the matter, will be considered treason and will result in penalties that I would much rather not disclose in this letter to you. Once more, this is to preserve the safety and security of THE INTERNATIONAL PALMS TRUST and its members.

I very much hope that you will consider my offer, and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, my new brother.

Yours truly,

Mr. Seymour McCready

Dated Wednesday 3rd March 2020”

The letter feels so ominous it is hurting Clayton to blink at this point in time.

Wow. What the actual…?

ANOTHER CLANG.

This time coming from the back door slamming.

Ugh, it’s probably Rosemary again.

Rosemary Higgins was always creeping around. Clay wasn’t sure if she was a sinister spy or a lost puppy. Maybe she had had an affair with his Grandfather? He couldn’t be sure. Last Wednesday he’d found her picking flowers in the front garden and when he approached her she simply screamed into his face and ran away. He couldn’t help but assume she had partially lost her mind, if not completely.

Clay makes his way to the back door and has a look around. Nobody is there, but as he looks down at the doormat, there is a single red rose lying there, still and ghostly. He quickly looks side to side and picks it up, taking it inside and locking the door in haste.

Bloody Rosemary.

Now, back to this letter. What is Clay supposed to make of this? Who is this McCready fellow and what does he have to do with his father? The letter definitely said father, didn’t it? Clay can’t help but feel that there is something very strange going on with all of this. Some random bloke named Seymour sends him a letter talking about some kind of “Secret Society?” This sounded like something straight out of a Nancy Drew novel - I mean come on!

After much contemplation, and weighing up the pros and cons, Clay decides that he will go and meet the bloke. What can it hurt for him to at least show up and have a meal at The Hillbrook? If it is all a lie, then at least he gets a decent meal out of it. If not, he gets $20,000. It’s not an excessive amount of money, but it certainly isn’t a small amount either. Especially with all of his debts from the divorce and pending court cases with dumb old Toby on who’s getting the Prius. Besides, Clay’s horoscope recently had said that he would be coming into money. He’d even done the full moon ritual and everything this month. Maybe there is such a thing as ‘manifestation’ or whatever. Maybe his ex, Toby, hadn’t been so off with the fairies after all (although walking in on him having an orgy in the shower was maybe taking the whole ‘free love’ a step too far in Clayton’s eyes).

I guess there's only one way to find out.

*

Clay sits at table 343 at The Hillbrook Hotel twiddling his thumbs nervously. He arrived at 19:45, just to be safe (and also because he wanted to sink a pint before this creeper arrived). He looks down at his wristwatch. It’s exactly 19:59. As he looks up, the door of the hotel opens, jingling tiny bells as it does so, and in comes an old man who looks kind of like a ghost. He reminds Clay of Count Olaf from those books he read as a child, only he is wearing a suit instead of a cape. The man’s eyes meet Clay’s swiftly, piercing straight through to his soul with their grey-blue haze. He then smiles, his mouth curving up triangularly like a crow’s beak, and he walks straight over to Clay’s table. Clay is literally sweating like a pig, he feels incredibly nervous and is wondering if he did make the right decision after all. This man could very well be a serial killer.

“Mr. Reynolds, how pleased I am to see you.” Says the crow-looking man, in a crow-like caw. “It’s me, Mr. McCready. I assume you received my letter. I mean, of course, you did! Why else would you be sitting here waiting?”

“Uh. Yes. Hello Mr. McCready, my name is -”

“Yes, I know. Clayton Rodney Reynolds. No need to introduce yourself, pal! Should we get down to business then?” He says, slapping Clay on the shoulder lightly as he makes his way around the table to his seat.

Oh, dear.

After a few cocktails and a large T-bone steak, courtesy of Mr. Seymour McCready, Clay finds himself signing away his life - so to speak - to a man he had just met in a hotel restaurant. He couldn’t help but feel mesmerised as Seymour told him stories of how he and his father used to go travelling together to Seville and Monte Carlo, how they devoured colourful cocktails on the beaches in Santiago and made pottery sculptures in Paris. It seemed old Magnus was much more interesting than Clay had thought. He had always believed that he and his father had absolutely nothing in common.

Living a double life seemed like a scandalous uptake, but it could also very well be the key to happiness. Seymour also mentioned that he would have to meet the other members of the alliance in due course, there were many of them scattered all over planet Earth, and that once you were a member, you were a member for life. That part did sound a little heavy, but the fifth Manhattan he was swallowing somehow seemed to make it a little lighter.

“Sign me up!” Clay gurgles, and before he knows it, he is back in the four-poster bed he woke up in, with the dim jingle in his ear of the bell of the restaurant door as Mr. McCready exited the restaurant and the hangover from hell to fit the boot.

*

It’s five days after Clay joined THE INTERNATIONAL PALMS TRUST. The money arrived in his account as promised and he feels...good...he thinks. Not much has changed really, he is still deciding if he wants to invest any of his initial downpayment and is also wondering about these ‘additional commitments’ that Mr. McCready had mentioned in the initial letter.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, there is a knock at the front door. He answers it, and who else is standing there but Rosemary Higgins.

“Hello, Rosemary - are you alright?”

“Why, yes dear. I came by to bring you this.” She says in her shaky, timid voice as she hands him a black notebook.

Clay takes the book.

“Thanks, Rosemary. That’s very kind of you.” Says Clay.

The poor dear, she probably has no idea what she is giving me.

She nods lightly but then begins stepping back towards the front garden. As she does so, her mouth curves into a sinister smile, and her eyes begin to squint - just for a split second.

Clay inches back into the house with the book in hand, feeling a bit uneasy and takes a seat in the living room. He opens the book and on the first page it reads:

“This book belongs to Rodney Peter Reynolds.”

As he reads this, a shiver creeps up his spine. That is, was, the name of Clay’s Grandfather. Rosemary must have been having an affair with him.

He opens the next page. The book reads:

“The List of 1987

Bethany Curtaivue $450,000

Jackson Lichtenberg $750,000

Iris Lem $22,876,990

Sascha Davis $4,678,554

Total earnings = $28,755,544

Years = 28.7"

As he keeps turning the pages, there are similar documentations. Each year, a list of names and sums attached to them. And at the end, a total of years. What does this all mean?

Towards the end of the book, a small photograph falls out. Clay looks at the photo and can make out two young boys who look very similar - brothers, he assumes. On the back of the photograph it reads:

“Magnus age 9, Rodney age 11.”

Clay feels his heart nearly drop out of his chest. He understands immediately that something much more sinister is happening here.

Could Rodney be his father? But how?

The door blows open, and when Clay looks at the entryway, he sees Count Olaf standing there again.

“Hello!” He caws. “I believe I might have some explaining to do. Oh, and of course, your first assignment. I can’t wait!”

Mr. McCready comes and sits on the couch with Clayton, and explains to him that his father formed an alliance in the early 80s when he was going through financial hardship. For you and your mother, he explained. The alliance involved a deathly deal being made with dark entities, for which they bargained the soul of a human in return for Clay’s father receiving the net worth of the soul which was being bargained.

It wasn’t long before Rodney became addicted to the power, and began recruiting others to do his bidding across the world for him as well. Rodney was blind-sighted when he took his biggest prize yet in 1987, Ms. Iris Lem, when he aged almost 23 years overnight. What the entities had failed to tell Mr. Reynolds, was that with each soul he took came a price of his own - the length of his life. His own soul was being consumed by the dark entities as well.

“So when your father aged so dreadfully, your Uncle Magnus took you in, not wanting to expose you to this dreadful fate. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of time before your dear old Daddy would have to pass the legacy onto you. You see, these entities don’t play nice. Once they have their pincers around the fabrics of the material world, they will not let go without a fight.”

“And, you? How do you fit into all of this?” Clay asks.

“Well, I’m just the messenger - so they say. I am the one who delivers the deals and gets them signed, sealed, and delivered.” He seems unnaturally chuffed as he says this. “Shall we get down to business, Mr. Reynolds?” He asks.

Clay ponders for a moment how his life has changed so drastically so quickly. He feels like he is staring down the barrel of mystery. He then turns to Mr. McCready and says:

“Well, what’s next then?”