1. NEVER look at the gardener

2. Enter doors only after knocking

3. The clocks need daily winding

4. House staff and visitors must mask.

5. Every statue in the Long Hall must be COMPLETELY covered

6. Rule three repeats for the grandfather clock; set again before leaving

7. Wrong deliveries occur daily!

.... Only accept on the second attempt, not the first or third

.... Run the package to the center of the hedge maze.

.... Leave the maze within five minutes.

8. Depart Kilgore Court for any video calls; video and photography are strictly prohibited!

I reviewed the list of rules from the advert one more time as I stepped off the bus. Crumbling stone walls bordered austere Victorian houses lining the narrow street. At the top of the hill, the current caretaker for Kilgore Court, Pim Perrin, met me beside a towering wrought-iron gate. Small and straight-backed in a gray suit, he would have cut a dapper figure were it not for the ostentatious beaked and feathered mask that covered his face.

“Good morning, Sam Miller,” said Pim, extending a wrinkled hand. “Your references claim you excel at following instructions to the letter, and have never broken a rule.”

“Correct. I am task-oriented. People call me computer-like.” I shrugged. Less flattering terms had been used for me. Inflexible. Anal-retentive. I was not popular with classmates, who disliked my perfect obedience to all posted signs and placards.

“That is just what we need here, Sam. Now...” Pim reached into a bag and from it pulled a feathered mask identical to his own, but newer. “Wear at all times, except in the sitter’s quarters.”

“Why?” I nearly asked, but caught myself. Who was I to question the whims of the wealthy? Especially at the generous pay I was being offered for my three week stint while Mr. Kilgore and his staff went overseas.

I heard the smile in Pim’s voice as he said, “It’s all right for you to ask questions. Mr. Kilgore is a bit of an eccentric. Anyone who enters the house, even for a short time, must wear a mask. The magpie mask represents the sitter. Any other questions?”

I mentally reviewed the rules. “Never look at the gardener?”

“He is superb at his work but has an unusual deformity and becomes violent if anyone sees it. It is unlikely you will meet him, but if your paths cross, just keep your eyes averted and he won’t bother you.”

Peculiar, but if the man excelled at his job, perhaps his skills were worth the inconvenience of his idiosyncrasies.

The remaining rules seemed self-explanatory, except, “Rule seven, the delivery...”

“Oh, THAT.” He chuckled. “If you’re still curious in three weeks, I’ll tell you. Just be sure to leave the maze quickly. There are some flora at the center that induce pretty powerful hallucinogenic effects after more than a few minutes. Nothing bad will happen to you if you stay longer, but…”

“I will set a stopwatch.”

“Good. The regular staff will attend to most things when they get back. Your presence is mostly for the packages and winding the clocks. Beyond these rules, the rest of the time you may spend at your leisure.”

“Really? It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple,” Pim agreed.

The House

An ornate staircase wound upwards, flanked by towering columns stretching to a domed ceiling. The view outside the windows showed a dazzling sea of green dotted with flowers like stars, and topiary animals dancing among them.

Pim showed me a coat room with extra masks for visitors. He led me through each area of the mansion, knocking at each door, winding the clocks, and lastly checking all the dustcovers in the Long Hall. Having finished nearly everything in under an hour, he took me out to the garden, where despite the beautiful greenery, the odor of rot wafted to us.

“Carrion flowers,” explained Pim, sweeping his arm toward a variety of strange blossoms with spotted red petals as large as my arms. “Their blossoms mimic the smell of decaying flesh. We have a greenhouse, too, full of orchids in the genus Bulbophyl—” His fingers caught my arm.

A dark shape lumbered in our periphery.

I almost turned my head—

“Rule one,” hissed Pim, his grip nearly cutting off my circulation.

I kept my face resolutely forward, resisting the urge to flick my eyes to the lurching figure at my periphery… The gardener swung something trunk-like—an arm? A gardening tool? I couldn’t make out any features without looking.

“Face forward,” said Pim. “Do. Not. Look.”

A moment later the gardener shuffled off.

Pim released my arm. “Apologies,” he said. “That surprised me. I don’t remember this ever happening.”

“It’s all right. I probably would have looked if you hadn’t reminded me.”

“Just be alert when you are in the garden and averting your eyes will become second nature. Come. I’ll show you the sitter’s quarters, and then we will be done for the day.”

Sitter’s Quarters

The sitter’s quarters was a separate suite of rooms with a little balcony, a private bathroom with a clawfoot tub, a study, and its own kitchen and laundry. This suite belonged to Pim himself, though he told me, “It is for the sitter’s use, and while I am away, you will be the sitter, so use it as your own.”

Strange pictures hung on the wall. One, “The Bone Closet,” depicted an ordinary closet door opening to a scribble of black, scrawled circles that might have been eyes peering out. Another, “Statues,” showed a figure in the Long Hall reaching from under a dustcover, seemingly trying to grab a visitor by the ankle. The most disturbing, “Skinless Man,” depicted a figure who appeared to be stitched from a patchwork of skins, bits of him dropping away while he sewed on a new piece at his belly. Pim told me the artworks had all been rendered by the original caretaker, also named Pim Perrin (apparently the name was passed like a title). From an old black and white photo, the original caretaker was Pim’s opposite in every respect, towering and heavyset where Pim was dainty. His face was also grotesquely disfigured. As for Pim—while he informed me that in this suite, masking was not required, still, he kept his on, as much part of his uniform as his jacket and tie.

One door in the suite led to a chamber that did not match the gothic décor: a security room, with monitors to the front gate, veranda, and porch.

“The CCTV system is finicky but you need not worry unless there is a break-in. Should any emergency arise, call me before anyone else, even the authorities.” Pim took from his pocket the heavy brass key to the house, which he placed into my hand. Then he pointed to a prominently framed list of rules on the wall. “Obey them all, Sam. From now on, the rules are your software.”

Day One:

After performing my allotted tasks, I took out my laptop (no wifi—but I found I could connect with my phone as a hotspot) and typed up this post. I was in the middle of describing the pictures when the doorbell rang—so loudly it made me jump. I nearly rushed to answer, but then remembered rule 7. Absurdly, I had to ignore the initial delivery attempt. The rules are your software. The package I accepted on the second delivery was large and heavy. I held my breath against the smell of the carrion flowers and brought it to the center of the maze.

I did not encounter the gardener.

Day Two:

The Long Hall contains dozens of shrouded statues beneath its gold-gilded fresco ceiling. The heavy dustcovers are always slipping off, hence rule 5, “Every statue in the Long Hall must be COMPLETELY covered.” I was about halfway through checking the covers when behind me came a soft whispery—shhhhlllp. At first I thought it was a draft, but when it happened again, I looked back and noticed the arrangement of the statues had changed. One of the tall sheeted shapes was now closer to me than it had been a moment ago.

Thinking I’d imagined it, I turned back to my task.

Shlllllp.

The hairs on my neck stood straight. Even though I knew it was foolish, I could not get out of my head the artwork of a hand reaching out to drag in the nearest passerby. Still, I tried to ignore it and continued my task—

Shhhhhpt.

I whirled, and choked back a scream. A dozen of the shrouded statues loomed around me. The nearest had its arm extended, fingers poking from beneath the sheet, scarcely on inch from my face, so close I glimpsed actual fingerprints swirled into the marble. A diamond glittered on its finger. My stomach clenched, and I nearly fled, but my habit of obedience whispered: Rule 5. I forced my shaking fingers to tug the sheet over the statue until it was entirely covered. After checking the rest of them, I rushed for the door. Knock, whispered Rule 2 in my mind. As soon as I did, it was like a sigh went out of the room. I cast one final look back.

The statues were all in their original positions.

Day Three:

A rule was broken.

When the doorbell rang for the second delivery attempt, the driver shuffled his feet and asked, embarrassed, “Uh… say, do you think I could use your bathroom real quick?”

After consulting the rules, I retrieved a mask from the foyer cloakroom. “Put this on.”

“Oh, is there like, a party or something?” He laughed, turning over the elaborate mask—a goat that vaguely resembled his goateed face—before putting it on. “How do I look?”

I ushered him to the sitter’s quarters bathroom. My only goal was to get him in and out. After a very quick few sounds, the toilet flushed, and he emerged, raving about the fluffiness of the hand towels. I escorted him back out the front door to his delivery truck, relieved to watch him drive away. Afterward, I delivered the package to the maze, then made myself tea while reading some notes written by the original caretaker.

Judging by the ravings (they were in an old journal I’d found in the study), the man was quite insane. A common thread—various books and articles on the shelves detailed how members of the Kilgore family had gone mad or missing over the generations. And not only family. Supposedly, quite a few visitors had died mysteriously or disappeared—including a bride on her wedding day (reminding me of the ring I had seen on the marble finger of the hand reaching for me). “Most of the reason Kilgore Court is booked for weddings and events is because people hope to see the lights flicker or an apparition float by,” Pim told me yesterday, after I called about the statues. “And sometimes the staff oblige by tinkering with the electricity or wobbling the tables.” He’d insisted the moving statues was a hallucination brought on by the hedge maze flora outside the Long Hall’s windows, and advised that chamomile tea would mitigate the effect—

DING-DONG!

I ignored the ringing as I finished my tea. Then I went to use the bathroom—

I froze.

A small black phone lay on the edge of the sink.

“Shit,” I hissed, snatching it up. The ringing hadn’t been the third attempt. I darted to the CCTV.

On the screen, the driver was at the front door, banging. He flung his hands up and then walked down the porch steps and round to the garden.

I rushed downstairs, scrambling to fasten my mask. A horrible feeling churned in the pit of my stomach. My feet flew over the marble floor as I dashed to the veranda and down the garden steps.

At the bottom of the steps, I froze.

The driver stood in the grass, keys dangling in his limp fingers, looking—

I shut my eyes. “Hey! Hey, you!” I shouted. “Visitors are prohibited from being out here!”

The driver ignored me. I staggered forward until I reached him and grabbed hold of him. His body was rigid, as if rigor mortis had set in; it felt as if he had flexed steel for muscles. I tried to tug him, but a strange sound came from his lips—a sort of chuckle. A stench made me gag—the man’s bowels had loosened. And beneath the reek was something else—putrid like old meat. I let go of him and dry heaved. And that’s when I saw it. Not looked at it. Thank God, I only glimpsed it from the corner of my eye, because if I had really looked, I doubt I’d have been able to tear myself away. The gardener stood at my periphery—broad-shouldered and enormous, with a face far too long and slick, oily skin. Like liquified flesh.

The driver was petrified, twitching and giggling while the gardener took a lurching step forward—

“Huuuuuuuughhhhhhh…”

A sound between a bellow and a moan shook the air.

I panicked, slipping on the wet grass, dropping the driver’s phone and scrambling back, mostly navigating by feel until my knuckles slammed up against the veranda steps. I scrabbled up, barely remembering to knock before entering and then dashing up to my quarters. “Ohgodohgodohgod!” I dialed Pim, hands shaking. “Rule one!” I burst. “Rule one! He—he—he—"

“Slow down, Sam—" After listening to my babble, Pim interrupted with: “Let me check the veranda camera—"

My fingers were already dancing over the keys, bringing up footage. The veranda camera only caught the back of the driver, still standing just as I had left him, viewed from behind as he gripped his keys and stared, his posture taut as a hare about to bolt.

Suddenly, he jerked the keys up to his face and jammed them into his eyes—

I clapped a hand to my mouth.

“Sam? Sam are you there—”

“He… he’s stabbing his own eyes….”

The keys kept jamming in and out.

“Sam.” Pim’s voice was cool, calming, as if speaking to a child. “What you see on your screen, and what I see on my phone screen, are different. They’re different because you’ve just come out of the maze. Look out the window. Do you see anything in the driveway?”

I tore my gaze away from the CCTV and looked outside the window. “N-no.”

“If the driver had blinded himself his van would still be there. He obviously needs his eyeballs to drive.” Pim spoke dryly. “You’re imagining things. Drink some chamomile tea and then look at the cameras again. There’s nothing there—"

DING-DONG!

“Oh!” I bolted upright. “Maybe that’s him now—”

“STOP!” Pim almost yelped. “Rule seven! Third delivery!”

“O-oh…” I stammered, chastised.

“That was too close… No slip ups, Sam. Ever. Break a rule, and we have to let you go. You won’t have the money to move out of your parents’ basement. They want you out, right?”

How was it Pim Perrin knew about that? Had I mentioned it in the interview? Or… of course. The address I put on my application was the same as my parents’. He was a very astute man, very exacting. Like me. But whereas Pim was successful, I had failed at all my previous employment attempts, and at good relations with my family, because I am too rigid, too… inflexible. I am only good at obeying rules. If I cannot succeed at this job, with its simple rules, then I can succeed at nothing. I drank the chamomile Pim suggested and, after collecting myself, set the grandfather clock and departed. There was no trace of the driver out front—only the tracks of the delivery van. Whatever I’d imagined I’d seen was too nightmarish to be real. But if I did not wish to be susceptible to the same influences that I suspected drove the original caretaker mad, I’d have to be careful to spend as little time in proximity to the garden as possible, confining myself mostly to the sitter’s quarters.

House Rules

That night I had a dream in which I stood in the study, and the pictures were much more vivid, each moving as if alive as I reached out to the rules sign and flipped it over. On the reverse were explanations for each of the heretofore inexplicable rules:

1. NEVER look at the gardener—the sight induces unbound terror and madness

2. Enter doors only after knocking—un-knocked doors lead to the bone closet

3. The clocks need daily winding—their chimes cast the veil

4. House staff and visitors must mask—the skinless man stalks the unmasked! There is no escaping the skinless man—

I woke in a cold sweat, and hurried to scribble what I’d read before I could forget. It was only then that I noticed a hidden meaning embedded in the rules. A message designed, I was sure, by the same hand that painted all those bizarre images that had wormed their way into my dreams. The mansion’s original caretaker spent a lifetime exposed to the maze’s hallucinogenic effects, and perhaps that worked permanently into his brain, as I suspected it was beginning to work into mine.

I took the first word of each rule and the punctuation and put them together to decipher his warning:

NEVER enter the house. Every Rule Wrong! Only run. Leave. Depart!

Nor did his warning end there. He embedded one more secret—the secret of what he believed to be the true nature of this grand old mansion. If you want to know what it is, just remove the numbers and read the first letter of each line.

UPDATE!