The Perils of Curiosity
A Tale of Treachery and Woe in the face of Inquisitiveness
By A Fond Reader
To most people, being curious is a good thing. It invokes knowledge and learning, and brightens the soul. In my case, however, curiosity was not a welcome thought, feeling, or reaction. In my case, curiosity was fatal.
My tale began at my simple home in Yorkshire. A townhouse, with creeping vines and a deceptively secretive air about it that would catch my interest on no too few occasions.
It was at this townhouse that I spent my early years; schooling and housework were my main goings-on, at least on the surface. By age ten or so I had learned much of what I could through the menial teachings of a common educator, and my interests wandered elsewhere – mainly onto the subject of the house where I resided.
You see, I was not necessarily a wild child, per say, but I was extremely independent in my own rights. I had no mother to speak of, and any father I had was off doing otherworldly things, of which I clearly was to take no part. This, consequentially, is where I was wrong.
Indeed, I would end up affecting my father’s work very much. Or, rather, my father’s work would end up affecting me in the most unpleasant of ways.
What my father did for a living was at that point (age ten) unknown to me. The most of what I knew about my father came from not-so-well-kept secrets, and whispers in the kitchen; that sort of thing. Although I did not gather many details – and nothing about my mother – his general persona came to be known to me so well that if I passed him on the street I would turn and stare, for his presence, or even absence, was rather unforgettable.
From what they in the servants wing shared, he was a rather wicked man; a wretched soul with sinful goals. He took no part in religion and was rumored to be an atheist, although this was so uncommon at the time that the notion was brushed off as unlikely, and shuffled off for days with less speculation to be discussed.
Many theories went around about his exact occupation – ranging from an accountant who steals from his bank to a spy for MI6 that had betrayed the government for a capital. The only thing that was certain, however, was that he had done something very, very wrong.
--
As mentioned before, I was a very inquisitive child. I explored my residence thoroughly, snooping and eavesdropping all the while. Every once in a while I discovered something I wasn’t supposed to: the stable boy and one of the kitchen maids in a broom closet, some birthday presents hidden away for better times. But in general there wasn’t anything too exciting.
However, one day, there was.
It was a fairly typical day – aside from the fact that Father was coming home in a few days and the servants were in a flurry, all activities proceeded as usual.
I started out with a fairly normal day. Panya, my maid, was late with my breakfast, but that was only to be expected in such a time of frantic restoration. After breakfast I went to lessons. Madame Finnάl kept me caged up in the workbooks for about an hour, by which point I had read through several books and finished that day’s lesson. Finally I was released and I spent the remainder of time between tea (I always brought bread and cheese and jerky on my endeavors so there was no need to stop for lunch) looking for somewhere new to explore, and as the time grew closer to an end, I finally did.
I was in the upper regions of the house, practicing my lock picking – it was a recently acquired skill and I was eager to test my skill – and found a peculiar door. I had seen the door before, and recognized it, (for I knew all the features of my home backwards and forwards) but I had never been able to enter it. The door was rather mysterious, with its dark wood and intricate carvings. I reached for the knob and, as I did, I recalled how it had burned my hand the last time I ventured to try and enter it.
Ah, but what better time to test my skills! I cried silently.
And so I pulled out my tools and examined the lock. It was old and slightly rusted; quite a challenge. I grinned and examined the lock and tools, carefully choosing the correct picks. Finally the right ones came clear to me and I gently inserted them into the lock, maneuvering them through the cogs. A slight sting came from the lock, but I ignored it as the wonderful click emanated from the lock. It seemed to reverberate through the hall, and I glanced back a moment as if to watch it leave.
Then I turned back and stood. My hands were still on the knob, and I turned them. The door swung out slowly, but I noted that not a squeak could be heard. Then I stepped into the dark room.
It was almost pitch black and I could see very little, but I was terrified to go back for a candle in the case that somehow the door would be locked again when I came back, and I would never get this chance again.
I groped along the wall looking for a light. Finally I found a dusty switch and flipped it on whilst shielding my eyes against the sudden brightness. Amazingly, though, the light was very soft and demur, and when I looked for the source I found a lamp with a sort of shade thing on it. How peculiar. I leaned in to examine it.
But there were more interesting things to explore in this room. I explored chests and cabinets filled with obscure objects and dusty texts. The room seemed to be a long, wide hall, filled to the brim with nonsense stuffs, and I wondered at its size. It was quite possibly the most random and complete set of trivial things that I could ever imagine. I explored it thoroughly and animatedly.
Then I reached the end of the hall. There was a door, identical to the one at the beginning of the hall. I paused, unsure about what to do. On one side, it could be a completely different door (the more common sensical reasoning) on the other side, it could be the same door and some kind of trickery was being played out (the less rational, but more likely reasoning). Then I shrugged, not wanting to bother with guesswork and hypothesizes. Walking up to the door charily, I pulled out my lock picks.
My hand shot out, quite entirely of its own accord, and grasped the handle firmly. Slowly, carefully, I twisted it…
And was pulled. Thrust forward. Drawn, heaved, hauled, lugged. By some unseen force I was dragged into the…well, as odd as it may seem, I was drawn through the door handle, if I’m not mistaken. I heard a distinct popping sound, and felt a squished sensation. Then it was over, and I was sitting in the dimly lit room once again.
Except, as I looked around, I saw that it wasn’t quite the same room. Everything, every little detail, was completely backwards. As in, the opposite of the other room. An exact copy, down to the smallest crack on the wall, was here.
I sat down, not knowing what to do. Clearly something happened that was paranormal and quite out of my grasp, and I knew to not attempt any sort of escape. From what I had heard of such things, meddling any further would only hurt severely, not help.
--
I sat there for a while; ages, really, not really doing anything but sit and try not to think. I didn’t know how long I sat there – I still have no idea. But eventually something happened, thank the gods.
I had been sitting there for a long while, not really doing anything but laze about, when the door opened silently (I only knew this because I had been facing the door at the time) and a man walked in. It took me a moment, for I had never actually truly met him before, but then I recognized the man as my father.
Needless to say, I felt no urge to go up and hug him.
“You? What are you doing here?” He asked impatiently, as if he didn’t actually care, but still felt the exacting need to know why I was intruding his space.
“I could ask you the same. I, for one, was exploring.” I said fearlessly. This was not a wise thing to do, apparently, for provoking him only proved to anger him further.
He said nothing to me then, but made a few complicated motions and spoke ominously in some foreign language. It sounded almost like Latin to me, but I couldn’t be sure.
As he spoke and gestured the air in the room warmed and stirred. There was no wind to be spoken of, yet the air seemed to whirl around me. It felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket, yet I took no comfort from the feeling.
His voice rose steadily and I trembled slightly, terrified at not knowing what was going on. I had only come here to explore, yet now I was in a whirlwind of anger and obscurity.
Finally the chanting ended at a crescendo, and I froze when my father did. He smiled suddenly. But it was a grim, satisfied smile. The smile of someone who has just murdered their worst enemy, rather than the sort of satisfied smile of mine earlier.
“Maybe now you have learned your lesson, child. I told you when you were small to never go wandering in this place; you disobeyed me, and now you are being punished. Your curiosity has become your enemy, and dissatisfaction is now your companion. I hope you are happy together.” He cackled once more, and went with a flourish, leaving me to sit on the ground, confused as only a ten-year-old can be.
--
I was stuck there. I have not left that room since that fateful day years and years ago. I have not died, and I have not gone hungry. I have grown old, and I expect to be driven to sleep some day soon. I await it patiently, for I have learned to control my inquisitive and impatient nature in my time here.
I cannot say that my father was right to put me here - what kind of person locks another in an inescapable prison such as this? – but I now understand his reasoning, and I have forgiven him. Even in this desolate place I have learned much, and I spend my days cleaning the room by the soft glowing light.
I have learned since that day that the echo I followed was actually a warning call to its master, and after that lock was undone I had no chance of survival. My fate was sealed, I suppose.
I still have my lock picks. They sit in the corner by the door, waiting for the day when I will be daring enough to try them out once again. That day will not come; I have listened to my message and have heeded the warning.
I will sit here, then, for all days. Not a thing can be done for my situation; don’t try and find me. I was locked in a room in Yorkshire, and that is where I shall stay. And someday, when the world is a better place and men like my father no longer reign free, someone will find me and set my curious spirit free.
What shall I do until that day comes? Why, I shall wait. I shall write my story and I shall wait.
Because no matter how curious you are, no matter how strong your will may be, it can always be broken by someone who has the right tools.
