Chapter 7: The Bastards’ Stay

Inviting Marlo and his entourage to stay at Montclair was Venus’s idea, though she presented it with the kind of graciousness that bordered on cruelty.

“Why not stay here for a while?” she’d suggested over one of their many arguments. Her tone had been honeyed, her smile sharp. “You’ve expressed such an attachment to the estate. It seems only fair that you experience its… charms firsthand.”

Marlo had taken the bait, his bruised ego masking the triumph in Venus’s eyes. “Temporarily,” she’d added, driving the word home like a nail.

And so, the bastards descended upon Montclair.

The Invasion

Marlo arrived first, striding through the front doors with all the swagger of a man reclaiming a kingdom. Behind him came Aunt Lucinda, her judgmental glances already scouring the mansion’s grandeur for flaws, and Cousin Gerald, nodding his way through the entryway with his trademark solemnity. A small swarm of secondary relatives followed, their faces blending into a collective cloud of entitlement and mediocrity.

The bastards brought with them an air of chaos that immediately unsettled Montclair. Their battered luggage cluttered the hallways, their voices echoed through the cavernous rooms, and their complaints began almost immediately.

“This place smells of mold,” Aunt Lucinda declared, wrinkling her nose as though the very air offended her. “Surely you’ve considered hiring professionals to restore it.”

“Restoration takes money, Lucinda,” Venus replied, her voice a study in pleasant venom. “Though I understand that’s a foreign concept for you.”

Marlo, predictably, claimed the guest room nearest the east wing, ignoring Venus’s pointed remarks about respecting boundaries. “It’s the quietest,” he said with a smirk. “I prefer peace when I sleep.”

Venus’s smile barely faltered. “Enjoy it while you can.”

Montclair Grows Restless

From the moment the bastards settled in, Montclair seemed to resist them.

The groans and creaks that had been background noise grew louder, almost deliberate. The air seemed colder, the shadows heavier, as though the house was leaning in to watch. The fireplaces, despite constant tending, never quite chased away the chill, and the lights flickered more frequently, as if the mansion was deciding how much to illuminate.

James noticed it most acutely at night. He could hear the whispers now—soft, persistent murmurs that rose and fell with a cadence almost too human to ignore. The bastards either didn’t notice or pretended not to, though their unease was visible in their forced laughter and quick glances over their shoulders.

Aunt Lucinda was the first to break. “I swear,” she said one morning, clutching her shawl like armor, “my mirror shattered in the middle of the night. Just fell to pieces! For no reason!”

Venus arched an eyebrow over her coffee cup. “Perhaps it reflected something it didn’t care to see.”

Lucinda sputtered indignantly, but Marlo waved her off. “It’s an old house. Things break.”

James, observing quietly, wondered if Marlo truly believed his own words.

The House Tests Its Guests

The oddities grew harder to dismiss. Marlo woke one morning to find his cane missing, only for it to reappear hours later in the dining room—balanced precariously on the back of a chair. Gerald muttered about footsteps in the halls at night, though no one ever seemed to be there.

One evening, James was reading Grandpa Leun’s diary in the library when he heard faint laughter. He froze, straining to listen, but the sound stopped the moment he turned his head.

Montclair was playing with them.

The house’s discontent seemed to magnify the tensions among its occupants. Dinner conversations devolved into thinly veiled insults. Marlo delighted in needling Jeun-Pierre, pointing out his every hesitation and misstep. Aunt Lucinda critiqued Venus’s “management” of the estate with such relentless precision that even Gerald’s nodding took on an air of disapproval.

Venus weathered it all with icy calm. “I see why you’re so desperate to stay, Marlo,” she said during one particularly heated exchange. “You don’t have a home of your own worth returning to.”

Marlo’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

The Breaking Point

It happened on the fourth night.

A loud crash echoed through the house, followed by Aunt Lucinda’s piercing scream. Everyone gathered in the hallway to find a portrait lying face down on the floor, its heavy frame shattered.

“It nearly hit me!” Lucinda cried, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest. “This house is cursed!”

Marlo examined the broken frame, his jaw clenched. “It’s just an old nail giving way,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

James stared at the fallen portrait. It was of Grandpa Leun, his stern gaze undisturbed despite the shards of glass scattered across the floor.

Venus knelt, picking up a piece of the frame with deliberate care. “Or perhaps Montclair is sending a message,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

“What kind of message?” Marlo demanded, his tone defensive.

Venus stood, meeting his glare with one of her own. “That some things are better left alone.”

Montclair Tightens Its Grip

The bastards grew quieter after that. Lucinda avoided the hall where the portrait had fallen, muttering prayers under her breath whenever she passed a closed door. Gerald seemed to nod less frequently, his usually stoic demeanor replaced by something closer to fear. Even Marlo’s bravado was more subdued, his barbs at dinner lacking their usual bite.

James, meanwhile, found himself increasingly drawn to Grandpa Leun’s diary. The cryptic entries seemed to hum with new meaning, the warnings about the house echoing in his mind.

The house watches. It waits. But it is not patient.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that Montclair had been waiting for this moment—for its halls to fill with voices and footsteps, for its secrets to rise to the surface.

The house was alive. And it was done playing nice.