Kilgore's Five Stories #11: June 2021: Kilgore's Five Stories, #11

By Shaun Kilgore

Kilgore's Five Stories #11 brings together five unique fantasy tales, all from the mind of author Shaun Kilgore—Reunited: a story of schemes and unexpected reunions, Maiden, Fair and True: a mysterious kidnapping unraveled by an amateur sleuth and his trusted partner, March on the Mountains: the tale of a young blacksmith standing by as others answer the call to war, Rank and Circumstance: a canny gentleman navigating the social hierarchy, searching for his way to rise in the ranks, and Whispers in the Dark: a dark fantasy of dangerous creatures that hunt a man and his companion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Founders House Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201546052

Shaun Kilgore

Shaun Kilgore is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. He has also published numerous short stories and collections. Shaun is the editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Maiden, Fair and True

March on the Mountains

Rank and Circumstance

Reunited

Whispers in the Dark

About the Author

Copyright Information

Kilgore’s Five Stories #11

June 2021

Original Short Stories Every Month

Shaun Kilgore

Introduction

Another issue of Kilgore’s Five Stories is coming right at you. Welcome to Issue #11 of my monthly magazine of original short stories. With all of the other things going, on this collection is a bit late. I hope you enjoy these stories. I’m looking forward writing more and sharing them with all of you. That all said, get busy reading!

Shaun Kilgore, June 2021

Maiden, Fair and True

September 1884

Washington City,

The District of Columbia

I.

There was a soft knock at the door to the spacious apartment I kept on the top floor of the Eastside Boarding House. The place was situated along a stretch of Market Street close to the city’s downtown but far enough to allow for some quiet for much of the late afternoon and evening. I was relaxing with the daily newspaper next to the fire and drinking the last cup of tea for the night when there was a knock at the door.

A voice spoke, muffled by the door. It was quite late and the soft, feminine voice was unexpected. Mr. Craine, sir? Mr. Craine, are you there?

Setting the paper down, I stood up, adjusted my tie, and brushed a quick hand through my hair to make sure it was in place. I am. You may enter Miss Dunmore.

The door to my apartment opened soundlessly and the small, delicate shape of Miss Dunmore, the matroness of the boarding house, slipped inside, her fair head bowed in obvious embarrassment. Please forgive me for troubling you at this hour, Mr. Craine, but a letter came for you this afternoon while you were out. My apologies. I forgot to give it to you at dinner.

I glanced at the big, brownish envelope clutched in Miss Dunmore’s petite hands. Her face colored then she hastily held it out to me.

Taking the package, I said, Thank you, Miss Dunmore. I do hope you have a pleasant evening and I shall be down promptly for breakfast as seven, as usual.

With a brief curtsy, Miss Dunmore backed out of the room and closed the door leaving me holding the coarse brown envelope. Only then did I hold it up to catch more of the light coming from the wall-mounted lamps. Scrawled in a blockish hand, I barely made out my name and the address of the boarding house. There was no return address. I broke the seal and peered inside. Dumping the contents of the envelope into my lap, I examined each object in turn: a smallish newspaper clipping dated from three weeks ago, three coins of differing denominations, an expensive ivory comb, and a thrice-folded piece of paper.

I took up the paper first, carefully unfolding it until I could see it fully. The same blockish hand had written a few lines across its surface. It said: Do not be so surprised. The hand has been dealt. Two lives balance on the mighty scales. A life preserved. A life forfeit. What say you?

A brief shock registered, but I refocused on the words. Something about it was familiar to me as though I had read it somewhere else, as if it was a quote. Re-reading it several times in a row, I couldn’t shake the feeling but I also could not conjure up where I’d heard the words. There was no mistaking their foreboding tones. It was troubling, to say the least. I sat back in the soft cushioned chair and drank the last of my tea. I reached for the pot and realized it was empty. I sighed and sat the empty cup on the tray.

After further minutes of fruitless consideration of the page, I focused on the other objects. The newpaper clipping was indeed dated from three weeks prior. Three weeks exactly, in fact. The extract was a simple call for employment. Someone had placed an advertisement to hire a housemaid. The particular qualifications were listed and an address was given for making inquiries. I was familiar with the neighborhood, but could not recall the name of the resident. The coins, themselves, were unremarkable, but I recognized immediately that they added up to what was typically offered for a single day’s wages to low level domestic workers in the city—such as a housemaid, for example. The tenuous connection was like a silken thread to my mind. What might I weave if given more?

The third object, the ivory comb, was an item of luxury. It would be a true gentleman’s possession. Very expensive. I ran my fingers across its carefully carved surface. When my fingertips brushed uneven markings, I paused and brought the comb closer to my face. Squinting in the lamplight, I saw that three straight lines had been carved horizontally along the length of the ivory. What did they mean? I could not hazard a guess. At a loss, I set it aside with the other objects.

After a few moments sitting there, pondering the strange collection of things, I realized there was another link between them. The number three. There on my lap, I saw it plainly: an ad from three weeks ago, a comb with three lines etched upon it, and a paper folded three times. But why? It was baffling.

Gathering the objects up, I deposited the lot on my writing desk across the room. I was soon pacing the floor of the room, pausing to stand next to the fire for stretches to ward off the evening chill. A good hour passed and I had still not discovered anything remotely useful. I looked over the objects repeatedly, reading the advertisement and the note several times more. I jotted a few notes in a small tablet of paper I often carried with me when I employed myself to the peculiar tasks that often fell to me due to my reputation.

I wondered again about the occurrence of the number of three. No doubt, the sender meant for there to be a connection. However, there was no attempt at explanation, whatsoever. Nothing at all, but the cryptic writing.

A deep yawn cracked my jaw and I shook my head wearily. It is late, after all, Malachi, I said aloud. Perhaps, with a good night’s sleep, you will be able to decipher this puzzle.

Also, I could pay a visit to my old chum, Mr. Satterfield, I thought. Yes, that might be just the thing.

I carefully arranged returned the items to their envelope and tidied up the writing desk before preparing myself for bed. I had myself a genuine mystery to unravel. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the prospect.

II.

I rose at first light which was my custom, took breakfast in the boarding house’s downstairs dining room, then returned to my room to prepare for my jaunt across the city. I dressed warmly for the weather was coolling with the onset of autumn. All of the materials I received by post and my notes were gathered up and stowed securely a worn leather satchel I had carried with me on many of my misadventures. When all was ready, I pulled on my overcoat and snatched my hat and cane on my way out the door.

I bounded down the steps and ran into Miss Dunmore in the foyer.

Going out this morning, Mr. Craine? Want me to take any messages you receive?

I slip my hat on. Yes, thank you, Miss Dunmore. That is appreciated.

You’re welcome, sir. Good day to you. She curtsied and stepped to the side.

The midmorning air did, indeed, have a slight chill to it, but the sun was shining brightly in the clear sky, holding the promise of pleasant weather ahead. I took in a deep breath and set off down the sidewalk. The morning traffic was moving at a trickle on the streets, with carriages rattling noisily on the cobblestones. Pedestrians flowed faster on the walks so I kept a brisk pace the whole way westward across downtown.

There’s one way to get in a good bit of exercise along the way, I thought.

Everyone was focused on their own lives and daily tasks, maybe sparing a moment here and there to exchange the brief pleasantries that conduct demanded. The walk was really divided into two flows of people, one made of the finely dressed well-to-dos, the gentleman and ladies attended by their servant chaperons while the other was populated with the shabbily dressed common laborers. It was very clear display of the division of the city’s classes, and a gap I could readily cross—given my unique reputation.

Many of the neighborhood’s denizens knew me on sight and gave me a smile, a nod, or a hasty shake of the hand. Over the last several years I’d gained a degree of fame for my rousing accounts of my exploits before, during, and after the war, fictive and true alike, which appeared in the pages of the Washington City Gazette. I certainly didn’t make an effort to keep my authorship a secret.

The truth was I’d patterned myself as something of a detective, sharing some of the strange and dramatic cases in my published stories. Perhaps, the only ones in Washington City that did not appreciate my work were the police, who grudgingly allowed me to work with them as a consultant due to my successes. It was also the likely reason I received the mysterious package in the first place.

I followed the familiar route through the neighborhood taking East