The Twelve O'Clock Tale

The clock chimes midnight as I creep through the halls, sounding that there is no time to be nervous.

I feel my way through the gloom of the dark house, everything from the Victorian loveseat to the tall stately grandfather’s clock looming ghostly in the twilight. The soft orb of moonlight shimmers like crystals through the ice covered window pane as I step into the den. It is well titled den. A place where Brenkoff is rumored to hibernate for days on end, only to come out when morning is pulling back the petals of the roses.

The well-oiled hinges do not squeak when I pull the door closed behind me. My toes curl at the frigidness of the bare wood floor as I pause in the doorway. In the dim light I can make out the large oak desk in front of me, maybe six feet away. The two chairs sit as always by the door, one on either side. But it is as though the ghosts have just temporarily settled for now, watching me, waiting.

I step soundlessly to the desk, my toes feeling the shag of the Oriental rug. Its softness and warmth. I tug at each of the drawers, shuffling through the papers and receipts and cigar boxes before coming upon the last one. It was locked.

I pause, thoughtful. No one knows Brenkoff better than me I suppose, and now I ponder that. I carefully slide the middle drawer on the right from its place, setting it gently on the desktop and feel my hand underneath the frame work. Smirking with satisfaction I snatch the key from its hiding place, not bothering to replace the drawer and insert it into the lock. With a brief twist I am in.

Few papers are inside the deep drawer, but I pull out a manila folder, and flip it open. There, in loose sheets is a stack of pages. I shuffle through them excitedly and begin to read. Few paragraphs in I am biting my lip, my breath catching as I read of plots of conspiracy, and murder. My eyes feel strained in the darkness, but still I must read, all thoughts of triumph now turned to terror. Brenkoff has the ability to do that to people.

I unknowingly sink to the chair, the plush leather conforming to my body. Any other time I would have relished it. Now, though, my attention is simply riveted to those pages and their ghastly contents. The clock chimes one and I can barely comprehend it. Had I not just now sat down? And still so many pages left...

"Well, well, well," The voice comes sly and slick from the doorway and I jump, the pages scattering to the desk and floor. "What have we here?"

It is Brenkoff, I know before I turn.

He steps from the doorway coming nearer the desk, and reaches out to take a handful of the papers. He glances at them and I know he already knew what they were. I had bolted from my seat and now stood, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. What would happen next? Even I did not know. Brenkoff was rumored to have certain spells, but how would I know if I caught him in a bad one? I would just know, that’s all.

"Reading ahead?" He asked holding up a sheaf of the loose pages. 

I nod dumbly as a slow smile spreads on his face.

"Well, what did you think of my plans?"

What should I say? Of course I know what I should say! "Oh, it was wonderful!" I gushed. And why not? I meant every word of it.

Brenkoff is grinning now and taking my arm, leads me around the desk to give me a hug. "Great! What do you say we go get some hot chocolate and then finish this off together in the kitchen?"

I smile now too, as I help pick up some loose pages. "OK. Oh, and Dad?" He turns to look at me. "It really is a great manuscript. You definitely have the next best-seller on your hands with this one."

"I’m glad you agree." Dad picks up the folder, stuffing the papers inside. "Now, let’s go get some of that hot chocolate."

Somehow with Dad, even at sixteen, I can feel seven again, at just the mention of hot chocolate. And another international best-seller. At one o’clock in the morning.