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Jon knows he’s supposed to be shelving their latest shipment. Yet, he can’t shake the uncanny sensation that washes over him without rhyme or reason.
Well, that is to say without explanation from an outside perspective. Jon has a sneaking suspicion that he knows where the prickly feeling on his back is coming from; he slowly maneuvers to the front of the store to investigate.
While he can barely see above the tall stack of books cradled in his arms, Jonathan Sims eavesdrops on the conversation between his boss and a customer who just entered the bookstore.
“See, we’ve just received new poetry. I’m sure Lord Bouchard would be interested in an anthology featuring Lovelace or Marvell,” bartered Leitner, the owner of the quaint bookstore in the middle of town.
A man in a light overcoat and slacks raises an eyebrow. “Have you anything more thrilling?”
“I invite you to see the back of the store: there, you’ll find our more dramatic tales. If you’re seeking a recommendation, I’ve just finished Horace Walpole’s ‘The Castle of Otranto’. Mysterious and tragic.” Leitner points in a vague direction.
Jon has always believed that his position as a librarian’s assistant held some level of prestige, because of how often the Bouchard court frequented the establishment. Though, it is important to mention that Lord Bouchard rarely goes to the library himself; he’d much rather send servants and advisers to do his shopping.
Jon supposes that his noble duties must make him far too busy to be caught in town. Noble duties, such as throwing parties and swimming in riches, of course.
Whenever Bouchard’s associates were sent to pick up books for their Lord, that was when Jon felt an inexplicable chill crawl up his back. It was the foreboding feeling of judgment, something icy and gripping in his chest that had him convinced that he was being watched.
The shelf between himself and the servant provides little security, but Jon utilizes it as a crutch to hide from the overbearing scrutiny of their gaze.
Often, when Jonathan passes by someone affiliated with Lord Bouchard, he can see them eyeing him as he works. Albeit uncomfortable, Jon has always been too non-confrontational to speak up about it. He wouldn’t want to put his job at risk by interfering with wealthy business.
In fact, he quite likes being able to work in the library. From a technical standpoint, he must support himself financially after his grandmother’s death and subsequent gain of her comfortable cottage. Outside of that reasoning, Jon is deeply fascinated with reading and absorbing the knowledge stored within books.
He stuffs books into his reticule after a shipment, something which Leitner must never know. He’ll read about anything: comedic fiction, biographies about soldiers, unnerving tales surrounding the supernatural–it all occupies his typically lonely time.
Jon’s cottage used to be a place of relaxation, but has lately grown bleak. He’s resorted to taking down paintings or décor featuring eyes out of the ever-constant feeling of being watched. It’s beginning to consume every waking moment, and somehow the creeping mania grows stronger when members of Bouchard’s court are around.
He’s forced to push the thought to the back of his mind, because someone is staring at him expectantly. It’s boring a hole through his skull, and he nearly crushes the person with a toppling tower of books when he surprisingly lurches forward.
“-ir? Sir?” The man repeats, as Jon sets his novels onto the ground.
“Er, uh.. Yes?” Jon asks. The two men are of equal height, giving Jon the opportunity to see the man’s starkly gray eyes. Eyes that remind him of something he can’t quite put his finger on.
A letter, enclosed in wax and complete with a Bouchard signature branding, is pushed into Jon’s open hands. “I trust that you shall be available,” he starts, looking up and down at Jon as if appraising him. “Please do write to Mister Bouchard if you are in need of proper attire, he would be delighted to provide.”
Jon runs his fingers over the seal and turns the letter over, transfixed.
He opens his mouth to ask the man what he’s currently holding, or if he’s made a mistake, but the figure is pushing his way out of the bookstore with a flare of his coat. Noticeably, he leaves without any books.
Though it’s a struggle, Jon waits until after work to open the letter. When he does, he claws into it with all the fervor of a curious child.
He sits on his small bed. He stares at the piece of paper like his eyes could change the ink pressed into it. It reads as follows:
“Cordially addressed to a Jonathan Sims,” which should confirm that the letter was meant for him. Somehow, he doesn’t feel all too reassured.
“Master Elias Bouchard,” as a bolded heading, the pompous bastard, “requests the pleasure of your company for a grand ball on Monday the 24th from 4 until 9. Formal dress code will be enforced, and refreshments provided.”
Jon supposes that he knows Lord Bouchard for another reason.
Whispers travel quickly through the village, and eventually make their way into the library: This is only one in a long procession of balls within the season. Some speculate that he’s been curating these events with a person in mind, that he’s some sort of hopeless romantic spending hundreds of dollars on a courting ritual.
Jon has a hard time believing that.
Somehow, these people have nothing better to do than humanize some rich asshole. At least he keeps the library in business, so Jon can’t find it in himself to be too angry.
Throughout the proceedings of that night, Jonathan comes up with dozens of reasons why he shouldn’t go. He’ll certainly be out of place! He isn’t even sure if he has an outfit that would look presentable, let alone be appropriate in a manor. That is, if they can’t sense his financial struggles from a mile away; he conjures up an image of money-hungry bloodhounds prowling the building. His most compelling reason that he shouldn’t be attending is that he doesn’t like parties in the first place. He’d much rather curl up underneath the faint shimmer of candlelight and read.
None of these reasons deter Jon from sifting through his closet and stitching up the tatters of a hand-me-down dress, preparing it for just one more night of use.
He rationalizes the decision by thinking about the free food, or the networking opportunities, or the exposure to music; but Jon knows that he’s decided to go out of damnable and peculiar curiosity.
Jon needs to know what compelled Lord Bouchard to invite him to this ball. He needs to know what the manor looks like, and what type of champagne the nobles drink. He needs to know the type of people that willingly party, and he needs to know who Elias Bouchard really is.
And those are the events that transpired to bring us to the present time.
After days of milling around, stewing in anxiety and general nervousness, Jon now adorns a dress of average length and volume. He turns around and fusses over himself while looking at the mirror.
His hair is pulled back into a braided bun which wraps his wispy and hickory hair into place. Further, he wears a dress whose upper portion is cream and has trumpeted sleeves, whereas the single-layered skirt is a near-black green. A tight piece of cloth wraps around Jon’s waist like a corset, accentuating his hips.
While he still feels as if his outfit is subpar, he feels confident in being able to dress himself.
A day previous, a parcel arrived on Jon’s doorstep. Curious as he was when peeling open his invitation for the first time, he’d torn the thing open to get a good look at what was inside: a velvety green suit with strangely patterned adornments. It seemed to be both intended for Jon and a snug fit on his body.
He had neatly folded the suit and tucked it back into its packaging, where it now rests on the floor of his room.
Each step he takes toward the looming manor is accentuated by sharp-toed boots. His pace is steady and certainly not hurried, he tells himself as he comes upon two large and rounded wooden doors.
Before the manor is a lengthy patch of garden, complete with multi-colored flora and well-groomed bushes. There is not much in terms of seating, but the sizable marble fountain makes for a beautiful centerpiece. It spurts out water that threatens to splash on Jonathan’s nice clothes.
He can tell that the house is three stories from the outside. Looking up at the gothic brick layout, Jon can notice a balcony area on the second floor completely encased in glass. Domelike in nature, it reminds him of a birdcage in its ornamentation.
By the time he’s arrived, it is still midday. Birds are singing sweet songs and all is well, save for the lingering grip that somebody’s gaze has on him.
If he thought that pulling open the heavy doors and slipping inside would help him shake off the feeling, he’d be sorely mistaken. When he enters, the first thing that Jon can notice is that all eyes are on him. Perhaps he should’ve waited outside to be attended to.
He knows that he’s not dressed as lavishly as the other guests and he’ll likely be judged for it, but he didn’t expect to feel the weight of every individual eye. Anywhere Jon can turn, he makes eye contact with another stranger, contributing to his growing paranoia.
So, he keeps his head down. From this position, he notices that he is standing on a wooden floor with minimal carpeting. He also notices a winding spiral pattern across the fabric, along with many dots. Jon thinks of this as gaudy. The lobby feels full with a plethora of sofas and armchairs to rest on.
A servant seems to become aware of Jon’s hesitance, and approaches him with open arms–quite literally. “Your belongings, sir?” A maid who has been taking coats politely asks. Because he has neither coat nor shawl to give, Jon hands the woman his bag. He at least understands this as common courtesy.
Without a prop to fidget with, Jon’s gaze flickers up to the twinkling glass chandelier dangling above him.
It sways very slightly, hypnotizing Jon in his tracks. The golden brass swirls in on itself, with flickering candles suspended on its hooks. He feels lost in the reflections of each different piece of glass–there had to be more than a hundred. Jon can only describe the fixture as haunting.
The more he looks around, he also takes note of speckles of green throughout the décor. It’s Jon’s favorite shade, as well, pleasing a subconscious part of his brain.
He’s supposed to be searching for Bouchard.
Yet, he can’t help but notice the large and winding staircase completing the symmetry of the lobby. This is the thing that enchants him the most–the staircase. It’s like a scene out of one of his books, or a fairytale passed down from generations. It’s not all that special, really. He can’t help but imagine climbing those stairs and looking down upon all of these people from above. Jon would like to be the watchful eye.
He’s supposed to be upstairs, searching for Bouchard. He knows that’s where the man is. He doesn’t know how he knows that’s where the man is.
A wave crashes over him, making his heart race; as soon as he’s reminded of Bouchard, his mind floods with flashing visions of the bustling crowd, and suddenly he’s swept up by it.
They’re whisking him along, and he quickly loses control of the situation. They’re all whispering to one another: things that Jon can almost barely make out, in bits and pieces. Judgment, judgment, judgment. They dislike him, and can tell that he doesn’t belong.
Their gazes pierce his skin, and the urge to cry out and fall to the floor is strong. What typically felt like tickles against the back of his head now feels like something is trying to claw out from his brain. There are eyes staring from everywhere, staring at him and his jittery figure.
Eyes are tearing at his dress, and Jon feels all of his stitches come undone.
Eyes are trying to tear him apart from the inside out, and rip out all of the unsavory flaws so that they can be presented on a soapbox.
They’re all looking at him, and he can do nothing to stop it.
Desperately seeking direction, Jon hysterically stumbles toward a table. Fancy looking champagne is offered in glass bottles that he can’t bother reading. Instead, he pours himself a glass and holds it close to his chest. Over the duration of the next few minutes or so, he nurses on the sparkling wine.
The longer he nurses, the more the feeling of eyes dull. Not by much, of course, but Jon is grateful for any distraction. He ponders reaching out to another party-goer, but fear bubbles in his stomach at the thought of conversation.
Thoughts scratch at the back of his head, trying to crawl inside of him and prolong his panic. “Why did I come,” he asks himself. “No one wants me here. I’m ruining everything.”
“I should have just tried to find Lord Bouchard,” his mind supplies. “Why is everyone watching me?” He asks the world. “Whenever I look at someone they’re looking back. Where is the emotion in their eyes?”
Eventually, Jon feels too sick to stay in one place.
His thoughts don’t feel like his, and he wants to go home. He can’t go home unless he speaks to Bouchard, first. Logically, he begins drifting toward the center of the lobby, feeling pulled by a force that just feels right.
Jon doesn’t know he’s climbing the stairs until the clicking sounds of his boots reverberate against the wood. There’s something tall at the top of the staircase–which focuses Jon, greatly. He feels as if he has a goal in mind, rather than wandering aimlessly.
The something slowly changes into a man who Jon feels like he should recognize. He wears a slim black suit with ornate designs of green, a shade which matches with Jonathan’s tattered dress. There is something unique about his lapel that Jon can’t put his finger on because of his spinning mind. The man has graying black hair, which is slicked back, and a tight golden belt.
It’s Jon’s turn to stare, as he tries to reorient himself. He knows that this man is important, somehow.
The figure reaches his hand out for Jon to shake. He introduces himself, looking poised and warm: “Hello, I am Elias Bouchard.”
A switch flicks in Jon, and his perplexed demeanor shifts. There is a moment of clarity before Jonathan begins wagging his finger at Lord Bouchard. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“I received an invite to this ball and I wanted to inquire as to why,” he continues, with growing irritation. “Was this meant to be addressed to my superior? Other family?”
Bouchard merely shakes his head and smiles, which comes off as very pleasant and jovial. “Come and walk with me, Mr. Sims. I understand you’d like an explanation.”
Bouchard begins leading Jon down a long hall, and Jon feels urged to follow steadfast. Eventually, they set a steady pace and walk alongside each other as equals.
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I enjoy the selection of literature you offer at Leitner’s bookstore. With that context, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume that I am quite the fan of reading,” Bouchard chuckles. His tone is light and airy–that of a friend, rather than a passive aggressive stranger.
“I was hoping to invite someone who is as passionate about books as I am to one of my events. You seem to be very knowledgeable, and my court says you do your job quite well. I’d like to get to know you better, seeing as you like the bookstore as much as I do–am I right about that?” He nudges.
Jonathan feels an uncontrollable smirk inch across his face at the subtle praise. “Oh, sometimes I nab the books that I’m supposed to shelve, just so I can read them before everyone else.”
After the words leave his mouth, red embarrassment flushes across his cheeks at admitting that he steals from his employer. Though, this simply makes Bouchard snicker into his palm with mirth and reply, “I must be correct, then.”
Jon can only nod, as they continue down the hallway. He takes note of the rounded designs in the wallpaper; ones that remind him of a certain body part he’d rather not recognize at the moment. The two men pass through portraits of Bouchard family predecessors lining the walls on either side of them.
“Have you read any interesting books lately?” Bouchard prods, retaining his smile. “I’ve just finished a riveting piece written by Herbert Croft, and I’d feel as if it’d tickle your fancy. Love and Madness?”
Jon feels his heart swell with excitement at the mention and his face lights up, “A Story Too True! Yes!”
The longer he remains in the presence of Bouchard, the more that that sudden feeling of being watched dims. This adds to his excitement of sharing his thoughts on Croft’s thriller: “Can you believe that so many people believe his writing to be the historical correspondence between Martha and James? That is how masterful Croft’s personification of the two truly is!”
“Martha is put through such an emotional struggle, but I do believe that she loved James. And he just couldn’t see through the throes of rage.” Jon concludes, hunching his shoulders with finality.
Bouchard leans in, reciprocating Jonathan’s interest. “The tragedy of killing his lover and failing at his attempt to take his own life is Shakespearian. Hanging the man was just salt in the wound. But I suppose that it truly highlights society’s views of love and its usage as a transaction.”
Jon doesn’t notice that Lord Bouchard has been inching closer to him during the conversation until his deft hand curls around Jon’s shoulder.
While they discuss different plot points of the story further, Bouchard leads him through many twisting hallways, which leaves Jon a bit disoriented. “Ehm, if you don’t mind my asking–where are you leading me to?”
Bouchard squeezes Jon in response, and his hand drops to rest between his shoulder blades. “I’d just like to show you my more extensive collection of writings, I believe you’d enjoy it. Unless you’d like to see something else?”
Jon shakes his head, “No, no. I’m very appreciative of this tour, mister Bouchard.”
“I’m glad.”
Jon is glad that they eventually end up in a study, complete with what feels like dozens of bookshelves stacked upon each other. There are a few dim lamps and the room emanates a warm energy. Bouchard was right, Jon does enjoy the layout of the room and he begins sifting through the different sections of novels.
“Mister Bouchard, I really do commend you,” he gushes, “your sense of décor is unparalleled. I’d stay here forever if I could, sprawled on one of these plush sofas.”
Getting a better look at the lavish room, Jon’s mood sours a tinge. “I’m certainly not as well off as you, sir. This really is lovely.”
Bouchard sighs, and meets Jon with a hand on the small of his back. “I’d agree with you.. Yet all of these material delights still cannot supplement loneliness.”
“What do you mean?” asks Jon.
“I can enjoy all of these stories and beauties on my own, but every night I wish that I had a partner to share it with.”
“Ah,” replies Jon, with a touch of sympathy, but little understanding. “You don’t have a wife?”
“No.” Bouchard smirks, and his demeanor grows conspiratorial, as if he’s letting Jon in on a cheeky secret. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that I’ve been holding these balls to attract a person I’ve had my eye on. They happen to be true.. But as of late, I’ve had to take more direct methods to convince them to join me.”
Jon raises his eyebrow, intrigued. “Have you had any luck?”
Bouchard slowly reaches for Jon’s hand, and looks into his eyes. “Yes, I’ve had quite a bit of luck.”
“Does.. ah, does that mean she’s here?” Jon averts his gaze, awkwardly beginning to pull himself away. “You’ve talked with her?”
Bouchard’s grip tightens in response. Holding Jon’s hand in both of his own, he reveals to the man: “Jonathan, I’ve been sending my servants to find out more about you.”
“After the few times I’ve been to your library in person, I deeply believe that I’ve fallen for you. I knew that I simply had to get to know you better, and wouldn’t you agree that this is the perfect opportunity?”
Throughout Bouchard’s explanation, Jonathan finds himself dumbstruck. He truly can’t believe it, and can also tell that there’s something missing in this confession.
Jon swallows, looking down at his hands cradled within Bouchard’s. “I.. I’m really not sure, sir. You certainly have better options than me, right? I’m not noble. I’m really nobody.”
Bouchard’s eyes widen in surprise, not expecting such sudden denial. “Nonsense, Jonathan. You really are lovely, and I’d simply like to know you better if you’d let me. I find you..” Bouchard’s thumb rubs into his palm. “Highly compelling.”
“You couldn’t be seen with me, could you? Not with your stature,” Jon says.
As the words leave his mouth, something light and nearly unnoticeable scritches his scalp.
“I don’t care,” Bouchard counters. “I would lay down everything to protect your image.”
“Well- this is really nice and all, but I have my own comfortable cottage quite far from here. It would be unreasonable to request that you take the trek to my home to see me.”
There are thoughts invading his brain. It grows harder to discern what Bouchard is saying and what is inside of his mind.
“Let me offer you a room in my manor, Jonathan. Of course, free of charge. These rooms are quite high quality.”
Jon gulps. “Ah. This is.. So sudden!” He catches his breath–when did he get out of breath?--and rephrases the excuse. “It’s just a bit fast for my liking, Lord Bouchard. Could we maybe.. Take it slower?”
“I will go at whatever pace you’d like, Jonathan,” he promises. “We don’t have to see each other if that isn’t something you want. But I humbly ask that you give me a chance to court you, perhaps just for this night? Please, let me convince you of all the reasons that you should stay.”
He likes his quiet life, Jon thinks to himself. While he may be fairly envious of Lord Bouchard and has gained a newfound respect for the man, something about this situation feels incomplete. Wrong.
Jon weakly smiles, and realizes that the sensation of watchful eyes has returned to haunt him.
“I’d love to chat with you over champagne tonight, Lord Bouchard,” he concedes.
“Please, you may call me Elias.”
“..Elias. Where is your nearest lavatory? I’d like to freshen myself up,” Jon ruffles the bottom of his skirt, with a coy expression.
At this, Elias becomes pleased and lightly laughs, “Just outside, and to your right. I’ll be ready with wine when you’re done, Jonathan.”
When Jon steps out of the study, he does not, in fact, go to the bathroom. Instead, he begins navigating through the disorienting passages of the second floor in search of the lobby. He may feel guilty about abandoning Bouchard now, but he likely won’t have this same courage to put his foot down again tonight. If he leaves, it must be now.
Jon turns, swearing that he’s seen this exact passageway already. Really, he must be getting home. He told himself that he’d only be staying for half an hour. Then, he’d snuggle up into his Grandmother’s quilt and be well-rested for work the following day.
Finally, he rounds a corner and he’s sure his pupils dilate in recognition: he’s found the portrait hallway. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding–really, why does he feel so nervous?
He has fair reason to feel anxious: it’s eerily quiet as he walks, as if not a single soul inhabited the manor anymore. He slowly steps through the hallway with his guard raised and arms folded defensively.
The portraits are looking at him.
Jon knows it, but cannot bring himself to look back. Out of fear that they might do something worse than just look if he acknowledges them.
The moment he does, though, all he can see is cold gray eyes. They move, and Jon cannot convince himself that it’s a trick of his paranoid mind. He tries so hard to shake off the feeling, but there are shouts in his head that stop him in his tracks.
“Wrong! Wrong!” Warning signals chime in his brain, chiding him like a child. “Turn back!”
Though the message disturbs him deeply, he forces himself to progress from a walk into a jog into a run. He wildly shoves himself away from the eyes and the judgment and the whispers and the eyes, fighting to get those damned voices out of his head.
When he returns to the top of the staircase balcony–somewhere that his brain likens to home, after the short-lived relief of reaching it–and looks down at the lobby, he sees nothing. In every sense of the word: the room is devoid of life, and he can’t make out if the guests had all vacated to a different section of the manor.
The more he tries to rationalize his situation, the more stressed he feels, Jon realizes while he nearly throws himself down the stairs. Once in the lobby, the first thing he tries to do is retrieve his bag from the coat room; but alas, there’s nobody there either.
He represses the urge to shout. The urge to call out for someone, for assistance, for aid.
Jon understands that this is all some kind of miscommunication that is just compounding to frighten him. That all of the guests left the party between the short time that Bouchard led him to his study and came onto him; which, in hindsight, Jon really isn’t sure how long that period of time was.
No, what really makes him panic is when his hand slides onto the door handle and he yanks forward. And nothing happens.
He pushes, he pulls, he slams his body into the wood. Nothing changes, and the door doesn’t give.
Quite frantically, Jon’s head whirls around with an exasperated cry. “What is this!” He hisses through his teeth. He wrings the edges of his dress in his hands in frustration.
Still, the eyes are burning into his head, silently mocking his panic.
He tries to catch whoever’s watching him red handed–and he does, actually. At the top of the stairs, he can see that blurry and suited figure again, looking down with an otherworldly glow coming from his pupils. He is the watchful eye.
Jon, at a loss for words, can only splutter: “He- Hello..?? He- Ehm.. I’m- I’m so sorry, I really must get going-”
The figure, who he knows as Elias, leisurely walks down to the base of the stairs and meets Jon’s eyes. Their eyes serve as some kind of connection between the two, as pieces of knowledge are implanted into his head–a sort of silent communication.
Jon Knows that Elias has been watching him for months. Not Elias’ company nor court, but Elias. Through these visions, Elias reveals that his eyes are everywhere–have been everywhere, seeking to See Jon and become closer to him.
Jon Knows, has this sudden and awful knowledge, of Elias’ attachment. His terrible interest in Jon, and their high compatibility. Elias speaks to him, yet his lips don’t move: “Your curiosity is admirable, Jonathan; yet, it’s likely your biggest flaw.”
“You decided to join me tonight, rather than ignoring my invitation. You have not shunned me, you’ve chosen to embrace me,” he sounds almost reverent. “For that I am appreciative. For all that I am interested in that curious mind, I’ve been excited to experience your fear. I’m pleased that they go hand in hand.”
Jon is silent. Or, he thinks he is, with his lips drawn into a tight line. As Elias speaks, he feels propositioned:
“I can’t let you squander this opportunity; Seeing who you are, you will love this. I know you will. You are meant for the Watcher.” Elias says. The words have little meaning, and Jon can’t parse out his intent.
Jon’s legs finally give out, and he crumbles to the floor under the sheer weight of Elias’ gaze. “Wuh..wh- agh..” He stumbles, choking on his words.
“Why you, you ask?” Elias assists. “It’s not as if I see this as some sort of.. Fated meeting, Jon. I met a very beautiful man at the library, and every new piece of information I learned about him drew me in more. Your primal desire to Know, your determination to see an end to things, and- ah, well I admit, your interest in literature is a very self-indulgent desire for me. I love you for your normality as much as I crave you for your holiness.”
Elias can surely tell Jon’s still baffled by his insane waffling. “Ah. I suppose we have all the time in the world for you to understand what I am. And what you’re going to be. But I See a bright future for us, Jon. I’ll hold you every step of the way.”
Elias connects their lips with a greedy kiss, and Jon is far too overwhelmed to process it.
Elias is right, though. He’ll get it eventually.