Gloom Town Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: A Town Called Gloom

  Mr. Bumbailiff

  Rory Devises a Plan

  Upon Entering Foxglove Manor

  Black Maddie’s

  Lord Foxglove

  Isabella, Also Known as Izzy

  The Valet’s First Day

  A Feast Like No Other

  The Valet Is Interrogated

  A Glimpse, Nothing More

  An Evening in the Salon

  Portraits in the Hall

  A Lacquered Box and What He Found Within

  A Shoeless, Shirtless Boy

  Captain’s Quay

  Upon Entering the House of Lysander Swoop

  A Procession of the Most-Curious Sort

  Oxtail and Cabbage Soup

  A Faded Tulip

  Saved by a Curse

  Hidden

  A Flame in the Dark

  An Almost Normal Day

  Masked

  Unmasked

  The Infernal Machine

  The Valet Finds That Which Was Lost

  Neither Sloop, Nor Jackdaw

  Tales from the Sea

  The Valet Discovers Himself

  The Path

  Desire

  Sample Chapter from THE OWLS HAVE COME TO TAKE US AWAY

  Buy the Book

  Read More from Ronald L. Smith

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2020 by Ronald L. Smith

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  hmhbooks.com

  Chapter opener illustrations by Celeste Knudsen

  Cover illustration © 2020 by Alessia Trunfio

  Cover design by Lisa Vega

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Smith, Ronald L. (Ronald Lenard), 1959– author.

  Title: Gloom town / Ronald L. Smith.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, 2020. | Summary: Twelve-year-old Rory and his friend Izzy try to foil the plans of Lord Foxglove, for whom Rory works as a valet, and his inhuman accomplices from taking over the world.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019004986 (print) | LCCN 2019012809 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358164494 (E-book) | ISBN 9781328841612 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Household employees—Fiction. | Shadows—Fiction. | Single-parent families—Fiction. | Poverty—Fiction. | Horror stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Horror & Ghost Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / Pirates. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / General (see also headings under Social Issues).

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S655 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.S655 Glo 2020 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004986

  v1.0120

  For Harriet, who always believed

  Prologue

  A Town Called Gloom

  The town was called Gloom, which was a strange name for a town, but if you ever found yourself there, you would certainly see why. Some said that merchant sailors gave it the name long ago, when they pulled their ships into the harbor only to be met by wind, rain, and very little sunlight.

  But that’s an old tale, and no one knows for sure anymore.

  In the midst of all this gloom, there lived a boy named Rory. He wasn’t the happiest boy in the world, but he often found small joys in life, like discovering a silver stone by the water’s edge, playing with his friend Izzy, and, every now and then, swimming in Quintus Harbor, even though his mum told him not to.

  His ordinary life was soon about to change. In ways he never could have imagined.

  Chapter One

  Mr. Bumbailiff

  The knocking is what first roused Rory from sleep, a furious banging on the front door loud enough to wake the dead.

  Rory knew that sound. It came from a heavy walking stick, one with a knob of gnarled wood on the end of it the size of a swollen walnut. Only one person used a stick like that.

  He threw on his shirt and pants and rushed out of his room. His mum had already opened the door to reveal a large man dressed in a dirty plaid suit of red and green. His face was a lesson in scowling. A black bowler hat sat on top of his head.

  “Rent,” he said brusquely.

  Rory’s mum, whose name was Hilda Sorenson, feigned a smile—although if you knew her well enough you could hear her voice tremble. “Do come in, good sir. I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.”

  The man, who was known as Mr. Bumbailiff, snorted once and stepped into the small house. Rory’s mum closed the door behind him and turned to her son. “Rory, some tea for our guest, yeah?”

  Mr. Bumbailiff propped his walking stick against the side of a chair and sat down heavily. He glared at Rory as if waiting to be served. Rory grudgingly walked to the shabby kitchen and lit the coal stove, then put the kettle on.

  It was a modest house with a sitting room in the front with a fireplace and an old piano, a kitchen in the back, and two tiny rooms upstairs. There wasn’t a bathroom, but a big copper tub sat in the kitchen for washing up. Unfortunately, they had to go outside to use what they called a privy. Rory didn’t like it, but it was all they had. Most of the people in Gloom didn’t have running water and had to use a well or one of the water pumps placed around town. Rory and his mum were lucky. Their house was right next to a pump, so it wasn’t too much trouble getting water to bathe in. But they still had to heat the water in a big pot on the stove first. All in all, living in Gloom wasn’t terribly comfortable.

  Rory returned to the sitting room and sat down next to his mum on a well-worn couch.

  “Well,” Mr. Bumbailiff said, peering around with an air of authority. “Place looks a bit shabby.” He ran a stubby finger across the armrest of the wooden chair he sat in. “Your lease states that the house must be kept free of dust and dirt at all times.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rory’s mum said quickly, wringing her red-knuckled hands. “It’s just with my hours at the inn and the tannery, it’s hard to find extra time to clean.”

  The landlord looked at Rory derisively. “What about him? He’s a big lad. Surely he knows how to wield a broom.”

  Rory swallowed a curse in his throat. He had survived several visits from the landlord before and had always ignored his snide remarks. But today, Rory didn’t like the way the man made his mum cower in front of him. She was almost shaking with dread. They’d been late with the rent for the past two months, and now there were no more excuses. They needed money, and quickly.

  The teapot whistled from the kitchen, but before Rory could get up to tend it, Mr. Bumbailiff glanced at his watch and then stood. “Never mind the tea,” he said. “I have a full schedule today and I can’t be running late.” He paused and raised a bushy eyebrow. “So . . . the rent.”

  “Yes,” Hilda said. “One moment.” She looked to her son, and Rory saw that her eyes were wet. “Rory?”

  Rory ground his teeth. He hated seeing his mum humiliated like this. With a withering glance at Mr. Bumbailiff, he stood up and walked back to the kitchen. He took the kettle from the stove and set it on an iron trivet, then removed a framed painting from the wall and placed it on the table. The picture was of no consequence, only a muddy watercolor of Quintus Harbor a
t dawn, but behind it, there was a loose brick. Rory pulled it out with a scrape and set it next to the painting. He reached inside the dark hole and retrieved the money jar, then opened it up and counted. They were short, but it would have to do. There was no other way around it.

  Back in the sitting room, Rory stood in front of the landlord. He wanted to throw the money in his scowling face but instead held it out to him, as if offering a slice of cake. “Here you are, sir.”

  Mr. Bumbailiff snatched the bills from Rory’s hand. Now Rory really wanted to punch him. The landlord raised his right hand to his mouth and licked his thumb. “One,” he said, counting the first bill. “Two . . .”

  A minute later, after he had counted the last bill, he released a heavy sigh. “Seems you’re still a bit short,” he said, then looked to Hilda. “I’m afraid I can’t extend my generosity any further. You’ll have to pack your things. You have till tomorrow morning.”

  Rory’s mouth dropped open. His mum stared at the floor, defeated. She seemed suddenly so much smaller to Rory at that moment, like she had shrunk into herself.

  Rory bit back his anger. “Please, sir. We can get the rest. I promise. Just another few days and we’ll be all square.”

  Now, as Rory said this, he had no idea where he was going to get the money, but he had to do something. Anything. His mum raised her head and glanced at him. “He’s right,” she said, holding back tears. “Just another few days. I’ll get another shift at the inn. You’ll see. Just a few more days, good sir.”

  Mr. Bumbailiff was now in his element. He seemed to enjoy making people squirm. He stuck his thumbs in his suspenders and leaned back a bit. “A few days, you say?”

  “Yes,” Rory and his mum said at the same time.

  The landlord exhaled a wheezy, rattling breath. “One week,” he declared. “With interest. If not, you’re out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Hilda said. “Thank you, sir. We won’t let you down.”

  Mr. Bumbailiff shook his head and picked up his walking stick. Rory wanted to clobber him with it. The landlord turned for the door, then slammed it shut behind him without so much as a backward glance. The sound echoed in the air for what seemed like minutes.

  Rory’s mum turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed.

  “What do we do now?” she said.

  Chapter Two

  Rory Devises a Plan

  “That’s everything,” Rory’s mum moaned. “All our money. Gone.”

  Rory sat down next to her on the couch. Dull afternoon light drifted in through the window.

  “It’s okay, Mum,” he consoled her. “I’ll think of something.”

  “But what?” Hilda questioned. “You’re too young to work on the ships. That’s all the work there is in this awful town.”

  It was true, Rory knew.

  In Gloom, most boys and girls worked on the ships that set sail from the docks at Quintus Harbor—cleaning and scrubbing the decks, sewing sailcloth, and working their way up to becoming riggers, who were in charge of furling and releasing the sails. But Rory was only twelve—thirteen in a few short weeks—and the rules said you had to be at least fourteen years of age to work. Rory had no idea who came up with the rules or how they were even enforced. He knew a boy once named Petru who worked on the ships when he was only eleven years old. He was tall for his age, though, and his father just happened to be a quartermaster. Come to think of it, Rory mused, that must’ve been the reason.

  “I’ll find a job,” he said. “Promise.”

  Hilda Sorenson pulled a cloth from her dress pocket and blew her nose. It was as loud as a honking goose.

  Rory laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, which she clasped in return.

  “All is not lost yet,” she said. She rose from the couch and smoothed her wrinkled dress with her hands, then bent back down to the floor. A loose slat of wood creaked as she pulled it up. Underneath was a small glittering mound.

  “Where’d that come from?” Rory asked in surprise.

  “I saved it,” his mum replied, standing. “Just enough to buy us a few days if we ever fell behind.”

  She counted out several shiny coins and handed them to Rory. “Run to the market and get enough food for the week. Spend it wisely. No cakes or pies. Understand?”

  “Right,” Rory said reluctantly.

  Without warning, she threw her arms around him and held him tight. “It’ll be all right, Son,” she said. “We’ll be okay.”

  “I know, Mum,” he replied, his eyes stinging. “I know.”

  * * *

  Outside, Rory passed the belching factories and foundries on Copper Street. Small, low houses and bleak taverns dotted the landscape. The smell of iron forges and the clanging of smiths hard at work could be heard in the distance. Specks of black dust floated in the air around him.

  Rory lived here, along with a few hundred other unfortunate souls. It was one of the poorest neighborhoods in Gloom, but it was all he and his mum could afford. Most people didn’t come to Copper Street unless they wanted trouble. Roving gangs armed with brass knuckles and blunderbusses were known to prowl the streets late at night, looking for easy victims. “Marks,” the villains called them. Rory didn’t want to be a mark, so he kept a brisk pace and tucked his chin. But that wasn’t strange. Everyone in Gloom walked like that.

  Rory took in the sights as he went about his way, but there really wasn’t much to see. The town was situated alongside Quintus Harbor, which fed into the Black Sea. He stopped by the docks for a moment and watched men and women unloading nets of fish from their boats. White gulls and other seabirds hovered in the air around them, hoping to snag a tasty morsel. The sailors were hard people—wind chafed and grim from spending their lives on the water. The bounty they usually brought in was tremendous: huge sea crabs and scallops; eels, urchins, cod, and shrimp. Rory, and every other person in Gloom, grew up on food from the sea. They ate so much that folks far and wide said their blood was made of salt water.

  Every now and then, Rory and his best friend, Izzy, would sit on the docks and stare out over the bay. Once, they saw a fighting ship far in the distance, its massive sails snapping in the breeze. Rory loved ships and often fantasized about sailing and adventure. Of course, he was always the hero in these stories, most of them having to do with battling giant squids and visiting far-off lands. As he’d looked out over the water that day, he wondered who was on that ship and where they were going. From time to time, people in Gloom spoke of war in a faraway land, but Rory didn’t know anything about that. He figured they were just making up stories to explain things they didn’t really understand.

  After a few more minutes of walking, he arrived at Market Square, an outdoor space open year round, where vendors’ stalls lined the perimeter. To the east of the square, tall trees stood at the edge of the forest known as the Glades, another favorite haunt of Izzy and Rory’s.

  Even though it was midmorning, a pallid grayness hung over the town, courtesy of the foggy marine layer that rolled in daily. It usually took several hours for it to clear, and the fog seemed to seep into everything, which made Gloom even gloomier.

  The square was bustling with vendors selling everything from fish to bread to oysters to clams. Rory bought two speckled trout, a jug of milk, a loaf of crusty bread, and a packet of salt. He still had two coppers left. He licked his lips at a stall called Miss Julia’s that sold pies and sweets. Rory loved a bit of sweet after a meal, but they couldn’t afford it. He sighed and lifted his pack over his shoulder. Before he turned to leave the square and make his way back home, a handbill pasted to a lamppost caught his eye. Rory leaned in to read it:

  Gentleman’s Valet needed at Foxglove Manor for duties befitting the title.

  Must be familiar with the tools of the trade.

  Pay requisite with experience.

  333 Mothsburg Lane

  Rory’s pulse raced. Here was a job he could do. He didn’t exactly know what a valet was or what the tools of the trade
were, but he was sure he could figure it out. He was smart like that. There was only one problem.

  It was at Foxglove Manor.

  Everyone in Gloom had heard of the place. It had been in the town for generations and was the source of incredible tales and rumors. People said it was haunted by the spirits of previous tenants, that it had rooms that appeared and disappeared at will, and, most frightful of all, that you could be turned to ash just by stepping inside.

  But Rory didn’t believe any of those things. The people of Gloom were a superstitious lot, and the first to blame bogies and spirits for the most easily explained events. Truth be told, it was probably the dark clouds that hung over the town year after year that caused this malaise. It was part of Gloom. It was in Gloom.

  “A job,” Rory whispered. “Money to help Mum and me.”

  He tore the handbill from the pole and raced home.

  * * *

  Rory rushed into the house out of breath and waving the handbill. “A job!” he cried out. “For a gentleman’s valet at Foxglove Manor!”

  He set down his pack on the table. His mum was in front of the fire, drinking a cup of tea. She got up and turned to him. Rory could tell she had been crying. Her face was splotchy and wet. “At Foxglove Manor?” she asked warily.

  Rory handed her the notice and watched as she read it. “Seems on the up-and-up,” she said, handing it back. “But—”

  Rory raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe all that stuff about the manor, do you, Mum?”

  Hilda sat back down by the fire, and Rory took a seat in one of the chairs beside her.

  “No,” she said, “not really. I’m sure it’s all just rubbish.”

  But Rory saw concern etched on her face. She wasn’t sure about it.

  “We need the money,” he said urgently. “If I get the job, we won’t have to worry about Mr. Bumbailiff, at least for a while.”

  Hilda took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

  Rory was taken aback. “What is it, Mum? What’s wrong?”