George's ears perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. His heart raced, anticipating the return of the strange witch. Instead, as the door swung open, he was greeted by the sight of an elderly gentleman in an impeccably pressed suit.
The man's face was covered with wrinkles, etched with years of service. His posture was ramrod straight, exuding an air of dignity and grace that seemed almost at odds with his advanced age. What struck George most, however, were the butler's eyes - pale blue and remarkably clear, yet devoid of any discernible emotion.
"Good afternoon, sir," the butler intoned, his voice crisp and measured. "I am Reginald, the head butler of this estate. I must offer my sincerest apologies for the delay in answering your bell. I was in the midst of preparing for lunch service."
George stood there, mouth slightly agape, caught off guard by this turn of events. The witch hadn't been lying about the bell after all. He felt a mixture of surprise and confusion wash over him.
Gathering his wits, George cleared his throat. "Uh, thank you, Reginald," he managed to say. But his mind was racing with more pressing concerns. How could he use this opportunity to his advantage?
"Listen, Reginald," George said, trying to keep his voice steady, "I need to know how I can get out of here. Can you help me?"
He searched the butler's impassive face for any sign of understanding or sympathy, desperately hoping this might be his chance for escape.
The butler's face remained impassive as George pleaded for help. His pale blue eyes betrayed no emotion, no hint of sympathy or understanding. For several long, uncomfortable minutes, they simply stared at each other in silence, the air thick with tension.
Finally, the butler's gaze shifted, peering past George towards the bed. He gestured to the untouched tray of food with a slight tilt of his head.
"Sir, I couldn't help but notice you haven't touched your meal," Reginald said, his voice as crisp and emotionless as before. "Perhaps the cuisine is not to your liking?"
George blinked, momentarily stunned by this non sequitur. Frustration and anger began to bubble up inside him, replacing his earlier desperation. He was tired of these games, tired of being ignored and dismissed.
In that moment, something snapped within George. He was done asking politely. He was getting out of this beautiful prison, consequences be damned.
Without warning, George charged at the butler, intending to shove past him and make his escape. But as he collided with Reginald, it was like running full-tilt into a brick wall. George staggered backward, struggling to maintain his balance, while the elderly butler didn't so much as take a single step back.
Gritting his teeth in frustration and disbelief, George reached into his pocket and pulled out the fork he had hidden earlier. The butler's eyes narrowed slightly at this development, and in a smooth motion that belied his age, he produced a spatula from seemingly nowhere.
George froze, his mind struggling to process this bizarre turn of events. "What... what are you going to do with a spatula?" he asked, bewilderment evident in his voice.
The butler's expression didn't change, but there was a new tension in his stance. He gave a small huff, the first real emotion George had seen from him. It seemed to say, "You're welcome to find out."
The two stood there, George with his fork and Reginald with his spatula, locked in a standoff that was equal parts tense and absurd. George found himself completely at a loss, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or continue his ill-fated escape attempt in the face of this utterly surreal situation.
In a blur of motion that belied his age, the butler swung the spatula with surprising force. It connected with George's head with a resounding thwack, sending shockwaves through his skull.
George's world tilted, his vision swimming as different sounds flooded his mind. It was as if someone had opened a floodgate in his brain, letting in a rush of white noise that was somehow both chaotic and oddly soothing.
His arms went slack, the fork clattering to the floor as his eyelids grew heavy. He swayed on his feet, struggling to stay upright as waves of drowsiness washed over him.
Through the haze, he heard the butler's crisp voice. "If you require anything else, sir, please don't hesitate to ring the bell."
George's bleary eyes struggled to focus as he watched the spatula vanish from the butler's hand. Reginald turned on his heel, chin held high, and strode away with an air of unshakeable dignity.
It took several long moments for George to regain his senses. When he did, he found himself still standing by the door frame, staring down the now-empty hallway. The realization that he'd been thoroughly bested by an elderly man with a kitchen utensil was almost too much to bear.
"It had to be magical," George muttered to himself, desperately clinging to his wounded pride. "No way a regular spatula could do that." He said rubbing his head from the lingering pain.
He had witnessed his own fair share of impossible to doubt anything anymore.
As the fog in his mind cleared, a startling realization hit him: the door was still open. Reginald, in his confident exit, had neglected to close it behind him.
Heart pounding, George cautiously poked his head out into the hallway. No sign of the butler. This was his chance.
With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, George took a careful step over the threshold. The plush carpet muffled his footsteps as he ventured into unknown territory. His mind raced with possibilities - and potential dangers - as he set off to find his way out of this bizarre prison.
*******
In a dimly lit room, Reginald stood before a wall of flickering screens, each displaying a different area of the sprawling house. His eyes fixed on one particular monitor, where George could be seen cautiously stepping out of the bedroom door that had been left conspicuously open.
With practiced efficiency, Reginald retrieved a sleek phone from his pocket. He dialed a number, the screen briefly illuminating with the contact "Mistress Nebula" before he raised it to his ear.
"Madam," he spoke, his voice low and measured. "The gentleman has taken the bait." He listened for a moment, nodded once, then ended the call. His gaze returned to the screens, watching George's tentative progress through the house.
Unaware of the watchful eyes tracking his every move, George made his way down a grand staircase, its polished banister cool beneath his palm. He found himself in a spacious living room, ornate furnishings and priceless artworks adorning every surface.
As he moved through the house, each room seemed to lead to another, with no clear exit in sight. The opulence was overwhelming - crystal chandeliers, antique vases, and intricate tapestries at every turn.
George paused before a large painting, his eyes widening as he recognized the subject as the witch herself. She was depicted in a state of undress, and he quickly averted his gaze, a flush creeping up his neck. "Good grief," he muttered, hurrying past.
He couldn't help but marvel at the sheer wealth on display. "How did she get all this?" he wondered aloud, eyeing a particularly ornate golden clock. "Then again, I suppose witches have their ways. Probably conjured it all up."
Walking through a hall way with numerous more pictures of the witch lady, George found himself before a family portrait that gave him pause. It showed an elderly man with weathered features, flanked by three young men who bore a strong resemblance to him. In the center stood a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, with striking green eyes and long, dark hair that seemed eerily familiar.
The family shared similar features - high cheekbones, strong jawlines, and an air of quiet dignity. But it was the girl who captured George's attention. Those emerald eyes, so like the witch's, seemed to follow him as he studied the painting.
"Who are they?" George murmured, his brow furrowed in confusion. "And why does that girl look so much like...?" He trailed off, the implications of what he was seeing beginning to dawn on him. Could this be the witch's family? And if so, what did that mean for his current situation?
Were there other witches within this very walls?!