Writing Prompt
Writings
Writings
STORY STARTER
Your main character is a housekeeper working in a stately home. At breakfast one day, they overhear a terrible secret that they feel they cannot keep to themself.
Try to keep the readers in suspense for as long as possible while taking them on your character's journey as they decide what to do, or who to tell.
Writings
It was the summer where I got my first job as a housekeeper in a huge mansion. I was really excited because the pay was A LOT, at least to me.
I’m going to make a lot of money! I thought to myself.
At first, the duty as a housekeeper sounds like a lot, but as weeks past by, it’s beginning to feel a lot easier. One day, during breakfast time, I was about to knock on the owner of the mansion’s office door when I heard voices from inside.
There’s two voices, including the owner’s vocie. “Should we…Kill…or leave it?” The “Of course!…don’t leave the evidence… dangerous…caught.” The owner of the mansion said. “What if…find out?” “…for our own goods…do it.” The owner said. “Fine.” The other person replied.
I covered my mouth in horror. They are really a part of the mafia gang that the police had been talking about on the news?
I quietly went away and pace around in the dining room.
I can’t keep this to myself, I had to tell the police! But why about my job? I will lose my job if I did.
Why am I concerned of my own job when I have a chance to do something heroic right now? Now is my time to shine!
I decided I can’t risk calling right now.. but they can finish hiding the body before I called the police. Then, the police will not detect any suspician on them and I will be out of job too.
I clinged on hair as I did a dramatic silent scream. While I was at it, I saw a camera on the left corner.
Oh, shoot. Uh… That’s awkward, I forgot there’s camera in the dining room. I swiftly changed into my normal expression and went back to my duty.
I had to call the police, I thought as I walked to the door and this time, there a no sound.
I knocked.
“Come in.”
I twisted the knob and opens the door. “It’s time for breakfast, Mr. Tones. I said in the most professional and unhinged tone.
“I will be there in a minute.” He responded as if nothing has happened.
I closed the door quietly and walked to the employee’s restroom. I looked around the restroom and saw no security camera. I sighed in relief and went inside the bathroom and dialed police’s number. I waited inpatient and nervously for the other line to pick up. I can feel my heart pounding so loud, as if the whole world could hear my heartbeat.
The police finally picked up the phone. “911, what’s your emergency?” A deep male voice came through the phone.
“I’m here to report a suspician upon the case of Mr. Jones.” I said in a low voice.
Working for the Masons was not for the faint of heart, but my family had been doing it for over 50 years. When my mother and father died, my sister and I stayed at the Manor, knowing nothing different. Nowhere to go. The Masons expected us to stay, of course, and I think a bit of me expected us to leave. But we didn’t. We stayed, and continued to be taken advantage of with labor at all hours of the day and night. Our only payment was being allowed to stay at the Manor, a sprawling expanse of glamor that most envied.
Monday breakfast was always the worst because the head of the house, Marley, demanded a plethora of eggs, all cooked diferent ways. As I brought them out, I heard him say, “We can’t dig there. It’ll be found.” He looked up at me as I came closer with his platter, and his wife, Marcine, continued, “We have to dig there. It’s crucial to our new piping.” Whatever it was, they trusted me to hear it. I set the platter down and began to walk away.
“She’s there, love,” Marley whispered, suddenly, and Marcine gasped. I didn’t hear anymore, but the next day I saw construction beginning at the right wing of the house, where the greenhouse was. They were digging up the soil there, and I, curious, approached.
By the time I got there, they had found something. A shallow grave, it appeared. Feigning a delivery of cool, pitchered water, I drew closer to see my mother’s wedding gown - unmistakable - covered in years of filth, being pulled from the ground. They had told me she died from a fall, not on her wedding day.
I rushed to tell my sister. Who had our parents been, and who were we working for?
A knock at the door summons me from my sweeping. “Marisol, would you be a dear and get that for me?” Ryan’s voice floats down the stairs.
I saunter to the entryway, expecting another snooty guest of Ryan’s like the last woman he had over — boobs the size of watermelons and giant pearls to match. And her lipstick was something else entirely.
But when I open the door, I’m so taken aback I almost fall over. This isn’t the usual, it’s not even close. This girl is small and pale, with a few freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are wide and watery, a shade of spring green so light they look like glass. Her clothes are in tatters, hanging from her shoulders. She’s half naked, trembling, and soaking wet.
“Oh, dear,” I murmur, but she must hear it because she meets my eyes. It’s a defiant act, especially one coming from such a small girl. She’s trying her best to seem put together — the poor dear.
“Mr. Cagnerese will be with you in just a moment. Would you like to come inside?” I ask her, opening the door a little wider. The wind from the storm whips my hair around, and seems to push the tiny girl inside.
She nods, steely eyed. Her appearance makes her come across as weak, but the look in her eyes conveys nothing but.
I turn to go fetch Ryan, but he’s already coming down the stairs, his jaw dropped.
“Elaine,” he says incredulously, “why are you here?”
She steps forward to meet him at the foot of the stairs. “I think you know why, Ryan.”
If it had been anyone else calling him by his first name, I would have gently reminded them of his status. But this doesn’t seem like my place.
I back up, against the wall, pretending to be busy with dusting the entryway mantel.
“I thought it was negative,” Ryan hissed, spitting profanity.
“You knew it wasn’t!” Elaine yelled, scaring me quite a bit. “You knew I was pregnant and yet you still left! You left me and started your own life and that stupid business that got you rich! Now tell me, was it worth it?” She pulls something out of her pocket, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s a gun.
That moment costs me. She shoots Ryan. Once, twice. Bang, bang. Dead.
The old maid hobbled down the hallway in her dusty, worn outfit looking almost as old as the house she was tasked with cleaning and maintaining. She had already cleaned the study, the kitchen, and the library. The maid was dragging her withered and weary body from one room to the next until she came upon her employer’s office. “Lionel Earhardt” read the bronze plaque adorning the wall just to the side of the office’s door. Her employer was a cruel man, known for dealing in business that most would deem as nefarious. She did not know exactly what his occupation was or where he worked, all she knew was that he owned and operated several businesses. As she moved towards the door she overhead a familiar commanding sound, the voice of her employer, Mr. Earhardt. The maid heard another voice join in the conversation, also a man, of similar age and geographic origin to Mr. Earhardt. She could not make out every word spoken but she was certain that she heard “… the situation regarding your pretender brother has been handled.”
Madeline Sector was a quiet woman. A simple maid or servant hood. She was not the kind that would gossip a long while with a friend, or dress wildly in vibrant, frilly dresses. Neither was she the kind of woman to draw attention to herself, or become involved in any sort of outlandish talk... until, that is, she heard the scheme. She had entered the Brighton's dining room with a fresh pot of tea while Mr. Brighton and his wife were talking.
"What is your plan? You know that Holmes is no ordinary man. One miscalculation and it will be you in that coffin instead of Holmes." Mrs. Brighton raised an eyebrow, stirring her tea.
Mr. Brighton smirked, stroking his curled mustache. "Moriarty and I have it all planned out, my dear. Never fear, when the bell tolls at midnight, we will take down Holmes and his petty little sidekick before they know what hit them." His smirk was replaced by a scowl when he mentioned their names.
It was all Ms. Sector could do to keep from spilling the tea as she heard this. She forced herself to exit the room calmly, despite the panic rising in her.
A war arose inside of her. Should she warn the great detective? Or sit idly by, refusing to meddle with such dramatic things? She stumbled through the rest of her duties, and received a good scolding from Madam Brighton after she accidentally tipped over the wash bucket. When she was allowed to return to her home, a wave of relief washed over her. She walked briskly down the lamp-lit street, trying to push down the thoughts that kept arising in her mind.
Only when she passed by Sherlock's office did she stop. She stared at the sign, guilt rising in her chest. How could she possibly do nothing when a good man's life was at stake? Mustering up her courage, she strode across the street, and knocked on the door. It took only a few moments before a man appeared in the doorway. He had an unruly mess of brown hair atop his head, a pipe in his mouth, and a peculiar look on his face. Further back in the room, Ms. Sector noticed a younger man with lighter - but no less disheveled - hair and a long mustache.
"Madam, please come in." Detective Holmes said, stepping out of the doorway. Somewhat reluctantly, Ms. Sector complied. After the door was shut, Holmes turned to her.
"Whatever is the matter? It's unusual to see a woman such as yourself out so late as this."
Ms. Sector's eyes darted from Watson to Holmes as she replied, "I... I've heard a plot, detective... a... a plot involving Moriarty..."
Holmes raised an eyebrow and glanced at Watson. "Do continue." He urged.
"I overheard the plan as I was pouring tea in the Brighton's dining hall... Mr. Brighton said that he and Moriarty were going to... well... I don't know exactly... but they are most definitely out for your head."
"And did you happen to hear when exactly they are planning to do this?" Watson spoke up.
Ms. Sector hesitated, wracking her brain for any sort of memory.
"When the bell tolls!" She said at last.
Holmes flipped open his pocket watch and showed Watson. "That's in a quarter hour's time..." he mumbled.
"If this plot is indeed real, we must act quickly. Watson, grab the maps." He continued, striding over to the shelves and picking off a few books.
He turned back to Ms. Sector. "If you don't mind, madam, I'd like you to stay with us until after this plan is carried out." He looked to Watson who met his gaze with a look Ms. Sector couldn't read. "For your safety, of course." Holmes added quickly.
******
Rain splattered the street as Ms. Sector hurried along after the two detectives. They had been most adamant that they rid the room of all valuable items before finding a place to observe. Holmes marched over to a stack of crates and motioned for Ms. Sector to follow. Watson headed off in another direction at a much more hurried pace. A few minutes later, a long toll split the otherwise silent air.
It didn't take long before five black-cloaked figures appeared from the darkness, hurrying forward. A torch was lit, the window was broken, and flames soon hungrily licked the building. Holmes frowned and Watson groaned.
The five figures rushed into the burning building, clubs in hand. They soon exited, looking flustered and disappointed. A sixth figure stepped out from the shadows, looking particularly angry. Detective Holmes leaned close to Ms. Sector and whispered in her ear.
"Don't move. Stay here." He rose to his feet. The sixth figure stared at him, then clenched his fists.
"Running away... that's your newest tactic, is it, Holmes?" Moriarty sneered, his dark expression matching his black clothing.
"I'd like to think of it as outsmarting." Holmes retorted with a smirk.
Moriarty seemed to relax slightly. He smirked a cold, cruel grin. "Well, Holmes... it would seem that you are outnumbered six to one... I am sorry to say that I don't think your wits can save you this time." He turned to the other five men. "Get him." He snapped.
Just as they began to March forward, a sharp whistle split the air, followed by footsteps. Lots of them.
Around the corner came Watson, and behind him, about thirty men in uniform. Moriarty's smirk was quickly replaced by a look of horror.
******
"We are truly indebted to you, Ms. Sector." Detective Holmes said with a polite bow.
"Don't bother yourself. It was nothing. Anyone with a sensible head on their shoulders would've done the same thing." Ms. Sector replied.
"My companion and I were wondering, Ms. Sector... would you be willing to spy on the Brighton's for us?"
Ms. Sector hesitated. To spy would mean to leave her life of simplicity behind... and yet... it would mean freedom.
She smiled.
[EDITED] Jamie was screwed. They were completely and utterly done for. Why is Jamie so screwed? How did they end up in such a terrible situation? Well, it all started when Jamie was looking for a job...
Jamie, a broke college student, decided the best way to earn money was to apply to work as a housekeeper at the Davidsons' mansion. The Davidsons' were a rich family who came from old money. The Davidsons’ who owned the mansion were Rose and Roger Davidson, as well as their son, Marcus Davidson. At face value, it seemed like a decent job opportunity. Well, it has a good pay, at least. Plus, Jamie was desperate; they had debts to pay.
When Jamie arrived at the Davidsons', they was greeted by one of the Davidsons' butlers. "Goodmorning, Jamie. It's nice to see you've arrived on time," the butler extended one of his hands in greeting. Jamie shook it. "Good morning to you as well..." "Craig, Craig Lane, but you can just call me Craig," he replied. Craig led Jamie inside the mansion. Soon after entering, Jamie was met by a set of large stairs, which led up into another room. "So, how long have you been working here, Craig?" Jamie attempted to make conversation. "A couple of years. Though, that’s not long, compared to some of the other workers here." "Really?" Jamie said, surprised. "Yes,” Craig didn’t elaborate further. "As you know, while serving as a housekeeper, you'll live here, in the Davidsons' mansion, along with me and the rest of the servants," Craig said, nodding at Jamie's suitcase. "I will show you to your room later. For now, I will give you a short tour of the mansion." Craig guided Jamie further into the entrance hall and began to point out various rooms in the house. "In front of you is the Great Hall, which is mainly used for official meetings and parties." "These steps over here," Craig said, pointing to the right, "go upstairs. There is also another set of stairs in the coat room that lead upstairs." Craig lead Jamie down a hallway till they reached a small set of stairs. "On the left is the breakfast room and on the right is the dining room." J’aie followed Craig up the small set of stairs into another hallway. "Left is the indoor garden--which also leads to outside." "To the right is an empty room. Mrs. Davidson is undecided on its use.” Jamie is lead further down the hallway. “To the right is the pantry which holds the walk-in refrigerator and linen room.” A bit further down the hallway. “On your left is the servant's dining room--this is where you'll be eating. On your right, is the kitchen, which also leads into the pantry." Continuing a little further the hallway expanded. Craig showed Jamie the laundry room. Then, Craig led Jamie back towards the entrance and up the stairs to the grand hall. Next, he led Jamie to the right into another room. "This is the living room which leads into the courthouse and the terrace. And if you turn to the left, you'll be greeted by a beautiful view from the bay windows. It is a wonderful place to relax if you find the time." Craig led Jamie out of the living room to the stairs near a coat closet. Craig and Jamie walked upstairs. "Directly in front is Mr. Marcas' room and to the right are Mr. and Mrs. Davidson's room. As a housekeeper, you are in charge of overseeing general duties, including cleaning and repairs. However, the Davidsons' personal rooms are managed by their butlers, so you don’t need to worry about them." "So you're one of the Davidsons' butlers?" Jamie asked. "Yes, I am Mr. Marcus' personal butler. This floor is mainly the Davidsons' rooms, including a few personal rooms--such as Mr. Marcas' sewing room. There are two guest rooms, as well, father down.” Craig led Jamie to another staircase. "This staircase leads to the third--and final--floor," Craig said as he walked up the stairs. "Up here, are several guest bedrooms, closets, and baths. As well as, a game room, but it’s further down the hall." Craig then turned to the left and headed up a small set of stairs. "This is the servants’ quarters. It has 5 bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, storage, and a laundry chute. Note that most of the servants don't stay here full-time, such as the maids. The live-in servants are me, the head chef--Amanda--, Mr. Davidson's personal butler--Bernie--, Mrs. Davidson's personal butler--Pascal--, and…”Craig turned towards Jamie, "...you, the new housekeeper." Craig as he turned back around, and lead Jamie to the end of the hall. "On the right is your room and mine directly across the hall." Craig turned to Jamie again. "I’ll wake you in the morning (tomorrow) for breakfast. For now, you can unpack. Have a good night," Craig said with a dismissive nod. "Goodnight to you as well." Jamie said in turn. (word count limit)
“There’s nothing you can’t wipe clean with a scrub brush,” she mumbles under her breath, repeating her boss’s unhelpful advice from earlier.
The scrub brush in her hands moves roughly across the dining room floor as she tries her best to suppress her anger. Yesterday, she was mopping the floor but her boss had felt mops just didn’t make his floors clean enough. This morning he greeted her with a gift, a scrub brush that would help her clean better this time. She had nodded and told him she will try her best, all while thinking of how she wished she could shove it down his-her hands tremble with anger. Taking a breath, she rubs the scrub brush in more gentle notions.
Her boss is a strange man. A strange man who is hard for most to get along with. He had few friends but many wives. Poor women who thought—well she wasn’t sure what they thought. In her eyes, he looked like a man who perceived himself as more handsome than he actually was. His bushy beard so black it gleamed blue. His eyes are soulless as they pick at every part of you. Overall, he had no charm or anything that would account for basic appeal. Maybe that’s why none of his wives lasted long? They fell under his spell only to realize they were kissing a donkey.
He also was hard to work with but after nine years she was his longest lasting employee. Her secret to keeping her job was simple. She stayed quiet, and made herself invisible from his sight. And whenever he did notice her she just nodded and promised to do her best. Over the years, he had gifted her bonuses that was just the expensive jewelry his wives left behind. She didn’t complain especially when she went to the pawn shop and came home with a good sum of money. From his gifts alone, she had managed to get her kids in private school. Yes, as much she disliked him she couldn’t complain. If it wasn’t for him who knew how many jobs she’d have to juggle to keep her kids in the best schools.
She moves the scrub brush to clean under the table. Yesterday, he had complained about scuff marks so she works hard to make it unnoticeable. She’ll probably have to shine the floor too so it’ll have that extra sparkle that he likes. She lets out a heavy sigh as she scrubs. Hearing the door to the dining room open, she continues her work but in a more quiet manner. He must not notice her because he’s speaking to someone in his loud booming voice. One would think someone that loud you’d hear constantly but every room in the house was sound proofed for some reason.
“Big wedding,” Is all she hears from him.
“You’re really getting married again?” She heard someone reply.
The voice is familiar and she recognizes it as his lawyer.
“I have too, you know the rules,” he says then starts choking.
She rolls her eyes. He’s probably smoking a cigar again which meant she’ll be stuck cleaning up the ashes.
“But this would be the seventh bride, don’t you think people will start being suspicious?” His lawyer asked.
She stops scrubbing. Suspicious of what? She wondered.
He laughs. “Have you seen the women I choose? No one even misses them.”
Her heart pounds in her chest. Why would those women be missed? Weren’t they…oh god. The sound proofed rooms. And there was one time she found a bloody shirt deep in a pile of his dirty clothes. She had dismissed it because he had come back with an animal scratch…Oh! Oh no. That wasn’t from an animal scratch was it.
“That’s true,” his lawyer chuckles, she hears their footsteps move to the middle of the room.”We put out one little cover story about them running away cause they couldn’t handle elite life and no one talks about them again.”
“Exactly, and I give their valuables to my maid who pawns off all the evidence of their existence for me.”
Fool! She’s such a fool! She never asked questions or cared to know more about the wives. Maybe if she did then…then they wouldn’t be dead.
“Smart,” his lawyer compliments.
Their footsteps reach the other side of the room. The door opens and closes. They were in the kitchen now. She moves from under the table, crawling to the edge and peeks out. Empty. Filled with relief, she slides from under the table. She had to tell the police. Those poor women. And she…she had unintentionally helped covered it up. Moving toward the door that lead to an open hall, she hears the door from behind her open. She freezes, her fear seizing her way before her employer has a chance to.
Her fear is what allows him to take hold of her. His grip on her is tight. His grip is deadly.
“Such a shame, you were always a perfect employee.”
Baylee picks up a pawn from the chess board and carefully examines the ornate design. The richness in color and the high textured grain indicates it was made out of an exotic walnut. She’s been cleaning the Roth Estate for over a year and the study has grown to become her favorite room. The floor to ceiling array of books lend to an imagination as far as the eye can see. She’s not supposed to dwell long amongst the books but like a moth to a flame she is drawn in.
The couple in the master bedroom is trying to be quiet. You can tell, you think, because every apparently accidental vocalization is followed by a hasty “shhhh.” Unfortunately for them, all the shushing is much more conspicuous than their actual voices. It’s what compelled your ear up against the closed door in the first place.
“Margaret,” you hear him moan, and yes, that is the king’s voice.
And yes, that is your sister’s name.
Your face is burning red, and you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or anger. How could you not know? You spend most of your day by her side, the two of you chatting mindlessly over the seemingly endless parade of clothes to be washed and silverware to be shined. At night, your pillow is five feet away from where she sleeps. You tell her everything. She tells you everything. You thought.
You know the king has a fondness for the younger women in the court. He leers at them from across the hall and “accidentally” brushes into them in corridors that are much too wide for such close contact. You’ve been the target of a drooling look or two yourself. You just never imagined he might actually act on it.
You like the queen. You help her into her corsets in the morning and she pats you on the head like a child. It should be patronizing, but it’s not. At 16, it’s been much too long since anyone else has treated you with such gentle compassion. You’re a woman now. You’re supposed to act like it. And yet, she lets you let your guard down. Sometimes, she even allows you to try on one of her less formal gowns and watches while you spin around until you make yourself dizzy.
You don’t want her to know the king is cheating on her. You don’t want the king to be cheating on her at all.
…which is why you almost knock your head into the door when you hear her voice rising alongside his.
“Oh, sire, what would you like me to do for you today? Should I shine your shoes? Or perhaps give you a massage? Your muscles are looking awfully tense. My hands are nice and strong now from all the washing. Let me help.”
It doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how the queen speaks. It’s not even really the tone of her voice—it’s certainly her, but you can tell she’s trying to make her voice sound higher, less refined, more like…
“Margaret,” the king moans again, and you can hear the queen giggle.
“Yes, your highness?” she asks.
Your sister is nowhere to be found. In fact, you’re sure if you tiptoe back to your room now, you’ll find her getting ready for bed and wondering why it’s taking you so long to draw the curtains. You were trying to close the castle down for the night when you were distracted by all their stupid shushing.
And now you have to know that the queen roleplays as your sister in bed with the king and somehow acts perfectly alright with that. That the king would prefer your sweet, plain sister to his own wife. That you will have to look the queen in the eye tomorrow and compliment her choice of dress and know that last night, she was pretending to be someone else, just to get him to love her again.
You have to tell your sister. She has to know. What if he asks her to do a chore for him alone, and he decides it’s really maybe better to have the real thing? What if she doesn’t want to and he doesn’t care?
If the secret gets out, the queen will be mortified. You don’t think the king will care, probably. He has too much power and too much conceit to feel shame. The queen, on the other hand, will want to climb down the well and never come out. And she’s the one you care about.
But not as much as you care about your sister, so you slowly pry yourself away from the door. You rehearse what you’ll say all the way back to your room.
Excited for my first day housekeeping would be an understatement.
As my Toyota Camry came to a halt, I'm in disbelief at the house I'm about to clean.
White picket fence and a round driveway with an elegant water fountain in the center. Beautiful wooden doors giving the house a castle atmosphere as you enter.
A lady answers the door and allows me to come inside with all my cleaning supplies jiggling in the background.
The husband's the most famous lawyer in all Farmington County, while the wife is a stay at home mom who sun bathes by the pool all day. No wonder they could afford such a massive home.
First task the lady asks me to do was make breakfast for her two sons before they went to school. The dad had already left for work earlier this morning and grabbed breakfast on the way.
Opening and closing cabinets trying to find the plates and silverware, I hear the door bell construct like an orchestra. It's the pool guy.
The pool guy comes right in like he's a part of the family. Taking off his shoes and making himself royalty, he goes and chats with the wife outside as she sun bathes. Both sons are hungry and becoming impatient with my cooking. Repeating myself for the 3rd time, I explain that the bacon egg and cheese biscuits will be ready soon.
BEEP BEEP BEEP, the air fryer telling me that the food is ready. Opening up the fridge I know the bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits needed one last touch: hot sauce. As I'm done splattering the hot sauce on, I notice some something happening near the pool.
The pool guys clothes were off of him, the wife's bikini was bustin out the seams.
That wasn't her husband. That wasn't the son's father. That's the god-damn pool boy.
Exploding all over the kitchen counter, I dropped the hot sauce as I reached a level of being almost paralyzed. I became frozen like I was getting mugged.
The two sons were wondering what was wrong. I made it clear that the hot sauce slipped randomly.
I couldn't let them see their mom do such a thing.
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