Where There's a Will: Part 1
The truck rumbled to a halt beneath the grand portico, its engine sputtering against the relentless drum of the rain. The passenger door creaked open, and a thin, angular man in a sharply tailored suit stepped out, sheltering a leather briefcase beneath his arm. He hesitated briefly, adjusting his tie as he glanced toward the truck’s rear, where two figures were already moving to unload its cargo. With a quick flick of his wrist, he checked his Rolex, then strode toward the manor’s imposing oak door, his polished shoes splashing through shallow puddles.
Finding a tarnished brass chain beside the door, he gave it a sharp pull. The reverberating clang of a bell echoed through the storm, its metallic ring cutting through the relentless percussion of rain. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a striking young man silhouetted against the dim interior light.
Paul Mitchell forced a smile as he extended a hand. "Paul Mitchell," he introduced himself warmly.
The young man nodded, his expression one of vague recognition. "Charlie," he replied in a thick London accent, gripping Paul’s hand firmly. At six feet tall and broad-shouldered, the twenty-four year old exuded an effortless confidence, his muscular physique accentuated by a snug tan sweater and tailored black trousers. Despite his youthful charm, there was an edge to him. His auburn hair, neatly cropped on the sides and tousled on top, framed a face that seemed almost familiar. For a fleeting moment, Paul was certain he'd seen the young man on one of those vacuous British reality shows about glamorous singles bickering over cocktails. He quickly dismissed the thought as Charlie’s sharp hazel eyes darted toward the truck.
"Who are they?" Charlie asked, nodding toward the two men now hefting crates from the truck bed.
"Local movers," Paul replied smoothly. "To assist with the delivery."
"Delivery?" Charlie’s voice carried a note of unease as his gaze flicked back to Paul. "I thought this was supposed to be just a will reading."
Paul’s smile tightened ever so slightly. "Ah, yes. It was. However, there have been... some updates. All will be explained, I assure you." He tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward the doorway. "May I come in?"
Charlie hesitated, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on the movers. "Course," he said at last, stepping aside to let Paul enter. As the lawyer crossed the threshold, Charlie’s gaze remained fixed on the men outside, his unease palpable.Inside, the mansion's vast foyer awaited—a cavernous expanse shrouded in shadows and the faint scent of damp wood. The door groaned shut behind them, sealing the storm outside. Paul took a deep breath, steadying himself as Charlie turned to face him, his brows furrowed with suspicion.
“Right, then,” Charlie said, crossing his arms. “Suppose you’d better start explaining.”
Paul caught the soft hum of conversation drifting from a half-open door at the far end of the grand foyer. He paused, listening, then smiled thinly. “Ah, excellent. It sounds like everyone has arrived,” he said, sidestepping Charlie’s expectant gaze. Explanations would come later, not here.
“Yeah, the ‘fellas’ got here about an hour ago,” Charlie replied, irritation bleeding into his tone. “Just like you told us to.”
“Fantastic,” Paul said briskly, smoothing his tie. He nodded toward the movers standing behind him. “Is that where we’ll have them set up the box?”
A short time later, Paul stood in the cavernous, dimly lit parlor, the heat of a roaring fire doing little to chase away the chill that seemed to cling to the air. Beside him, a tall wooden crate leaned precariously against a great oak desk. The movers stood on either side of it, their work gloves flecked with sawdust and rainwater. Before Paul, seven men lingered in various states of unease, all of them strikingly handsome. Some leaned against the carved wood paneling, arms crossed and faces unreadable. Others had taken seats on the overstuffed couches and loungers pulled closer to the desk, their postures betraying a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Charlie hovered near the doorway, his hazel eyes sharp and glinting with suspicion. His whiskey tumbler dangled from his fingertips, the amber liquid catching the firelight. He hadn’t said much since they entered the room, but his glare spoke volumes.
Paul felt the tension simmering in the room like a coiled spring. He removed his glasses, wiping them methodically against his handkerchief, before sliding them back on. Clearing his throat, he began, his voice measured and calm.
“My name is Paul Mitchell. I am an estate lawyer based in Boston, and I was the one who summoned you here this evening.”
The room remained silent save for the crackle of the fire. Paul pressed on.
“Several months ago, I was contacted by Arnold Mortimer—an elderly gentleman some of you may know as your employer, benefactor, or perhaps both.” His gaze flicked briefly to Charlie, who took a long sip from his glass, his expression unreadable. “At the time, Arnold claimed to me that he believed his life was in danger.” Paul paused, scanning the room for any reaction. “He asked for my assistance in drafting a new will and testament.”
Paul continued, “After Arnold’s passing a few days ago, his posthumous instructions were clear: I was to gather you all here tonight, at this precise time, for the reading of his final will.”
The stillness broke as a low, gruff voice cut through the room. “Did he also tell you what a rat-fucking bastard he was?”
Heads turned as a short, heavyset man lumbered into the parlor, a bottle of cheap rum clutched in his meaty hand. His sagging belly strained against a faded sweatshirt, and a gleam of hostility burned in his small, dark eyes. Behind him shuffled a second figure—an impossibly gaunt, skeletal man dressed in dusty butler’s attire, his hunched frame swaying under the weight of years.
Paul’s jaw tightened at the sight of the newcomers. “I wasn’t expecting additional attendees,” he said, his composure faltering.
“That’s because we weren’t on your fancy little list,” the heavyset man sneered, raising the bottle in a mock toast. “Name’s Gibson. Arnold’s brother.”
“Half-brother,” Charlie corrected coldly from his place by the door. His hazel eyes burned with disdain.
Gibson waved him off, unbothered. “And this here’s Beckman, Arnold’s butler.” He motioned lazily to the skeletal man, who shuffled forward, his sunken eyes scanning the room with a grim intensity.
“We had personal invitations,” Gibson added, pulling two creased envelopes from the waistband of his sweatpants and shaking them triumphantly. “Guess Arnold forgot to mention us to you, huh?”
Paul took a measured breath, regaining his composure. “Well, in any case, Arnold was explicit in his instructions. All of you were to be present for this evening’s proceedings.” His voice dropped slightly. “He also insisted that he deliver the contents of his will... personally.”
The murmurs returned, louder this time, a ripple of confusion spreading through the room. Without hesitation, Paul gestured to the movers. One stepped forward, crowbar in hand, and pried open the front of the towering crate. The wooden planks fell away with a clatter, revealing what lay inside.
Gasps rippled through the room. Standing upright within the crate was an open casket. Inside, Arnold Mortimer’s embalmed body rested with eerie poise, his velvet suit impeccably tailored, his gaunt face frozen in an almost lifelike expression of mischief. His brown eyes, preserved with meticulous care, stared straight ahead, unblinking. A sardonic smile curved his thin lips, his coiffed gray hair slicked neatly against his balding head.
Paul stepped forward, pressing a hidden button along the edge of the casket. A crackle of static filled the air, followed by a voice that sent shivers through the room—Arnold’s voice.
“Good evening, my so-called friends and family!” The recording boomed with theatrical flair, Arnold’s refined British drawl dripping with condescension. “You must be wondering how I’m speaking to you now. As the boy scouts say, always be prepared!”
The room fell deathly silent as the voice continued.
“If you’re hearing this, then I am, regrettably, no longer among the living. And if I know anything about you lot, it likely means one—or more—of you has succeeded in ending my life! Bravo, you fiend.” Arnold’s voice darkened, his sardonic tone shifting into something colder. “Under ordinary circumstances, this would be a traditional will reading. But alas, my murder now requires me to give every man his due.”
A heavy, uneasy silence settled over the room as Arnold’s words hung in the air.
"Most of you are well aware of the extent of my wealth," Arnold’s recorded voice continued, dripping with smugness. "Billions, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. It’s hard to hide that kind of fortune, even for a man of my cunning. I imagine some of you are more intimately familiar with the numbers than others—curiosity, greed, or just plain audacity, perhaps? Regardless, I know you’re all eager to hear what you’ll be getting. But patience, my dears, patience. And know this—if you’re dissatisfied with your share, tonight offers you one last chance to earn my favor."
“Can’t we fast-forward this thing?” a voice interrupted lazily.
All eyes turned to one of the lounge chairs, where a golden-haired Adonis lounged with deliberate ease. He was striking—a statuesque young man of about twenty, dressed in a tight white T-shirt that clung to his muscular chest and burgundy dress pants tailored so closely they bordered on scandalous. His eyes gleamed with equal parts arrogance and disinterest.
“Ah, that must be my pool boy, Ryley,” Arnold’s voice crooned with mock affection.
A ripple of voices swept the room. Ryley’s blue eyes widened. The color drained from his tanned face, his confident façade faltering as his name spilled from the recording. Outside, a crack of lightning illuminated the room in stark, silvery light, and for an unsettling moment, the mischievous smile on Arnold’s embalmed corpse seemed to grow wider.
Arnold chuckled—low, dry, and full of menace. “I imagine many of you thought I was merely a doddering old fruitcake. An easy mark. Someone you could charm with your bodies, your wits, or whatever endowments you thought I valued. But don’t be fooled. I know each of you—inside and out. Your strengths, your weaknesses, and, most deliciously, your sins. Tonight is your reckoning.”
The tension in the room thickened, the firelight casting dancing shadows across the uneasy faces of the men.
“I will begin this process with only one public disbursement,” Arnold announced, “to my own flesh and blood—my brother Gibson.”
Gibson, leaning against a column, smirked and mockingly tipped his bottle to the crowd. Charlie looked over, eyes narrowing, the grip on his tumbler tightening hard.
“To you, dear Gibson,” Arnold cooed, “I leave half of my obscene fortune, as stipulated in our… agreement. Consider it payment for your loyal—albeit treacherous—years at my side. Your greed, while odious, has at least been useful.”
The men glanced uneasily at Gibson, who gave an exaggerated bow, his smirk widening as if daring them to challenge him.
“But,” Arnold’s voice continued, “your half of the fortune comes with a caveat. I now instruct you to redistribute at least fifty-percent of it to any of the scoundrels in this room who remain by tomorrow morning — should you deem them worthy enough for it.”
The smirk faded from Gibson’s face, his jaw tightening.
“As for the rest of you,” Arnold went on, his voice sharp with glee, “your inheritance will be revealed in due time. However, for the more ambitious among you, I have left a *substantial* amount of my fortune hidden somewhere. To claim it, all you must do is survive a single night under this roof—without succumbing to your baser instincts or indulging your weaknesses.”
The room erupted into murmurs, the men exchanging uneasy glances.
“In the morning,” Arnold said, “if you have proven yourselves, the location of the fortune will either be revealed to you—or you will have found it yourselves. But know this: the cost of failure is high. Indulge in your vices, and you will face dire consequences.”
Arnold’s voice turned colder, more menacing. “You also have a choice. For the next ten minutes, the front door remains open. Those of you who wish to walk away may leave now—along with Paul, whose duties as executor of my will are now complete. Should you leave, you forfeit any claim to my fortune, but you depart with your life intact.”
A flash of lightning bathed the room, followed by a thunderclap that rattled the windows.
Arnold’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “But for those who stay—know that my eyes are upon you. Resist temptation, and you may leave this house as one of the richest men in the world. Succumb to it, and... well, let’s just say I’ve ensured your punishment will be swift and absolute. The choice is yours. Good luck.”
The recording clicked off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. The crackle of the fire and the distant roll of thunder were the only sounds as the men shifted uncomfortably. Arnold’s embalmed body stood motionless in its casket, his painted smile frozen as if mocking them all.
Paul took a step forward, glancing at the gathered men with a bemused expression. He jabbed a thumb toward Arnold’s corpse. “I don’t know what the hell you guys did to piss off this old geezer,” he said dryly, “but he sure had some... interesting hangups.”
Charlie snorted from his spot by the door, while the rest of the men remained silent, their eyes darting between each other, the crate, and the casket. Somewhere, a clock chimed faintly, marking the passing of time—and the ticking of their decision.
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