Chapter Text
The House That Worshiped
Vincent Whittman
In the early years of 1900s, every Sunday morning, the house carried the scent of freshly pressed fabric, lemon polish, and old money. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching upon the banisters and the immaculate floors until everything seemed to gleam with the kind of perfection only wealth could afford.
Servants moved quietly through the halls, their footsteps barely audible by the expensive carpets. They existed as part of the household itself: useful, efficient and largely invisible. Their presence acknowledged only when needed. There was a ritual to these mornings: The silver kitchenware would already be shining, the breakfast table perfectly arranged, the jackets brushed free of dust, shoes polished until they reflected the light. Every detail prepared long before the family descended the staircase.
Sunday did not belong to anyone within the house, it belonged to God, or rather, to the man who claimed to speak the loudest on His behalf.
The entire household seemed to bend around that reality. Conversations and movements grew more restrained as if one careless word might be enough to disturb the fragile illusion of righteousness, which was carefully maintained under the Whittman's roof.
Vincent was six when he first understood his life was about to change.
He stood on a stool in the upstairs bathroom while his mother's maid adjusted the collar of his shirt. The maid's fingers were quick, but gentler than they needed to be. She didn't look at him for long, after all, nobody in the house looked too long at anything that might invite questions.
''Vincent.''
His father's voice traveled up the staircase as easily as perfume drifted through a room, designed to be noticed.
The boy froze instantly.
His small shoulders stiffened while his eyes remained fixed on the reflection staring back at him from the mirror. He had not done anything wrong, at least, not that he was aware of. Experience had taught him that this rarely mattered in this case. When his father spoke his name in that tone, it was never simply a summons, it was an accusation waiting to reveal itself and Vincent knew that if a flaw had not yet been found, one would inevitable be invented. In a house like this, appearances had always mattered.
"Vincent," his father called again.
The maid's hands paused at the nape of the boy's neck where she had been carefully adjusting the collar. For a fleeting moment, her fingers unconsciously tightened around the fabric and a small crease formed under the grip. The sort of imperfection his father would notice immediately. She released the cloth quickly and smoothed the wrinkle away as anxiety flickered in. Then, she stepped back.
''Hurry up,'' she whispered.
Vincent stepped off the stool, he lowered his gaze toward his hands instinctively checking his sleeves, his tie, searching desperately for whatever mistake might have summoned him downstairs. He found none. He straightened his posture, lifted his chin and walked out of the bathroom toward the voice that had governed the house.
The hallway outside the bathroom was bright and clean, lined with framed paintings and printed articles: his father with local politicians, his father shaking hands with a bishop, his father standing under a new company sign with the certainty of a man who believed he had earned the sky. On the wall at the end of the hall hung a portrait of his father's father. Another man with the same hard jaw and identical cold eyes, then painted in oils, a family line carved into canvas. Vincent had been told countless of times the portrait mattered because it reminded them of who they were in society.
He walked downstairs with careful steps as he had learned, at an early age, that a child should not announce himself with noise.
The sitting room had been designed to impress.
Crimson walls enclosed the space in rich, velvety tones, their deep color lending the room an air of authority, almost intimidating. Morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the furnishing dark wood of the polished furniture. Along the walls stood towering bookshelves crafted from mahogany. Their surfaces so meticulously maintained that they reflected the light in subtle amber hues. Rows upon rows of books filled the shelves, their leather-bound spines arranged with precision. Some volumes looked well-read while other untouched. A pale cream carpet stretched across the floor, intricate patterns of gold, burgundy and muted ivory wove its surface in elegant designs that hinted at the considerable expense. It was the sort of carpet one hesitated to step upon. At the center of the room sat two large leather sofas positioned opposite one another. Their dark burgundy upholstery complemented the crimson walls beautifully. Between them rested a low table of dark polished wood and neatly arranged atop its surface lay several stacks of work papers, correspondence awaiting signatures and the morning newspaper. A silver fountain pen rested beside the documents. The furniture was expensive, yet it lacked warmth. Like everything else in the house, it seemed chosen for prestige before comfort.
The room smelled faintly of leather, tobacco and whisky. A scent that had settled permanently into the house over the years.
His father stood beside the tall window, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he gazed out at the green lawn stretching beyond the estate, the trees' leaves were trimmed delicately and bed of flowers were resting near the hedges. He did not admire the view, no, he was assessing it.
Every person, every opportunity, every institution appeared to exist within his mind as pieces upon a board waiting to be arranged according to his design. Even standing properly still, he possessed a sense of the world beyond the glass.
Behind him, the radio hummed from the cabinet in the corner of the sitting room. A pleasant announcer spoke about the weather forecast, local news, and political developments across the country. The voice blended into the room like a background noise, barely acknowledged by him. Yet, Vincent knew his father heard every word. Information, no matter how trivial, was never wasted in his ears.
"Come here," his father said, without turning.
Vincent obeyed, stopping several feet away.
His father turned then.
At that point in his life, his father had not yet become the powerful figure he would later be. His name did not command entire rooms, newspapers did not quote him, politicians did not seek his approval, yet, he was a very handsome man in a way that made other men stand straighter around him. The ambition was already rooted in him. The posture, the confidence with which he occupied every room he entered, was enough to be highly respected. He moved like a man who believed the future already belonged to him.
"You're slouching."
Vincent straightened immediately.
"And your shoes," his father continued, eyes flicking down. "Look at them."
Vincent glanced down.
A faint smear of mud on the side of the left shoe, nothing more than a dot of brown.
His father's mouth tightened, not with anger exactly, but with contempt for anything that did not meet his standards.
"Do you think God presents Himself with dirt on His shoes?"
"No, sir."
"Do you think a son of mine will be seen with it?"
"No, sir."
"Then fix it."
Vincent nodded, quickly he turned around ready to walk out of the resting room.
"Vincent."
He froze again.
His father watched him with the calm patience of someone who believed correction was an act of mercy.
"A man who must be told twice to correct himself," his father said, "is not a man at all."
Vincent swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
Vincent made his way to the kitchen in silence. A knot of unease twisted lightly in his stomach as his father's summons still lingered in the back of his mind. As he entered the kitchen, the maid who had been helping him dress earlier noticed him immediately, without asking questions, she crouched and gestured him to sit. Vincent obeyed and neither of them spoke. She had already noticed the faint smear of dirt on the side of his polished shoe, a simple flaw, a small one, barely noticeable, but in this house, small flaws had a habit of becoming large problems.
The maid dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and began wiping away the mark. Her movements were precise, the motions of someone who had spent years correcting imperfections. The woman rarely spoke unless spoken to. Like most servants in the household, she had learned the art of invisibility.
Vincent watched quietly and as she cleaned the shoe, he noticed something unusual in her expression, it was almost imperceptible. Her expression remained blank, but her eyes had softened, it felt almost human.
When she finished, she folded the cloth and set it aside on the counter. Then, almost absentmindedly, she patted the front of his shoe once, an harmless maternal gesture. For a brief moment, she wanted to say that he was only a child, that he shouldn't worry about such things, that he shouldn't be afraid every time his name is called, but the words never came, they never did. She rose to her feet, her expression empty again, hidden away, forgotten before it could become real.
Vincent lowered his gaze to his freshly cleaned shoes, they were perfect now, spotless, exactly as they were meant to be and somehow, he felt sadder. Appearances mattered more than feelings and weakness, whether it took the form of fear, tears, affection or kindness, was treated as something shameful, something disgraceful.
''Thank you,'' Vincent whispered.
The maid said nothing.
The day continued exactly as it always had.
The church itself bathed in colors as light poured through the stained-glass windows, casting soft shades of crimson, gold and sapphire across the wooden pews. The scent of old wood, candle wax and incense lingered in the air while the congregation sat in respectful silence.
Vincent sat between his parents near the front, they were always near the front. From where they sat, Vincent could see nearly everyone in attendance. Men in pressed suits, women wearing elegant hats and gloves, children struggling to remains still under the watchful eyes of their parents, and among them all, his father looked like a saint. His posture remained straight throughout the service, his expression calm and attentive as he listened to every word spoken from the pulpit. Whenever the priest spoke of discipline, humility, family values, or righteous living, his father nodded. He looked exactly like the sort of man scripture was written about. The sort of man people admired. Perhaps that was what disturbed Vincent most about those Sunday mornings.
When the final hymn ended and the congregation began filing toward the exits, his father's performance continued, intensified. Men approached, business owners, community leaders, neighbors, they greeted him with warm handshakes and respectful smiles, eager to exchange opinions and praise. Some sought advice, other merely wished to be seen speaking with him.
''An admirable family, a fine example for the community! Your son is growing into quite the young gentleman,'' one would comment.
His father accepted the compliments with humility, never too modest, but just enough to appear gracious.
"He'll grow into something worthy," his father would reply.
Vincent learned to hold his face neutral.
Meanwhile, women gathered around Vincent's mother. They complimented her dress, her hair, her beautiful son. From distance, she looked exactly like the image of a perfect wife: elegant, refined, graceful, beautiful... and she truly was beautiful. Her features were delicate, her smile warm enough to soften a room, her dresses were always impeccable and her hair carefully arranged.
People often remarked in how fortunate she was, how blessed, how perfect her life appeared. But in return, she barely spoke, and when she did, it always felt careful. Like someone weighing each word before allowing them into the world.
Vincent would notice how her smile faded whenever no one was watching, how exhaustion remained under her eyes no matter how much powder she wore. To everyone else, she looked perfect, but to Vincent, she looked tired. The sort of weariness that settled into a person over years until it became part of them. Sometimes he would catch her staring into nothing between conversations and during those moments, her expression became strangely distant, almost sad, then someone would speak her name and the smile would return immediately. Vincent often wondered if anyone else noticed it, if anyone noticed how hard she worked to appear happy or if anyone even cared about the loneliness hidden beneath her beauty.
The ride home was the same as usual.
Church ended at the front steps with smiles, handshakes and praise, but the moment the car doors closed, the performance ended.
Even during warmer months when the sun turned the interior into a slow-breathing furnace, the windows remained rolled up. His father disliked outside noises, he disliked interruptions, he disliked anything he could not control. Vincent had never questioned it. The air inside the car carried the scent of leather, tobacco smoke and his father's cologne.
His father sat in the front passenger seat like a military commander returning from inspection, one arm rested upon the door, the other hand upon the steering wheel.
Vincent sat beside his mother in the back seat, his knees together, his hand resting upon his laps and his back straight against the leather seat.
The engine hummed through the silence as nobody spoke. Then, without turning around, his father finally spoke.
''You saw how they looked at you,'' he said, voice calm. The same tone he used during business conversations earlier.
''Yes, sir.''
His father nodded one.
''They watch everything. They look for flaws, they look for weakness.''
His father stared straight ahead as he spoke, watching the road pass before them.
Vincent swallowed.
''A boy who speaks too softly,'' a pause. ''A boy who smiles too much,'' another pause. ''A boy who is too gentle...'' His father's jaw tightened, his voice sharpened, not louder, but sharper like a knife slowly drawn from its sheath.
''A boy who isn't like other boys... That kind of boy becomes a problem."
The air became suddenly harder to breath as the car felt smaller. The knot twisted, again, uncomfortably inside Vincent's stomach. He could never fully explain why those particular words frightened him, but it did. He stared forward at the road beyond the windshield while trying desperately to understand what answer was expected of him. What mistake had he made now? What had his father seen?
''I am not a problem.'' The words had escaped Vincent quietly, instantly, he regretted speaking.
The silence afterward stretched painfully.
His father slowly turned his head only slightly to look at him through the space between the front seats. The glance lasted only a few seconds, but Vincent felt the weight of his eyes pressing directly against his chest.
''Then, prove it.''
His father turned forward again and the conversation was apparently over. Vincent sat frozen, because he knew what his father had truly meant. Not prove it today, or tomorrow, but every day, for every conversation, every gesture, every smile, every part of himself.
His mother's gaze lowered toward her folded hands, she remained silent, as always. For the briefest moment, Vincent wondered if she understood how much those words hurt.
He caught her reflection in the window and just for a second, a fleeting glimpse, she looked tired, soul-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion that comes from spending years proving something impossible, after all, his mother had been proving herself for years and still, it had never been enough.
The car rolled to a stop under the covered entrance, almost immediately, a servant stepped out to open the doors.
His father exited first, not a word said, not a glance, not a moment wasted. He crossed the threshold with the same purposeful stride he carried everywhere, removing his coat as he walked in. Without pausing, his father headed directly toward his office at the far end of the hallway, the door opened, then closed, and just like that, he was gone.
The house seemed to finally exhale as Vincent and his mother stepped in. The silence became less rigid and the air itself felt lighter.
Vincent watched his mother lowering herself onto a small bench near the doorway and began removing her shoes, the process seemed slower than usual. He had been thinking about the conversation in the car ever since it ended, about his father's voice, about weakness, about proving himself, and problems. As though he was afraid someone might overhear, he eventually spoke.
''Why does Father get angry so fast?''
His mother's hands paused.
Vincent noticed it immediately, the change in her composure, her expression had shifted so subtly that most people would have missed it. The smile she had worn at church was now gone... All of it faded away. Something sad appeared, old and resigned. Her gaze lowered to her shoes, carefully placing them side by side upon the floor before speaking.
''Your father wants what's best for you.''
Vincent stared at her, waiting, waiting for more, an explanation, a defense, a comfort, anything. He wanted her to tell him his father didn't mean it, that he worried too much, that being different wasn't something terrible, but nothing else came. His mother simply sat there looking at her hands, she seemed far away, lost somewhere Vincent couldn't follow.
The silence stretched, before finally she spoke again.
''Be good and it will be easier.''
The words were quiet, but settled heavily between them.
Vincent nodded obediently and watched his mother stare toward the closed office door at the end of the hallway. She looked less like a wife waiting for her husband, but more like a woman who was taught to be compliant, manageable, the kind that asked nothing for herself.
As Vincent grew into the shape demanded of him, something inside him resisted.
He had learned far too early what happened to people who challenged expectations directly. That resistance in his father's world was not met with understanding, it was automatically correct, disciplined, reshaped until it became acceptable. Vincent learned to obey, how to sit properly, how to speak properly, how to smile at the appropriate moments, how to hide uncertainty, how to become the son everyone expected him to be, and still... The feeling refused to settle inside of him. It appeared in small, strange ways.
Sometimes, long after the rest of the house has fallen asleep, Vincent would find himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring into the darkness of his room. The moonlight slipping through the curtains painted the pale outlines across the furniture. The house would be completely silent at those hours, no servants moving through the hallways, no footsteps, no conversations behind closed doors, but only the occasional groan of old woods settling within the walls and the distant ticking of a clock somewhere downstairs.
Vincent often preferred those moments. The only moments when nobody was watching him or when he didn't have to perform. They felt honest.
He would sit there for long stretches of time with his hands folded loosely between his knees, staring into the darkness, trying desperately to identify the feeling that lived inside his chest. Oddly, the feeling never seemed to have a proper name. Sometimes, he tried to convince himself it was loneliness, it sounded reasonable, but other times, he wondered if it was weakness. The word alone tightened the knot in his stomach. His father's voice would echo through his memory.
-They look for weakness.
-That kind of boy becomes a problem.
Those thoughts never lasted long as Vincent has become very good at pushing them away. Yet, the feeling remained, it was persistent, patient, waiting. It surfaced whenever he watched his mother staring silently into emptiness, whenever he saw other boys laughing freely without worrying how they appeared, or whenever someone spoke about happiness. There were moments when Vincent felt as if he were living behind a sheet of glass, close to touch the world, but never quite part of it and no matter how perfectly he behaved, no matter how many expectations he fulfilled, that invisible sheet of glass never shattered, if anything, it grew larger. So he learned not to speak about it, not to ask questions and instead, he buried the feeling beneath responsibilities and accomplishments. He built layers around himself year after year through achievements, discipline and control.
Deep down, under every lesson his father had taught him, a small part of him continued asking the same question, over and over again.
-Why do I feel so alone when I am surrounded by people?
But no answer ever came.
The growing suspicion that whatever was missing from his life could not be found in wealth, reputation, or approval. It was something else entirely, something he had not yet encountered, something that many years later would look back at him through warm crimson eyes and change the course of his entire life.
To be continued...