Filthy Aunt Mildred

#''(text-rotate-x:18)+(text-rotate-y:17)[FILTHY AUNT MILDRED]'' An interactive adventure in which afternoon tea decides your fate By Guðni Líndal Benediktsson and his two cats [[Begin]]

It was a warm August evening in the enormous //Bladesmith manor// at the edge of town. The air was sticky and horrible and Old Uncle Thomas who lived in the attic was smearing his faeces on the dining hall window, which meant it was six o'clock, because Old Uncle Thomas always smeared his faeces on the dining hall window at (link-reveal:"six o'clock")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== It was one of the many strange traditions of the Bladesmith manor, known to most of the villagers as a constant source of scandal, rumour and general gossip. The manor itself, while now a decrepit shadow of its former self, used to be renowned as an architectural marvel. Not only was it the first English countryside home that was both a castle and a mansion in one package, it also had (link-reveal:"more towers")[(show:?2)] than any building known to man. |2)[== A study with thousands of books. A world-class aviary. A laboratory. Secret tunnels, hidden entrances, locks within locks within locks. And there was of course //the yellow school bus//, perched right on top of the tallest tower - (link-reveal:"a room with a view")[(show:?3)] if there ever was one. |3)[== It all seemed like a great idea at the time. Money was plentiful, nobody had been murdered yet and the general attitude of the Bladesmith family could be boiled down to a mixture of "why not?" and "do you know who I am?". And nobody dared say no, not when the phone rang and a Bladesmith was on the line. Which, in hindsight, might not have been to the family's (link-reveal:"benefit")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== Looking at it now, as Old Uncle Thomas made endless spirals of brown across the window, alternating between laughing and crying, one couldn't help but think of how far we'd fallen. (link-reveal:"We used to be important")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== (link-reveal:"I used to be somebody")[(show:?6)]. |6)[== But one by one, we got knocked off the board. Some died, others were admitted to the asylum. Some were even arrested. None left willingly, as evidenced by the claw marks on the wallpaper. The bank would give no further extensions. Our creditors were foaming at the mouths. There were not many of us left. We had but one chance of restoring the Bladesmith name to its former glory. It all came down to [[Filthy Aunt Mildred.]]

Before we talked about Filthy Aunt Mildred, we had to talk about my [[mother.]] No saint, for sure. She worked in the stock market, put hundreds of families out of business and was accused both of fraud and murder. But at least she smelled nice. Her name was Agatha Bladesmith and was described by most men as (link-reveal:"//difficult//")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== Growing up, she and her three sisters spent their summers in the castle part of the manor, as it was cooler than the mansion part. Her sisters were all named Mildred, after their great grandmother //Mildred "Motherfucker" Bladesmith// who had allegedly placed a curse on the family name, which could only be lifted if three descendants of hers were named after her - ideally (link-reveal:"siblings")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== The curse entailed accidents, mishaps and even death. There was also a final foreboding sentence in the will that nobody could quite figure out, because it was written in Bulgarian, which nobody spoke. Since then, many had meant to look up its true meaning, but no-one ever got around to it. Strangely enough, as far as anyone knew, Mildred had never been to Bulgaria and was known to refute its very existence, along with that of Finland and (link-reveal:"Australia")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== The joke was on her though. At the time of my mother's birth, a plague had ravaged the lands and infantile deaths were through the roof. It was common practice at that point to name multiple children by the same name, to make doubly sure that a name would survive although its recipient would not. This seemingly impossible wish of hers became fairly straightforward to grant, resulting in (link-reveal:"three girls named the exact same thing")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== - There was Mildred Bladesmith, famed (link-reveal:"archaeologist")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== - There was Mildred Bladesmith, (link-reveal:"circus performer and communist")[(show:?6)]. |6)[== - There was Mildred Bladesmith, (link-reveal:"investor and tea enthusiast")[(show:?7)] - also known as Filthy Aunt Mildred. |7)[== - And then there was my mother, the youngest. Agatha Bladesmith. Generally known as the (link-reveal:"//least insane//")[(show:?8)] of the Bladesmith siblings. |8)[== At least that's what she used to (link-reveal:"tell us")[(show:?9)]. |9)[== It's hard to say if the curse of Mildred Motherfucker Bladesmith was to blame for all our misfortunes. As far as I know, much could be attributed to mismanagement of wealth, infighting, adultery and thievery, along with some bad luck. The murders didn't help, but then again, (link-reveal:"they rarely do")[(show:?10)]. |10)[== It was my mother who came up with the name "Filthy Aunt Mildred", apparently as a taunt in their childhood. It wasn't until much later that it actually [[stuck.]]

"Mother". /ˈmʌðə/ 1. A female parent. 2. A woman in authority specifically. 3. An old or elderly woman. 4. ~~A parent who actually has maternal instincts and loves her children.~~

Just thinking about the whole sordid affair made my skin crawl. My mother, God rest her soul, used to tell us the tale as a bed-time story for years, framing herself as a hero, a saviour, and - when feeling particularly nasty - a victim. "Filthy Aunt Mildred". But she was filthy, in every sense of the word, to this day. Mother took great care to indulge every single detail, lest we forget just how gnarly her sister really was. It wasn't until years later that I realised that there was a fundamental difference between [[the story we had been told]] and [[the actual truth.]]

"There was once a filthy little girl." That's how Mother would begin, //after// rolling herself a cigarette but //before// lighting it. "Filthy. The filthiest girl you've ever seen. Made all the filthier by comparison with her much (link-reveal:"cleaner sisters")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== "Her clothes were the colour of sick and her sick was the colour of poo. Nobody liked her and her hair was ragged. As unlikable people tend to do, she consistently ran her mouth, which was the filthiest of all her filthy bits. "And while her mouth ran, so did her filthy legs. For what she said often angered those around her. Her sisters were often left to follow her filthy footsteps all over the woods to (link-reveal:"bring her home")[(show:?2)] when she ran away. |2)[== "But a reckoning was inevitable. The filthy girl's filthy room had begun contaminating the rest of the house, dripping and leaking down into the living room below. Despite several warnings, the girl stuck to her wretched ways and revelled in her own filth. "But as we all know, if left alone, filth takes on (link-reveal:"a life of its own")[(show:?3)]." |3)[== Here is where she'd light the cigarette, place it between her cracked lips and stare sternly at me and my two brothers. "It happened at night, because all the worst things happen at night. We all heard [[the screams.]]"

As much as I disliked Filthy Aunt Mildred, I could understand her frustrations with the family and life in general. Being a Bladesmith had done me more harm than good. And I still had both my feet, which is more than (link-reveal:"she could say")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== While the bed-time story depicted her a filthy girl running amok with made-up tales, covered in dirt and refusing to change, the reality became apparent when I came across an (link-reveal:"old newspaper article")[(show:?2)] in the library years later. |2)[== The library, of course, being situated in the (link-reveal:"East wing")[(show:?3)] of the mansion part of the Bladesmith manor. |3)[== At the time of publication, Filthy Aunt Mildred was 11 years old, making Mother 10 and the other two Mildreds 12 and 14. The article had been folded and unfolded several times, permanently creasing it, and then placed inside a heavy book for straightening. Oddly enough, the book was a collection of (link-reveal:"Bulgarian fables")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== It was clear to me that the article was never meant to be found, much less read. [[But I did it anyway.]]

"The girl's father was the first to enter the filthy room and see the horrors that lay within. "Her filthy mouth had finally crossed the line and now (link-reveal:"//a monstrous tentacle//")[(show:?1)] protruded from it. |1)[== "Realizing that the only way to save her life was to forcefully place her into the hands of professionals, her father grabbed the disgusting creature and dragged her from the room with all his might. At one point it seemed he would be overpowered, but the bravest and least insane of his daughters stepped up and (link-reveal:"tipped the scales")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== "There was no possible way of cleaning the filthy room. If possible, it should have been burned. Instead, the door was (link-reveal:"boarded up")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== "The filthy girl returned a year later, clean, with fewer stories to tell and //missing her right foot//. From that day onward, she would shower fifteen times per week and never leave the house without being doused in glorious perfume. "Nevertheless, being filthy (link-reveal:"doesn't wash off that easily")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== "Even now, you might just smell Filthy Aunt Mildred as you pass through the house at night. And if you're not careful, you might become (link-reveal:"as filthy as her")[(show:?5)]." |5)[== And then Mother would smile wickedly and burn one of us at random with her cigarette. As far as bed-time stories went, this one was a favourite of mine. But it wasn't [[what really happened.->the actual truth.]]

''A BLADESMITH TRAGEDY by Harold Forthright The local Boy Scout brigade got more than they bargained for during a routine camping trip last night, when they found themselves helping esteemed philantrophist Jonathan Bladesmith save his daughter's life. The Bladesmith manor, famously situated at the edge of Burrowville, has its back to a dense woodland. It is there that Mr. Bladesmith and his daughter stumbled upon the brigade at approximately 4:00 AM. It was this chance encounter that got little Mildred Bladesmith to the hospital in time, who had suffered a grievous wound to her foot due to a bear trap. Despite the best efforts of both the brigade and Mr. Bladesmith, the staff of St. James' Hospital had no choice but to amputate the child's foot. She is expected to undergo intensive rehabilitation for the next few months.'' As if this article wasn't enough, there was also something else hidden inside the book - [[an official looking letter.]]

(text-style:"condense")[//Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bladesmith My name is Sarah Byrd and I am a guidance councillor at the Burrowville Primary School. I am writing because I am worried about little Mildred, the youngest of the three. I have known her for two years and I couldn't help but notice a difference in her behaviour as of late. Her attendance is spotty and her grades have steadily declined over the course of the last six months. More alarming though is her state of dress and hygiene, of which she seems utterly unaware. The reason I put pen to paper is that yesterday, a noticeable bruise covered half of her face. I do not wish to make assumptions, but it would seem the child is suffering from neglect which needs to be remedied without delay. To address this situation, I would propose a meeting with the principle and the both of you next week. Please contact me or the front desk to confirm our appointment. Yours sincerely, [[Sarah Byrd]]//]

Needless to say, Sarah Byrd didn't work at that school for much longer. Drugs were found in her desk the following week and none of the students ever saw her again. It was clearly the work of my grandfather, who's solution to every problem tended to be stashing drugs in the strangest places. Upon reading this article, I couldn't help but piece together [[my own version of events.]]

Upon realising this, I created a bank account separate from Mother's and hid both a knife and a bottle of lighter fuel under my bed - just in case. [[Not that it helped.]]

Six o'clock. Ten minutes before (link-reveal:"Filthy Aunt Mildred's arrival")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== Old Uncle Thomas had finished his work and sat proudly on the ground, wiping his hands on the grass. He never seemed to care that the servants diligently cleaned the windows once he went to bed, erasing his hard work. He just ate his breakfast, had his tea and waited patiently until six o'clock. And then he'd roll up his sleeves and (link-reveal:"get back to it")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== The man had been a famous artist back in his day. His massive studio took up half a floor of the castle part of the manor. Dried paint splatters still covered the walls all these years later, a colourful reminder of a [[colourful past.]] I liked Old Uncle Thomas, if only for the fact that he was a Bladesmith who had never actively made a move against his own family. Perhaps if he was still of sound mind, eventually he would have gone down the same hole as the rest of us. But I always liked to imagine that he (link-reveal:"wouldn't have")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== Old Uncle Thomas was the brother of my grandmother, //Elmira Bladesmith//, who's biggest claim to fame was disappearing for a whole year in Peru, only to turn up in Norway with a shaved head and a large tattoo of a fat turtle from shoulder to shoulder. Well, there was also the Academy Award. And the murder. She never told anyone what had transpired during her travels, but we would often hear her crying in the night, perched up inside the yellow school bus on top of the tallest tower of the manor. The (link-reveal:"yellow school bus")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== What a bonkers architectural idea. Who would have thought of placing such a monstrosity on top of such a beautiful building? Who else, but [[Old Uncle Thomas?]]

The first time an artwork of his was featured in the local paper, it was Old Uncle Thomas' 14th birthday. Without any indication of him wanting to pursue a career in the arts, he simply woke up one day, grabbed charcoal and paint from the cellar next to the dungeon and got to work. Once seen, there was no way to forget the haunting painting. Critics all agreed, his choice of colour was as surprising as it was daring. It was [[red.->painting]] It was [[blue.->painting]] It was [[silver.->painting]] It was [[green.->painting]]

We were never allowed in the bus. In fact, we weren't allowed in most of the manor. A majority of the towers were permanently locked, as was the kitchen. Only selected staff and some of the adults had keys to the various doors. As far as I know, there was never any one person who had the keys to every lock. This was to encourage "co-operation and mystique", as my grandfather had once said. We didn't know any better, we thought it was normal. Just like we thought it was normal to have a bus on top of a house. The basement was off limits, which made sense, because it housed a number of illegal enterprises of the Bladesmith family, all of which were swept under the rug of the legal system when (link-reveal:"discovered")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== I was 16 when I entered the basement for the first time and only time. I'll never forget the mix of fear and wonder that ran through me as I climbed through the police tape and descended the long stairs. The doors were all open, which they weren't normally, because of the (link-reveal:"investigation")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== I'm unsure what I expected to find, but a 17th century dungeon was not it. It would seem that my grandfather, //Jonathan Bladesmith//, was something of an amateur anatomist - with //[[amateur]]// being the key word. Despite an overabundance of physical evidence - blood, tissue, fingerprints, even a collection of gruesome VHS recordings - the police (link-reveal:"never chased any of it up")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Instead, they focused on trying to discover who might have dared //murder Jonathan Bladesmith// in his own cellar - with his own scimitar no less. Only one other person had a key to the cellar, and that person blatantly swore to having had the key on her during (link-reveal:"the time of the murder")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== So, the list of suspects was as short as can be. But no-one was ever arrested. Because everyone knew, if you were to come for [[Jonathan Bladesmith's wife]], you'd better dig two graves.

Indeed. It depicted a beautiful horse leaping across a war-torn city. The brush strokes were hectic, violent, beautiful. Splatters of blood contrasted with the splendour of upper-class clothing as a torrent of animalistic rage washed down the streets. The eyes of the aggressors were not soon forgotten once seen, piercing and (link-reveal:"alive")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== But the quality of the artwork was not what got Old Uncle Thomas into the papers on his 14th birthday. It was the fact that he used the painting as a weapon mere hours after the paint had dried, to defend himself against (link-reveal:"robbers")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== There were two of them, known hoodlums who'd had their eye on the Bladesmith manor for quite some time. But they'd picked the wrong wall to scale and instead of finding themselves in the study, where the entrance to the legendary Bladesmith vault was hidden, they found themselves in Old Uncle Thomas' room. Knives were drawn, words were spoken - but none of (link-reveal:"peace")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Old Uncle Thomas was never convicted of killing them, of course. It was self-defence and he was a Bladesmith, after all. But the [[state of the bodies]] did serve to permanently raise some eyebrows in town. As a result, he'd never married and spent most of his adult life studying art in Paris, before moving back into the manor and creating (link-reveal:"his studio")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== In total, Old Uncle Thomas had killed 16 people in his time, all of them burglars or (link-reveal:"muggers")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== It was on his 55th birthday that a disgruntled employee of the biggest producer of paint in the country became a whistle blower, revealing to the world that their paint was so full of lead that it was poisonous to humans. This just happened to have been Old Uncle Thomas' paint of choice for most of his career. There was no way of knowing for certain if that was the reason for him losing his mind, but it was certainly one (link-reveal:"theory")[(show:?6)]. |6)[==theory. His last act of sanity - and I was being generous by calling it that - was to have [[the yellow school bus->Old Uncle Thomas?]] hoisted to the top of the manor.

//An ancient autopsy report// hung framed in the kitchen while I was growing up, for everyone to see. I never knew if it was there as a reminder to all that the killings were done in self-defence or if it was meant as a trophy of sorts. The bottom half had been torn off, but (link-reveal:"the rest of it")[(show:?1)] was still legible. |1)[== //''Burrowville County Medical Examiner's Office AUTOPSY REPORT'' ''Name of victims: ''Neill Peters and Aaron Carr ''Manner of death: ''SUFFOCATION ''Cause of death: ''Large pieces of canvas - originally a part of a painting - were forcefully thrust down the throats of the victims, blocking off air-supply, inducing suffocation. Multiple blunt force trauma injuries to the bodies. Several stab wounds. Eight broken fingers. Both bodies were pushed out a window and suffered a fractured spine. These injuries are believed to have been done post-mortem. See photos. It is our professional opinion that this cannot be classified as (link-reveal:"self-def...")[(show:?2)]//. |2)[== It ended there. This being the Bladesmith family, the full report somehow found its way into the papers and after that, Old Uncle Thomas was known around town - ironically at first - as [[The Luckless Artist]]. Luckless, because this kind of thing kept happening.

In total, Old Uncle Thomas had killed 16 people in his time, all of them burglars or (link-reveal:"muggers")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== It was on his 55th birthday that a disgruntled former employee of the biggest producer of paint in the country became a whistle blower, revealing to the world that their paint was so full of lead that it was poisonous to humans. This just happened to have been Old Uncle Thomas' paint of choice for most of (link-reveal:"his career")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== There was no way of knowing for certain if that was the reason for Old Uncle Thomas losing his mind, but it was certainly one theory. His last act of sanity - and I am being generous by calling it that - was to have [[the yellow school bus->Old Uncle Thomas?]] hoisted to the top of the manor.

Despite an overabundance of physical evidence - blood, tissue, fingerprints, even a collection of gruesome VHS recordings - the police (link-reveal:"never chased any of it up")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== Instead, they focused on trying to discover who might have dared //murder Jonathan Bladesmith// in his own cellar - with his own scimitar no less. Only one other person had a key to the cellar, and that person blatantly swore to having had the key on her during (link-reveal:"the time of the murder")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== So, the list of suspects was as short as can be. But no-one was ever arrested. Because everyone knew, if you were to come for [[Jonathan Bladesmith's wife]], you'd better dig two graves.

Locked in her room. Denied clean clothes or water. Beaten, abused, hidden away from the world. Filthy Aunt Mildred, a child at the time, her body reaches a tipping point and reacts violently to the malnutrition by poisoning her mind. She screams and retches relentlessly, until her father drags her into (link-reveal:"the woods")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== But why the woods? The hospital is (link-reveal:"the other way")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== If it hadn't been for that random encounter with the Boy Scout brigade, would Filthy Aunt Mildred even have survived the night? Or would she have ended her life in one of the many sealed wells of (link-reveal:"the woods")[(show:?3)], like so many before her? |3)[== What I never quite figured out was how she lost her foot. Perhaps the state of her filth had infected it beyond repair. Perhaps she got cut by a rusty nail. Or perhaps her father had already started hacking away at her while she was (link-reveal:"still alive")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== Whatever she knew, he didn't want the word spread. And Filthy Aunt Mildred, she did like to talk. So, he put her in a mental institution for 12 months. And after that, she didn't talk very much at all. She was apparently never quite the same. [[But who would be?]]

"Anatomist". /ə-ˈna-tə-mist/ 1. A specialist in anatomy. 2. One who analyses minutely and critically. (text-style:"italic","fidget")[3. A Bladesmith who illegally purchases amputated body parts from nearby hospitals to use them for experimentation with various corrosive [[chemicals->Uncle Thomas.]].]

What follows is a page from the original screenplay of ''THE MANOR OF DREAMS'' by Elmira Bladesmith, found in her nightstand after her death. When accepting her Academy Award, oddly enough, she didn't thank the director of the film, but rather the characters involved in this particular [[scene]]:

My grandmother, //Elmira Bladesmith//, was untouchable. She had made her fortune in the early days of cinema as a screenwriter, cranking out hit after hit despite having no formal education in writing. She specialised in murder mysteries and kitchen sink dramas, featuring daring female protagonists who, and I quote, "never took shit from anyone and were always armed." She received an Academy Award for her most famous screenplay, "The Manor of Dreams", in which an older woman deals with dementia whilst trapped in a haunted house. Her [[final speech]], which she delivers both to the ghosts of the house and the doctors watching over her in the hospital, still crops up on lists of best speeches in film history (link-reveal:"to this day")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== She and Old Uncle Thomas were the youngest of eight siblings, but five of them died from various illnesses and one simply vanished one day. This had prompted an extremely protective upbringing, where their parents would hardly ever let them leave the house. This is where Elmira's interest in fictional stories took roots, locked in her room with nothing but her brother and a black-and-white television to keep her company. This is also where her obsession with locks and keys probably (link-reveal:"started")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== When her husband was murdered in the cellar, there was no doubt that she was the main suspect. Everyone knew that, even her. But if it bothered her, she didn't let it show. And because of her wealth and status, and the fact that Jonathan Bladesmith had clearly committed various illegal and unethical atrocities in his cellar, she was never even questioned by the (link-reveal:"police")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Years later, when she was dying in the cancer ward, she would sit for hours with Old Uncle Thomas, describing how she did it. I caught snippets of the descriptions while waiting in the hallway with my brothers. They were as gruesome as they were detailed, down to grandpa's last words. She never said (link-reveal:"why she did it though")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== The day after she died, Old Uncle Thomas started his [[six o'clock]] tradition and he hadn't stopped since.

I was waiting in the study when she came. The squeaky turning of wheels announced her arrival long before the bell pull did. That horrid wheelchair of hers - a preposterous contraption of pewter and brass, littered with secret compartments and sharp edges - was deliberately loud. Filthy Old Mildred wanted everyone to know she was approaching. A //power-move// of sorts. And (link-reveal:"it worked")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== The servant who's name I couldn't remember - the tall one, not the ugly one - shot me a worried glance before heading down the main hall to let her in. There was no going back now, it was too late for (link-reveal:"that")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== I looked around at the various portraits of Bladesmiths past and present, most of them done by Old Uncle Thomas while he was still of sound mind. I could feel their judgemental gaze upon me, somehow blaming me for the current state of affairs and how far the family name had fallen. But I didn't (link-reveal:"murder")[(show:?i)] anyone. |i)[== I never (link-reveal:"cursed")[(show:?3)] anyone. |3)[== I was just a failed investor. Not the first in the family, but potentially the last. My eyes lingered for a second on the portraits of my two aunts, Mildred and Mildred - not Filthy Aunt Mildred, since her portrait was kept in the attic. I had only just recently learned that the eyes of their portraits were actually peepholes, cleverly hidden by my grandmother back in the day. I'd never found the room in which you could actually use the portraits to spy on people, but in my defence, there exist only three sets of blueprints of the Bladesmith manor - and none of them are the same. One could spend eternity trying to figure out the layout, or simply resign to the fact that answers were not something to be expected when (link-reveal:"visiting")[(show:?4)] the manor. |4)[== (link-reveal:"Rhythmic squeeking")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== (link-reveal:"A cough")[(show:?6)]. |6)[== (link-reveal:"A snarl")[(show:?7)]. |7)[== And just like that, she was in the room with me. [[Filthy Aunt Mildred->Meet at last]]. After all this time.

Needless to say, the competition at the Academy Awards that year was not particularly strong. It was also rumoured that Elmira Bladesmith had a habit of greasing palms when it came to awards. My Aunt Mildred, the archaeologist, not Filthy Aunt Mildred, once said that her mother never actually made any money from her screenwriting endeavours, always spending more on bribes than she got (link-reveal:"paid")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== A journalist once dared ask her about it at a promotional event, insinuating in no uncertain terms that she had bought her award. This blatant act of disrespect and defiance turned out to be the very thing grandma had been missing all these years. What followed was a love affair that spanned a whole decade and three continents, ending with one illegitimate child (of whom we do not speak) and the mysterious disappearance of the reporter (of whom we definitely (link-reveal:"do not speak")[(show:?2)]). |2)[== When grandpa found out about the affair, he never lost his temper. He never screamed. Instead, he very calmly and systematically designed and built new sections in the family crypt, taking extra care with the section meant for grandma, even going so far as to carving her sarcophagus (link-reveal:"himself")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== She never visited the crypt, despite his repeated requests. Soon after, she disappeared to Peru for a while. It wasn't long before grandpa changed the locks on the cellar and began his (link-reveal:"work")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== I always thought The Manor of Dreams was pretty stupid, but made sure not to have grandma catch wind of it, because if she did, she'd fire up her projector and make me watch it (link-reveal:"again")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== And (link-reveal:"again")[(show:?6)]. |6)[== And (link-reveal:"again")[(show:?7)]. |7)[== I knew that damned speech by [[heart]].

She and Old Uncle Thomas were the youngest of eight siblings, but five of them died from various illnesses and one simply vanished one day. This had prompted an extremely protective upbringing, where their parents would hardly ever let them leave the house. This is where Elmira's interest in fictional stories took roots, locked in her room with nothing but her brother and a black-and-white television to keep her company. This is also where her obsession with locks and keys probably (link-reveal:"started")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== When her husband was murdered in the cellar, there was no doubt that she was the main suspect. Everyone knew that, even her. But if it bothered her, she didn't let it show. And because of her wealth and status, and the fact that Jonathan Bladesmith had clearly committed various illegal and unethical atrocities in his cellar, she was never even questioned by the (link-reveal:"police")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Years later, when she was on her death bed in the cancer ward, she would sit for hours with Old Uncle Thomas, describing how she did it. I caught bits and pieces of the descriptions while waiting in the hallway with my brothers. They were as gruesome as they were detailed, down to grandpa's last words. She never said (link-reveal:"why she did it though")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== The day after she died, Old Uncle Thomas started his [[six o'clock]] tradition and he hadn't stopped since.

She looked old. Very old. Much older than she actually was. And she stank of death and drink. Her wrinkly skin fell around her mouth like a bulldog's would and even from behind her oversized sunglasses, I could sense the abject distain in her gaze. She had seen better days. Her fur coat was almost as old as her and much like her, it desperately needed a wash. Ever since her father was murdered, Filthy Aunt Mildred had given up bathing entirely. This made it extremely difficult to be around her, no matter how much you loved her. And most of us (link-reveal:"hadn't")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== Filthy Aunt Mildred was a spiteful, friendless woman and I would never have invited her over if I had any other choice. But there was no other way. While everyone else had squandered their inheritance on eccentric business endeavours - as the rich tend to do - Filthy Aunt Mildred perched on hers as she would her metallic chair. And now, all these years later, her investments had paid off. She was the richest woman in the (link-reveal:"country")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== It all depended on this. Our fortune, our future. She held the Bladesmith legacy in her crooked hands. All I had to do was give her [[tea]].

(b4r:"solid")+(b4r-colour:white)[ [INT. BEDROOM - DAY Moira places her hand against the glass, tracing intricate circles in the perspiration. The two nurses in the corner approach her but she waves them away. (align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[NURSE Moira, please. Let us help you. You’re sick. MOIRA The haunting of this house is not what frightens me. The demons of my own head are worse than anything this rickety old shack can conjure up. NURSE None of this is real. It’s a mental construct, a dream, if you will. MOIRA I won’t. NURSE Modern medicine cannot explain what has taken place over these past few days, I will admit. But I have devoted my life to science, I refuse to believe in ghosts. There must be an explanation! MOIRA Make no mistake, dear nurse. We are not alone in this house. Call it Alzheimer’s, dementia, disease. Or call it what it really is, the devil himself, hiding in every corner and every crevice of the human mind, waiting for an opportunity to strike out when we are most vulnerable, leaving loneliness and misery in its wake. I used to think it was just this house or even...just my head. But I realise now that there is a thread that runs through all human consciousness and connects every single one of us. The shadow of sorrow itself. ] The nurses look at Moira in awe. She’s not shown this level of clarity for ages. Something in her speech touches them. (align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[MOIRA A spirit of misery, hovering over all of us, holding us hostage. I see it now. We are all subjects to its will. There is but one way to break free of it. ] Moira inexplicably pulls out a double-barrelled SHOTGUN. The nurses recoil in fear. (align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[NURSE No, Moira. Don’t do it! You’ve got so much to live for! MOIRA Don’t worry, it’s not for me. ] Moira’s eyes narrow as she searches the room, spotting something in a corner. (align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[MOIRA There you are, you ugly son of a bitch.] A horrific DEMON appears in the corner, looking rather frightened. (align:"=><=")+(box:"X=")[DEMON Wait, Moira! Wait! MOIRA Save it for someone who gives a damn. ] BOOM! The shotgun blows off the demon’s head, showering the room in blood. As the final drops settle on the ground and the smoke from the barrel clears, Moira lights herself a cigarette.] [[-- END OF SCENE --]]]

She sat there, motionless, waiting for me to speak. The servants knew the drill. (text-style:"underline")[No tea] until I asked for it. Bowing ever so slightly, I addressed her. [["Good afternoon, Aunt Mildred."->pleasantries]] [["How do you do, Aunt Mildred."->pleasantries]] [["Aunt Mildred, how lovely to see you."->pleasantries]]

//"Cut the pleasantries."//, she snarled. //"I didn't travel six hours for idle chit-chat, especially with the likes of you. I'm assuming there's a reason for your summons."// She was not known to waste time, mainly because the doctors had given her so little of it. Lung cancer. The slow killer. The result of a long life spent smoking long (link-reveal:"cigarettes")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== The prognosis had not sweetened her mood, understandibly so, but it hadn't had the devastating effect it would on most others. In fact, there was very little change in her demeanor at all, except for the purchase of an outlandish amount of clocks that now lined the walls of every room in her estate. Time had become an obsession of hers, albeit a private one, not shared with anyone else. I had expected her dry attitude so I came prepared. I was a Bladesmith after all and what were we, if not overly (link-reveal:"prepared")[(show:?2)]? |2)[== "Dearest aunt, I wish to discuss with you the most important of matters.", I started but she raised her hand to stop me. //"The will."//, she said plainly. //"You wish to speak to me about the will, yes?"// "(link-reveal:"That's correct")[(show:?3)]."|3)[== I said, deaming it unwise to dance around the subject. //"And you wish to convince me to change it, yes?"// "(link-reveal:"That's right")[(show:?4)]."|4)[== //"And I presume you have some sort of ace up your sleeve meant to change my mind on the subject, despite all I have said before?"// I risked a charged pause before replying. "(link-reveal:"I do")[(show:?5)]."|5)[== //"Very well then, child of my dearest sister. Play your tune. But not here. Do it in a location of my choosing."// The study had been her favourite place in the house growing up - after she lost her foot, of course - which is precisely why we were meeting there at that very moment. It had been decked out in all her favourite colours, with our best table cloths lining the tables - all for her. Like a chess player, she had seen through it all and now wished to change the playing field to gain an advantage. "(link-reveal:"Very well")[(show:?6)]."|6)[==, I said, because what else could I say? //"Good. Take me up to [[the school bus.]]"//

The bus was the only part of the house impossible for someone in a wheelchair to reach (link-reveal:"on their own")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== There was of course the stair lift, one of the earliest models ever created, which grandmother had bought when Filthy Aunt Mildred lost her foot. It went as far as the second floor, albeit at a snail's pace. But the way from there to the attic, and from the attic to the bus, was an impossible trek without assistance. As Filthy Aunt Mildred slowly ascended the stairs in the lift, I trailed behind, taking in the various (link-reveal:"framed objects")[(show:?2)] hanging on the walls as they passed us by. |2)[== There was a [[colourful poster]] from 30 years ago - an ad for the local circus - depicting Mildred Bladesmith as the star of the show. It was strange, seeing her with her face intact. There was the yellowing [[newspaper article]] covering Mildred Bladesmith's archaeological discoveries in Brazil - and the scandal that followed. There was an [[oversized portrait]] of a purebred Shih-Tzu named Abraham. And various other things - some as a token of achievement, others as a reminder of shameful behaviour and others still simply meant to hide a secret tunnel or a switch. (link-reveal:"Filthy Aunt Mildred")[(show:?3)] hid behind her sunglasses, never moving her head. |3)[== Before long, we had gone as far as the lift could go. Squeaking her way past Old Uncle Thomas' door, which she ignored, Filthy Aunt Mildred halted by the stairs to the attic, waiting for the servants to carry her. Taking tea in the yellow school bus was an inconvenience, but not a wholly unexpected one. I'd taken care to outfit the servants with gloves made of interlinking metal chains, so they could safely carry the wheelchair without risking serious injury. We had learned our lesson years ago when a flight attendant lost a finger to her chair. Up we went - past the creaking attic where boxes upon boxes of fraudulent paperwork, DNA samples and disguises sat in neat piles - through the skylight and onto (link-reveal:"the roof")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== And there is sat. The yellow school bus. Held in place by a massive wooden turntable, so that it could turn with the wind. Only two people had the key to the bus. One was considered missing, presumed dead. The other was glaring at me from her metal chair. The doors swung open, as if they had just been lubricated yesterday. Which they had been. Because a Bladesmith was nothing if not prepared. //"[[After you.]]"//, she said.

A fairly straightforward circus tent sat in the middle of the poster, its doors open. Within, a young woman swung through the air with a big smile. In big bulky lettering, it (link-reveal:"read")[(show:?1)]: |1)[== ''THE BURROWVILLE CIRCUS PRESENTS: AN EVENT LIKE NO OTHER! MILDRED BLADESMITH THE WORLD'S GREATEST AEREAL ACROBAT ONE NIGHT ONLY! GET YOUR TICKETS NOW! THE PERFORMANCE OF A LIFETIME!'' Oddly enough, that last line turned out to be a fairly [[accurate description.]]

''"ARCHAEOLOGY'S GREATEST HOAX: HOW ONE WOMAN HOODWINKED THE WORLD Yesterday, in London's Natural History Museum, over 560 pieces of an exhibition are being removed. The reason: (link-reveal:"They are all fake")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== The exhibition in question is "The Forgotten Painters of Toca da Tira Peia" by Mildred Bladesmith, famed archaeologist and member of the esteemed Bladesmith family. The exhibition was covered extensively last summer, when it opened to rave reviews, with some critics calling it (link-reveal:"the single most important archaeological discovery")[(show:?2)] since the uncovering of Pompeii, Italy. |2)[== The exhibition focused on a dig overseen by Ms. Bladesmith herself in Brazil, where she came across a hermetically sealed chamber untouched for over 3500 years. Within, hundreds of incredible paintings lay in waiting, done in colours far ahead of their time. The find caused a sensation. Not only did this discovery impact historians all around the globe, but it sent ripple effects into the art world and the fashion industry. Thanks to new state-of-the-art technology, the whole affair has now been revealed to have been an elaborate hoax, orchestrated by Ms. Bladesmith, who allegedly paid a small fortune for the creation of the fake props. This affair has called all of her previous discoveries into question, with some demanding that her findings be (link-reveal:"removed")[(show:?3)] from every museum in the world. |3)[== The Director of the London's Natural History Museum has called the situation "...an absolute disgrace..." and said he feels "...deeply betrayed by Mildred's actions..." [[Ms. Bladesmith has refused to comment.]]''

Abraham the purebred Shih-Tzu. Old Uncle Thomas' guard dog. There was not much to say about him, other than the fact that we all loved him. Even my grandparents. A portrait was commissioned after he allegedly alerted his sleeping owner when two burglars broke into his room at night. They both ended up dead, of course. Abraham did not. He lived a long and happy life, which was unusual in [[this house->Perhaps]].

This was my first time inside the bus and it was everything I'd ever expected it to be. Old Uncle Thomas had torn out a couple of the seats in the middle and replaced them with a large dining table. The rest of the seats were filled with cardboard cut-outs of random smiling people. Other than that, the bus looked fairly normal. Well, as normal as (link-reveal:"a bus sitting on top of a manor")[(show:?1)] could be. |1)[== //"Well then?"//, asked Filthy Aunt Mildred once parked at the table. I nodded to one of the servants - the ugly one, not the tall one - to bring the tea. And so the die was cast. (link-reveal:"There was no going back now")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== "(link-reveal:"I understand that you've decided to leave all of your inheritance to a charity for orphaned children.")[(show:?3)]" |3)[== //"Correct. What of it?"// "(link-reveal:"You don't like orphaned children.")[(show:?4)]" |4)[== //"Nobody does."// "(link-reveal:"So, why leave your entire estate to them?")[(show:?5)]" |5)[== //"Ask the real question."// "(link-reveal:"Why not leave it to me?")[(show:?6)]" |6)[== //"You know why."// Being this close to the old woman made me gag. She really was the filtiest creature I had ever encountered. "Your parents, your siblings, all of your cousins are dead. Along with Old Uncle Thomas, I'm the only one left, the last Bladesmith. And the recession has left me in dire straits. Would you really leave your last living family member to starve? I'm aware of your past, but (link-reveal:"would you really finance an entire orphanage just to spite your family?")[(show:?6)]" |6)[== There was not a moment's hesitation in her response. //"Yes."// "I see. [[Tea it is then]]."

It was a different time back then. Simpler in many ways but more precarious in others. Mildred Bladesmith, the world-renowned areal acrobat, had repeatedly found herself in hot water, due to claims of her being a //communist//. Mother had often told us when we were little that it would have been better if her sister had just been a thief or murderer, presumably because the family had experience dealing with those types of complications (link-reveal:"before")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== . All that stood between my aunt and a prison sentence was her Bladesmith name. That and the revolver that never left her side. As a child, I liked Aunt Mildred. She was flamboyant, loud and unapologetic, a true performer. But she was also //kind//, a rarity in our family, which is probably what (link-reveal:"doomed her from the start")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== . She once confided in me that she would soon //denounce the Bladesmith name entirely// and defect to France. At the time, I thought she was jesting, although the tears in her eyes should have told me otherwise. Being a child, I didn't quite realise how important it was to keep this information to myself. After all, nobody leaves the Bladesmith name behind, not without consequence anyway. She was 30 years old when that poster was printed. The whole family attended the event, even me and my brothers, who were usually kept within the confines of the Bladesmith manor. I remember feeling the eyes of the crowd on all of us as we sat in our special closed-off booth right by the stage. It was a rarity to see any members of the Bladesmith family out and about, let alone three generations of them sat next to each other. It wasn't until the ropes snapped that Aunt Mildred got the crowd's [[undivided attention]].

300 people watched as aunt Mildred plummeted (link-reveal:"through the air")[(show:?1)]. |1)[== (link-reveal:"Faster")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== (link-reveal:"And faster")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Half of her costume was left hanging in tatters from the safety net, violently scraped off at (link-reveal:"terminal velocity")[(show:?4)]. |4)[== So was the entire right side of (link-reveal:"her face")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== I'll never forget the last time I saw her, after months of intensive treatments and skin grafting procedures. She couldn't speak, of course. She'd bitten clean through her tongue when she fell. But she did write me a [[a note]], which was hard to read because tears had blurred the ink.

(link-reveal:"It simply read")[(show:?1)]: |1)[== (text-style:"smear")[FRANCE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR SECRET] (link-reveal:"...")[(show:?2)] |2)[== A month later she was released from (link-reveal:"the hospital")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== Soon after, she went missing, only to be found in the woods behind the house. She had died from dehydration, despite being right next to a lake. Nobody ever entertained the thought of her accident ever being anything but that - just an unfortunate accident. But I always had my suspicions. Had the ropes been tampered with? After all, if she was to denounce her Bladesmith name, she was no longer under our (link-reveal:"protection")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== I always regretted telling mother about France. If I hadn't, perhaps Aunt Mildred would still be alive. [[Perhaps]].

There were various other things hanging on the walls - some as a token of achievement, others as a reminder of shameful behaviour and others still simply there to hide a secret tunnel or a switch. Next to the [[colourful poster]], there was the yellowing [[newspaper article]] and the [[oversized portrait]] of the purebred Shih-Tzu. Filthy Aunt Mildred hid behind her sunglasses the entire way, never moving her (link-reveal:"head")[(show:?2)]. |2)[== Before long, we had gone as far as the lift could go. Squeaking her way past Old Uncle Thomas' door, Filthy Aunt Mildred halted by the stairs to the attic, waiting for the servants to carry her and her chair. Taking tea in the yellow school bus was an inconvenience, but not a wholly unexpected one. I'd taken care to outfit the servants with gloves made of interlinking chains, so they could safely carry the wheelchair without risking serious injury. We had learned our lesson years ago when a flight attendant lost a finger to her chair. Up we went - past the creaking attic where boxes upon boxes of fraudulent paperwork, DNA samples and disguises sat in neat piles - through the skylight and onto (link-reveal:"the roof")[(show:?3)]. |3)[== And there is sat. The yellow school bus. Held in place by a massive wooden turntable, so that it could turn with the wind. Only two people had the key to the bus. One was considered missing, presumed dead. The other was glaring at me from her metal chair. The doors swung open, as if they had just been lubricated yesterday. Which it was. Because a Bladesmith is nothing if not prepared. //"[[After you.]]"//, she said.

Mildred Bladesmith, the archeologist, was the oldest of her siblings and certainly the most ruthless, as is evident by the three books written by investigative journalists on her discoveries. (link-reveal:"//THE SHARPEST BLADE: THE LIFE AND LIES OF MILDRED BLADESMITH//")[(show:?1)] |1)[== (link-reveal:"FOOLED YOU! THE MILDRED BLADESMITH STORY")[(show:?2)] |2)[== (link-reveal:"FAME, FORTUNE AND FAKE DISCOVERIES - THE TRUE UNCENSORED STORY OF THE MILDRED BLADESMITH SCANDAL")[(show:?3)] |3)[== All of them bestsellers, of course. Everyone loves to see the powerful stumble and fall. Mildred Bladesmith never admitted guilt. She never took responsibility. Instead, she went on the offensive, suing everyone who dared utter a word against her in public. One of those people was (link-reveal:"Filthy Aunt Mildred")[(show:?4)], her own sister. |4)[== A full spread in the weekend edition of the local paper. A devastating (but accurate) description of the conniving nature of her sister and how this whole affair came as no surprise to anyone who knew her. The article was never spoken of in the house, but shortly after, Mildred the disgraced archaeologist made three attempts on her sister's life in quick succession and then fled the country. This caused Filthy Aunt Mildred to move out of the manor and get her own place, citing the logic //"I don't feel welcome here anymore."// (link-reveal:"Which was fair enough")[(show:?5)]. |5)[== Nobody knew where Mildred Bladesmith had ended up or if she was indeed still alive. But every year on the same day, a letter would be sent to the manor from some far-away country. Inside, there were no words, just //hair//. And every year, the hair grew a bit more grey. Until one year, the hair stopped coming altogether. When asked about it, Mother would say that her sister had always been too clever for her own good and if the hair was indeed hers, the meaning behind it had gone over all of our heads. Despite all of that, she was still //not// my least favourite [[Mildred->Perhaps]].

The cups were brought to the table and set in front of us. Two cups, two teapots. As the tea was poured, the ugly servant skilfully snatched (link-reveal:"the key to the bus")[(show:?1)] from Filthy Aunt Mildred's pocket, as we had practiced many times.|1)[== The two servants then backed out of the bus, shut the door and promptly locked it. She said not a word, just stared at me through the dark sunglasses, waiting. There was nobody in the entire world that loved tea more than Filthy Aunt Mildred. Everyone knew that. The time had come. "(link-reveal:"One of the cups contains //lethal poison//.")[(show:?i)]", I explained. |i)[=="(link-reveal:"The other contains //the greatest tea// you've ever had in your life.")[(show:?2)]" |2)[== //"What kind?"// "(link-reveal:"Arsenic.")[(show:?3)]" |3)[== //"No, the tea."// "(link-reveal:"Moroccan Maghrebi Mint.")[(show:?4)]" |4)[== She studied the two cups, her interest finally piqued. There was no way of discerning a visual difference between the two liquids, I'd made sure of it. //"And I suppose you'll be drinking the other one?"// "(link-reveal:"Naturally.")[(show:?5)]" |5)[== //"And I suppose you've made all the appropriate arrangements in the event of your death?"// "(link-reveal:"Whatever posessions I have will pass directly to Old Uncle Thomas.")[(show:?6)]" |6)[== //"Very well."// This plan had not come naturally to me. Filthy Aunt Mildred, as unpleasant as she was, she was still an old woman and the thought of her dying gave me no pleasure at all. But I was out of luck and death was closing in on her anyway. And without her inheritance, (link-reveal:"I was dead too.")[(show:?7)] |7)[== //"I've made my choice."//, she said, much quicker than I'd expected. //"At the same time then?"// I nodded, trying to maintain my composure, as she lifted one cup. I took the other one and held it tightly. //"To the Bladesmith name then."// "(link-reveal:"Indeed.")[(show:?8)]" |8)[== In one long swig, we both emptied our cups. I, of course, knew which cup was poisoned and had chosen accordingly. [[It was the cup in HER HANDS->emptied our cups]]. [[It was the cup in MY HANDS->emptied our cups]].

We waited in silence for a long minute, the taste of mint on our tongue. I was no savage, I'd put the tea into both cups. I hadn't been exaggerating, this was the (link-reveal:"best tea")[(show:?1)] in the entire world. I'd spent the last of my fortune on it.|1)[== The poison, on the other hand, had been cheap. As we waited for either of us to show the symptoms, I stared at my own (link-reveal:"reflection")[(show:?2)] in her dark shades.|2)[== //"The time of the Bladesmith legacy is over."//, she finally said, taking off the glasses, revealing the saddest eyes I have ever seen. //"Despite all our power and influence, what do we have to show for it? A decrepit mansion full of secrets and generations of backstabbers and monsters."// She then did (link-reveal:"something")[(show:?3)] she'd never done before.|3)[== (link-reveal:"She placed her crooked hand on mine.")[(show:?4)]|4)[== //"I have money. You have none. Your servants don't work for you, they work for me. Understand?"// A cold revalation washed over me and for the life of me, I couldn't move. Suddenly, the smell of smoke penetrated the bus and a moment later, I spotted it emerging from the roof below us. "(link-reveal:"Fire! Fire!")[(show:?5)]", I stammered but her hand gripped mine like a vice.|5)[== //"It's too late. The house is already engulfed. The entrances barred. And you wouldn't even be able to leave the bus. It's locked."// She was right. The key was long gone and there was nothing I could use to break the windows. Slowly realizing the seriousness of my situation and the betrayal of my accomplices, my throat tightened. "(link-reveal:"So there was no poison?")[(show:?6)]"|6)[== //"I'm afraid there was. In both cups."// She shot me a smile, the one and only I'd ever seen her give, a mixture of grief and relief and I felt myself returning it. Filthy Aunt Mildred. Out of all my family members, I would have never thought she'd be the one by my side when it all ended. She [[never let go of my hand]], even though everyone else had.

Thank you for playing Filthy Aunt Mildred v. 2.2. This interactive experience is a project made entirely by Guðni Líndal Benediktsson (and his two cats) using Twine 2.0 - Harlowe 3.2.2. I hope you enjoyed your playthrough. - Guðni

As the incredible architectural feat that was the Bladesmith manor went up in smoke, it was said that it could be seen for hundreds of miles away. It was the end of an era for Burrowville and the country as a whole. A (link-reveal:"superpower")[(show:?7)] laid to rest in as explosive a way as it had emerged, all those years ago. |7)[== The two servants that lit the fuse were never found, but three bodies were recovered from the ashes. There was Old Uncle Thomas, Filthy Aunt Mildred and (link-reveal:"me")[(show:?8)].|8)[== The legacy of the Bladesmith family was a complicated one, filled with treachery and sorrow. Experts would spend years analysing the complex web of lies that kept us out of legal trouble and speculate on the answers that were lost in the fire. But none would ever know the truth. There was cruelty, yes, and misery. But there was also the occasional act of kindness, a dream of something better, flashes of misunderstood brilliance. And at the very end, there was (link-reveal:"tea")[(show:?9)].|9)[== Since the first time she was locked in her room as a child, I believe that was exactly how she would have wanted it to end. Filthy Aunt Mildred, (link-reveal:"filthy no more")[(show:?10)].|10)[== [[The end.]]