Sometimes_724
Legacy Name: Sometimes_724

Name: Sometimes
True Name: William Dower
Gender: Male
Age: 18-years-old
Date of Birth: May 30th, 1894
Orientation: Bisexual; Homoromantic
Height: 6'/127 cm

Likes: Automobiles, Typewriters, Fairy tales, Magic, His mirror, His reflection, His house, Going for long walks, Being the sole individual to ensure his family line. Recently: The inventions of the 20th Century, The House in a grander state than it was when he "left".

Dislikes: Lazy servants, Manual labor, Getting dirty, Being disheveled, Getting bossed around, Being ignored. Recently: The new riff-raff that have moved into his family home, Saan's disillusions to being "Owner" of his estate, Not being allowed to run his own affairs.

But Little William didn't care about those things: money, power, prestige, legacy. He was just a young boy, about four-years-old, and he was only interested in the tangible things. What toys were in this new house, what food the new servants would cook for him, how comfortable his new bed was, and, most importantly, what fairy tales the new servants would tell him. Little William loved fairy tales.

His mother used to read to him all the time and tell him stories, but since his father became wealthy and famous around town, she never had any time for William anymore. She always had to accompany his father to social gatherings, outings, whatever it was that adults did. Little William would always frown when he thought of his father and mother. They used to love him, and now, it was like they had abandoned him. Well, that was alright. The servants would love him. They always did. He was a good little boy. Good little boys were loved.

His next earliest memory is of some obscure day. It wasn't a holiday. It most certainly wasn't his birthday. So why that day sticks out in his mind might be a mystery to other folks--especially other four-year-olds.

On that day, Little William was standing at the foot of his bed as one of the maids--Anna--dressed him. Putting on one's clothes is tedious enough of a task, but having someone else do it is even more boring. Of course, Little William became bored and his attention wandered. He thought of all the toys he could play with, the servants he could observe, playing outside in the garden. Soon, he became distracted by his reflection in the mirror on the far side of the wall across from his bed.

Mirrors were luxury items in those days. Made of tin-mercury amalgam and glass. Very dangerous to make, and therefore very expensive. This particular mirror had been in the Dower's possession for some time. However, it always appeared to be dirty no matter how hard the maids tried to clean it. When Mr. Dower bought his new house, he also bought a new, silver-glass mirror. With a new mirror for the Master Suite, there was no need for the tin-mercury one. But...mirrors were expensive. It would have been folly to simply throw the dirty thing away. So, instead, the father passed the mirror onto his son. What use did the young boy have for such a thing? He wouldn't notice the poor condition it was in.

And Little William didn't notice the poor condition it was in. For, when he gazed upon the mirror, it was not dirty at all. He could clearly see himself standing at the foot of the bed, one arm in his coat and one left to go. He could see the maid working furiously to get every article of clothing in place, a small frown on her face. And he could see the gray man with the moustache, dressed up in a fancy black and gray suit.

Now, Little William, being distracted by his thoughts, did not realize that this man was not really there in the room with him. And, though he did not remember anyone else coming into the room and he did not recognize the man, he simply accepted that what he was seeing for reality. "Oh, there's someone else here," he probably thought to himself with a mental shrug. Probably another one of father's friends, or a new butler. When the maid finished putting on his coat, Little William ran for the door without a single glance back at the man with the mustache. An eager, four-year-old boy only has one thing on his mind: playing.

Later that evening, after Little William had had his dinner and a servant had read him one of his favorite fairy tales—Snow White—he sat on his bed, unable to sleep. This was nothing unusual for William. He was always a little hyper after a good story. What was unusual, however, was that the man with the mustache was back in his room. Little William was paying attention this time, and he knew that the man he was seeing was not in his room. Therefore, in William’s mind, the man with the mustache had to reside in another room directly across from his—a room that looked exactly like his own.

Getting out of bed, Little William walked over to the desk chair. He clambered onto it, then onto the writing desk, and then sat on his knees directly in front of the mirror.

“Hello,” Little William said with the easiness of a child.

The old man smiled, “Hello.”

“My name is William Dower. What is yours?”

“You may call me ‘Horace,’ young William.”

Little William frowned as he pushed his little hands up against the glass of the mirror, “It is awfully hard to speak to you when you are in Horace’s room and I am in William’s room. Might I come in?”

The man with the mustache, Horace, declined. Little William did not like being told no but someone he had just met. The only people allowed to boss him around were his father and mother, and this new neighbor had no right to deny him.

“Why not?” William demanded.

“William has to stay in his room,” the man replied slowly, “because Horace has to stay in his.”

Little William, being a child, responded like most children of his age do to the response of a parent telling him, “Because I said so.” That is to say, he grew more annoyed by Horace’s failure at an explanation. With an angry pout, William once again demanded to know why. And, once again, Horace replied that he couldn’t because Horace couldn’t, and the old man with the mustache reached out and touched the mirror behind William.

Not being known for his silent mouth, Little William happily told any who would listen about his friend in the “other room.” His parents, knowledgeable about their child’s fascination with fairy tales, thought the boy to be talking about some other fantasy that he had created. It was not uncommon. The servants laughed at the boy and played along. When asked about what room, Little William would reply, “The other room. The one that is like mine.” All who lived in the house knew about Horace—Little William’s reflection. All did not know that they were wrong.

Little William would spend every day talking with Horace. He would tell him his favorite fairy tales, he would tell him stories about what the servants did or what his parents did, and, when Horace got bored of those stories, Little William would tell Horace about himself. Horace appeared to like spending time with Little William, and so Little William liked spending time with Horace.

It was when the lad was between the ages of seven and eight that William began to question Horace’s existence. William had learned much about the world, and he now found it strange that he could see himself in Horace’s room, but he could not see Horace in William’s room. Why was that? Why was Horace there, across William’s room? He asked Horace his questions with the sincerity of a child.

Horace replied, “I took a long, long trip before coming here to rest. Because I like William’s room. And it is the same for me as it is for you. Though you see yourself in my room, I cannot see you here, and I see myself in your room, though you cannot see me there.”

Though still slightly confused, William trusted Horace. Horace was his friend, his confidant, and had been since he was small. Horace could move things in William’s room, even though William could not see him as he did so. Horace had to know what he was talking about. It only made sense that way.

In his pre-teen years, William finally recognized Horace as a magical creature.

“I know what you are,” he told Horace. “All right, so I do not know exactly what you are, old friend, but I do know you are a magical being of some kind. Perhaps you are a ghost, or a spirit. A benevolent demon? An angel? Maybe even a genie! All I truly know, and have known for some time, mind you, is that you are not in a room across from mine, but you are behind the mirror.”

Horace smiled. And William grinned back; proud that he hit the proverbial nail on the head of his oldest mystery. Selfishly glad that Horace was his.

This revelation propelled William’s obsession with magicks. Tarot cards, crystal balls, gypsies, soothsayers, and everything in-between were now topics of interest for the man-child. He never dabbled in the occult, do not misunderstand, but things once seen fantastical and beyond his reach were finally a form of reality to him. In a world that valued technology and innovation to mysticism, it was almost a sigh of relief for William to explain his magical friend in a way that his brain could accept—a way that did not make him insane.

Almost in contradiction to his newly rekindled love for the mystical, William also became enraptured by new inventions. The automobiles, the typewriters, the steam engines. All were works of art to William. Whenever he would see these objects, or others like them, William would go home and tell Horace all about them. Horace would listen as he told him all about how the inventions worked. Or, how William thought they worked, in most cases.

And it was not long before William grew interested in yet a third thing: human interaction. As a growing boy, William seemed drawn to the company of others. He wanted to go out with the boys more often, to play sports and to pull harmless pranks.

As a teen, William spent even less time with Horace than he had before. Oh, he still loved Horace and talked to him every night, but things were required of William now. He was responsible for being his father’s heir to the business. He had to learn the “tools of the trade” so to speak. He was invited to go to those social gatherings his parents went to when he was a child—the gatherings he had hated and that he still hated. He hated the etiquette and the people with the false smiles. Horace never smiled at him like that—with lies.

Years passed. Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, William’s parents were in a horrible carriage accident. Both his mother and his father perished. William attended the funeral, as any devoted son would, but he did not grieve. Ever since his parents “abandoned” him when he was a child, William had continued to grow apart from them on some deep emotional level that he did not really understand. Horace was more of a father to him than Mr. Dower.

William inherited his father’s fortune, the house, and all that was attached to it. Though acquainted with how his father’s business worked, William still needed to help of the employees and his father’s banker to get everything in order.

The young man had grown into his features at this point. Women who would normally remark about his adorableness would fan themselves in his presence. With the growth of his form, the hatred he had for the bourgeoisie also blossomed. Out of all his garments, his pocket watch seemed to be his most astounding item for meetings and casual dinners with business partners that were all but casual. Stiff silences and insults these people called proposals were nothing to him but a way to group the seconds that ticked by. Yet, William did not hate his new fortune; he relished it, he prided himself in it, he knew it was the one thing that kept him separated from the lower class...

Another day wrapped in vagueness. William had been invited to an evening dance. The type of dance with handsome men and women. The type of dance where manners and etiquette were just as important as the outrageous dresses the women wore. Did those strumpets not realize how hard it was for him to avoid the trains on their ridiculous apparel? How annoying it was to have to ask them to dance just to keep up good appearances? The strains that he went through to give them false compliments, when he looked more handsome than they could ever dream of being?

At this dance, an injury was inflicted upon William that we today would not understand. He was asked to dance by a beautiful woman and frequenter of the floor. In those times, it was extremely bad manners for a woman to ask a man to dance. William smiled politely at the lady and gave her a deep bow, agreeing to the dance, even though he squirmed on the inside. For, though he hated the etiquette of the upper class, he hated for it to be broken even more. He had been trained to hate it.

William stormed into his room that night. The door almost slammed against the wall with the force he had used to open it. He angrily took off his coat.

“That woman!” He roared. “The nerve of her!”

He tossed his coat on the bed and strode over to his writing desk, which was now more of a vanity than anything. In his ill humor, William barely recognized the presence of Horace in the mirror, the old man sitting on the couch near the bookshelf. Horace hummed for William to continue, though he did not look up from the book he was reading.

“Lady Vivienne!” William barked. “She dared to ask me to dance! No escort, no introduction, nothing! These…these…foppish aristocrats put so much worth into their blasphemous pageantry, and yet they cannot even abide by their own petty rules!”

William picked up his golden-handled brush from his desk, furiously attacking his wavy hair. Normally, he would never treat his hair so harshly, but, as he was beyond agitated and not thinking clearly, he let his hand stroke at whatever speed it desired.

“Sometimes I wish—“

William paused in his tirade. His strokes slowed as a thought crept up from the deeper recesses of his mind. He chewed on his bottom lip. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never once heard his friend wish for anything at all. Being a supernatural creature, the young man was sure that Horace had to have wishes almost as fantastical as his own existence. It only made sense, after all.

Curiously, William asked, “What do you wish for, Horace?”

Horace inclined his head, a smile on his face, “I wish for nothing. The future is unchanging, even in changing times. You or I cannot change our own destinies singularly, and wishing does not assist the process.”

“Oh, do not be modest, Horace!” William replied gaily, his mood improving with this new distraction. “Surely you must wish for something.”

“I like to invest my faculties elsewhere, but I'm intrigued--- What does one from the world wish for? With a mansion such as this, and as much time as your young body has left, and as much of a fortune as you have at your disposal... What is left for your heart to want?”

William frowned. He put the hairbrush back on the desk, distracted by the words Horace spoke.

“My fortune is not my own. I inherited, yes, but it was my father's.” William’s eyes glazed over as he continued. “This is not my house. It is my father's. What I wish for, Horace...What I wish for is a household bigger than my father's. I want to expand this mansion, as you so called it, so that it will be big enough for everyone within it; that they will be happy here. Just imagine! Oh, what I would give to see my legacy one hundred years from now."

Not even a second passed after those words were muttered then Horace was suddenly in another place behind the mirror. It was a trick of the spectre that William had never seen before. Horace had always been able to move things and disappear, but never so quickly. And he certainly had never reappeared so fast, either. William also noticed that the old man was giving him a smile he had never seen before on that face.

“Oh, that was a wonderful trick,” William said off-handedly. “How did you do that one?”

“I stood still for a long, long time before moving to this chair to rest.” Horace’s grey eyes shone with a clarity of sincere happiness.

“Whatever do you mean? ‘A long, long time.’ You were over there not even a second ago, and now you are in the chair.”

“Yes, Master William… You see, it is the same for me as it is for you. As I remained here, in the Other Room, you stayed as well--- The difference is, I was given motion during that duration.”

William was silent for a moment. At length he said, “Horace, I am afraid I cannot understand what you mean. You sound like some scientist, and I never associate with those types. Speak plainly, in words that I can understand please.” With a startled blink, William realized that the reflection of his coat was not in the mirror. Turning around, the coat was not in his room, either. Facing the mirror again, William asked, “Horace, where did you place my coat?” He frowned, “If this is some trick of yours, I am not in the mood.”

“There is no trick, I assure you!” Flashing the grin William was most familiar with, he continued, his mustache wobbling as his upper lip worked out a simplified, clear explanation. “More or less a century ago, a lad stood in front of my mirror and made a very peculiar wish. It was worded so honestly, I could not stop myself in assisting in the completion of it. That very same lad stands in the very same room, but the mansion that was is no longer… similar.”

William smiled uneasily. “What—?” He laughed, “Are you trying to tell me that you granted my wish that I made not but a few moments ago? Do not be ridiculous, Horace! You have never once taken my wishes seriously enough to grant them, if you even have the power to do so. Now, where is my coat?”

Horace let out a quiet sigh. His gaze went to his steepled fingers before he continued, “Your coat was taken by the investigators, two days after your servants realized you disappeared from your own room. You, as I, have been in this room ever since; neither you nor I have left it. Yet. . . Not a person has seen you. You have been hidden by a magic older in years than I can ever hope to see. Peculiar men dusted your room for fingerprints, through the first week of your non-absence. Stranger people came, investigating the footprints on the carpet, grasping for signs of a struggle.” Horace stood, straightened his vest and jacket, and gave his best curt bow. “I have seen to it that your room has since been undisturbed, young master.”

The smile on William’s face froze, but his eyebrows worked furiously above his eyes as he tried to dismiss Horace’s words as falsities. Nonsense. Utter nonsense! It was not possible for a century to pass around him, while he remained like a statue, unseen by all. Not possible.

The smile on William’s face slowly dropped. His eyes widened a little as he realized that, despite the impossibility of Horace’s claims, his coat was missing. And, as he finally, truly looked into the mirror, some things were off in his room.

His bed covers were not how he liked them; no maid would make that mistake. William turned quickly away from the mirror, his eyes darting around his room. With a growing feeling of dread, William noticed that the books on his bookshelf were not in the same order, their spines looked aged. In fact, all of his furniture appeared older, less bright than he remembered. Panicking, William spun to stare at his desk. Though his hairbrush remained, it was in a different spot than he had placed it not a minute before. It, too, was aged.

“What is this?” William asked, his voice shaking as he backed away from his writing desk. “This is wrong. Y—you are lying! This is just some trick you have played. This does not please me, Horace!”

With a gasp, William ran to the door. He gave a startled yelp as he looked outside. Walls that were once covered with floral patterns had been replaced by white paint. His heart pounding, he left his room. He ran down the hallway, noticing the numerous new rooms as he passed them. Rushing down the stairs, he nearly fell. The foyer was different. Same space, but the furniture was different—designs he had never seen before. He heard the sound of conversation and spun on his heels to seeks the source, somewhere in the kitchen.

Without any warning, William pushed open the kitchen door with unintended force. He froze in his steps. The kitchen was full with many people—none of whom he had seen before. He paid no heed to the drastically altered kitchen. He paid no heed to the Pets or the astonished faces. He paid no heed to the silence his intrusion brought. No, his attention was directed solely on the female human.

She wore strange clothes. White pants (pants were for men!), a red, cloth belt across her waist, and a white shirt with no sleeves, low neck line, and high collar (had she no decency?). On her upper arm rested a silver bangle and her neck was adorned with a red-jeweled, silver pendant. Her hair was long, left down, and combed to the side; her eyes shadowed with red.

Even with the oddity of her appearance, it was really her gaze that held William’s attention. Her eyes bore into him with the authority of a man’s. If she was surprised by him, she showed no sign of it.

William’s mouth opened, but no words could he find to explain himself, or to ask the strangers to explain themselves. Frustrated, angry, and terrified all at once, the young man turned from the scene before him and ran back to his room, and not once did he look back.

He slammed the door behind him. He was shaking. Running to the mirror, William demanded, “Who are those people downstairs? In my kitchen! Why are there more rooms? Why—?” He stopped as he remembered, word for word, his wish. “You have enchanted it? You made some…some sort of spell to make the house grow? That is not what I meant! I meant I wanted a family! I meant—” As he grabbed his face with his hands, William cried out, “Oh, Horace, what have you done?!”

“I regretted my actions the second they had taken place!” Horace’s eyebrows seemed to have melted at either of his temples, his voice lowering in shame. His hands clutched each other, close to his chest, as he bent forward a dozen or so degrees. “I… ”

William became enraged. He jerked his head up to glare at Horace, “Oh, you regretted them, did you?”

The door to his bedroom opened—more gently this time—and in stepped the woman from the kitchen. William turned his fury towards her.

“I knew it!” She exclaimed, pointing at him. How rude!

“How dare you!” He shouted. “You, a woman and a complete stranger, barging into my room unannounced and uninvited!”

Stepping as close as he could to the mirror, Horace yelled, “YOUNG MASTER! Perchance introductions are in order! This young lady is the most recent Subetan to purchase this grandiose mansion, and goes by the name of Saan. In addition, Lady Saan of the Phoenix, this is Master William Dower!”

William stuttered indignantly. He gaped at Horace, “Purchased! My house is not for sale!” He glared at this Saan woman, “And it most certainly will never be owned by a woman!”

But “Lady” Saan was paying no attention to William. She was staring at Horace’s mirror with the delight and excitement of a child in a toy store, he eyes wide and alive.

She squealed, thrusting her arms into the air, “Woot! Haunted mirror! I knew it!” She dropped her arms and pointed (again!) at Horace, “After all this time, you finally show yourself.”

“Well then, the time was ripe. Master William, please, calm yourself! I have seen many inventions enter this room, and over time, you will learn so much more than you could have then! Leave this woman to care for The House, and enjoy your extended years in this new age!”

“I most certainly will not enjoy it!” William shouted at the old man. “Do you not understand the ramifications of your actions?”

And no sooner than the words had left his mouth did William realize the true extent of what had happened to him. Yes, his house had changed, and yes, he had seemingly resumed his life a century into the future. Shocking though those facts were, they were nothing to the facts that he had no claim in the world.

Society would have changed in the past one hundred years. He knew nothing of these times. He would not fit in. It was only natural that he had been presumed missing, and then dead, in the past. With no heir, his fortune would have been split up among interested parties—auctioned off! William’s rage was replaced by distress.

“Oh, God,” he muttered softly.

He staggered a bit, grasping at his chair. No. It was not even his chair anymore! Nothing was his! He had nothing. He was nothing. William fell to his knees, his hand still firmly clasped on the chair. His ears drooped as he began to rock back and forth.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God.”

He felt a hand wrap around the upper portion of his arm. “Are you alright?” The woman asked him as he sat on the floor, genuine concern in her voice.

“Get away,” William hissed. He snapped his head furiously towards her, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Get away! This is not your house, it is mine! Mine!” He hiccupped. “Mine…”

Saan was frowning down at him. Though there was pity and kindness in her eyes, William could also see the hardness in them. She would not relinquish her control over his house. She would not give him the only tangible thing he had left in the world. William shrank away from her. What kind of man was he to cry in front of a woman? She was stronger than he. He bowed his head.

“This is all your fault,” he whispered. “This is all your fault.”

Saan cried out as William sprung to his feet, nearly knocking her over. He grabbed a hold of the golden-handled brush, the brush that once belonged to him.

“This is all your fault!” He shouted angrily.

He brought his hand back to throw the brush at Horace. He had played sports as a young boy. He used to play ball with the working class boys all the time. William knew his aim would be true. And he wanted to throw the brush. He wanted to get back at the old man he had seen as his dearest friend, the old man who he had considered another father, the old man who had ruined his life.

But something stopped him. All he could do was stare helplessly at his own reflection, a miserable sight of a man who was, himself, broken, a hairbrush held behind his tear-streaked face. Not that he noticed, but the well-dressed man was absent from the reflection.

William shouted as Saan grabbed him. She wretched the golden brush from his hand and, wrapping both her arms around his waist, somehow managed to bring him to his knees. William tried to fight back, but he was exhausted and she was stronger than he thought a woman could be.

“Let it go,” she said to him as she wrestled with his arms. “Let it go, William!”

And it was not long until William complied. He stopped fighting her. He let her comfort him as he sobbed on the floor of his own room. In the many minutes he grieved the loss of his past life, only one stranger dared peek in on him, and that was a young Kerubi boy who could not have been more than seven-years-old. The look of anguish and rage William cast in his direction was enough to run the poor boy off—eyes wide in surprise.

Horace did not re-appear in the mirror again that night. Saan convinced William to sleep in her room. She knew it would have been hazardous to the health of both the old Master of The House and that of the Spirit Behind the Mirror if they were left in the same room together.

When Saan had bought the house, she knew full well the rumors of a haunting. Those rumors scared everyone else off, and had for a century, but not her. She left William’s room, though she did not know whose room it was, intact for it was the only one in the house not touched. Everything within it was antique, vintage, and she loved it. She had taken care of it—cleaned it up, dusted, vacuumed, re-arranged the bookshelf in alphabetical order just to appease her tiny OCD problem. Perhaps because she cared for the room, the spirit behind the mirror left her alone. He did not appear or threaten Saan because he knew she meant no harm to his master’s things.

The enchanted growing of The House had never affected Saan’s love for it, either. In fact, she considered it a very practical “added bonus” of her purchase. Granted, her Pets, those she regarded as her friends (if not children), did not like the idea of the bathroom misplacing itself overnight because of a new arrival, but what did that matter? They would get over it!

And so, it was that Saan, in the best interest of William and Horace, gave the enchanted mirror to the hotel (or halfway-house depending on whose opinion it was) named Turn.

At first, William did not mind the arrangement. Horace had betrayed him. What did he care if the old man was removed from his life for good? But, as weeks passed, William realized he was wrong. He did care. He had loved Horace, and the more time he spent apart from the spectre, he could not ignore the pain he felt in his heart.

Sometimes William hated the old man, sometimes he loved him unconditionally. Sometimes William loved the new age he was in, sometimes he longed to return to the past.

Saan and the Pets jokingly call him ‘Sometimes’ because of his indecision about his own feelings. On occasion, William even jokes with them. Even with the joking, all the other members of The House have accepted William in their own ways. Saan, though not relenting of her legal ownership of The House, allows William free reign to whatever he wants with it. They consider themselves to be co-owners. And William, despite his ever-changing humor, visits Horace at Turn, when the regret he feels becomes too strong for him to bear.