A Most Unfortunate Discovery
The journey had been long. The horse ride had been unbearable. And now, George found himself in what could only be described as an absolute nightmare.
A barn.
They had brought him to a barn.
It was large, he supposed, in a rustic sort of way. The wooden beams were sturdy, the walls well-maintained, and the scent of hay and something vaguely earthy hung in the air. Sunlight streamed through the open doors, casting long shadows over the floor. It was… quaint.
And utterly unacceptable.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Techno said, dropping George’s suitcase with a dull thud.
George stared at the mud… and manure beneath his polished shoes. Then at the wooden walls. Then at Techno.
“…Where is the house?” he asked, voice perfectly polite.
Techno gave him a look. “This is the house.”
George’s left eye twitched. “You live in a barn.”
Techno shrugged. “Yep.”
George took a slow breath. He was a guest in this country. A gentleman. He would not lose his temper.
“…I see,” he said, tightly. “Might I trouble you for an outlet, then? I’d like to charge my phone.”
A pause.
Then, from the other side of the barn, came a laugh.
George turned to find a boy—young, perhaps 8 or 9, wild-eyed, and grinning like a lunatic. He had straw in his hair, a smudge of dirt across his cheek, and a look of pure mischief about him. He too was dressed like a 1700's farmer.. ample trousers with suspenders over a white and red shirt.
"Mate,” the boy said, still laughing. “What the hell is a phone?"
George froze.
He blinked. Once. Twice. The words settled into his brain like bricks.
"What do you mean, ‘what is a phone?’” George asked, slow, careful.
The boy—Tommy, he presumed—tilted his head, confused. “I mean, I ain't never seen one.”
George stared at him.
Then, at Techno.
Then, back at Tommy.
“Never?”
“Nope!” Tommy grinned. “Is it a British thing?”
George’s soul left his body.
He had to stay composed. Every instinct within him screamed to recoil, to protest, to demand an explanation for the sheer absurdity of the situation. But no—he was a man of refinement, of dignity. He had survived awkward dinner parties, insufferable schoolmates, and the absolute horror of lukewarm tea. He could survive this. Probably.
As Techno hauled his luggage into the house, George followed into the barn, stepping through the wooden doorway and into what he assumed was meant to be the living area. It was… different.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was alien.
The sofa—if it could even be called that—looked fairly old, wooden, with cushions so thin they may as well not have been there at all. The walls, rather than being adorned with tasteful paintings or bookshelves, were decorated with sketches, drying plants, and far too many mounted animal heads for comfort.
In the center of the room, where a television should have been, stood a bookshelf—crammed with aging tomes, some with their spines cracked, others missing covers entirely. George stared at it in growing horror. There was no entertainment system, no radio, not even an outdated CD player.
The only other spot against the walls was a sort of altar, with candles and some odd, purple symbols. He wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or deeply disturbed.
Then, finally, a ray of hope.
Phil, thankfully, was waiting for George. Finally, a normal adult! Surely, surely, he would understand the necessity of basic technology. The man was dressed oddly, certainly, and had clearly fostered this house-wide vendetta against modernity, but still. A doctor, a father—he would be reasonable.
“So how was the travel?” Phil asked, a warm smile on his face. “Stew is on the fire for dinner, so I hope you’re hungry!”
Retreat. Retreat. This man didn’t even use an oven. Or a stove?!
Before George could even process that horror, another figure swept into view, moving with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he had rehearsed this very entrance in the mirror at least twice.
“I want you to know,” the newcomer declared, stepping far too close, “that I am your ally.”
George blinked.
The man—tall, draped in a long coat entirely too dramatic for the season, brown hair windswept by either nature or sheer force of will—stared at him with an intensity bordering on religious fervor.
Wilbur, he presumed.
Wilbur nodded, as though George’s stunned silence were the weighty pause before thunderous applause. “Yes,” he continued. “It is important that you know that, as family, I stand with you, unwavering, steadfast. No matter what trials you face, you have my unyielding support. A bulwark against all opposition, a—”
George blinked again.
The room went completely silent.
Somewhere to the side, someone shifted uncomfortably. From the hallway, a cough. A faint creak as someone adjusted their stance. Wilbur, seemingly unaware of the growing discomfort, stood with the bearing of a man expecting a handshake, or perhaps a medal.
George finally found his voice.
“What.”
Wilbur hesitated. His confidence faltered, just slightly, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility of his grand statement being met with… nothing. His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling for an explanation, a justification—something to fill the void.
The silence stretched.
Techno, who had been watching from a nearby armchair, turned a page in his book and muttered, “Rookie mistake.”
Tommy, who had been holding in laughter for an impressive amount of time, finally lost the battle and burst out, wheezing.
Wilbur straightened, cleared his throat, and composed himself.
“Yes. Well,” he said, as though nothing at all had gone amiss. “Welcome to the family.”
The silence stretched. Then, very calmly, George turned on his heel and ascended the wooden ladder leading to the attic.
He needed a moment.
The attic was… sufficient.
There was a bed, at least. And a small table. And a window that overlooked the endless stretch of farmland beyond. It was fine.
It was not fine.
But George had faced worse. He had survived boarding school. He would endure.
He exhaled, setting down his bag. Then, deciding he’d rather not wallow in despair, he set out to find the bathroom.
He should not have looked for the bathroom.
Because there wasn’t one.
Instead, there was a bucket.
And a pitcher of water.
And when he finally worked up the courage to ask, that was when he learned.
The toilets were outside.
Outside.
In a wooden shack.
Like some sort of animal.
George had spent his entire life surrounded by modern conveniences—the gentle hum of indoor plumbing, the quiet assurance of heated floors, the simple luxury of pressing a button and watching his problems flush away. And now, all of it was gone. Replaced by a crude wooden structure that sat hunched in the distance, a thing of nightmares.
It was barely more than a box, with uneven planks nailed together, gaps between the wood that let the wind whistle through. There was no porcelain throne, no shining metal fixtures—just a hole. A hole in the ground, over which he was expected to squat like some medieval peasant. A splintered wooden seat sat above it, the only meager attempt at civilization. The smell, even from a distance, hinted at horrors he was not prepared to face.
He had to stay composed. He could not allow himself to break. And yet, as he imagined himself making the treacherous journey outside in the dead of night, possibly in the rain, possibly with unseen creatures lurking in the shadows—his resolve wavered.
George did not speak for the rest of the evening.
He simply climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and lay very, very still. His mind reeled, cycling through every ounce of logic he had to justify his horror. This was not a minor inconvenience. This was not a mere discomfort. This was a complete and utter regression of everything society had worked towards for centuries. It was not simply about needing to go outside—it was the indignity of it, the primal absurdity.
There was an order to life, a sequence of advancements that ensured civilization remained exactly that—civilized. Indoor plumbing was not just a luxury; it was a declaration that mankind had conquered filth, that humanity had risen above the days of squalor and disease. And now, here he was, being asked to cast aside centuries of progress, to crouch over a hole in a wooden shack like some lost soul in the Dark Ages.
His breathing was shallow, his hands gripping the edge of his blanket like a lifeline. He could not—would not—live like this.
He was going to die here.