by Dani Lamia
The picture was the oldest one she had, taken when her mother was younger than Phoebe herself was at that moment. Some people had said that they looked exactly alike, but Phoebe was never sure about that. Perhaps it was all in the eyes.
“I know what you’d have said, but I’ve got no choice,” she whispered and shoved the photo into her backpack. The threat of tears spurred her on, so she rose and picked up a box of belongings. Not knowing if the creepy Mr. Beldnar was home or not, Phoebe climbed through the window.
She cast glances back to the apartment building as she walked around her pile of belongings: her coffeemaker, tiny television, the small circular table she had it standing on, a folding chair, a mismatched pair of tall three-way lamps, and other miscellaneous bric-a-brac. She searched her hoodie’s pockets and pulled out the old Chevy’s keys. The trunk lid opened with a creak. She set the box inside and put the lid down without latching it.
Reentering the apartment through the window, she retrieved her two garbage bags of clothes and sundries. She took them to the car and came back for the pack.
Phoebe looked about one last time to make sure she had everything. She pulled her hood over her head and left. Walking one last time past the pile, a glint of something gold caught her peripheral vision. She stopped and scrutinized it.
Oh, it’s just the potpourri bowl, she thought and gazed at it for a moment. It still had an unopened bag of potpourri and a few wildflowers she had picked on a hike the other day. That was Mom’s, I shouldn’t leave that.
She bent and picked up the heavy copper bowl. It was ugly and a bit tarnished, but it had belonged to someone in her family before her mother, though she couldn’t remember just who. She reopened the trunk and set the bowl inside, pinning it between her bags of clothes to keep it stationary. The old Caprice rattled enough without the help of luggage.
Once behind the wheel of the thirty-year-old car, Phoebe thought over her next move. She had a half tank of gas and just over fifty dollars. She wasn’t scheduled to work at either job until the next day, but the time had come to leave, to start completely over. She hated to abandon any job without notice, and now she was about to do it to two at the same time. It was not like her.
She placed the key in the ignition and turned it. The starter motor whined as it spun freely. Phoebe let the key go and tried it again. Eventually, the engine started and settled into its uneven idle. She knew better than to throw the transmission in gear and leave right away. The engine would stall, and if Beldnar was home, perhaps he’d hear the rumbling of her holey mufflers and come running after her.
Awkward, she thought, visualizing the scene of the old creep running outside in his undershirt and shorts to catch her while she frantically tried to restart the big beast.
Phoebe watched the front door of the apartment building as she gave the car a moment of mechanical contemplation. She looked into the rearview mirror and focused on her deep brown eyes. There were lines on her forehead, dark patches under her eyes, and her lids were droopy.
I’ll get some rest at Aunt Hester’s if she lets me in. She might . . . I think.
Her memory flashed the image of her destination and, at that moment, a strong wave of nausea and dizziness hit her. She sat back into the cloth bench and groaned. She gripped the door handle and was ready to throw it open, convinced that she was about to vomit. The feeling passed after a long moment, and she relaxed.
Too much coffee . . . not enough food, she decided and shook the lightheadedness away and cleared her throat. The wait was long enough. She put the car in reverse, aimed for the street, and drove.
***
It was under fifty miles to her destination, but traffic was heavy, and the Chevy’s old radiator couldn’t handle it. The temperature light came on just in time for an exit, so she got off and pulled into a gas station conveniently located at the first intersection.
After waiting a half an hour to let the engine cool, Phoebe topped off the radiator with water. She went inside the gas station, gambled on a ninety-nine-cent hot dog, and purchased a can of soda and a paper map. The clerk teased her a bit about why she didn’t just use her cellphone for the GPS. She just glared at him with her head cocked to one side to show she was in no mood. The willingness to jump the counter and throttle his bony throat with her bare hands was evident. He shut up and gave over her change.
She returned to the car and opened the map. While she was almost certain she would remember where the old Victorian house was located, it had been over a decade since she’d been at the strange old abode and hadn’t spoken to her great-aunt Hester since her mother’s funeral nearly seven years prior. Hester had started an argument with Phoebe at the wake, making a stink over some of her mother’s belongings, which left her losing all respect for the old bird.
Phoebe had let Hester have whatever she wanted, which amounted to a closet of clothes, a few pieces of furniture, some books, and personal items. Phoebe had no room for anything in her dorm room at the University of Michigan, the institution she would be repaying for the rest of her life.
She found White Lake on the map right away, but the street the House of the Seven Gables was on, Gable Way, wasn’t there. It was more of a cul-de-sac, as she recalled. There were only a few roads running through the northern part of White Lake, so she was pretty sure she could find it.
Phoebe wished there had been someone else, anyone else, to turn to, but there was no one. She felt a failure, and Great-Aunt Hester was sure to augment that emotion.
Maybe in her old age, she’s mellowed, she told herself.
With the Chevy cooled and watered, herself fed and refreshed, she set off again.
2
The Arrival
It was nearly five o’clock when Phoebe drove past the three-way intersection for Gable Way. The turn lay just past a gentle bend to the left, obscured by trees. The road was too narrow for her to turn around. Instead, she stomped the brake pedal with both feet, sending the Caprice’s rear end up and the nose down. The hot, worn brakes were just effective enough to lock up the rear wheels, leaving two streaks of rubber on the road. The old Chevy came to a stop, though the body wobbled and rocked on its weak and creaky suspension.
“Oh, gawd,” Phoebe uttered and shut her eyes. The undulations of the car had rekindled the nausea. She covered her mouth and waited for the car to still and her stomach to settle. “Whoa, Nellie.”
Fortunately, no one else was on the road. Phoebe rolled down the window, put the car in reverse, and stuck her head out as she let the car creep back to her missed turn.
When she finally turned onto Gable Way, she didn’t recognize it. She checked the sign twice, coming nearly to a stop to do so, as many of the rusted sign’s letters were covered in vines. It had been shot several times as well, further distorting the readability. The forest on either side of this narrow pathway had once been lush, thick, and green. Now, however, it appeared that the trees had contracted some horrible disease that browned the leaves and gnarled the branches. Phoebe goosed the accelerator then let the car settle to its idle speed. The street had once been made of cobblestones, but now, the tires rolled over dirt and gravel. Bits of the original stone roadway lay in the middle.
“What the shit?” Phoebe muttered and came to a stop again. A yellow sign with a black arrow, warning drivers of the bend to the left, was covered with a purple banner with turquoise cursive letters announcing, “Madam Hester’s Just Ahead!”
“Madam Hester’s what is just ahead?” she wondered aloud and urged the car forward once more. “What have you done, Auntie Hester?”
As she continued on at a crawl, she began to wonder what she was about to find. She hadn’t so much as called Aunt Hester since their last high-spirited meeting, and the possibilities that the old woman had either died, moved, or both, dawned on her.
A mild panic began to brew within her chest and rounding the last
curve did nothing to alleviate it. The House of the Seven Gables appeared ahead.
Feathering the brake, Phoebe rolled up to the house and breathed through her nose, forcing the anxiety away. She could see the house had seen much better days well before she parked on the brown grass across from it. She turned off the car and remained seated, being in no hurry to go ring the bell. The three-story structure stretched skyward, making Phoebe stick her head out of the open window to take it all in.
The old stone Victorian was in need of a new roof, not just in one place, but in every section Phoebe could see. The slate gray shingles were in terrible shape, with many missing. Above most windows of clear glass were decorative stained-glass panels. The colors of some appeared to be faded, and some were cracked.
The welcoming woman etched into the gable above the master bedroom had not aged well. The chipped and blackened figure glared down at Phoebe, not appearing to welcome her at all. The outstretched arms promised harm, not home.
To her memory, the stone walls had never been perfect, with many of their bricks chipped and the mortar in between receded. The structure seemed to have settled since then, making the rows of stone crooked throughout. Some sections appeared to be missing mortar altogether, filling Phoebe with the perverse need to walk up to one of the bricks and give it a tug.
The open stone porch was still the same, though it suffered from weather and neglect like the rest of the house. The pillars looked wet and green with moss. The curve of the arches seemed imperfect. She recalled spending time on that porch as a child, feeling the wind accelerate as it was pressed through the arched openings, disturbing the pages of her coloring books and putting a chill in her bones. Frustrated, young Phoebe would pick up her books and crayons and sit in the sunny yard.
A window in the first-floor parlor held something that she had never seen before, but considering the signs on the road, she wasn’t surprised. A neon sign took up the window, shouting at the dead forest in red and green light that a psychic resided within. A small sticker placed in the corner next to it had a white pentagram on a black background.
From the several cars that were parked on either side of the house, one of which was a brand new and expensive European sedan, Phoebe figured that the psychic business must be booming.
Phoebe sighed and rolled her eyes. Great-Aunt Hester had always been on the lookout for the quick buck and had claimed that she was a gifted wiccan. She adopted affectations to support this, wearing dresses with long, wispy skirts and sleeves, oversized costume jewelry, and even, on a few occasions, a black cape, complete with hood.
Everything but the stupid pointed hat, Phoebe recalled. She suddenly felt tired and let her head relax into the headrest. Her droopy eyes settled on the old carriage house, just ahead. The structure was stone, matching the house in color and architecture. It, too, was in obvious need of care. It seemed crooked, as if the front had been settling one way and the rear the other. The big wooden double doors were askew, and Phoebe could see the grille, bumper, and driver’s side headlights of Hester’s car, a sixties-era Cadillac that had been in the family since it was new.
Scratch the psychic reading business, Phoebe thought and gave a weak giggle. I can’t believe she still has that piece of crap. It’s older than mine.
Phoebe’s eyes closed, and she breathed deeply. The air, while mostly fresh, had a scent behind it, like a pile of grass clippings from a weeks-old mowing job, rich with rotting fallen branches mixed with wet, dead leaves. The odor triggered a memory of her childhood days, where she spent many an after school hour waiting for her mother to pick her up.
As Phoebe began to doze, the silence of the semi-dead forest occurred to her and struck her as odd. Not a bird chirped, nor an insect buzzed. She decided there was a good reason for it, and let it be.
The temperature dropped and the wind rose, making the vehicle wiggle and bob. Phoebe let this be, too, finding the conditions soothing.
A long belt of thunder came to her. It was far away, and being so sleepy, she didn’t find it worth opening her eyes to crank the windows up. She shifted in her seat, stretching out her legs.
Rustling in the dirt outside her driver’s door disturbed her slumbery mood. The skittering of what sounded like claws startled her, and she opened her eyes. Anxiety froze her in place, for what felt like a few moments had apparently been long enough for the sun to go down. The wind outside began to carry uncomfortably cold raindrops, but the noises from whatever was coming closer to her car frightened her away from even closing her window.
Then, a thump on the other side of the door startled Phoebe. A clipped cry left her mouth and her eyes widened. She pressed her palms into the seat, preparing herself to launch, but what direction she’d go was left undecided.
Another strike to the door sent her sliding across the bench seat. Her breaths sped up and little cries accentuated each one. She slammed her back against the passenger door and, while her eyes were locked on the opposite door, something cold took her by the throat, silencing her and cutting off her breath.
Phoebe clawed at the constriction. Her fingertips tried to dig in, but there was nothing to dig in to. Whatever it was felt like a tree branch, but it was strong, and it was squeezing. She followed the branch with her right hand, as it was curled around her from that side. Unable to put eyes on it, Phoebe let her fingers work over whatever was strangling her.
She wrapped her hands around the object, but somehow, it had more strength than she. Her left hand tried picking the thinner bits away from her throat, but they were locked in place.
As Phoebe tried to get free, she kicked and bucked. Her body was plucked from the old car, dragged through the open window. She was picked up, spun around, and slammed against the side of her Caprice.
There was no air to scream with, her ears pulsed, and her eyes bulged as she stared into the eyeless, skinless face of her attacker. The lack of lips left the face to express horrific contempt for her, and a black hood cast darkness over empty eye sockets.
“Leave,” said the skeleton standing over her in a long, raspy screech.
Phoebe’s first thought was that this apparition was Death himself, but she noted he was without his sickle. The skeleton was draped with a tattered and torn black garment. The bony hand around her throat tightened even more, somehow not crushing her esophagus. Then, her feet were off the ground, her spine pressed painfully against her car.
The entity repeated his demand.
Phoebe tried nodding. Anything to get out of the grip. She was beginning to doubt that he had noticed the small motion of her head when the skeletal hand left her neck.
She did not hit the ground, nor was she freed. The hands went to her hoodie, and he yanked her toward him, bringing her inches from his face. This time, the hood slipped back partway, bringing the skull into the starlight. There were dry wisps of hair fluttering about the head, sprouting from what was left of the dead man’s paper-thin flesh.
“Leave. If you look back, you’ll find me behind you.”
Phoebe, lungs recharged with oxygen, screamed. She screamed loudly and strongly with her eyes closed. When her feet hit the ground, she tried to kick, then curled her right hand’s fingers and swung on the toothy skull.
Pain enshrouded her hand and an unearthly voice cried out in what she took as surprise. Confused but inspired, Phoebe swung again, and the sound repeated. In a third attempt to get him away from her, Phoebe pressed both hands into his face, careful to avoid the teeth that she felt certain could bite off her fingers.
The wraith cried out again, the sound eerily unrestrained, like a shout from a child, or a wounded animal, or a car horn.
Phoebe awakened with her hands pressed into the center of the Caprice’s steering wheel. Realizing that she was reacting to a nightmare, she pulled her hands away, ceasing the call of the car horn. Beyond her windshield was fading daylight and the carriage ho
use. She blinked and sank into the car seat, catching her breath and whimpering in relief.
“What in hell’s going on out there?” an old woman called from Phoebe’s left.
Phoebe sat straight up, recognizing the voice as Aunt Hester’s. She looked to the house’s windows but only caught a glimpse of a curtain dropping back into place. The window with the pentagram sticker had been opened, apparently in response to Phoebe’s inadvertent sounding of her car’s horn.
“Shit,” Phoebe muttered. She checked her hair in the rearview mirror out of habit, pocketed her car keys, and jumped out. So much for a smooth announcement of my arrival.
Phoebe walked toward the house and saw Hester through the screen door. The old woman pushed it open and stepped onto the porch. In the shade provided by the deep structure and the fact that Hester was wearing black, Phoebe at first saw only Hester’s frowning white face and two disembodied hands.
Phoebe squinted and shaded her eyes from the cloud-scattered sunlight. In a moment, Aunt Hester became visible. Phoebe stopped walking toward her, remaining in the dirt street so her relative could recognize her.
“Who are you?” said Hester in her aged but smooth voice. She continued forward out of the shade and down the first step. Her eyes searched Phoebe’s face, showing no recognition.
Phoebe waved with embarrassment on her face. “Aunt Hester, it’s me, Phoebe. Your grandniece.”
Hester was imposingly tall in comparison to Phoebe, who stood at five and a half feet to Hester’s five foot eleven, but as her aunt was standing on the fourth step, Phoebe had to tilt her chin up to meet Hester’s pale blue eyes, which, in the sunlight, appeared almost as light as the whites. Her white hair was drawn up in a bun, her forehead covered with bangs. The dress Great-Aunt Hester wore was typical of the woman. It was black, high-collared, frilly at the ends of her wrist-length sleeves, with a skirt that nearly covered her feet. The material was light and airy, easily pushed by the gentle breeze. A necklace with a pentagram charm hung around her neck, and her fingers held several large rings with faux stones.
