by Dani Lamia
Phoebe followed again, this time up the narrow staircase. The railings were unchanged from her youth, though as she took them in hand, she could feel a looseness in the mountings. The steps creaked loudly beneath their feet, and when Hester reached the second floor, Phoebe noted that the light switches were still the push-button type. The one on top was “on,” the one below was “off.”
The wall-mounted, low-watt bulbs in the twin faux candle sconces lit weakly, yellowing the burgundy and gold wallpaper in the hall.
The same lights, the same damn paper, Phoebe marveled. It’s older, it’s fading, it’s peeling, but all the same.
“You have your choice of two rooms on this floor,” Hester said. “The southeast corner in the turret has windows, but it’s smaller. The other up the hallway has the one window facing west.”
“Oh, the corner one would be wonderful,” Phoebe proclaimed with excitement. She remembered it well, though she had only been inside it a few times as a girl.
“So be it,” Hester said and led Phoebe that way.
So be it? Who talks like that?
Hester opened the door to the corner room. It was musty and dusty inside, and boxes of books and odds and ends cramped the floor. “You’ll have to move these. The small room up the hallway has been used for storage.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have many things to move in?”
“No, Aunt Hester. Just a couple bags of clothes, my laptop, and a bowl.”
“A bowl?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said and looked at Hester’s face for a reaction. “It was my mother’s.”
That arched eyebrow appeared again. “I see. I’ll leave you to it, then. When you’re finished, clean yourself up and pay the cook a visit. She’ll be down in the kitchen now, preparing tonight’s supper, which is served promptly at seven every evening. Introduce yourself, help out wherever you can.”
“I will,” Phoebe agreed. “Thank you so much, Aunt Hester.”
“Of course,” Hester replied. She looked to Phoebe like she was about to say something else but didn’t. Instead, she retreated from the room, closing the door behind her.
Phoebe turned to the window, relieved but bewildered at the same moment. As she looked about the room, it, too, was the same as she remembered. Multicolored throw pillows lay on the deep blue cushions on the benches beneath the windows, which were on three sides of the room. The mahogany dresser was a giant, with large, decorative handles that had lost the shine from their brass and gone black. On top of it sat the old fan, an Air Castle, with its two wooden blades carved in the shape of airplane propellers.
The bed looked like the same one that she remembered. Patting her hand on the comforter, a cloud of dust rose up and made her sneeze. When the air cleared, she gasped, having found a painting above the bed.
“Oh, hell no,” she almost shouted.
Her eyes couldn’t leave it. The work was masterfully done, but like the paintings in the living room on the first floor, the scenes were horrific. This one was of a battlefield somewhere, of soldiers that were perhaps French, from the days of Napoleon. The men wore off-white, ruffled shirts with two- or three-cornered hats, long blue coats, and blood. Blood was prevalent. There were muskets, pistols, swords, and pikes, and blades running through everything.
“Augh, for fuck’s sake,” Phoebe uttered. She put her knees on the bed and sank into it, making it tricky to keep her balance as she took the painting down. Gently, she set it on the floor behind the tall dresser, out of sight.
Phoebe tried to think of something else, anything else, but the distorted faces of the dead and the dying, tortured souls in the painting were too well etched in her mind. She changed tack, concentrating on pulling up the blankets and shaking out the dust. She opened the windows, their frames’ paint peeling. One wouldn’t stay up, another would barely go up, the third, like the little bear’s porridge, was just right.
Phoebe went about moving the boxes out of the room. As Hester described, that one was loaded with boxes and its bed removed. She returned to the corner bedroom, feeling drained and warm. She found the switch on the fan and it whirred to life. She watched it for a moment and listened to the noise it made. The soothing murmur relaxed her, so she stretched out on the bed. The frame and springs creaked with every muscle she moved, and she sank deeply into the mattress. The pillows were so thin, they needed to be stacked.
With her hood pulled up over her eyes, she passed out almost immediately.
***
Hester left her grandniece to her room and ascended the stairs. Once on the landing, she slipped out of the heavy shoes and continued up. The floorboards still creaked, but the clopping stopped.
She floated from the top of the stairs to the room above Phoebe’s and tapped upon it with her claws. It opened without a delay and without physical interference.
Hester went in and it swung quietly shut behind her.
“It is her,” the woman inside said. She sat in a rocking chair by the windows, not rocking, not content.
“It is,” Hester replied in contrast, almost gleeful.
“She’s dangerous. She shouldn’t stay.” At this statement, the woman rose. Shorter than Hester, the younger woman’s yellow and white hair flowed freely over her shoulders in ringlets and waves that ran nearly to her tailbone. Her frilly dress was similar to Hester’s, being that it was black with a skirt that went to her feet, but the high collar which encircled her neck was a deep purple on the inside. A woman just beyond what was considered middle age, she was handsome, with high, prominent cheekbones.
“Glendarah, she’s my niece’s daughter,” Hester reminded her sister wiccan.
“Yes, High Priestess,” the other answered. “And as such, is powerful.” Glendarah moved about the small room, gazing at the world below. “She just doesn’t know it.”
“She is desperate, alone. We can turn her to our way of thinking,” Hester said lowly, moving closer to her longtime companion
Glendarah moved to her vanity and sat. She stared into her mirror for a moment in thought, then began touching up her eye makeup. As she did, the years melted away from her flesh. She smiled when Hester placed her hands on her shoulders and leaned low so Glendarah could see her face in the reflection. As she watched, Hester transformed with her, morphing into the image that Glendarah adored.
Hester’s long hair was black again, her lines and wrinkles gone, her neck taught and porcelain. She smiled into the mirror, displaying her perfectly white and straight teeth, and began caressing Glendarah’s cheek.
“I do so love being young for you, Glendarah dearest.”
“I know,” Glendarah replied and turned to kiss Hester’s offered palm. “And I for you.”
“Do you trust me?” Hester asked.
“You know I do,” Glendarah answered and pushed a brush through her golden hair. “I worry.” Her deep blue eyes searched the pale ones of Hester’s reflection.
“We will be careful,” Hester assured her.
“What will Dzolali think?”
“She will think as I do. As we do,” Hester assured her as she massaged Glendarah’s shoulders.
“I feared she’d never turn to you, Hester,” said Glendarah, searching her lover’s reflection. “She’s like her mother. Independent and stubborn.”
“The Coven will go on and the house will flourish.”
***
Phoebe snapped awake, her mouth wide open and her lungs nearly depleted of oxygen. She saw only darkness when she opened her eyes and soon realized that she had rolled onto her stomach. She turned her head, finding muted sunlight spilling through the windows, but she couldn’t move. Another bad dream had taken over her thoughts in her brief slumber, and she was grateful that her memory of it faded quickly along with its horrors.
Phoebe worked to catch her breath and discovered that she wa
s lying on her arms and they had fallen asleep. There was no tingling, they just felt dead and useless. Slowly, feeling returned, starting with her upper arms and moving down. The tingling did happen and became intense. She flexed her fingers to regain feeling.
Phoebe sat up, realizing that stiffness had settled into her body. The mattress was soft, perhaps too soft. She stood and stretched. As she did, she heard something close to her.
Breathing. Slow and deep. She spun around, convinced that someone was standing right behind her. There was no one. She yanked down her hood and listened.
Her eyes went to the open windows and the swaying curtains.
“Wind,” she whispered and wiped her forehead. What is going on? Two nightmares in the same day and I’m freaking out.
She shook her head, annoyed. The stress she had built up over the past few months was certainly getting to her. The eviction and moving into Hester’s creepy house were the cherries on top.
Phoebe noticed that the skies had darkened, both due to time passing and the thickening, graying clouds. She closed the windows, opened the door, and listened for a moment before leaving.
The faintest of sounds could be heard at the stairwell. Voices, some footsteps, activity from the first floor. She walked up the hall to the large bathroom and went in. Everything here was just like the rest of the house. All the same, just older.
The toilet was just as icy cold as she remembered, and when finished, she washed her hands and looked at herself in the mirror. She thought she still looked tired, and her nap had pressed her hair in every direction.
Phoebe brushed it out and went downstairs. She encountered no one, but she heard voices from the direction of the kitchen, muffled by the door. She cautiously pushed it inward and went in.
Hester and a short, roundish woman looked up. They had been discussing something while preparing dinner.
“You’re late,” Hester said.
“Am I?” Phoebe returned. “Sorry, I don’t have a clock.” Looking to the one on the wall above the sink, she saw it was nearly 6:00.
Hester bypassed the excuse by way of introduction. “This is Alva. Alva, this is my grandniece, Phoebe.”
Alva smiled and gave a nod in greeting. Her hands were covered in flour and dough. She was a woman slightly beyond her middle years, with gray splattered throughout her black hair, which was trapped under a net for kitchen duty. Her eyes were dark and friendly.
“Hi,” Phoebe offered.
“Alva, don’t let Phoebe get away with anything just because she’s relation,” Hester said without humor. “She’s to help you in any way you see fit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alva said. She looked to Phoebe and gave a wink that Hester didn’t see.
Alva had Phoebe wash her hands and stir a pot of gravy for the chicken fried steak, and then wash the pans and utensils that had been used in the preparation for that night’s meal.
Hester remained to watch for a time, perhaps to make sure Phoebe would keep up her end of the bargain. Phoebe did as Alva directed and was beginning to enjoy herself for the first time that day when the kitchen door was flung open inward. The sound gave Phoebe and Alva both a start. Phoebe cursed under her breath, drawing an unpleasant gaze from Aunt Hester.
Into the kitchen walked a wild-haired, thin man with a couple of days’ scruff on his face. He was not as tall as Mr. Holgrave, but with his highly piled, curly brown hair, he was close. The man’s dark brown eyes darted from Alva to Hester, then to Phoebe, at which point he went still and looked her up and down slowly.
Oh, what in the ever-lovin’ hell is wrong with this creep? Unconsciously, she had drawn back her lips and scrunched her nose in disgust.
The creep had a large, angled beak of a nose and a prominent chin with a dimple. He wore what used to be a plain beige t-shirt with a pocket, but it was dotted with multiple shades of paint, as were his pale blue jeans. There were even a couple dabs of white and red on his sandal-clad feet. The sandals themselves had been through a lot worse, bearing more shades than even the shirt.
“Hell-oooo,” the paint-streaked weirdo greeted as he moved his hands to his back pockets.
“Mr. Onenspek,” Hester uttered and slapped the great wooden countertop of the island in the center of the kitchen. “You cannot burst into the kitchen like that, especially so close to suppertime.”
Onenspek blinked, and his smarmy smile slipped away as he looked to Hester. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.”
“And please tell me that you will clean up and change before seven,” Hester added.
Onenspek nodded madly, long after the lady of the house had finished speaking. He stammered but formed no words.
Hester came closer to the nervous, disheveled, and hungry-looking man. Stopping within a few inches of him, the two locked eyes. Hester reached to a cabinet door on her right and opened it. She then lifted the lid on a cookie tin and picked one out.
Onenspek passed the tip of his tongue over his lips, and his eyes went wide. He brought his hands up and rubbed his fingers over his thumbs in anticipation.
What the fuck? Phoebe wondered. She looked at Alva, who had turned her back and busied herself at the stove.
Then, to top off the odd scene, Hester smiled while looking down her nose at him. Her lips curled upward at an angle that was usually reserved for people that were happy.
Hester smiling? Now I’ve seen flippin’ everything.
The cookie was a dark brown gingerbread man with white and red frosting. Hester held it up for Onenspek, whose eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Her claw-like nails alone gripped the morsel. The paint-spattered man reached for it.
Hester moved it away. “Is it nearly done?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, almost,” he agreed quickly, nodding.
“When?”
“Uh, day after tomorrow.”
Hester seemed to consider his answer. She looked at the gingerbread man, as did he. “Promise. Day after tomorrow.”
Onenspek’s head went up and down as if hinged and motorized. “Yup. Promise. No problem. Absolutely no problem.”
Hester’s smile turned almost gleeful, a sight that made Phoebe’s chin drop. Then, her great-aunt gave the cookie to Onenspek, which he gratefully accepted and immediately bit into. His eyes closed in delightful bliss, and he uttered a small groan of satisfaction.
“Very well,” Hester granted, then turned to look at Phoebe. The smile disappeared only slightly faster than the cookie. “Ned Onenspek, this is my grandniece, Phoebe Pyncheon,” she said, indicating Phoebe with her left hand.
Ned, with crumbs still sticking to his pink lips, reached out with both hands, and before Phoebe thought it over, she struck out her own right hand. Ned grasped it tightly and pumped it up and down like a man dying of thirst would to a water pump.
“Aaaahhh, aahhh, okay. Hi. Yes, okay,” Phoebe blurted as her arm was yanked up and down.
“Nice to meet you,” Onenspek said as he continued shaking it. “Ned Onenspek,” he repeated and searched her face for a reaction.
Mercifully, his handshake stopped, though her hand remained a hostage in his grip. “Right. That’s what she said, too,” Phoebe said and jerked her head in her great-aunt’s direction.
“That’s Ned Onenspek the artist,” Ned added.
“That explains the paint,” Phoebe said.
Alva, without turning from the stove, giggled again.
Phoebe looked to her great-aunt for help and shrugged. There was none to be found. The man was simply never going to let go, Phoebe felt certain.
“Ned is our resident artist,” Hester explained. “He’s responsible for the paintings in the house.”
“Ah,” Phoebe allowed. Her hand was starting to hurt.
“No doubt you’ve seen them,” Hester went on.
“Oh, they’re absolutely unforgettable,”
Phoebe promised.
Onenspek smiled widely. He let her hand go and said, “Grazie, bella!” Then, with a flourish and a dramatic nod to Hester, he gave the kitchen door a shove and followed it out of the room. The spring-hinged door returned and flitted back and forth until it settled down.
Hester turned to Phoebe and said sincerely, “A very talented man.”
“Uh-huh,” Phoebe replied and wiped her hand with a towel.
“In case you weren’t sure, Phoebe, you are welcome to join us in the dining room at seven. There are other guests that I’m sure would love to get to know you.”
Phoebe agreed and thanked her great-aunt, who then left the kitchen. Phoebe stared at the swinging door a long moment after Hester left and shook her head.
“That Ned is a wack-a-doo,” Alva said.
Phoebe laughed, but when she looked over at Alva, her big eyes were set on Phoebe’s face. She was making light of the man but warning the youngest Pyncheon woman at the same time.
“Just be careful around him,” Alva said with sincerity.
“I will.”
Alva smiled. “Help me get the tray out of the oven, huh?”
“Sure thing,” Phoebe said and went to her aid.
4
Hester and Her Boarders
Phoebe stuck to Alva’s side, watching the experienced cook and lending her hands with whatever the woman needed. Then it became time to serve, which meant that Phoebe had to head up to the third floor to accept the covered dishes from the dumbwaiter.
She remembered playing with the dumbwaiter as a child, placing toys or dolls upon it and sending it down and bringing it up. To a child, it was an extraordinary device, with no discoverable bottom.
Phoebe arrived upstairs and found no one in the dining room. The double sliding doors were already open, and the table had been set for six, most likely by Hester herself.
Phoebe went to the dumbwaiter and slid the doors open. There was the chicken fried steak within a domed, silver tray. It was hot, and steam seeped into the air. Carefully, she removed it and placed it onto the center of the table. Then, she returned to the dumbwaiter and sent the car down, all the while trying to recall the day she’d given her doll a ride in it. She’d sent her doll down, down, past where it could not even be found at the portal in the basement.
