666 Gable Way

by Dani Lamia

  The night was chilly, so she zipped the sweater and put up her hood. With thoughts of Alice rattling around, Phoebe stepped off the porch. Her exhalations drew chutes of steam into the air, lit by the waning moon and the stars. The neon sign in the parlor window was off, so it couldn’t spoil her eyes’ adjustment to the change. She wondered if the caged raven, kept in the parlor at night, would squawk at her.

  Her restless legs carried her in the direction of the old carriage house. Once there, she gave the big door a tug. It opened and she went inside. The lights had been installed more recently than those inside the house, so she flipped the switch up, waking the neon tubes above.

  The Cadillac shone in the white glow, its deep shade of red still brilliant in places, despite the age and dust. She walked along its considerable length. For a two-door, it was giant, being longer and wider than her Caprice four-door. Despite the mixed memories of her childhood at the House of the Seven Gables, the Coupe De Ville was a magnificent beast. The tinted windows and the black vinyl top completed the elegant design. Phoebe knew very little of cars, but the Cadillac just made her want to drive.

  The thought of her stealing the car keys and taking it for a ride made Phoebe giggle, knowing how incensed her great-aunt Hester would become.

  Phoebe sauntered to the back of the car, taking in the view of the trunk and bumper. In the corner of her eye, she saw the handles of yard tools leaning against the far wall, inside what used to be a horse stall.

  She moved closer and saw shovels, a pickaxe, a wood axe, and a collection of snow shovels.

  The image of Alice came to her again. Impulsively, Phoebe grabbed two of the tools from the wall and stormed back to the house.

  She closed the inner front door softly, aware that the screen door’s screeching springs had made too much noise already. Phoebe stood for a moment, listening to the house.

  The familiar breezy sound came to her ears yet again. Shortly after that, the faraway thumping could be heard. Both sounds were so soft that Phoebe was half-convinced she was simply insane.

  I don’t believe in haunted houses! she reminded herself and purposely stepped to the basement door. She pulled it open and raised her hand to press the button for the lights, but they were already on. Must have left them on.

  She stepped down and turned to close the door, careful to not knock the tools against the wall or railing. With her eyes cast to the far wall, working out that she had to drag the table away from the washing machine, she didn’t catch movement from her left.

  As Phoebe stepped onto the cement, a dark figure lunged at her from the shady corner. A glinting of metal revealed a knife held waist high and being drawn back.

  Phoebe screamed and jumped to her right, dropping the pickaxe to the floor with an ear-shattering clatter. With her weight on her right foot, she swung the remaining tool in a large sweeping arch, dropping back from her attacker.

  The shovel missed, clanging like a broadsword against the wooden railing of the staircase.

  “Phoebe!” the knife-wielder shouted. It was Holgrave, standing with mad eyes staring at her, the knife pointed to the ceiling, gripped in his gloved hand.

  Phoebe’s mind broke at the apparent betrayal. She thrust the shovel at him, forcing loose his grip on his weapon, which tumbled to the floor. He caught the shovel in both hands to save his face, but having flinched, he missed her sprint up the stairs.

  Holgrave dropped the shovel and pursued her.

  Phoebe burst through the front doors and fled for her car. From the parlor, the raven responded to the ruckus with a short flurry of squawks. Driven from fear, Phoebe concentrated on making tracks, legs and arms pumping along at a pace she didn’t think was possible.

  Her sneakers slid along the loose dirt when she tried to stop, and she collided with her car door, the rebound almost sending her to the ground. She reached for her keys, yanked them free from her front pocket, and began fishing for the keyhole. She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she could feel for it.

  “Phoebe,” Holgrave called from somewhere behind, trying to ride the balance between shouting and whispering.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God,” she mumbled frantically. Finally, the key went into the lock and she turned it. Yanking the door out of her way, she got in and slammed it behind her just as fleeting footsteps were catching up to her. She smacked the lock button down.

  “Phoebe, wait,” Holgrave said, slapping the glass of her driver’s door.

  “Get away from me!” she yelled as she sent the ignition key into the slot.

  “Phoebe, I didn’t know it was you,” he said through the glass. “Honest, please wait. I thought it was one of them.”

  Phoebe turned the key. The starter was in a good mood. The engine caught. She eyed Holgrave as her foot feathered the pedal to achieve idle. She reached for the gearshift.

  “Wait, please,” he pleaded with his hands up, showing that he had dropped the knife. “I’m so sorry. I thought they’d caught me.” He was trying hard to keep his voice down. He looked back at the house, excitement in his face.

  Phoebe realized at that moment that no matter how much she suppressed her psychic ability, it never failed to read people, at least to give her warning that they were near, or hints to their emotional state. But Alec Holgrave was different and had been since they’d met in the living room of the House of the Seven Gables. She couldn’t read him at all, which is why he kept startling her by his sudden presence.

  Why? she asked as she searched his face. Why can’t I read you, weirdo?

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Holgrave continued. “The knife’s the only thing I have. I left it in the basement. Please don’t be frightened of me.”

  “Why the fuck were you in the basement?” she shouted through the glass.

  Holgrave lowered his hands and appeared to clear his throat. “It takes a bit of explaining.”

  “No shit, asshole!”

  “All I can do is apologize,” he replied. Dejected, he stepped back, assuming that she intended to drive off.

  Phoebe put her foot on the brake and the transmission into reverse. Taking this as proof of her intent, Holgrave turned back to the house and began walking. Phoebe sighed and watched him a moment. He stopped by the house to look over his shoulder, but in the darkness, his face was hidden.

  Fine, stupid psychic bullshit, don’t help me, she thought. Leave me to my own devices then. She slapped the gear lever up to park and shut off the car. Slowly, with her eyes on the still figure of Holgrave, she left the relative safety of her car and shut the door behind her.

  Holgrave took a sidestep away from the house and into the moonlight, knowing that she would be more comfortable if she could see him, if only slightly better.

  “Let me see your hands,” she called to him, pointing. She was walking, but watching, and had left her car unlocked just in case.

  Holgrave held them up. There was nothing in them. For the first time, she gave notice to what he was wearing: jeans and a denim shirt with the top few buttons undone. There was white dust on both and sweat stains at his pits.

  Warily, she approached with her hands free to defend herself if need be. She had done all right with Onenspek, but Holgrave was certainly stronger.

  The two of them stared at one another for a long moment.

  “May I put my hands down, now?” Holgrave asked gently.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “Why were you down there, and why’re you all filthy?”

  “As I said, it will take some explaining,” Holgrave said and lowered his hands to his sides.

  “So, explain.”

  Holgrave glanced at the house. “I’d rather do that in a few hours.”

  “Oh, really?” she said with deep doubt. She eyed her route to the Chevy.

  “We may have awakened someone,” he added quickly. “I’d hate to disturb their sleep furth
er.” He watched her face carefully and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Phoebe took the hint. They were standing near the house, not far from the open windows of the parlor. Other windows may very well have been open, and voices carry far in the silence of a forest clearing. She kept her eyes on Holgrave, intent on not making the first move.

  “I promise you. Everything will be explained,” he whispered. “At the moment, I need to return to the cellar to—wait a bloody minute.” He frowned and lifted his chin, regarding her with a sideways stare. “What exactly were you doing down there?”

  “Me?”

  “Indeed. You.”

  “I don’t need to answer that,” Phoebe said indignantly. “You were the one lunging at me with a knife.”

  “I didn’t lunge,” he defended. “You threw a shovel at me.” Holgrave placed his hands on his hips and leaned forward. “And you had a pickaxe, which, fortunately for me, you let slip.”

  “So?”

  “So? So?” Holgrave interrogated, sounding offended. His mouth dropped agape, and he waited for an answer.

  “So it seems we both have some explaining to do,” Phoebe said finally.

  “Right,” he said, making his way to the house. “I shall straighten out our little mess and head to bed. I recommend you do the same.”

  Phoebe followed, closing the inner door behind them. She watched as Holgrave walked up the hall to the basement door, which had been left wide open enough to block the hallway.

  He turned before going down. “Be silent on your return to bed. I shall talk to you in a few hours.” He hesitated, then added, “Good night.”

  “Pfft!” returned Phoebe as the basement door closed. “Good night, my ass.”

  16

  Excursion

  Phoebe returned to bed. With the faint lightening of the sky outside her bedroom windows, she knew she would want to be asleep long after dawn. She pulled the shades and prepared to sleep in. She also took the precaution of locking the bedroom door, though this time she didn’t bother with throwing the key. She kept it on the side table instead.

  Some hours later, her great-aunt Hester knocked and knocked loudly.

  “What?” Phoebe croaked.

  “Why is this door locked?” Hester demanded.

  “‘Cause I felt like it!”

  “Young lady, it’s nearly half past ten, and you have chores to do!”

  Shit, that’s later than I thought. “All right. Getting up.”

  “You’d better,” Hester warned.

  “Bite me,” Phoebe mumbled and tossed the cover off her still-clothed body.

  Rising, she realized that for the first time in days, she felt like she’d had real sleep. She stretched, picked out her clothes, and went to the bathroom to shower, only then to remember in a flash what had transpired the night before.

  Phoebe showered and took time to put on only sparse makeup, as the remnants of the smoky eye effect had startled her when she’d caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror, and dressed in a simple jeans and t-shirt outfit with her slip-on sneakers. She had a feeling the day would be long, and comfort was required. She took her hoodie and car keys with her, having decided an errand into town was likely.

  Phoebe went to the kitchen, poured herself the last of the coffee in the pot, microwaved it, and walked through to the front of the house. She could hear Glendarah’s voice through the parlor door, and a strange red car was parked in front of the house. The psychic readings had started early that day.

  She stepped out onto the porch to enjoy the cool air. The loud greeting from the shiny black-feathered raven didn’t startle her. She was looking his direction when she came through the door, expecting it to announce her arrival.

  The coffee wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t bad. She sipped it and stepped off the porch. Looking to the carriage house, she could see from the partially opened door that the Coupe De Ville was gone. At the very least, one of the three witches, most likely Hester, was out.

  Phoebe walked past the parlor, intentionally ignoring any words coming through the open window. The ‘Psychic’ sign was lit, and she knew that she could be seen through the sheer white curtains. She didn’t care. She wasn’t hiding anything. Around the corner, she saw her car and the blue Mercedes.

  I wonder where Alec is this morning.

  She returned to the kitchen and washed the morning dishes. With still no sign of Holgrave, she decided to call Detective Backstrom for an update on the allegedly drug-laced gingerbread man caper.

  She punched Backstrom’s number into the wall phone’s keypad and waited. After a few rings, the automated voicemail recording greeted her in Backstrom’s voice. She left a message and hung up the phone.

  Phoebe considered the possibility that the detective was on a case, away from his desk. She tried the cellphone number listed. It, too, went to voicemail, only this was a direct route, no ringing. The phone was either off or beyond cell coverage.

  Strange time to not have your phone on if you’re a detective.

  Phoebe went to the basement, both to check for Mr. Holgrave, and to retrieve a load of laundry from the dryer. Holgrave wasn’t there, and neither were the pick and shovel she had abandoned. She assumed Holgrave had moved them.

  She took the fresh linens to the third-floor closet, then went about her rounds, sending the soiled laundry down the chute and making everyone’s beds. It was nearly noon by the time she was done, and she hadn’t encountered a soul, which was refreshing.

  Phoebe returned to the kitchen and tried her phone calls again with the same results. It had been two days, more than enough time to test a lousy cookie, in her admittedly uninformed opinion of the efficiency of police crime labs.

  Concerned and anxious, Phoebe decided to head downtown herself. A conversation with Holgrave could happen whenever it happened.

  ***

  Phoebe stepped through the screen door, flipped off the noisy caged raven that had announced her exit, and strode to her Caprice.

  She shut the car door and placed the key in the cylinder. Turning it, the starter whined. The engine didn’t get the clue it was supposed to start.

  Phoebe spewed a short but well-practiced string of profanity and gave the steering wheel several poundings with the heel of her hand. She tried several more times, but the car refused to cooperate.

  Phoebe flipped her hood over her eyes and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Sometimes, the finicky starter would need to be waited out.

  A few moments later, she sat back and looked through the windshield in thought. Her eyes cast to her left, and that’s when she noticed Holgrave watching her. He was leaning on the pretty blue Mercedes, all but confirming the sedan belonged to him. He smiled and waved. She removed her key and got out of the car.

  “I think you could use some time away from this house,” said Holgrave.

  “That’s kinda what I was out here trying to accomplish, genius.” She smiled, despite her sarcastic tone.

  Holgrave chuckled. He turned, opened the car door, and stood to the side.

  Screw it, let’s go. She accepted the invitation and folded herself into the vehicle.

  Holgrave shut the door after her and came around to the driver’s side. He got in and turned to her, regarding her closely. “We have some things to discuss, but it appears you have something on your mind already.”

  “I tried calling the detective about the gingerbread dude,” she huffed and folded her arms. “I can’t get him on the phone.”

  “Interesting,” Holgrave said gently. “Time for an unannounced visitation?”

  “That was my intent,” she said and looked to her old rusted, white heap. “But my car has decided to take the day.”

  Holgrave grinned and started the Mercedes. The engine immediately settled to a refined thrum. “Right. Off we go.” He
backed onto Gable Way and turned left onto the paved road. Without much prodding, the Mercedes propelled itself to a healthy rumbling tune, pressing them into the seats.

  “This thing’s quick,” she commented. “How fast does it go?”

  “I imagine quite a bit faster than I shall ever become comfortable with.”

  Holgrave drove into downtown White Lake, keeping the car reined in down the side streets. They rode together in silence for a time, cruising aimlessly.

  Phoebe thought it felt good to be out, away from the House of the Seven Gables. As she watched the world go by, her heart lightened. Even gentle, romantic thoughts of Dzolali seemed tainted, though her love remained. At least Phoebe thought it did.

  Holgrave made a left turn down the main street and parked in front of the police station. He shut off the motor and said, “Would you mind company?”

  “I would not,” she answered and opened the door.

  “Are you going to register a complaint with the police about Mr. Onenspek?”

  Phoebe sighed and stared at the station’s front doors. “I have a feeling he’s suffered enough.”

  He opened his door. “As you wish. Right, then. Let’s go see this Detective Backstrom.”

  They walked into the station and Phoebe strode up to the reception desk as she had the other day. She was greeted by a different officer at the desk.

  “Can I help you two?” asked the sergeant. The man was broad shouldered, shaved bald, and had intensely deep brown eyes that matched the color of his skin.

  “Yes, I was here the day before yesterday talking to Detective Backstrom,” Phoebe began.

  “Oh, yeah?” the sergeant said curiously. He eyed them both intently.

  “Um, yes,” she said. “I brought in something for the forensics lab to test. I suspected that the item was laced with a drug.”

  The sergeant just watched her as she spoke, gave her a thoughtful frown, and said, “You say this was the day before yesterday.”