by Matt Ruff
“No, I’m afraid not.” The property listing said the Winthrop House was owned by Penumbra Real Estate, which Letitia assumed was run by Mr. Archibald’s investor friend—or perhaps by Mr. Archibald himself. All communication with Penumbra was to go through him. “I’ll convey your concern.”
“Be sure you do.” Letitia sniffed. “The kind of tenants we’re hoping to rent to—families, churchgoing folk—they’re not going to like this. At all.” Reflecting as she said it that South Side Negroes would put up with a lot worse than pagan statuary to get a roof over their heads. But they shouldn’t have to put up with it, she thought—and for sure she didn’t want to look at Hecate’s moon every day.
She shifted her attention to a pair of dark doorways, one up on the gallery, one directly beneath it, both screened by iron accordion gates. “That’s the elevator?”
“Yes,” Mr. Archibald said. “The builder of the house, Hiram Winthrop, had it installed for his wife. She’d had polio,” he explained.
“You hear that, Ruby?” Letitia said. “Polio. Like Marvin.”
“Marvin climbs stairs just fine,” Ruby replied.
“Well, not everyone does. That could be a selling point, for tenants.” Old people, she thought. Quiet. Easy to get along with. Paid their rent on time.
“The elevator does need to be repaired,” Mr. Archibald noted, the delicacy with which he said this making it plain whose responsibility that would be.
Ruby snorted. “Of course it does. What else is wrong with the house?”
“The wiring needs to be looked at. The power is off right now, but the last occupant reported that fuses were blowing constantly. Also—”
“No,” Ruby said, “what’s wrong with it?” She fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare: Momma, peering up from the depths. “A house this size, with a price this low, and you’re willing to let us have it? That’s about more than a fuse box. What aren’t you telling us?”
Mr. Archibald hesitated. It was plain from his expression that he’d been waiting for this question and was even relieved that the subject had been broached; yet still he wasn’t sure how to answer.
Letitia saved him the trouble: “It’s haunted.”
“What?” said Ruby.
“It’s a haunted house. What else could it be?” She looked at Mr. Archibald, who confirmed her guess by not saying no. “So who’s the ghost? Mrs. Winthrop? She ride her wheelchair up and down the halls at night?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Mr. Archibald said. “I—”
“Wait a minute,” said Ruby. “This is true?”
“All I’ve heard are stories.” Mr. Archibald raised a hand, Scout’s honor. “I haven’t experienced any phenomena myself, nor do I expect to. But it’s true that some prior occupants have reported . . . incidents. Bumps in the night. And the last several attempts to sell the house have all ended with the buyers backing out.”
“And when were you planning on mentioning this, exactly?”
“Miss Dandridge, please. I wasn’t trying to withhold information from you. But I consider myself a rational man. I don’t believe in—”
“It’s OK,” Letitia said. “We’re not afraid of dead people.”
“Letitia!”
“One thing, though—now that the cat’s out of the bag, you think the seller might come down on the price even more?”
“Letitia!”
“Ruby!” Matching her tone for tone. “It’s got an elevator!”
The first to arrive for the moving-in-day party was George’s wife, Hippolyta. She drove up in her Buick Roadmaster, with Horace beside her and a secondhand bedstead tied to the car’s roof.
The elevator wasn’t working yet, so they wrestled the bedstead up the stairs—Letitia and Horace holding one end, six-foot Hippolyta the other—and into the room Letitia had chosen for herself, where a box spring, mattress, and sheets were already waiting. After making up the bed, Letitia stepped back and took a deep breath, half-expecting to wake and find herself under the covers at Ruby’s old place. But the dream house stayed solid around her, so she took another breath and laughed, and turned to Hippolyta. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the tour.”
They came out on the gallery and caught Horace downstairs, peeking under Hecate’s sheet. “Careful!” Letitia warned, making Horace jump. “You’ll go blind!” She laughed again. “Come on back up, there’s something you and your mom will both like.”
She led them to a room in the southwest corner of the second floor. With its built-in bookcase, it had probably been intended as a study, and Letitia had plans to turn it into a rentable bedroom. But at the moment it housed an oversized rich man’s toy.
Mr. Archibald had called the device an orrery: a model solar system, though the system it modeled wasn’t Sol’s, but rather that of a double star. The twin suns were gold and silver spheres mounted on a central pivot. Ranged around them on brass arms of varying length were eleven planets, some with satellites of their own, and a comet carved from a hunk of milky quartz. All of this was supported by a squat metal table whose windowed top offered glimpses of complex gearwork.
“Whoah,” said Horace. Hippolyta stayed silent, but her eyes were as wide as her son’s as she leaned in to examine one of the larger planets, a glass ball filled with fluid that formed bands and swirls like the atmosphere of Jupiter.
“Told you you’d like it. And it moves, too. Horace, duck down and flip that little lever on the base, there.” Eagerly he did as she asked. The orrery came to life, suns dancing around on their pivot, brass arms turning. The exposed gearwork emitted a noisy tick-tick-clack, but the motion of the planets was smooth, and if you squinted the right way you could make the arms disappear so that they seemed to float free.
Letitia looked sideways at Hippolyta, who in that moment resembled the world’s tallest child on Christmas morning. “It’s yours if you want it.”
“Mom!” Horace said. “Yes!”
“Oh, no . . .” Hippolyta’s face saying If only.
“I can’t sell it to an antique store,” Letitia explained, “because it’s not mine to sell. But my contract doesn’t say anything about loans. And I know you’d appreciate it.”
“Mom . . .”
“Where would we put it, though?”
“My room!” cried Horace.
“Uh-huh. And after we moved out your bed to make room for it, where would you sleep?”
“On the floor!” He demonstrated, lying faceup on the hardwood while the planets wheeled above him.
“You’re welcome to the pictures, too,” Letitia said. The wall opposite the bookcase was decorated with heavy glass photographic plates showing clusters of stars.
Hippolyta went to take a closer look. “It’s funny, I don’t recognize any of these constellations,” she said after a moment. She peered curiously at an image of a spiral galaxy that had been labeled THE DROWNING OCTOPUS. “Do you know where these were taken?” Letitia shook her head.
Horace, on his feet again, opened a narrow door beside the bookcase. “What’s in here?”
“Stairs to the roof,” Letitia told him. “Don’t go up.” To Hippolyta, she said: “I’m serious about giving this thing to you. You could put it on your own roof, maybe.”
“That’d be a feat, getting it up to our roof,” Hippolyta said laughing. “You’d have to take it apart just to get it out of this room.”
“I could take it apart!” Horace volunteered. “I could put it back together for you too! We can—”
The hall door banged shut. Horace jumped and his mother started as well. Only Letitia kept calm, outwardly at least, not even batting an eye.
“Drafty old house,” she said.
More guests arrived. Some brought furniture, others food and drink for the party. Tree Hawkins, the bouncer from Denmark Vesey’s, brought himself and three friends as large as he was. They came in a rust-bucket Cadillac with a broken muffler, their arrival noted by everyone within earshot, the plan being they’d sn
eak out the back at the end of the night and leave the car behind as a caution to the neighbors: Make trouble and find yourself tangling with giants.
By nightfall there were upwards of fifty people in the house—more warm bodies than the Winthrop House had known in years, maybe ever. Letitia, checking on the buffet that had been set up in the dining room, stopped to chat with Atticus’s father, whose housewarming gift had been a shotgun and a box of shells.
“Three,” Montrose said, nodding at the family portrait above the dining room fireplace: Hiram Winthrop, his wife, and a boy about Horace’s age. “All this space, for three people.”
“Two, actually,” Letitia said. “I did some homework. Turns out Mrs. Winthrop died, right before they were supposed to move in. So it was just him and the boy. And the servants, of course.” The servants’ quarters were in the basement, underneath the kitchen and the laundry room.
“You know how he made his money?”
“The family fortune came from a string of textile mills back east. But I gather old Hiram, here, was more about spending it than making it.”
“Textile mills.” Montrose grunted. “Cotton money.”
“Yeah, it’s funny how things come back around, isn’t it?”
In the atrium, Tree and the other bouncers had brought out instruments, and some of the guests were dancing—or trying to. The band kept going off tempo, eliciting mostly good-natured groans from the crowd.
Letitia went up to Charlie Boyd, who was sitting on the edge of the fountain. Hecate’s sheet was now swaddled around her like a toga, and someone had stuck a Howard University Bison pennant on one of her torches. “What’s wrong with Tree?” Letitia asked. “They’re usually better than this.”
Charlie shrugged. “You ask me, this isn’t their first party of the day. But Tree claims it’s bad vibrations.”
“Vibrations?”
“Through the floor.” Charlie mimed banging a broomstick on the ceiling. “You don’t have somebody living downstairs already, do you?”
“Not yet. But there’s some nice bunk beds down there, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks, I already live in a basement. You want to rent me one of those upstairs bedrooms, though . . .”
“We’ll talk,” Letitia promised. “You seen Atticus around?”
“He said something about going up to the roof.”
The wall switch in the orrery room clicked uselessly, but by the light from the hall Letitia could see the roof door standing open. She stepped carefully around the orrery, glimpsing as she did so something small and many-legged swimming in the fluid of the model gas giant. A trick of the shadows, that vanished when she looked straight at it.
On the roof, the chimneys were arranged like standing stones around the tent of the skylight. Atticus was over on the far side, sitting in the chair with his back to her. Letitia was about to call his name when she was seized by sudden doubt, another trick of perception making it seem as though the figure in the chair had a head of straight, fine hair combed back above a pale neck.
Then Atticus turned around smiling.
“Hey,” he said. “I tell you you look nice tonight?”
She did a perfunctory twirl beside the skylight, the act reminding her where she’d gotten this particular dress. Reminding him too: His smile faltered.
She came and stood next to him. Across the street, the neighbors were having their own party. Worse music, worse drinking, Letitia thought, recalling an observation her father had once made about how white people celebrated.
“They’ve been pretty well behaved,” Atticus volunteered. “Some boys were out on the lawn before, trying to blow up Tree’s Cadillac with their eyeballs, but they lost heart and went back inside. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble tonight. Tomorrow . . .” He shrugged.
“I’m not worried,” Letitia said automatically.
“Ruby is. Can’t say I blame her, either.”
“Ruby said something to you? When, just now?”
“I ran into her on the street a few days ago. Look, Letitia, I know it’s not my business—”
“You got that right,” she said. “And if you’re so concerned about us, how come Ruby has to run into you? What’s it been, three months now since we got back? In all that time, how often have you called or come by to see how I am?”
“I know,” he said, nodding. “I know, and I’m sorry. But after what happened, I thought it might be safer for you if I kept my distance. In case it’s not over.”
“Yeah, I figured. But you could have done me the courtesy of asking if I wanted to be kept safe that way. Haven’t I earned that much?”
Atticus didn’t have an answer for that. He looked off into the night, pretending to be interested in the navigation lights of a passing airplane.
After a moment Letitia said: “I heard you’re working for George now.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Atticus. “I’ve been doing odd jobs for him, research for the Guide mostly. He sends me out on scouting trips.”
“Like Hippolyta?”
“Aunt Hippolyta chooses her own destinations. I get a list, and George covers my gas and expenses.”
“Sounds like work to me.”
“Pop calls it make-work. He’s been on me to stop fooling around and use my G.I. benefit to go to college. He’s not wrong,” Atticus said. “But I don’t know . . . Something’s not settled yet.”
“Well, if you’re looking for more make-work,” Letitia said, “I could use a hand around here. You know anything about fixing elevators?”
“That sounds like a job for Pop. You should ask him.”
“I’m asking you. I can’t pay you a salary, but I can give you free room and board when you’re not out on the road for George. Let you get a little distance from your father, if you want it.”
Atticus thought about it. “So I’d be your handyman on call? And someone to help keep the neighbors at bay, maybe?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Letitia acknowledged. “Maybe you could wear your uniform now and then, let them know I’ve got a soldier living here.”
“All right.” He nodded. “Only thing, I’m headed to Colorado tomorrow, to check out this new motel chain and talk to some gas station owners about carrying the Guide. I should be back by Friday, though. You and Ruby be OK alone till then?”
“Of course we will. And we won’t be alone.” Letitia smiled. “We got the Holy Spirit looking out for us.”
Momma was coming to see the house. The visit had slipped Letitia’s mind somehow, until she woke with a start late Monday morning, realizing she had only moments to get ready.
She dashed out to the gallery and discovered to her dismay that she’d also forgotten to clean up after Saturday night’s party: The atrium’s black and white tile was buried beneath mounds of colored confetti, and there were paper streamers everywhere. And when she looked into the dining room (having descended to the ground floor without taking a step) she saw more mess: plates and cups spilling off the table, and stains on the walls that would have to be scrubbed.
And Hecate! The goddess was naked again, but grown even more obscene, her breasts bigger, her behind bigger too, the corner of her mouth turned up in a cruel smirk as if anticipating Momma’s reaction. Letitia pressed a hand to her own mouth, horrified: I’m going to get the belt for sure!
She turned, meaning to run back to the kitchen, find a push broom, sweep everything up—confetti, tableware, Hecate, all of it—but the goddess clapped a heavy bronze hand on her shoulder and held her fast. Outside, a taxi door slammed, and Letitia heard Momma telling the driver to be careful with her suitcase.
Light flared beneath the gallery. The elevator was rising out of the basement, its gleaming white interior bright as a beacon. Hiram Winthrop rode inside, glaring at Letitia out of the glass helmet of the spacesuit he was wearing. Then Letitia blinked and Winthrop’s head was replaced by a swirling darkness in which many-legged creatures swam.
As the el
evator continued to ascend, Hecate tightened her grip, crushing Letitia’s shoulder. Momma pounded at the front door. “Letitia!” she called. “I know you’re in there! Le—”
“—titia.”
She sat up in her bed, in the dark, her sister’s hand on her shoulder. “What?” she said. “What?”
“There’s someone in the house,” Ruby whispered.
Letitia listened, hearing nothing at first, then detecting a faint rhythmic sound in the distance. “What is that?” Without waiting for an answer, she shrugged off Ruby’s hand and swung her legs out of the bed, the shock of the cold floor against her bare feet bringing her fully awake. She retrieved the shotgun from under the bed, broke it open, ran her thumb over the brass casings of the shells already loaded in the barrels, snapped it shut again, and went out onto the gallery.
The moon was shining through the skylight, illuminating the atrium floor—the spotlessly clean floor, Letitia noted—and Hecate, the goddess in her element. Turning right, Letitia saw that, as in her dream, the elevator was now on the second floor, the gate standing open. “That’s what woke me up,” Ruby told her. “I heard it moving.”
Letitia stuck her head into the empty elevator car, smelling musty wood and leather. She paused, listening again. The rhythmic sound was louder now: Tick-tick-clack, tick-tick-clack.
The door to the orrery room stood ajar, letting a wedge of warm electric light into the hall. Letitia counted to three, invoked the Savior’s name, and stepped into the doorway. Tick-tick-clack, tick-tick-clack: The stars and planets pivoted and whirled, and Letitia did too, sweeping the gun from side to side, corner to corner. But the room was, visibly at least, unoccupied.
“What is it, Letitia?” Ruby said from ten paces back in the hallway.
“Nothing,” said Letitia. She stepped back, lowering the gun, and the door slammed in her face, making Ruby shriek. The elevator was next, the gate crashing shut, and then, one after the other, what sounded like every other door in the house: Crash, crash, crash, crash.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Ruby said, her panic pushing Letitia the other way, from fear towards anger.
