Harrow: Three Novels (Nightmare House, Mischief, The Infinite)

by Douglas Clegg

  “Det, what’s up?”

  “We caught him.”

  “Already? Wow. That was fast.”

  “It was easy. But, Cali,” Det said, his voice a bit nervous, “this will sound crazy.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “He told me that someone he calls Scotty left him. He said Scotty was the reason he killed Gloria. It was a ritual of some sort. She had paid him to kill her. She thought she was possessed by this lad. Her son.”

  “Oh,” Cali said. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to imagine the boy she had felt had been there—the presence within Gloria Franco’s apartment. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “Sorry. Middle of something?”

  “Sort of,” she said.

  “Okay. But you were right, babe. You knew—there was a kid, and Gloria apparently killed the kid, and then felt as if the kid’s spirit wouldn’t leave her. And this guy was haunted, too. Sounds nuts, but knowing your take on all this, well, you were dead on.”

  “Yeah. Well. I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Cali said. “‘Bye.”

  “I miss you,” Det said, but she had just shut off the cell phone.

  She shut the phone and put it in her lap.

  “Bad news?” Jack asked.

  “Not really. Work stuff, I guess,” she said, pushing the thought out of her mind. The thought that had bothered her like a mosquito would bother her, buzzing around her head.

  Like a gnat.

  Like a fly.

  Poor old lady she swallowed a fly.

  11

  “I should’ve emphasized this, but I don’t really want cell phones here,” Jack said.

  “You have your computers,” she said, and then laughed a little. “I sound like a third-grader.”

  “And the reason I don’t want cell phones is not because of some electromagnetic goof. It’s simply because I’d like each of you”—and here Jack glanced at Frost as well—“to concentrate on Harrow and what’s here. I don’t want outside influences on your time here. One thing that the Foundation is paying for is your focus. On the other hand, you’re not required to do anything I ask. But I think you’ll find your time is better spent here without contact with the world beyond these walls.”

  “Spooky,” Frost said cheerily.

  “No prob,” Cali said. “I’ll lock it up in my car in the morning. I don’t really want calls anyway.”

  “Great.”

  “Now, can we get some kind of tour?” Cali asked, rising from the chair.

  12

  “God,” Chet said, laughing. “It’s huge.”

  He stood in the doorway of the bedroom and glanced at the antique furniture. The bed was a medium-sized one, but it seemed ancient.

  “That’s a sixteenth-century-style bed, but it’s a reproduction done in the early twentieth century,” Mira said. “This is supposed to have been the bedroom that Esteban Gravesend slept in, but I think it was just yet another little classroom for the school a year ago. That writing desk is Chippendale.” She pointed to what looked to Chet like a dresser with an extra slat of wood jutting out from it. “And that,” Mira said, pointing to the large mirror with curved edges and a plain iron frame, “is original to Harrow. I don’t know much about the rest of it, but I would guess there’s even a chamber pot in here somewhere.”

  “Wow.” Chet shook his head. “Ivy Martin is something.”

  “She’s really over the top,” Mira said. She stood behind him, and Chet wanted to turn and ask her not to stand so close—it made him slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to offend her. She was just a lad, after all—a few years younger than he was, but a world away from him. He detected her crush right away. He always did when girls had crushes on him—which they had—but he’d done his best to discourage them. Now, Mira, whom he had just met, had already given off signals of her interest, and he’d played dumb, hoping it would go away.

  “She must have a fortune,” Chet said, stepping into the bedroom. He turned to face her.

  “I think she’s throwing it away on this house,” Mira said. She leaned into the door frame and watched him. She pointed to a writing desk near the long window, covered with a large forest-green curtain. “Dad says that desk cost at least six thousand. At least. She found some of the photos of the house from the 1920s. She wants the rooms to look the same. And that chair”—she pointed to a chair that was pressed against a closed door on the other side of the bed. “That’s a Louis the Sixteenth something or other. I had to help inventory a lot of this stuff. That’s probably only worth a little over a thousand.”

  ‘That’s a lot of cash,” Chet said.

  “You smoke?”

  “No,” he said. “I thought you didn’t either.”

  “I mean, smoke smoke,” Mira said, putting her fingers to her lips, miming a joint.

  “No,” he said quickly. “That’s illegal.”

  Mira grinned. “Yeah,” she said snappily. The gleam of interest remained in her eye. “I bet you’re just an All-American boy. Baseball, apple pie, and Mom.”

  Chet closed his eyes for a second. His head hurt. You’re tired, he thought. Tired and confused by this whole thing. Opened his eyes. Mira was funky and cute—her face was a little pear-shaped, and her lips glistened with blood-red lipstick and gloss; her mascara was heavy, and her purple-black hair actually made him notice her eyes more. She had deep-sea blue eyes. If he had been a couple of years younger, he probably would’ve hung out with her, but he felt old even at nineteen, and she looked like a child to him. “Yeah, I like all those things.”

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Just dizzy for a second,” he said. “It’s sort of stuffy in here.”

  “It is,” Mira said. She walked past him to the window and drew the curtain back. “Look at that,” she said. “Not all windows have it.”

  There was a stained-glass picture in the window of sloping green hills and a castle.

  Mira unlocked the window and cracked it slightly. A cool rush of air came in. “God, it feels like it’s gonna snow already. Brrr,” she said, and leaned over to close it again.

  “No,” Chet said, taking a step. “I like a little fresh air at night.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m fine, Mira. Thanks. I probably should just get ready for bed. Thanks for showing me those paintings and stuff.”

  “Okay,” Mira said, her voice getting meek.

  “We’ll do the night goggles tomorrow night, I promise. I’m just exhausted.”

  “Sure,” Mira said. “Tomorrow. Hey, and you know the baño is down the hall right?"

  “The what?”

  “The can. The John. It’s two doors down on the left. There’s a tub with claws for feet and you can shower in it if I want. I mean, if you want. It works fine. It’s connected to Dads room, so be sure and close both doors when you go in there,” she said, and then nearly backed out of the bedroom. “Fresh towels in the wardrobe”—she pointed to the far right—“and even a bathrobe if you want one. But they’re not mandatory.” And then she was gone.

  13

  A quick shower sounded good, so he went and grabbed a towel and headed down the dimly lit corridor. The floorboards looked as if they needed sanding—he had taken his shoes off in the room, and it felt a bit rough. The lights in the hall were small overhead ones that reminded him of school, so he assumed they were leftovers from the house’s previous identity. Two doors down, the bathroom was open. It was a fairly small room, with green-and-gold-mosaic tile running along it, and the mirror above the bowl-like sink was small and cracked on one side. The bathtub was also small, but Chet was fascinated by the claw feet that held it up. They looked like eagle talons wrapped around small globes. There was no shower curtain, and he saw, instead, a red rubber hose that ran from the faucet down into the tub.

  He figured out quickly that the only way to shower in this tub was to sit in it as if taking a bath and then use the rubber hose to pour water over him
self. He turned the hot and cold water on simultaneously, and then went to close the door leading to the bedroom. There was no way to lock it, and it had an enormous keyhole; he suddenly had a vision of Mira sitting on the other side of the door, watching him bathe.

  The keyhole, in fact, was in a direct line from the edge of the tub. He smirked, thinking that he had a dirty mind. Only men think of things like that. Only guys would be that perverted as to watch someone through a keyhole.

  When the water temperature seemed about right, Chet stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the tub.

  It felt good after the long day and all the new people and this whole house thing that he had committed himself to seeing through. He let the warmth of the water loosen up his back muscles a little, and for a second or two he closed his eyes.

  She closed her eyes and stood up. She looked at the closed door, and then, tears of embarrassment and longing in her eyes, she turned away.

  14

  Mira watched him through the keyhole, feeling silly and wicked for doing it. But she had loved watching the way he let his jeans drop to the floor, and the hard curve of his calves and thighs; and then his shirt had come off, and for a moment, in her mind, she imagined licking his washboard abs; and a goofy and girlish moment of spying began to give her a feeling of heat, as well as an inability to look away from the keyhole; she felt tingling sensations along her skin as she watched him drop his shirt and then reach under the elastic of his snow-white briefs and slowly draw them down.

  It was an amazing show, and just as he was turning toward her—toward the tub, to turn off the water before getting into his bath—a feeling of dreadfulness overcame her. She was doing something irrational, something that weirdoes did; she felt it, she shouldn’t be doing this. He needed his privacy; this was wrong.

  15

  Mira went down the corridor, feeling alone and ugly and miserable. No boy is going to want you. Not like this. Not spying on boys when they take off their clothes. Not watching for some perverted payoff when the underwear comes off. It’s funny if you’re with your friends, but not like this. Not like this. He’ll never like me. He doesn’t even think I’m pretty.

  Her room was just around the corner—almost at the edge of the staircase. It had been, according to Ivy Martin, the nursery, where Gravesend’s son and daughter had been taken care of when they were born; Mira felt like a big baby as it was, so it seemed appropriate that this was her room, with its small bed and miniature dressing table. She reached for the light switch, but her hand didn’t find it immediately.

  In her mind the images of Chefs naked body, his sinewy musculature, his round ass, even the Adam’s apple at his throat, all was in her brain, but along with this was an undercurrent of heat and guilt, as if she was both fascinated and disgusted by her own interest in him.

  Where’s the damn light switch. Mira reached into the darkness.

  Finally, she switched it on.

  She was in her room again.

  She felt safe.

  Her dog, Conan, lay asleep on his back in the middle of the bed, his paws moving slightly as he chased rabbits in his dreams.

  She went over to the dressing table to write in her spiral-bound notebook that doubled as both her history notes and her diary.

  16

  Dear Fucked-up Diary, Bite me, and I don’t mean that literally. He hates me. I’m a perv. Nicki would call me kinky, but that’s because she likes to talk like that. I hate myself for this. I can’t believe I sat there and watched him take off his clothes. I can’t believe I’ve sunk that low. I’m so gross, nobody is ever going to want me, especially not an older guy like Chet, who is perfect and nice and innocent and even unaware. I wish I were back home. I wish I could call Mom. But of course she’s still in London, and that would mean that I’d wake her or whatshisname up, and over nothing. I wish I could’ve made Dad leave me back in the city so I could just have my normal life instead of this. Ever since we got here, I’ve wanted to go home. I know this is important to him, and I know I practically volunteered to get out of school for a week and a half, but I wish I were back there instead of here. This feels wrong. And Chet. If I had never met him today, maybe I wouldn’t build up these expectations. I don’t care about boys that much; I’m not one of those stupid girls who chases boys and thinks of boys all the time. But I feel like that here. I feel like an idiot. I’m horny and stupid, and I shouldn’t even be here. Christ. I wish I had brought at least one joint to get through this. And on top of it all, thank you thank you, I think I’m getting cramps. Oh, joy. How fun and attractive and happy I will be over the next few days. What’s going on with me? I don’t get it. I just finished having my period a week ago. And that weirdo Frost is here and looking at me funny of course, although I think he’s just scared of me now. Ivy with her weirdness. It’s all weirdo land here, and I’m the biggest weirdo of them all. I usually like feeling like a freak, but something’s wrong with this place. Something’s wrong here. I want him to love me. I just know he will. I know he will. And there’s nothing I can think about. I just saw his face and I knew he was the one. The one for me. The one who I must have.

  17

  “There are twelve rooms open at Harrow,” Jack said. “Originally, there were seventy or so, but you’ll notice that some are off-limits from either construction work or fire or water damage.”

  “Water?’ Cali asked.

  Jack nodded. “The water damage was at least as severe as what the fire did. When the fire spread, it made some major openings in the roof, basically, and then, of course, you had every fire truck for miles around hosing the place down. A lot of rain came down last year, too, and most of it seemed to seep down the walls of rooms.”

  “Why is it so dark?” Frost asked. He stayed just to the left and a step behind Cali, which annoyed her. It was a bit like having someone breathing over her shoulder.

  “Ivy wanted to induce a mood,” Jack said. “I can’t say that I agree with her. I’m not sure, if there’s a haunting here, that the ghosts would care if the lights were bright or dim.”

  “Or whether it was night or day,” Cali said.

  “It’s always dark in the hallways during the day, at least here in

  the west wing of the house. The east wing is shut for now—the renovations aren’t complete there,” Jack said.

  ‘That’s nice.” Cali reached up to touch the edge of one of the wall lamps. “It’s like a gas lamp.”

  “It’s authentic. Ivy’s a stickler for authenticity. Gravesend originally would allow no electricity in the house. Ivy was unwilling to go that far, but she managed to keep the look of the era here. The school had destroyed much of this in its years.” Jack pointed to the floor, although all Cali could see was darkness. “They’d covered over it with a cheap parquet, but it’s beautiful oak, these floors.”

  “I bet she spent three million on this,” Cali said. “It’s like walking through a museum.”

  “Here we go,” Jack said, opening a door. “After you.”

  Cali caught a light scent of lavender in the room—it was a long, spacious bedroom, and on the ceiling was an intricate plaster pattern of leaves and birds. The bed was almost a Stickley style—very spare, flat boards made up the head and footboards, and the wood had not been touched with the intricate carvings found elsewhere in the house. “This was Genevieve Gravesend’s room. She liked more modern furnishings than did her husband,” Jack said. “She slept here only a short while before moving to the New England coast, without her husband. She wasn’t fond of Harrow.”

  “Did she hang herself by that?” Frost pointed to the single-tier chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “She died of natural causes.”

  “Oh,” Frost said. “I thought perhaps everyone who had ever lived here had gone mad.”

  “Perhaps we’ll all go mad,” Cali said with a grin. She felt a bit light-headed and sleepy, despite the surging of c
affeine in her veins. “And then we’ll throw ourselves from the tower. How romantic.”

  Jack gave her a bemused look. “I hardly need tell either of you that not everyone who has set foot in Harrow has died a horrible death. Thousands of boys and their teachers have come through these hall and lived perfectly normal lives.”

  “Perfectly normal,” Cali said wistfully. “Not like us.” She shot Frost a wicked glance. ‘We’re freaks. We’re meant for houses like this.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he said. No humor in that one, Cali thought.

  “The bed is a reproduction, of course,” Jack said, “but the mirror near the chiffonier—that was an original to Harrow. Ivy felt it should go in the mistress’s room.”

  “Is this where she sleeps?” Cali asked.

  “Not on your life. When Ivy sleeps, it’s usually down in the cellar.”

  “Good God,” Frost said. “She owns this place and she sleeps down there?”

  Jack shrugged. “It seems eccentric, but it’s her decision.”

  ‘This should be my room then,” Cali said. She went and sat on the edge of the bed. “Please tell me I can sleep on this beautiful bed. Please.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Jack said. “Want to see the rest of the place?”

  They walked from room to room, oohing and ahhing over the antique furnishings, some of it reproduction, some original pieces. Because both Mira’s and Chet’s rooms were locked, they decided to bypass them, although Cali had to stop in at the bathroom off Jack’s room to admire the claw-footed tub. When they arrived at the room that Frost had claimed, Frost flicked the light up in the room and said, “Something’s changed.”

  Jack Fleetwood glanced around the bedroom and then looked skeptically at him.

  “Someone’s been in my room.”