Cross My Heart

by Natalie Vivien

  But then the face changes, smooths; the silhouette straightens, reshapes itself into soft, young, black-clad curves, and Elizabeth Patton hovers, translucent, holding out her mysterious letter to me…

  Damn that barista and his squatting friend.

  The last thing I need right now is to be worried about specters haunting my staircase. Drawing in a deep breath, I peek into the old woman’s room, giving it a cursory inspection. It only has one small window cut into the back wall, but Marie’s right: this would make a good study. It’s gloomy and narrow, and I prefer to work in small, dark places. It helps me focus. I took to writing field reports in caves during an excavation on Mytilene, and ever since then, I’ve sought out similar spots whenever I need to set down words.

  “And now—here’s a bit of a surprise for you,” Marie says enigmatically, opening the third door lining the dim hallway. “Elizabeth’s room, and it’s still furnished—can you believe it? Partially, anyway. I’m afraid that the mice and moths got at the linens. Honestly, it’s very lucky that vandals never took to graffitiing this place and stealing what was left behind. You could sell this furniture for a high price, I’d think. It’s in good condition, considering its age. Might cover some of the renovation costs.”

  I blink, nodding my head vaguely as I step into the room and approach the wide vanity pushed against the west wall. The mirror above it is scratched; it has that spooky, aged look that old mirrors get when they aren’t properly cared for. But its center is unmarred, so it’s still able to reflect an eerie impression of my face: my eyes look too wide: dark, haunted pools of brown inset into the pale planes above my cheekbones, and my hair is a wild mess of slept-on curls. “God, I look terrible,” I murmur, in a voice too low for Marie to hear. All at once, that chill rushes over me again—not quite a gust, but there is movement to the air.

  “Did you feel that?” I ask Marie, turning around to face her with my brows narrowed, shivering as goosebumps rise up all over my arms. “A cold wind… What could cause it?” I glance up at the ceiling, searching for gaps. “Do you think there’s a problem with the roof?”

  “Well, the roof does need to be replaced. That’s for certain.” She takes a step toward me. “Did you feel the wind over there? I didn’t feel anything here…” Her voice trails off, as if a thought has occurred to her, but then she purses her lips. “You could bring in an inspector,” she suggests quietly, averting her blue gaze, “to prioritize the house repairs and get some financial quotes. I have phone numbers—”

  “No, thanks.” I shake my head and sigh heavily, already weighed down by the renovation in store for me. I’ve never owned a home before; I don’t even know how to use a lawnmower. And while I’m eager to learn new skills and collect new experiences, I’m beginning to feel awfully nostalgic for my simple life in that makeshift tent.

  “I’ve got help on the way.” I cross my arms at my waist, offering Marie a small, uncertain smile. “My sister’s going to drive into town and tell me how to make this place livable. She’s a pro at house flipping...though I don’t think she’s ever attempted to flip a house like this.”

  “It will be a challenge,” Marie agrees, returning my smile with her warm, grandmotherly one. “But you seem a capable woman, Alex. You’ll turn this sad old place into a home. I’m sure of it. And it’s about time. No one’s lived here since the Pattons—”

  “Wait—what?”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d been told by the agency. Wasn’t it in the paperwork that we sent you? Unoccupied since original residency? I guess I never said…” She nods her head, peering at me over her glasses. “Well, it’s true. The house has been under various ownerships—all acquired through inheritance—and some of those owners did make small attempts at upkeep. Rewiring the Victorian electricity, for example, and updating the plumbing. That’s the only reason the place hasn’t fallen to the ground yet. But no one actually went so far as to live here. The house has been vacant of life since 1901.”

  I stare at her, stunned. “But…why?”

  “Why?” She shrugs. “I couldn’t guess. The property fell into the city’s hands after decades of unpaid taxes mounted up. All I know is that no one has expressed any interest in occupying the house, not in over a hundred years. Not until you,” she says softly, meaningfully. “Who knows? Maybe, after you finish the renovations, you’ll reconsider staying in the area—”

  “Oh, no.” My chest flutters anxiously at the suggestion, but, if I’m honest, I’m also a little annoyed. My sister has been hinting at the same idea for weeks now: that maybe I won’t want to sell the place after I’ve spent so much time renovating it. Maybe I’ll decide to make Niagara Falls my first permanent hometown.

  I know that the only reason Cordelia told me about this Home-for-a-Dollar program was so that she could, in her underhanded but well-meaning way, persuade me to give the picket-fence life a go. And even though, during our last Skype conversation, I made it crystal clear to her that I had no such intention, that I was only taking a very temporary break from work, she had responded with that knowing, big-sister nod that only ever means one thing: I am older and wiser than you, Alexandra, and I’ll humor you, but eventually you’ll realize that I’m right. I’m always right.

  That nod was the equivalent of a condescending pat-pat on the head.

  And Marie is giving me the very same sort of nod right now.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I tell her, sighing, “but I’m just not the type of person to stay anywhere.”

  “Mm.” She lifts a brow sagely. “Well, time will tell. A fellow said the same thing to me once. Swore he could never put down roots, could never tie himself to a wife and kids.” Marie holds up her left hand and points to the twinkling diamond ring on her second finger. It’s the least flashy jewel among her collection of rings; the other bands shine with red, purple and faceted turquoise. “But Henry’s lived here in Niagara Falls for thirty-two years now, and we’ve been married for thirty-one.”

  I bite my lip. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you’re happy here, but I—”

  “Never say never,” Marie says softly, still smiling that patient smile. “This place…” She gestures at the walls around us. “This town… It gets under your skin. I dream of the falls every night, you know. I dream of tossing myself over the water in a barrel—a barrel! And I survive! Oh, I don’t look like myself at all, of course. I’m a man with a bushy black mustache… Isn’t that funny?” Her clear blue eyes connect with mine, liquid, bright and searching. “Have you ever had a dream like that? Where you're someone else, or living in the past? Sometimes I think dreams are kind of like time travel machines, if we only open ourselves up to them.”

  I smile noncommittally, admiring the unusual seashell—no, ammonite—pattern carved into the headboard of the bed. The truth is, I rarely remember my dreams. When I do, they're meaningless reenactments of daily life, nothing interesting.

  “Oh, sorry, we aren’t here to talk about me, are we? I have a tendency to ramble; all of my friends tell me so. I was at a séance last Thursday and—oh, there I go again. And I haven’t shown you the powder room yet. It’s extraordinary, really. This way, at the end of the hall.”

  I watch as Marie moves out of Elizabeth’s bedroom, but I’m reluctant to leave the space myself. It’s the only room in this big, crumbling house that feels comfortable—almost safe—to me. The fact that it is the only one with furniture probably has something to do with that feeling. There are even some pictures hanging on the wall: two small, framed sketches affixed right next to the bed. Both of them feature a woman with long, loose hair; she’s dressed in Victorian garb and standing with her back to the Bridal Veil Falls. She looks paler, sadder than the woman from the stained glass window. Maybe this was Elizabeth’s mother, or a cousin or a friend.

  Curious, I test the old mattress with the heel of my hand, leaning forward with all of my weight. It creaks on its support ropes but holds its shape well enough. I migh
t be able to sleep here tonight.

  I wish I could sleep right now…

  “Alex?”

  “Sorry. I’m coming.” As I step away from the bed and near the vanity mirror again, an unexpected flash—no, a reflection—catches my eye. I could have sworn… I thought I saw a shock of black hair, a pair of black eyes. But it isn’t possible. It isn’t possible. I’m exhausted and ill, and this house is swarming with dust. I did not just see someone's profile gliding past that scratched-up mirror’s surface.

  I couldn’t have… Couldn’t have.

  No, I didn’t see anything. Maybe I saw a moth fluttering, or a reflection of the curtains on the window—except that…there aren’t any curtains. Well, then I’ve been disturbed by Marie’s talk of ghosts and death more than I realized, and my brain is too tired to differentiate between reality and imagination.

  Again, I look longingly at the bare bed with its strange, puffy-looking mattress. But Marie calls out—“Is anything wrong?”—and so I move across the complaining floorboards to step into the hallway.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Sorry. I’m a little slow today.”

  “Come, come. You’ll have all the time you want to linger later. But this room is worth seeing in what remains of the daylight. You’ll be pleasantly surprised, I promise you.”

  Intrigued, I follow her into a large, bright, high-ceilinged space that, at first, appears to be wallpapered with a shimmery seashell pattern. But closer inspection reveals that the walls are covered with real shells, and fossils and crystals, too, thousands of them inlaid like tile, with faint traces of yellowing grout in between. I trail a hand over the cool, ridged surface of one of the shells, marveling. “This must have taken ages to complete.”

  “Godrick and Bess collected all of the shells themselves, on their travels. According to their biographers, they were both fascinated by the natural world.”

  “Biographers?”

  “Oh, yes, there have been several books written about the Patton family. Godrick made a hobby of archaeology, and Bess accompanied him to most of his sites. She knelt down in the sand right beside him, digging with a special trowel. You can see one of her finds on the top floor of the library downtown—a small urn from…Macedonia, I think.” Marie pauses to gaze at me thoughtfully. “To be honest, I thought that was your main compulsion for buying this place. The archaeology connection.”

  “I…didn’t know,” I tell her truthfully, as I peer at the imprint of an ancient fish on a piece of slate. I feel a little unsettled by “the archaeology connection,” to be honest. Modern female archaeologists are rare enough, but a Victorian female archaeologist… The odds of my occupying the same house as someone like Elizabeth—without actively seeking to do so—seem astronomical. It’s coincidental, too, that Elizabeth became involved in archaeology in the same way that I did, through a father’s influence.

  “I didn’t know anything about this place, or the Pattons,” I say, narrowing my brows and shaking my head. “I just liked the photos of the exterior, what I could see of it. The pictures were taken from above and from so far away.”

  “Yes, we hire one of the helicopter pilots who flies tourists over the falls to photograph”—she hesitates over the word again—“fixer-uppers like this. For most buyers, it’s more about the property than the house itself, so the aerial view makes the most sense. And, of course, nearly all of our buyers choose to walk through the houses before making their final purchase decisions.”

  My mouth slides into a sheepish half-smile. “Guess I’m a leap before I look sort of person.” I stare at a large conch shell resting on the floor, next to the clawfoot tub. Idly, I pick it up—it’s heavier than I had expected—and turn it over in my hands, admiring its creamy shade. “And things have worked out well enough for me so far.”

  Marie puts a hand, heavy with jewelry, on my shoulder. “I’m sure this house will be no exception, Alex.”

  “Thank you. I’m...feeling out of my league. You know, I’ve never been inside a Home Depot before.”

  “Well…” She laughs. “You’ll be a regular soon enough.”

  We explore the rest of the bathroom—or “powder room,” as Marie keeps calling it—and I’m astonished but deeply relieved to find out that the plumbing in the house does, indeed, work. Marie turns on the hot water faucet for the shell-shaped pedestal sink to demonstrate this to me. I hold my fingers under the stream of water: ice cold.

  “No hot water heater?”

  “No central heat, either. But if you clean up the chimneys, you’ll have working fireplaces in most of the rooms.”

  My dream of a long, hot, relaxing shower fizzles and fades, but it was an unrealistic expectation. The house doesn’t have a shower, only the tub. I can’t remember the last time I soaked in a bath…

  In Cairo, we all shared an outdoor shower that was superficially private: a thin, almost see-through curtain draped around the round metal rod. Lucia and I had sex today—or...yesterday?—right before I left, in that cozy, open-air shower. We ran out of hot water long before we ran out of steam, and when we came out, sheathed in towels, we were both chilled, shivering. Lucia’s lips were faintly blue. I kissed them, to warm them up… And then we realized that half of the crew was watching us, alternately clapping and whistling, as they went about their normal routines.

  I guess everyone knew that Lucia and I were sleeping together. We never made a secret of it, but we didn’t flaunt it, either. Lucia was uncomfortable with public displays of affection, though she was unrestrainedly comfortable when it came to private displays.

  I tilt my head thoughtfully. It’s strange: I just arrived in the States today, but I’m already thinking of Cairo, of Lucia, in the past tense.

  “So, Alex, do you have any questions?” Marie asks me, as we leave the bathroom and step back out into the darkened hall, aiming for the staircase.

  “Oh—are you leaving? What about the basement and the attic?”

  She turns slightly, offering me a pained smile. “The basement is very dark, even during the daytime, and I’m not certain whether the attic is sturdy enough to support our combined weight. Feel free to explore them as you’d like. But we had better take care of the last of the paperwork downstairs.”

  In the entryway, Marie opens her briefcase and spreads out some documents on the side table, the same table that had broken my clumsy fall—and the only piece of furniture in all of the rooms downstairs. After she explains the ins and outs of the contracts to me, I sign my name on the pieces of paper, feeling, with the inking of each signature, an unexpected excitement welling up inside of my chest. I caught a case of cold feet as we wandered through the house, as I took in all of the dust and century-old decay, but the idea that, with the simple scratch of a pen, this piece of history will belong to me… There’s something exhilarating about that. I’ve never really owned anything before, aside from my excavation tools; some practical, excessively pocketed khakis; hiking boots; and a small collection of paperback novels—mysteries, mostly, and some lesbian pulp fiction books, for the laughs.

  Despite the darkness and my exhaustion, I have a sudden compulsion to explore every nook and cranny of this place. I want to pry loose its secrets. I want to find out everything I can about the house’s former occupants. I want to unearth every story… I’ll have to go to the library tomorrow to look up those biographies Marie mentioned, and to see Elizabeth’s urn.

  “Well, I think the legalities are in order. You’ll receive copies in the mail in a day or two.” Marie gathers up the paperwork and then shuts it inside of her battered briefcase—after removing a brown paper-wrapped package. “Just a small housewarming gift from the office,” she says, handing the package to me. Then she gives me a beaming, cheek-to-cheek smile. “Congratulations, Alex! You’re a homeowner.”

  “Wow.” I chuckle lightly. “Those are words I never thought I’d hear,” I say, smiling, dazed. “Thank you for all of your help, Marie.”

  “Of course. It’s been a plea
sure passing the hour with you.” She opens the front door and steps out into the twilit evening. The dusky sky casts a lavender sheen onto her gray hair. She takes my hand one last time, squeezing it with firm but gentle pressure. Her bracelets tinkle together on her wrist. “If you have any problems, just give me a ring. I’m not the sort of agent to sell a client a house and then disappear. I’m here for you, okay? I know it’s tough starting over in a new place—and, in your case, a whole new country. I can get you in touch with folks to help make this transition a smooth one for you.”

  “I appreciate that. Have a good night.”

  “You, too, Alex.” She clips toward the sidewalk and raises her arm in farewell before hurrying toward her car, a yellow station wagon parked down the street. I get the sneaking suspicion, from her cautious but frantic movements, that this isn’t the sort of neighborhood you want to linger alone in after dark. So I’m a little perturbed to note, after I shut the door, effectively closing myself inside of my new house by myself for the first time, that there isn’t a deadbolt on the door frame, only a doorknob lock.

  First thing to add to my Home Depot shopping list, I guess. Along with a hot water heater.

  For a moment, I stand still and bemused in the center of the entryway, staring up at the temple-like ceiling that was once, Marie informed me, covered in gold leaf. Now its color could best be described as filthy, and the chandelier hanging above my head is home to an active community of spiders. Sticky gray webs dangle from every branch of the tarnished light fixture. It would be a nice effect if, say, this were a haunted house attraction. Convincingly authentic. And creepy. But since I’m not planning on billing the place as Alex Dark’s Haunted Victorian Adventure, I should probably add a ladder and a heavy-duty duster to my mental shopping list, too.

  I draw in a deep breath, trying to calm my hamster-wheel mind. There’s a hush of expectancy in the air. I’m not used to this sort of quiet: an indoor quiet, accompanied by the faint swish of car tires on the street outside, of distant voices rising and falling in laughter, or anger, or fear. I feel closed off and, at the same time, exposed. I almost feel…as if I’m being watched.