The House of Dies Drear

by Virginia Hamilton

  “That’s the truth, as I see it,” said Carr. “No, they don’t like folks hanging around. Real secret they are. Always have been. They have a boy about your son’s age. He doesn’t seem to be as tough and sour as the rest. Maybe they’re changing.” He chuckled again. “Better watch ’em though. They got something in for that Pluto.” Carr’s eyes flicked away from Mr. Small’s. “They’re close by you, and I give you honest warning.”

  “Thank you kindly,” said Mr. Small. He started the car.

  “Got plenty good tires here anytime you need them,” Carr said. “Plenty of good gas.”

  “I’ll be coming back soon,” said Mr. Small. Without effort, he imitated the flat, hill speech of the man.

  “My young brothers like as not can fix most any busted thing. You let me know. They paint houses real well, folks say. We got a few tractors for plowing. The price of a field ain’t high either.”

  “I’ll be calling again,” said Mr. Small as he drove out of the filling station.

  Chapter 12

  “WELL THEN,” SAID Mr. Small, “we know a little more than we did an hour ago.” He headed the car back toward town, the way they had come.

  “Carr people, Darrow people,” Mrs. Small said, “I wonder what Mr. Pluto’s family name is.”

  “Skinner,” said Mr. Small.

  “Who? How do you know that?” asked Thomas.

  “I found out from the foundation, the first trip I made here—didn’t I tell you?” Mr. Small said. “They told me his name is Henry Skinner.”

  “But is he the only Skinner?” Mrs. Small wanted to know. “Does he have family here?”

  “I never thought to ask,” said Mr. Small. “I suspect the Carr man would have said something if Pluto had family here.”

  “You could find out,” Thomas said. “You could go to the county seat maybe. They keep records.”

  “I don’t care to find out,” Mr. Small said. “Besides, Carr said Pluto came from somewhere else as a boy.”

  “And that there was bad blood between the old grandfather Darrow and him. I wonder why?” Thomas said.

  “Time may tell,” Mr. Small said. “Let’s take things easy and wait awhile.”

  “Look,” said Mrs. Small. “Look there, isn’t that a school?” There was a drive off Highway 68 leading into an expanse of land, on which sat a sprawling, ivy-covered school. Mr. Small drove down.

  “Oh, that’s a pretty school!” said Thomas. It was called Washington Junior High and High School. It had a smooth lawn and a large playing field. To the right of it was a wide stream called the Little Miami River.

  “Miami!” Thomas said. “That’s in Florida.”

  “This whole area, both the town and country, is known as the Miami Valley,” Mr. Small told him. “Some comical folks like to call it the Sinus Valley because it has so much rain and snow.”

  “Boy, I bet there will be lots of sledding,” said Thomas. “I’m going to get me a big sled and whomp down every hill.”

  Mr. Small turned the car around and went back to the highway.

  “I want to see the rest of it,” said Thomas. “Please, Papa, I want to see the whole town.”

  The twins were quiet, almost asleep. Mrs. Small said they could drive around for awhile.

  Mr. Small chose a street at random. On one side of the street was a white house the size of a mansion, with black trim. There was a huge lawn full of trees; there were swings and slides on both sides of the house.

  “That’s the grade school,” said Mr. Small.

  “What a lovely place for children to play,” said Mrs. Small.

  Thomas could see paper cutouts of Easter rabbits in many of the school’s windows. He felt happy. Everything seemed normal again. He didn’t even feel very tired. He looked at all there was to see and kept on feeling so good, he thought he would bust.

  It was a pretty town. People lived in nice houses, large and small. Some of the houses were quite old, but well taken care of. They passed through what looked like a new section of town. Outside playing were many children still dressed in their Sunday clothes. Some houses had swings and slides in their backyards. Thomas thought they must be kindergartens, but, no, Mr. Small said, they were homes. People could afford good playthings for their children, he said. People made good money.

  Thomas saw homes side by side where white and colored children played on the lawns together. And he saw houses on streets where you couldn’t tell what kind of people might live in them.

  They turned onto a back road leading through farmland. They traveled the road for some time. There were many barns with cows. There were fenced-in areas with hogpens and hog houses. Fields were plowed. Large pools of water stood like silver ponds along fence lines. The sun made them sparkle. The gentle wind made shallow waves over their surfaces. The air was so pure, Thomas could have laughed out loud. He poked his head out of the window, letting his face brush the leaves of trees by the road.

  You could live here forever, he thought. Forever and forever. You could get a bicycle and let all kinds of dogs chase after you down these roads.

  Soon they found themselves on the divided highway that passed by the house of Dies Drear.

  “Time to get home,” said Mr. Small. He looked at his watch. “Why, it’s almost five- thirty! We’ve been fooling around almost the whole afternoon.”

  “I want to get to my room,” Thomas said. “I want to take off these shoes and unpack my school clothes. I’ve got to register for school next week, don’t I, Papa? I’ve got to get me my school supplies.”

  “I’ll need to buy curtain material,” Mrs. Small said to no one in particular. “Goodness, I’ll need a lot of it for all those high windows.”

  “Buy. Buy,” said Mr. Small. “All you think about is buying. Wait until I see some salary before you two start to buy.”

  “You’re always crying ‘dollar poor’,” said Mrs. Small to him. “I know how much is in the bank.”

  “But you don’t know which bank,” said Mr. Small smiling. “I bet you don’t know that.”

  “I do,” said Thomas. “I saw the bank book on your dresser. The Miami Savings and Loan Bank, that’s the name!”

  “You’re supposed to be on my side,” Mr. Small told him.

  “I have to get my school supplies,” Thomas said. “I’ve got to be on Mama’s side!”

  Mr. Small turned the car onto the road leading up to the house of Dies Drear. The road had dried somewhat from the sun; in another day, it would be completely dried out. The sun lay above the trees on top of the hill behind the house. The sky was almost clear blue, with only the slightest sign of night in it.

  They grew quiet in the car. The twins were sleeping.

  “Poor dears,” Mrs. Small said. “They can’t imagine what’s happening to them.”

  They crossed over the bridge. Almost at once, Thomas felt their isolation from all things ordinary. They were so cut off from the highway, from the town, from all life that was normal, they might as well have been locked in a closet. The dark and silent house looming over them had already reached out for them and was pulling them in.

  Thomas could feel it turning him cold all over.

  You’ve got to fight back at it, he told himself. You’ve just got to keep being warm inside and not let it get through you.

  Like intruders, they went silently into the house. The house seemed to listen to their uncertain tread. It seemed to watch them, pressing close as if trying to overhear. But they were silent. Thomas and Mrs. Small tiptoed upstairs with the twins. The night-light still burned in their room.

  “Just take off their coats,” whispered Mrs. Small, “and their stockings and shoes.”

  “These are their Sunday clothes, Mama!” Thomas whispered back.

  “Do as I say,” said Mrs. Small. “I don’t want to disturb them by taking clothes off and putting clothes on.”

  Thomas did as he was told, although he didn’t like it one bit.

  Babies shouldn’t have to g
o to bed in their Sunday suits, he thought. It’s like they’re ready to run away in case something bad happens—like they didn’t belong here. This old house thinks it’s going to get them—it thinks it’s got us all on the run. I’ll be patrolling this hall tonight. No sir, this old house will be sorry if it tries to scare my babies!

  One of the twins whimpered in his sleep and shivered as with a chill. Quickly Thomas leaned over him. He covered Buster, putting his arm around him. Thomas stayed close until the child breathed silently, until the bedding was warm. Then he and Mrs. Small left the room, tiptoeing down the hall and down the stairs. They had looked from one closed door to the other going down the hall. They were on their guard.

  Mr. Small stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The way he stood, so still there, caused Thomas and Mrs. Small to come quickly. He let Thomas through, but tried to bar Mrs. Small’s way.

  “You let me through,” she told him. “Let me by.”

  “Don’t look,” Mr. Small said. “Please, let Thomas and me …” But Mrs. Small pushed by him. What she saw caused her to cover her face with her hands. A choked cry came from deep inside her. But that was all. She stood there without saying a word, with her eyes tight closed and her hands covering them.

  Nothing Thomas could imagine, not all the devilment of strangers, of bad boys older and more daring than himself, could have prepared him for the sight of the kitchen. Looking at it, he was overcome with dread and loneliness. He reached out for his mother and put his arm around her. Mrs. Small swayed and leaned against Thomas.

  The large sack of flour Mr. Pluto had bought for them had been emptied over the entire kitchen floor. It had been spread evenly in a layer, and over the layer had been poured water and apple juice. The whole mess had been mixed into a sticky, brown paste, which was spread over the kitchen table, over the stove and sink counters, over all the chairs and over part of the walls. The door of the frigidaire hung open, and all the food there had been removed. Whatever could be squeezed had been squeezed onto the floor. What could be poured had been poured out in swirls on the floor. What dishes had remained after Thomas’ fall of the night before were broken in the sink with the same sticky paste covering them. The whole room, the windows, everything, glistened with this unspeakable icing. Over it all was a warm odor of rotting food. The only canned goods that had not been punctured and emptied into the sink were the cans of evaporated milk used for the babies’ bottles.

  Thomas let go of his mother and took a step into the room.

  “No,” said Mr. Small, “leave it be.” His voice was low, with an edge to it rough as jagged rock. Thomas didn’t have to turn around to know what his face looked like.

  “They mean to make us run with this,” Mr. Small said. “They thought to terrify you so,” he said to Mrs. Small, “that there would be nothing for us to do but run!”

  “Oh, Walter,” Mrs. Small whispered, “we could move into town. We would be safe… .”

  “Is that all we’re made of?” he said. “Are we to let fools run us out of this historic house, our home? We’re better than that, oh yes! Whoever thought to make us run doesn’t know what we are made of!”

  “Thomas,” he said, “you come with me. Martha, you go up with the twins. Make bottles for them. Turn on the light up there if you want. Lock yourself in with them, but stay there until we get back. I’m going to get to the bottom of this right now. And before this night is done, somebody, some fool, is going to catch it!”

  Mr. Small and Thomas saw her to the room. They made her lock the door from the inside before they left her. They had given her a small table lamp, which would give her light to see the whole room without disturbing the twins.

  “All right now?” Mr. Small called through the door.

  “Yes,” she said whispering. “Yes, you can go.”

  “We’re going. Don’t be afraid. I don’t think they will come back.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that,” she whispered.

  She heard them leave. She wasn’t sure of anything. But she took a deep breath and smoothed her hair behind her ears.

  “All right, ghosts,” she whispered, “come right on in! If you can work over my kitchen, I can surely work over your head!” She sat down to wait, with Thomas’ baseball bat resting delicately across her knees.

  Chapter 13

  BEHIND THE HOUSE, Mr. Small slipped through the trees on the hill, much the same way Thomas had the night before. Darkness had fallen; there was no moon, nor any starlight to speak of. Instead of going up and over the hill as Thomas would have, he went around it from left to right. He moved swiftly, making hardly a sound. Thomas followed him closely. He couldn’t see his father, but he could sense his movement through the stillness; he could feel the boughs settle back after his father passed.

  We are Tuscaroras. He is my chief and I am his brave son.

  Thomas had these thoughts and at once felt foolish for having them. Here they were about to fight off whoever it was had come to destroy his Mama’s kitchen, and all he could do was imagine he was an Indian brave.

  “Thomas, are you with me?” Mr. Small called softly.

  “I’m right behind,” Thomas answered. “Keep going.”

  “Wait. Shhh!” Mr. Small had stopped. Thomas came up to him, not even panting, although it was tiring keeping up with his father and walking silently at the same time. But he stood still and straight; he was invisible there in the dark, as was his father. Relaxed in the manner of the sprinter, his muscles were attuned for action.

  Thomas listened. Always he had found it strange that sound could become caught within the random growth of trees. He could hear a truck on the highway. If he were standing on the veranda of the house, he might not hear it. When the truck sound disappeared, he listened again. Trapped there in the trees was the sound of someone walking. It was a soft sound of feet going back and forth and around, back and forth and around.

  Whoever it was walking was not in the trees with them. The bed of pine needles would have deadened the footsteps. The sound was ahead of them and not at all muffled.

  Is there an opening in these trees? Thomas wondered. An open place where they can ambush us?

  Mr. Small had started again.

  Thomas knew where to follow. Moving blindly, he would suddenly have the sensation that his father had left behind part of his spirit like a handprint in the air. Thomas would stumble upon this unsettled space and would know his father had passed there.

  He had no idea where they were headed; he’d never been around the hill the way they went. He assumed his father had some plan and he hadn’t thought to question what it might be.

  They went down into what must have been a dried-up gully and then back up the other side. They went over a hillock that had a barren outcropping like a bridge. Covered with wet moss and fern, it was quite slippery. Once Thomas fell. There in the dark, he had the feeling he might slide forever.

  Will they ambush us here?

  When he scrambled to his feet again, they were back on the hill, with trees all around. A pale-yellow glow outlined pine boughs and tree trunks. It was enough light for Thomas to see the shape of his father a few paces in front of him. Mr. Small stopped again. This time he raised his arm motioning Thomas to stand where he was.

  Thomas’ muscles jumped and jerked beneath his skin. He was wet with the slime of moss and with his own perspiration. It was almost impossible for him to stand still, so ready was he for whatever lay before them.

  If they ambush us, I’ll swing up into the trees and jump down on them. I can do that a couple of times before they realize there are only two of us.

  Then Mr. Small and Thomas were moving. They had walked a short distance when, without warning, the pale glow grew bright. The dense covering of trees gave way suddenly. They were indeed in open space.

  They found themselves at the edge of a natural clearing and blinded momentarily by bright light. There lay before them a bed of flat rock, rectangular in shape, at the end of which was a
cave. The cave mouth had heavy, plank doors. On either side of them were sconces, which held burning torches. The torches flared violently, sending smoke and a yellow glow up into the surrounding trees.

  In the midst of it all, pacing back and forth like a falcon tired of his perch, was Mr. Pluto. He seemed in thought, and wasn’t aware of them watching. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand; the other hand was hooked in his belt.

  Thomas couldn’t quite believe he was seeing Pluto, the cave and those eerie torches, he had so prepared himself for danger and ambush. And something else, Thomas thought. The whole scene was suited for another place and time. Mr. Pluto should have fitted right in, like a bearded pirate perhaps, left in the wilderness by his fellow scoundrels. He should have been a part of these surroundings, Thomas thought. Only he wasn’t.

  Thomas couldn’t quite catch on to what was wrong, but there was something about Pluto that kept jarring Thomas’ mind.

  Mr. Small started around the clearing toward Pluto.

  “Mr. Pluto?” he called. “Pluto? I want a word with you!”

  Pluto swung around, taking in the whole of the clearing. He must have seen Thomas and Mr. Small coming at him. His own face was in shadow caused by the torches above his head. But the rest of him was clearly visible. He looked massive, powerful, in the yellow light. Every inch of him recoiled in surprise. Still recoiling, he shrank toward the cave.

  “Wait!” said Mr. Small. “You wait!”

  But Pluto was gone. It wasn’t possible a man his age and size could move so quickly, and yet he had. Like fluid pouring itself away, he was gone, leaving only the gaping doorway.

  Thomas remembered the night before, and the way Pluto had lifted him off the ground. Again he thought what he had thought then: No old man anywhere, lame or not, could catch him from behind, let alone swing him off the ground.

  Then Thomas was on to something. He didn’t know what, but he knew what had been wrong with Pluto’s pacing back and forth a moment ago.

  “Papa, he wasn’t sick at all. He was strong, did you see it? Papa, he was smoking … he had a cigarette!”