The House in Poplar Wood

by K. E. Ormsbee

  “I can assure you all,” Passion said, “I have nothing but the highest standards for my apprenticeships. And if anyone doubts that—well. I’m sure I’ll be held accountable.”

  Passion turned to Gretchen, and she realized that this last part was directed at her.

  “But,” she said, “I can still see Asa, can’t I? He doesn’t have to keep away?”

  “You may see him,” said Passion. “Though, understand his life belongs to me now. He cannot be the brother to you that he once was. He cannot live in your house or partake in your family’s daily rituals. He is no longer a Whipple. No longer a summoner. He is an apprentice. That is our Agreement.”

  With difficulty, Gretchen nodded. “Quid pro quo, huh?”

  Gretchen knew Asa wouldn’t want another hug. So even though it was the worst possible time to do it, she smiled at him.

  “I think I’ll actually miss you,” she told him.

  Asa smiled back, all wrongly. Gretchen did not expect another answer.

  “Come,” said Passion, offering Asa a hand. “Let us be away.”

  Asa took the hand, and together he and the red-cloaked Shade stepped into the hallway. Only Gretchen followed them out, watching Asa leave through the conservatory, watching as he and Passion were swallowed into the dark of Poplar Wood.

  Then came silence, different from all the silences before it.

  Asa was gone.

  “Lee,” said Memory.

  She had joined him in the conservatory. Lee could see her still, though she seemed more smudged at her edges, as though by eraser. The Rite, he guessed, was wearing off.

  “The Agreement is breaking,” Memory said. “Can you feel it?”

  Lee swallowed. “I—I don’t think so.”

  “You will. A new Death will arrive, seeking out a new apprentice. Your father and brother—they are now free. But you . . .”

  Lee understood. “Mother will still work for you. I know. That was never what was wrong. The Agreement’s gone, and that’s what really matters.”

  As Lee spoke, his stomach curdled and his vision splotched. He grabbed at the windowsill to steady himself.

  “You took in memories,” Memory said. “I know. I see them now, in your mind. They will be with you always, child. You will never be quite healed of them. They will haunt your sleep and weaken your body. Is that what you wish for? A life of illness and bad dreams?”

  “No,” said Lee. “Of course not.”

  Memory touched his arm. In the lamplight, she was a radiant vision of white.

  “I could take it away,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “The sorrow you drank, and all your own bad memories. These many years of living apart from your father. All of that, I would take away. We would work together.”

  Lee found it difficult to breathe, difficult to think of anything other than Memory’s kind face.

  “You could sign the contract early, if you’d like.” Memory’s voice was soothing—an antidote to every stomach pain he’d ever had. “I would allow it, Leander, to alleviate your suffering. You could choose to be my apprentice now.”

  In that moment, it seemed to Lee that he was standing alone—not in the conservatory, but in a still and formless space, with only Memory for company. Her words were calming, and Lee wondered: Had his life with her ever been so bad? It was the Agreement that was bad, really, and now that was over . . .

  All Memory was asking was for him to go on bottling and labeling jars, and to carry out the work his mother did now.

  The work his mother had always done.

  Forever.

  The formless place faded, and in rushed November cold. Lee was in the conservatory again, himself, with a stomachache still, but a clearer mind. He looked up at Memory’s kind face and said, “I won’t ever be your apprentice.”

  Memory did not argue. She removed her hand from Lee’s shoulder and seemed to nod, once, though Lee was no longer sure of where Memory’s head was. She was fading fast, into a blur of white—a hovering cloud, and then . . . nothingness.

  All that remained was a voice, which whispered in his left ear: “Not today, but perhaps . . . later.”

  Then, a familiar sound: a bittersweet melody, hummed low, in the gentlest of tones.

  Not today, thought Lee, shaking the song from his head. Not ever.

  He looked out to the wood and the darkened sky. A chill passed over his arms, and he rubbed it away. Lee’s left ear remained unhearing as always, but a new sound reached his right. There were footsteps on the conservatory stairs. Footsteps, though he could see no one there.

  Only, there was someone. A blur—not light, like Memory, but dark and earthy, forming into flesh.

  Six feet tall, or thereabouts.

  Broad shoulders.

  And a face.

  A man’s face.

  Lee knew it was him.

  “Dad,” he whispered.

  Vince Vickery flinched and crinkled his brow. He was staring not directly at Lee, but just above him.

  “See me,” said Lee. “Please. See me back.”

  Vince rubbed his eyes and looked down again, this time straight into Lee’s eyes.

  “Dad,” Lee said.

  “Lee?”

  And then then there was pressure all about him. He was in his father’s arms.

  “It’s happening!” Gretchen cried from the house. “We did it, Felix! Come quick!”

  Gretchen and Felix clambered into the conservatory. Lee grabbed his brother by the shirt and dragged him into the embrace.

  “It’s over,” Felix said, wrapping one arm around his brother and one around his father. “No more Agreement.”

  “It’s over!” Lee said, before giving a great whoop. He grabbed their hands and, for a moment, he could do nothing but stare at his father’s fingers, so large and sturdy and real. He grinned up at Vince, and his father grinned back.

  Then, with a gasp, Lee pulled away. He felt a rush of bubbling energy, so strong he staggered a step. “Felix,” he said, “you’ve got to meet Mom!”

  He led his father and brother into the west end of Poplar House. Felix did not cry out in pain, and Vince did not stop in his tracks, impeded by an invisible wall. Nothing prevented them from crossing the threshold. All three Vickeries set foot in the hallway together, as though it were the most ordinary of events.

  “Lee?”

  Lee’s heart thumped in double time at the sound of his mother’s voice.

  “Lee, darling, is everything all right?” Judith appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. She wore an apron over her dress and was covered up to the elbows in baking flour. “I was just making . . .”

  Judith’s words drowned in a deep gasp. She stood frozen, her eyes wide and unbelieving, her hands clenched to fists in her apron. She said, “No.”

  She whispered, “It isn’t possible.”

  She wiped one hand over her eyes, leaving behind a white, dusty trail.

  “Judith.”

  His father’s voice was low and loving—a sound Lee had missed all his life.

  “Judith,” repeated Vince. He crossed the hallway to where she stood, and he folded her into his arms, and he kissed her. And while Lee knew a normal son would find this rather embarrassing to watch, he did not. For they were not a normal family.

  His mother and father held each other for so long Lee began to think they might never let go. And he wasn’t sure he wanted them to.

  But then his mother’s eyes peeked over his father’s shoulder, and she cried, “Felix!”

  Felix ran to her. Judith crouched and flung her arms around her son, pressing kisses to his hair and neck. She placed both hands on his cheeks, his head, the back of his neck. “It can’t be,” she said. “It can’t be real.”

  She reached a hand for Lee, beckoning him toward his family, now united after thirteen long, dark years.

  “Can it?” Judith whispered, touching Lee’s shoulder as though he too might be a ghost.

  And it was, it was, it w
as real, and Lee let out the longest, loudest laugh he’d ever laughed.

  epilogue

  It was the coldest December in Boone Ridge’s recorded history. The Boone Herald’s Christmas Eve headline read record lows no match for holiday cheer. Lee thought it was a wonderful article, because it was so optimistic, and because it ended by wishing everyone in the town happy holidays with their loved ones, and because, for the first time in his life, Lee was spending the holidays with all of his loved ones.

  Felix had laughed at the title and called it sentimental. Lee hadn’t minded that. He’d just been glad to hear Felix laugh. More than that, he was glad Felix could sit at a booth with him at Creek Diner on a day other than Halloween, and share a hot chocolate and a town newspaper.

  The Vickeries left Poplar House. They sold it to a wealthy state senator who had been searching for a “rustic reprieve” for the months the General Assembly was not in session. The senator had been willing to pay top dollar, and with those top dollars in hand, the Vickeries moved to a little house in town. The house had wide blue shutters and a stone chimney, and, best of all, it was not divided into east and west ends. It was open and airy, with few walls and many windows.

  Memory came to live at the Vickeries’ new abode, and Judith Vickery continued her profession like before. Now, however, both Lee and Felix helped to bottle the memories, and the work was done far quicker and in far better company. Vince Vickery retired from his career as a doctor. He took up woodworking and in the summer began to travel and sell his wares at local craft fairs. Soon, townspeople were swearing up and down that Vince Vickery crafted the best hickory wood jewelry boxes in all of Tennessee.

  A new Death came to live in Boone Ridge. That was the way of things. Life went on, and so did death. Felix did not know where this new Shade lived, nor who his apprentice was. He tried not to think on things like that anymore.

  What both Lee and Felix loved most about their post-Agreement life were the winter nights when all four Vickeries huddled in the parlor around a crackling fire. Lee and Felix played games of chess—which Felix always won—and Vince worked on a crossword puzzle, and Judith read a book of essays, just as if they were an exceptionally normal, perfectly boring family. At any given moment, Lee could look up, and he would see his parents sitting side by side. On occasion, he saw his father lean over to whisper something to his mother and, before he was through, place a kiss on her cheek.

  No one in Boone Ridge was surprised to hear that Asa Whipple had run away from home over Christmas break. Many, however, were exceedingly surprised when they learned where he had gone. Essie Hasting’s mother had taken him in, and people claimed that when you saw the two together at the grocery or the gardening shop, Ms. Hasting treated Asa as though he were her own son. Which, the townsfolk all agreed, was very good for the poor heartbroken woman, though an absolute marvel considering what an unpleasant boy Asa had always been.

  Asa did not cease to be unpleasant. He continued to smile all wrongly, and he still got into the occasional fight in the alleys off Hickory Street. But he changed in some ways, too. He took up a keen interest in gardening, of all things, and was often spotted with a purple flower tucked into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Other times, people saw him on the front porch of the Hasting house, sitting with his sister and talking in such a way that you could almost imagine he was a nice sort of boy.

  But nothing was more shocking than when Mayor Whipple himself did the unthinkable and stepped down as mayor of Boone Ridge. On the day he made his announcement, the town residents whispered among themselves about how aged the man looked. How they’d never quite noticed before, but he really was getting along in years, and if there was no Whipple old enough to take his place, perhaps it was for the best that the man retire. Really, if you thought about it, it wasn’t so unthinkable after all.

  The January following that cold December, there was a new addition to the eighth-grade class of Boone Ridge Middle. He was dark-haired and quiet and wore an eyepatch over his right eye, and he soon proved to be the most eager and attentive student at school. He was Lee Vickery’s cousin from the north, and he had come to live permanently with the Vickeries in Boone Ridge. His name was Felix.

  For his first school paper in English class, Felix was asked to write about what he wanted to be when he grew up. He wrote that when he was younger, he’d thought he would have to carry on the family trade. But then things had changed, and a new world had been opened to him. Now he wanted to be a journalist and work for a big newspaper that wrote important, unsentimental headlines.

  The new boy didn’t have many friends, but when it came to the two he did have—they were all thick as thieves. The rest of the school called them the Vickery Trio, and even though Gretchen was a Whipple, she didn’t mind; she liked being known for something other than her family name.

  The Vickery Trio didn’t sit at the orange table in the cafeteria, but at one of the perfectly normal green ones. They joked together and laughed together and were often seen at Creek Diner, or occasionally venturing into Poplar Wood. And if you were ever to follow the trio for more than a week, you would more than likely see them walking down to Boone Cemetery, to lay a new bouquet of flowers on the grave of Essie Hasting.

  One Saturday evening, deep into summer, two members of the Vickery Trio could be seen together, sitting atop the roof of Boone Ridge High’s field house, their legs dangling and their voices hushed.

  “Take a look at your future,” Gretchen said, spreading her arms toward the high school building before them. “Four years of cruel and unusual punishment, according to Asa.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Lee, smiling.

  “Of course we will. I’ve got you, and even Felix isn’t half bad.” More softly, Gretchen added, “A Whipple and two Vickeries hanging out. Who would’ve thought.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Things change,” said Gretchen, shrugging. “Things have already changed. I’m the only Whipple left to do any Rites.”

  “Will you?”

  Gretchen considered Lee’s question, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap. “Well, I know I can do them now. And someone has to intercede for the town, keep the balance. I just don’t know if that someone should be me. If so, I’ll do it differently. Not the way Dad did it before. Rites for the town only, not for, you know, my endless power and wealth. Or my true love’s affection, or whatever.”

  Lee nodded and said, “Good.”

  “Good?”

  Gretchen turned to Lee, the midsummer moonlight flooding across her black hair and her blood-red lips. Lee swallowed.

  “Good.”

  Slowly, Gretchen smiled.

  Slowly, Lee smiled back.

  “Gretchen,” he said. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  She laughed and said, “What a stupid thing to ask.”

  And so he did.

  A warm wind whipped up Gretchen’s hair. The moon spilled its light on the whole of Poplar Wood, and in the dead of night, the town was full of life.

  rites

  long memory rite

  Ten hairs—

  From family, five,

  From good friends, four,

  And one from a lover, present or lost,

  Woven together and burned

  Memory dearest, Memory be near,

  Bring your sought assistance here.

  Through cloudy night and warm sunlight,

  Chisel wrong, and chisel right

  On my stone mind, lest I forget.

  Let no day pass from this head’s net.

  second-chance rite

  A pinch of warm sugar

  And a sun-kissed leaf,

  Stirred in a stagnant pond

  May Passion bless this

  venture of mine

  Though not the first, this second time.

  Let not regret cast down my heart—

  No ending yet, but one fresh start.

  wishing rite

  Commin
gled blood,

  dropped from a great height

  Oh Death! I implore thee, Darkest Shade

  To grant me what fate first forbade.

  Bestow on me the Wishing Stone,

  That makes all hidden mysteries known.

  Reveal yourself to summoning eyes,

  And give to me the sacred prize.

  guilt rite

  Fresh tears

  And fresh blood,

  Heated over an open flame

  On a moonless night

  In an abandoned abode

  Your bad deeds will find you like dawn eating night,

  Your nightmares will torment your sleep.

  Your murder will track you, a wrong seeking right,

  Your image will come from the deep.

  trial rite

  A memory,

  A flower,

  A burning candle—

  A token from each of the Shades, combined

  Heat the memory with the candle’s flame,

  and add Passion’s flower

  Now convene, oh mighty Shades,

  Whether day or night.

  Stand witness two against the one,

  For errant deeds must be set right

  Till summoning work is done.

  acknowledgments

  All my thanks to Beth Phelan, agent extraordinaire, who rooted for this story from the moment she knew of its existence. My undying gratitude to Taylor Norman, who bowled me over with her support and asked all the important questions, no matter how difficult. Thank you to the Brothers Hilts for creating the perfect haunting-meets-wondrous illustrations. Thank you to Briony Everroad, #GeniusCopyeditor. And a big thank-you to everyone at Chronicle Kids, including Ginee Seo, Melissa Manlove, Amelia Mack, Sally Kim, Lara Starr, Jaime Wong, and others who worked behind the scenes and made meaningful contributions to all my stories’ journeys at Chronicle.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you to the usual suspects—you know who you are. I wouldn’t have been able to tell this story without the love and support of you, my friends and family. PopPop and Nanny Ormsbee, and Granddaddy Ashby—thank you for demonstrating to me what it means to live fully and selflessly. I love you all and miss you every day. Mom and Dad, I’ll never forget our weekly read-aloud sessions. Thank you for believing in my stories, just as you’ve always believed in me. You raised your daughter to question everything; I know Gretchen would approve.