The Poe Estate

by Polly Shulman

  “Sukie, is that you? Come in here a minute,” called Dad from the carriage house. He had several cardboard boxes open on his workbench. “That doorknob you sold to the museum lady yesterday—remember what it looked like?”

  “It was brass. Sort of ferny. Why?”

  “She wants to know what house it came from and if I got anything else there. Come help me look.”

  “Okay. What am I looking for?” It was warm in the carriage house—Dad had a wood fire going in the potbellied stove. I shrugged off my backpack and coat.

  “Another doorknob like the one she bought,” he said. “Here, these boxes have stuff from different houses. Find the doorknob, you find the house.”

  I poked through the boxes of old hardware—doorknobs, hinges, knockers, mailbox slots, things like that. All the doorknobs in the first box were made of china, mostly plain dark brown, though a few had swirls in the glaze to make it look like wood grain. The ones in the next box were made of brass, but they were all oval, not round, and instead of the leafy design, they had intertwined initials on them. I wondered what it would be like to be so rich that you put your initials on your doorknobs. But maybe the letters stood for the name of a school or a hospital or something, not a person.

  The third box had the doorknob I was looking for—I recognized its ferny swirls. I recognized something else too: The doorknob gave off an electrical coldness when I touched it. It was the same feeling I got when Kitty showed up in a room, the same feeling I got from the broom everybody wanted to buy. Was that what made Elizabeth want these?

  Remembering how Elizabeth had smelled her doorknob, I lifted this one to my nose. It smelled like brass, just as you’d expect.

  I didn’t find anything else very interesting in that box. A couple of the hinges had a faint echo of the doorknob’s electrical chill, and there was a bell attached to a neat spring mechanism, but that didn’t feel alive like the doorknob. Well, alive wasn’t quite the word—maybe inhabited. I twisted the bell, making it ring.

  “Find anything?” asked Dad.

  I held up the doorknob. “Here. Do you remember which house the stuff in this box came from?”

  He nodded. “That was a great old one, with the beams and gingerbread trim, but in terrible condition. It was a shame they had to demolish it. Almost nothing was salvageable. All the floors were rotted through. And the bats in the attic!” He whistled. “The whole thing gave me a chill. Thanks, Sukie. Here, toss it back in.” I dropped the doorknob in the box. Dad tore a piece of transparent packing tape with his teeth and sealed the box shut. He taped Elizabeth’s card to the top. I wondered if she would want everything in the box, or just the doorknob and the chilly hinges.

  • • •

  Mom and Cousin Hepzibah were sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. “Hi, sweetie. How was school?” asked Mom.

  “Okay,” I answered, as always. Even when things were bad, I never told Mom. But in fact, aside from Cole Farley’s unexpected visit on the bus that morning, my day had been pretty uneventful. Nobody bothered me at lunch, and I’d gotten a 93 on last week’s math quiz. It felt odd having such a normal day at school when everything at home was completely new and strange.

  “Do you have everything you need in your room?” asked Cousin Hepzibah.

  “Yes, thanks . . . or, actually, where’s the vacuum cleaner? I want to try to get some of the dust out of the curtains.”

  “Ours is still packed,” said Mom. “Hepzibah, do you have one?”

  Cousin Hepzibah shook her head. “Not for years. It was hard getting it up and down the stairs, so I didn’t replace it when it broke.”

  “I’ll unpack ours first thing tomorrow, then,” said Mom.

  “Oh, that reminds me. . . .” I spotted the broom in the corner behind the door and brought it over to Cousin Hepzibah. “What’s the story with this?” I asked her. “Everybody kept wanting to buy it.”

  Cousin Hepzibah put down her potato and her knife and held out her hand. “Oh, my. This takes me back,” she said with a faraway smile. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the attic. I was using it to sweep out the truck, and then at the flea market, people kept wanting to buy it. You wouldn’t sell it, would you?”

  “Sell it? No, no. Not that broom. But of course it’s up to you. It’s yours now.”

  “Mine?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m far too old to be running around with a thing like that.” She smiled and put the broom back in my hand, closing my hand around the broomstick and patting it. “It’s time for you to have it.”

  “I . . . Thank you, Cousin Hepzibah.”

  “Most of the things here will be yours, sooner or later,” said Hepzibah.

  “Much, much later, I hope,” said Mom.

  “I rather hope so too.” Cousin Hepzibah picked up her potato and started paring again, the peel falling away in one long, narrow, curving ribbon.

  • • •

  That night, the ghost in my room was Kitty. She threw herself on my bed, sending up puffs of dust from the curtains. I know ghosts aren’t supposed to have bodies, and Kitty didn’t exactly—if you tried to hug her, your arms went right through her. But she could move things. She was particularly good with cold drafts and liquids; for weeks after that conversation about me living in a haunted house, Keisha kept shivering in the hallways and Ava Frank’s milk spilled all over her lunch, over and over. Kitty did worse things too, sometimes; I was pretty sure when Ava’s friend Ellie tripped and sprained her ankle after dropping my backpack in a slush puddle, it wasn’t an accident.

  One thing Kitty didn’t do, though, was talk. That was okay. I knew her well enough to understand her anyway.

  I was right: She had been listening to what Cole Farley said on the bus, and she didn’t like it one little bit. I could feel the anger coming off her in waves. It was like standing too close to a barbecue on a windy day.

  “I know he’s a jerk, Kitty, but please leave him alone,” I begged. “He’s already calling me spooky. If you mess with him, it’ll make things worse.”

  I could tell Kitty wouldn’t mind teaching Cole a lesson, or his friends, either, but she reluctantly agreed not to bother them—for now. There were other things worrying her. She didn’t think Mom should have left me alone at the flea market, and she didn’t think I should talk to strangers there, especially not weird, creepy strangers. She thought I should probably just stay home. She wished I could stay home, but home was gone. She hated leaving our old house. It wasn’t the same here—she hadn’t spent much time in this place before, it wasn’t hers, and it made her feel weaker and somehow scattered. She liked Cousin Hepzibah, though.

  I asked her about the other ghost, but she didn’t seem to understand me.

  “But you’re a ghost yourself, Kitty!”

  She gave me her patient impatient look, the one that says “My baby sister is talking like a silly little baby.” With a sigh that fluttered the bed curtains, she floated off the bed and sank slowly into the painting over the fireplace. I got up and went over to it to look for her, but I couldn’t make out much, just glimpses of a river through shadowy trees.

  I wondered where Kitty went when she wasn’t here. Was she in the picture now, behind a tree or over a hill, out of sight? Was she in the walls? Was she nowhere at all?

  I felt as lonely as I had when she’d first died.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Supernatural Salvage

  Put on your boots, Sukie-Sue,” said Dad a few days later. I was sitting in the kitchen with Cousin Hepzibah, the only really warm room in the house. I had finished my history homework and was reading ahead to see what would happen to George Washington’s battered army, but I clapped the book shut and jumped up from the hearth bench. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Possible salvage.”

  “Where?”

  “New Ham
pshire.”

  Dad liked me to keep him company, especially after Kitty died. He didn’t usually say much, but it was companionable driving with him.

  After a while, we turned off the main road onto a gravel road that led uphill. A plow had been through after the last heavy snowfall, but that was days ago. Since then, a few light dustings had left the road ghostly between looming trees.

  The view opened up dramatically when we got to the top of the hill. What must once have been a lawn sloped down from a large old house. Despite a tangle of scrub and leafless saplings, you could see clear across a town-spattered valley.

  The house itself was tall and graceful, with a pillared porch that sagged in the middle. A young tree was growing next to the chimney, rooted in the roof. “They’re tearing this down?” I asked.

  Dad nodded.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Cost a lot to fix it, and they like modern.”

  We went in, noting the heavy door and the windows on either side, each with sixteen panes of wavy glass. There was a built-in hall tree for hanging hats and umbrellas. It was in pretty good shape, its mirror glimmering dimly. The hall was surprisingly grand, with paneling and a marble mantelpiece.

  The staircase listed scarily. “Mahogany,” Dad said approvingly, knocking on the banister. The newel was carved into a pineapple.

  “When’s the house coming down?” I asked.

  “Soon. Bruce says they want to start building in the spring.”

  That was good news. Dad’s friend Bruce liked to hire Dad, and he always gave him first crack at the salvage. “And the property owners don’t want to reuse any of this? Not even that awesome fireplace?”

  Dad shook his head. “They’re steel-and-glass people.”

  “What a waste.” I patted the doomed pineapple finial.

  When I touched it, something cold buzzed through my arm. It felt like the doorknob Elizabeth Rew at the flea market had bought, or the broom, or like the air just before Kitty shows up. I remembered how Elizabeth had sniffed at the doorknob. Was she somehow sensing the same quality by smelling it that I sensed by touching it?

  “You know what, Dad?” I said. “I bet that lady from the flea market last week is going to want this stuff.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, I just . . . get a feeling. Remember how she was so interested in where those doorknobs came from? I bet she’ll want to see this place before it gets demolished.”

  He reached in his pocket and tossed me his cell phone. “Okay, call her. It’s the last 2-1-2 number in my recent calls.”

  I couldn’t get a signal indoors or out on the porch, so I climbed to the top of the hill behind the house.

  “Elizabeth Rew, acquisitions,” said the faraway voice in my ear.

  “Hi, this is Sukie O’Dare. From the flea market—you bought a doorknob last week?”

  “Oh, Sukie, of course I remember you. That was a great doorknob! Did you find anything more from that house?”

  “Yes, another doorknob and some hinges. Dad’s bringing them next weekend. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh? What’s up?”

  “We’re in a house right now that Dad’s friend is planning to knock down. We came looking for salvage. I thought you would want to see it before it’s gone.”

  “That’s so thoughtful. Tell me about the house—what made you think of me?”

  “Well, it has some awesome details—paneling and mantelpieces and a really nice banister with a carved newel post, and I don’t know what else upstairs. But mostly it was just . . . I don’t know, a feeling. The whole house somehow reminds me of that doorknob you bought.”

  “Say no more. You’ve convinced me. Where is this house?”

  “Southeast New Hampshire, near the Massachusetts border. It’s on a private road. I’m not sure about the name, but I think that’s Granton Village down there. Hang on. I’ll get the address from Dad.”

  “Does your phone have GPS? I don’t need the address, if you could just text me the coordinates.”

  “Sure—hang on.”

  “Okay, got it,” Elizabeth said when I got back on the line. “We’re on our way. Thanks, Sukie, I really appreciate this. See you in a little bit.”

  “What—you’re coming now? But it’s hours from New York!”

  “That won’t be a problem. We’ll be there very soon. Wait for us, okay?” She hung up.

  “Okay,” I said doubtfully, going back into the house. Maybe she was already in New Hampshire for some reason?

  Dad was walking around upstairs, making the ceiling creak. “Watch out for that fifth stair,” he called down to me.

  I skipped the fifth stair altogether. The seventh wasn’t in such great shape, either, but it held. I found Dad in a little room at the back, with a slanted ceiling and a broken window. A remnant of lace curtain flapped at the broken pane as if it was trying to get out, and the sill had rotted. On the mantel, someone had stuck a little bouquet in a jam jar a very long time ago. That cold feeling was strong in this room.

  I handed Dad back his phone. “She wants to come look. She says she’ll be here soon. I guess she’s in the neighborhood,” I said.

  “Huh,” Dad grunted. “Hold that?” He gestured at the end of his tape measure. I helped him measure the wide pine floorboards, most of which were in pretty decent shape. He jotted the numbers in his notebook with a pencil and took pictures with his phone.

  We’d gotten through the floors in three rooms when I heard a voice downstairs. “Hello? Sukie?”

  I went out to the staircase and peered down. I saw three figures silhouetted against the door: Elizabeth, her enormous dog, and somebody very tall—that guy Andre.

  “Wow, that was fast! We’re up here,” I said. “Watch out for the fifth stair.”

  “Mind if Griffin comes in? He’s very careful,” said Elizabeth.

  “That’s fine,” I said, holding out my hand for the dog to sniff. He licked it and wagged his rear end—he had no tail. “It’s not like he could ruin anything any more than it’s already ruined. Just keep an eye on him—the floor’s not in great shape and he’s pretty big. It would be bad if he fell through.”

  Andre laughed. “Don’t worry, Griffin always lands on his feet. Don’t you, boy?” He and the dog took the stairs two at a time, stepping over both problematic stairs. Andre was wearing a pair of flip-flops with woolly hiking socks and dangling a pair of hiking boots by the laces.

  Elizabeth followed more slowly. She had her boots on her feet and was carrying an old-fashioned walking stick. It looked like Cousin Hepzibah’s cane.

  Dad came out of the front bedroom and introduced himself.

  “It’s nice to meet you in person, Mr. O’Dare,” said Elizabeth. “I brought Andre Merritt—he’s a page at our library.”

  “Call me Kevin,” said Dad, shaking hands with both of them. Andre shifted the boots to his left hand to free up his right.

  “You didn’t have to take those off,” I said. “The floors are pretty far gone. A little snow won’t make a difference.”

  Andre shrugged. “Habit, I guess,” he said.

  “How’d you get here so soon?” Dad asked. “Were you nearby?”

  “Close enough,” said Andre.

  “This is a great area for hiking,” said Elizabeth. “Cool house! You were right, Sukie. Mind if we take a look around?”

  “Be my guest,” said Dad. “Watch out—some of the floorboards are loose.”

  “It’s okay, we’re used to that,” Elizabeth assured him.

  Dad went back to taking pictures of the paneling in the front room. Andre walked over to the top of the staircase, squatted, and stared down the banister as if judging its straightness. He gave it a knock.

  “It’s mahogany,” I said helpfully.

>   “Uh-huh. What do you think of this, Libbet?”

  She leaned over the banister and sniffed. What was her sniffing all about? Could she tell mahogany by the smell? Or was she sniffing for something else? “It’s the real thing,” she said. Griffin sniffed at it too, then licked his nose.

  I leaned over the banister myself and breathed deep, but all I could smell was dust and the moldy damp of a house with windows broken for decades.

  Andre straightened his long legs and strode down the hallway, pausing every few steps to stare at a spot on the wall or the ceiling. There was something powerful and yet a little goofy about the way he moved, like a panther walking on its hind legs. Elizabeth followed him, sniffing. He opened the door to one of the bedrooms, and Elizabeth walked through.

  “Hawthorne, do you think?” Andre asked. He had to duck so he wouldn’t hit his head on the lintel.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s oak,” I said, following them into the room.

  He gave me a blank look. “What?”

  “The door. I think it’s oak, not hawthorn,” I said. “The door frame, too.”

  “Oh. Yeah. It does look like oak.”

  “It’s too late for Hawthorne,” said Elizabeth.

  “Irving?” suggested Andre.

  What were they talking about?

  “Irving’s even earlier. And his stuff’s all in New York,” said Elizabeth.

  “You’re right,” said Andre. “What about James or Wharton?”

  “I guess it’s possible, but most of those are European, and they’re usually fancier,” said Elizabeth.

  “Not always. There’s the Frome house,” objected Andre.

  “Mm. But that’s probably in Massachusetts, and it’s not really . . . you know.”

  “I don’t know. It’s gothic enough,” said Andre. “But okay, I hear you.”

  “I’m thinking maybe Freeman,” said Elizabeth, fingering a rag of curtain in the next bedroom. “No, maybe it’s late Flint.”

  “Could be,” said Andre.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I asked.