Coleridge

by Tom Deady

  June 4,

  Another day full of laughs for us as the restoration adventure continues. My visions of the sexy floor guy were shattered. The two men that showed up were both as far away from what my mind had conjured up as you can get. One looked like a throwback to the lumberjack days, big and beefy with an unkempt beard. The other was the stereotypical plumber type, slightly overweight with saggy pants and a prominent butt-crack. Oh well, at least the floors are sanded.

  June 11,

  I feel like I’m living in a modern-day fairy tale. Dalia ran out this morning to fetch some coffee before we tackled painting the dining room moldings. She came back with the coffee, of course, but also with a small bouquet of flowers and a cinnamon roll with a candle in it. I’d completely forgotten my own birthday, but she didn’t. My heart is always full of love for my Dalia, but sometimes I feel like it might burst. And we shared the cinnamon bun, as well as other birthday treats that I’m too much a lady to put into words.

  SIX: Zadie’s Discovery

  Dalia closed the book, unable to go on. The memories were hard enough to bear, but written in Zadie’s own hand, seeing the depth of their love on the written pages, was just too much. She’d been alone since Zadie’s death, but now she felt like a husk. How can I go on? “For Zadie,” she whispered.

  Dalia wondered about the attic. Zadie’s entry had been vague, but creepy based on what was happening to her now, particularly Slade’s interest. Had Zadie found the other book Slade held?

  Finally, Slade turned to her, unable to ignore her anguish. “Oh, I should have warned you, some of it is pretty…intimate.” He pointed at the book. “You should skip to the end, that’s where it gets good.”

  His tone was mocking in a callous, matter-of-fact way that cut through Dalia’s grief. “You’ve got your book, why don’t you just take it and go?” Her voice trembled with the combination of pain and anger.

  He had returned to flipping through the book but turned again at her vitriol. “Oh, Miss Cromwell. This,” he held the book up, “isn’t what I came for. It’s just another one of the bread crumbs along the trail. Just like Zadie was, and the house, and, of course, you.”

  Dalia flinched. It was one thing to be violated by Slade, but it was somehow worse to be treated like a pawn in his stupid game. A stepping stone for Slade on his way to…whatever.

  Dalia slid off the couch onto her knees. “Please, I’m begging you. Just tell me what you want? Maybe I can help you, then you can leave me alone.” She hated the whine, the supplication in her voice, but her nerves had been shredded. Zadie’s book, Zadie’s words were the last straw. Slade smiled his condescending smile, and Dalia wanted nothing more than to pick up the poker and shatter his teeth with it, if that was possible.

  “Now where would the fun be in that, Miss Cromwell? But, fear not, the book is almost the endgame. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

  With that, he returned his attention to its pages, dismissing her. Dalia stood, unable to be so close to the man who was bringing her such misery. Why had she called him? Because he played you, she answered herself. It was true. The possibility of finding out something she didn’t know about Zadie was just the bait Slade knew she’d take. She did have the journal, she thought, though hardly a fair trade for whatever Slade was up to.

  She settled at the kitchen table and opened Zadie’s journal again. The emptiness she felt for the loss of her best friend and love of her life was crippling. People toss around the word soulmate casually, but Dalia believed that’s exactly what her and Zadie were. “Will you still believe that after reading the journal?” she whispered, an escaped tear running down her face and spilling onto the page.

  She read her dead lover’s words as the tears continued to flow, reliving every memory Zadie detailed on the pages. It’s funny how while they were restoring the house, it seemed like work. Long days of sometimes backbreaking labor, with only incremental progress to show for it. But reading Zadie’s journal, she realized the restoration project was nothing more than a backdrop to their love story. Zadie’s entries were funny, poignant, sometimes frustrated, but always filled with love. Still, it made her feel vacant, like she’d missed out on what was happening for the sake of the house. In her heart, she knew it wasn’t true, but it made the wound of her loss seem fresh, and that kind of pain breeds bad thoughts. Remorseful and guilt-filled thoughts. She shook it off and turned the page, noticing the date was marching ever closer to the day.

  She read the next entry, feeling hollowed out but needing to continue. She smiled despite the pain. It was the day Dalia had reminisced about, the day they had stripped the wallpaper in one of the bedrooms. As she read Zadie’s version of it, she was happy to see it matched her own memory. Sometimes she wondered if her own recollection of those times wasn’t romanticized in her thoughts. Oh, Zadie, we were so good for each other.

  She turned the page to continue reading and froze. Zadie’s entry didn’t end with their lovemaking and Dalia mumbling “on your own”—though she did have that part in the journal—it kept going, describing her exploration of the alcoves after leaving the bed. Zadie’s account of her trip to the attic and subsequent discovery behind the walls left Dalia panicked and desolate. She stood and paced the kitchen, her hands flexing into fists, then relaxing. Opening, closing. Why hadn’t Zadie talked to her?

  She realized this was about the time things became strained between them, when Zadie had started acting preoccupied, inattentive. The restoration continued and there was no real sense of any problem with their relationship, things were just…different. Strained might be putting too fine a point on it, but there had been a distancing. What used to be easy, comfortable conversation sometimes became the awkward small talk between near-strangers at a party. The passion and enthusiasm for completing the restoration drifted to stubborn resolve to finish what they’d started. Dalia knew the answers were likely in her hands, in Zadie’s own words, but she didn’t know if she had the courage to find those answers. At least, not this night, with Slade’s presence looming in the other room like some harbinger of doom.

  She looked almost longingly at the back door, then her eyes shifted from the entryway to the living room. She had no coat, and while the storm seemed to have subsided with the snow switching to rain, it was still windy and cold. She’d have to either risk running to the front of the house and down the street to a neighbor, or through the yard to woods beyond and try to find her way to a house further away. Both were perilous given the icy roads and the cold, and that was without a madman on her heels. She weighed it against the alternative of waiting Slade out and hoping he’d eventually take whatever it was he really came for and go away. After reading about Zadie’s discovery, the very book Slade was poring over, that option seemed the most precarious. She understood the expression “paralyzed with indecision” and knew her life might depend on what she did in the next few minutes.

  She made her verdict, unsure of it being the right one, or just the easier one. The perceived safer one. She opened Zadie’s journal and continued reading. Knowledge is power, she thought. It’s the only way to put myself on a level playing field with Slade.

  SEVEN: Zadie’s Words II

  August 29,

  When I left my sleepy Dalia after our rambunctious post-shower lovemaking she looked like a cute kitten. Meanwhile, I’m a visitor in my own body, too energetic, without the will to relax. I asked her, “Come with me?” to explore the attic, but I’m not sure she heard. And really, who knows what would have happened? The powerful, mysterious “they” (they always have something to say): ‘Nothing is more deceptive than the obvious.’ I don’t think I can ever really give credence to God, but if there is a “Him” or “Her” I don’t know what the plan is.

  Whoever built the secret door, he was a fine craftsman. Everyone wants to find a secret treasure, I found a secret curse.

  I literally stumbled upon it after tripping over a box. I moved other boxes out
of the way and crawled around in the dusty, cramped space until I found the opening. I should have stopped there, woken you up to share in the discovery. I’m glad I didn’t. There is no doubt in my mind we never would have discovered the hidden space no matter how long we owned the house. The construction of the hidden door was so intricate and perfectly aligned with the wall, it was impossible to see until I was a nose-length away, shining a powerful flashlight on it. Even then, I almost missed it. I wish I had.

  The hidden door is a masterpiece of ingenuity. It is a spring-loaded section of wood that requires equal pressure on two corners to disengage the locking mechanisms that hold it in place. It would have been a wonderful project to research the device and find its creator, but what I found in the alcove made it a moot point.

  I crawled into the opening—after shining the light to make sure there weren’t any four-footed furries taking residence there—and was further amazed at the construction inside. It wasn’t junk wood or wall board, but some sort of polished hardwood, oak, or perhaps mahogany. It was incredibly free of dust or any sign of decay. I crawled the full length of the…what do I call it…room? It was at the far end I noticed the slightest mismatch in the pattern of the floorboards. Another hidden door.

  It took far less time to find the pressure points to open this door. It was small, perhaps a square foot, and the inch-thick hardwood came out smoothly. The cavity in the floor was only about six inches deep and looked to be lined with some sort of metal. There was only a single item in the hidden space. Not a treasure, or piles of stocks and bonds, just a book. But it wasn’t “just” a book. It was the end of everything.

  EIGHT: What Slade Knows

  Dalia closed the book, hands shaking. The last entry had shaken her. Not just the content, but the disjointed writing itself. It wasn’t her Zadie. She struggled to take in a breath. What the hell is in that other book? She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Dizziness clutched at her, threatening to take hold and not let go. Nausea rose, but she choked it back. She glanced at the book, and it was Zadie who brought her back.

  She was faced with a decision that had no positive outcomes. Throw the journal in the fire and let Slade play out whatever his game was, or read the journal and discover things she didn’t want to know. Already, she knew too much. The contents of the journal would spell out the end of her and Zadie’s love. No, that’s not possible. An eerie picture rose in her mind, of her and Zadie, walking hand in hand through an impossible garden. She rubbed absently at her scar. Her feeble attempt to reunite with Zadie. The end of Zadie’s life was not the end of their love.

  She heaved herself to her feet, leaving the journal on the kitchen table. The temptation to throw it in the fire impulsively or in a fit of rage might be too great. And that would be irreversible. She strode into the living room, trying to compose herself on the way.

  Slade didn’t look up when she approached. “Mr. Slade?” She sounded defeated.

  Slade finally looked at her, his eyes moving up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. His small teeth shone in the firelight. “Miss Cromwell. So nice of you to rejoin me. I take it you had yourself a nice read?”

  Dalia’s lips tightened, but she tried not to let Slade see. If he knew he was getting under her skin, it would only make him more insolent. More powerful. She stood straighter, her chin thrust out. “I must ask you to take a break from your own reading and converse with me.” Her intent was to remain formal with him, project an air of control, but her voice betrayed her.

  “Miss Cromwell, I’m afraid we are a bit short on time.” He held up the book. “I have much more to learn and the hour grows late.” His eyes darted quickly to the antique mantel clock.

  It was an Ansonia Figural clock with double standing cavaliers. Dalia recalled the live auction they’d attended in New York shortly after they’d begun renovations. Zadie insisted the fieldstone fireplace, which they had agreed was the centerpiece to the house, demanded the perfect mantel accoutrements. She smiled at the thought; how many people used “accouterments” in everyday conversation?

  Zadie had her eye on one of the Ansonia Shakespeare clocks in the auction guide, but when the “cavaliers” version was put on display as a late addition, her eyes had gone wide. “That’s it,” she had whispered, more to herself than to Dalia. The bidding was lively but there was no way Zadie was walking out without the clock. She overpaid for it, which was fine. They weren’t that expensive. And besides, Zadie’s happiness was worth whatever the cost.

  When Slade’s gaze returned to her, she felt an almost imperceptible shift. It was like watching a tennis match and there is that one shot where suddenly the momentum changes. Something in Slade’s eyes, the way they moved quickly to the clock then back to her, illuminated a sense of urgency she hadn’t noticed. Short on time… The hour grows late. His words echoed in her head as she tried to distill their meaning.

  “We…you may be short on time, Mr. Slade, but I’m afraid I’m short on patience. I’ve tolerated your behavior and your unwelcome presence quite admirably. But I’m tired, and when I get tired, I get ornery.” She smiled to herself. That was a Zadie word. One she playfully tossed at Dalia when she thought she was acting bitchy. “So, at the risk of sounding inhospitable, what will it take to make you leave?”

  Slade’s eyes narrowed but his face remained passive, making him look quite handsome in the flickering light of the fire. He shot another look at the clock. “Very well, Miss Cromwell. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a boor, haven’t I? Here I am, in the house you and Zadie brought back to life, and I’ve yet to share anything with you. Please, sit down and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Dalia sat down, unsure of what to expect. She had tried to convince herself that his incredible speed and strength when he grabbed the poker was natural. She also told herself that the times he seemed to know what she was thinking was just instinct; it would be what anyone was thinking in her situation. But that didn’t mean she believed it. Whatever was happening might not be supernatural, but it was at least unnatural.

  Slade turned to her, stroking his goatee. “Well then, what would you like to know?”

  Dalia stared. Was he serious? She decided to start simple. “Why do you call this house Coleridge?”

  He shrugged. “Why, it’s the name of the house, of course. It was built in 1871 by Levi Coleridge, and became known as Coleridge, though according to his writing, he would have preferred Amaranth House.”

  Dalia’s forehead creased. She knew the plant named amaranth; they’d found it growing wild all over the property. Some people called it pigweed.

  Slade continued, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s quite simple, and I must say, quite obvious. I should think at some point before buying the place, or certainly during restoration, that you would have researched its history.”

  Dalia’s face burned. Slade was right, of course. And hadn’t they intended to do just that? Dalia shook her head absently. Once the house was officially theirs, every moment of free time went into the restoration. Examining old deeds and searching through records at the library became a luxury they didn’t have time for.

  “We never finished the history…” Her voice trailed off. What did it matter now? And why bother explain it to Slade? It wasn’t really what she wanted to know, and here he was, deflecting her questions again. “What are you looking for, Mr. Slade? It’s clear you have done the research, and you know something about the house we don’t. What do you know?” The last question came out almost as a screech. Her nerves were frayed and jangly, her patience spent.

  Slade sighed. His face was a mask of sadness, his eyes seeming to have sunk into his head, leaving deep shadows. He raised a hand slowly and massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He suddenly looked old and frail and miserable.

  “Do you know what the name amaranth means? No, of course you don’t. It comes from the Greek word a
marantos meaning not fading. Coleridge was driven out of Southern Arizona because of his unusual beliefs and practices.” He looked again at the antique clock, shaking his head.

  “Mr. Slade,” Dalia interrupted, “if you’re going to spin some sort of cursed house yarn, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”

  Slade shook his head sadly. “No, nothing like that, Miss Cromwell. I was merely giving you the background on the house because you asked what I’m looking for, and it is tied to the house, of course.” He paused, staring at the fire, a thoughtful expression on his face. “More like a cursed person, I’d say.”

  Dalia was the one shaking her head at that. “Please, I’m tired and your presence here has not been what I’d call relaxing. I want this, whatever this is, to be over. Soon.”

  He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You young people, you want everything handed to you on a silver platter. And you have to have it the minute you think you want it.” He sighed dramatically, then flipped through the book until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the book. “Here, perhaps this will quench your thirst for answers.” He held the letter out.

  Dalia hesitated. Do you really want the truth, Dalia? What if it stains the memory of Zadie? The open pages of the book on his lap stared at her accusingly. She knew there was no turning back once she read those pages. Something, some inexorable force, would be set in motion. Still, she took the letter from him, pretending not to feel an electric current pass through her along with it. Just static, she told herself.