The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home

by Joseph Fink

  “Why did you do it, Vlad?”

  “He is paying for me to return to Chișinău with enough to buy a home, you understand? I will see Azra again. You understand.” And I did understand. I understood doing terrible things because you believe it is your life’s greater good.

  “Then why not kill me?” I managed.

  Just before my vision faded again, I saw Vlad put his hand on his chest in respect.

  “You are my captain.”

  Craig

  2016

  It’s hard to smile without a face, but on rare occasions I do.

  When Amaranta kissed you, and Orlando, your officiant, pronounced you husband and wife, I smiled.

  You honeymooned in Luftnarp. I had mixed emotions about returning there, but it is a beautiful country. You found a modest chalet nestled in the Alps. You drank zesty, sparkling red wine. You went to the Museumos dus Modernias Artim—world famous home to Leonardo da Vinci’s “Dogs Playing Bloodborne.” You rode horses. (Did you know horses were invented in Svitz in the sixth century?) You went sledding, which the locals called, for some reason, “sledging,” and nearly broke your neck at the end of the run when you realized you didn’t know how to stop and so went flying down the middle of the little town’s main street. That scared me. What would become of your burgeoning family if you died doing something as silly as “sledging,” Craig?

  I had not been there in so long. I was afraid to go. I almost tried to cancel the trip on you, force you to stay here, because of my own unresolved feelings. The abandoned mine shaft outside of town has king beds, free wifi, continental breakfast, heated pools, and HBO. I know it’s a prison used by the Sheriff’s Secret Police, but it’s also a top-rated resort, receiving an average rating of four stars on TripAdvisor. Plus there are weekly laser light Pink Floyd concerts at nearby Radon Canyon.

  But I trusted you. It was mainly Amaranta I trusted. But I trusted you both. Trust can go far, Craig. Trust me on that.

  Luftnarp was bright and cold. You two made love as the sun set over the snow-cloaked mountains. I didn’t watch. I’m not a creep. But honestly, it was hard not to hear, even with the shower door closed and both of your passports rolled up and shoved into my ears.

  I took some time to myself on that trip, too, leaving you two alone as I traveled south to the coastal cove where I was born. The countryside is so different now, with its vehicles and shopping centers and wifi and tourists, but also there is much about the countryside that is undeniably the same. The hills, the shape of the coastline, the orange trees, the white-blue of the sky at noon, the purple-blue of the ocean at dusk. Where my father’s home had burned down was another estate, this one more luxurious, albeit less inviting. A famous movie actor lives there three weekends a year, and it is otherwise only occupied by staff. Sometimes he forgets that he owns it, and when he remembers, he feels afraid, because he knows that his wealth and fame have taken something from him that he will never get back. The weekend I was there the house was empty. I found the hill where my mother was buried and where my father’s body last laid and I watched the luxury yachts coming into port, knowing none of the ships’ names. I tried to remember every choice I had ever made, not out of regret, only merely cataloging what I had done, what I am doing now, and what I will have to do next.

  I knew a man named Vlad who loved a girl named Azra. Vlad’s path led him away from her only to bring them back together. Vlad made choices to come back to Azra, but many of the choices were made by the path he had to take. Vlad knew who he was and where he needed to be. He did not always know how to get there, only that he would.

  I thought of Vlad as I stood atop the hill where I last saw my father, and I knew there was so much more of my path left for me to follow.

  When your honeymoon ended, I was ready to return to Night Vale. On the first night in your brand-new home, shortly after you fell asleep in the soft crescent of each other’s arms, I thanked you both for the gift of your life together. I did this by painting your kitchen cabinets. Those maple veneers were so 1990s, and I prefer a cleaner, brighter color. I chose Arctic Fur. It really opened up the room, I think.

  You knew something was different that next morning, and you told Amaranta, “Those aren’t the same cabinets,” but she disagreed. You pressed the point, but she kissed you just under your right eye and said, “Our new home is perfect.” You thought about a figure standing behind you in the mirror and about how unreliable your experience of the world has become and you stopped arguing.

  Your new home is perfect. I know there are still countless boxes to get sorted and unpacked, but you have a tiny guest room, with its own en suite. There’s even two separate living spaces: one for television, one for a more traditional parlor. A fireplace you won’t ever use, even on the windy nights of the desert winter, but it’s cute. And a small third bedroom, for a child.

  I don’t know what clicked. I can’t get inside that mind of yours, but you took action. You admitted to Amaranta you were dragging your feet, and that it wasn’t because you didn’t love her or had nerves. You listened to her questions about your career and what you want out of your life, and became worried that you might not be a good enough husband. You’re bad with money, content to stay in the same job, and happy living right here in Night Vale.

  Amaranta wants to move up in her career, maybe she’d even want to move away, you thought. But she said, not at all. She wants a life with you. She wants you to be happy. Your happiness was key to her happiness, and she hoped vice versa.

  She gets it.

  And you said you were happy living a life with her. Growing. Slowly, but growing as a person, as a human, as a family. And you wanted that more than anything. You didn’t do that sniveling get-down-on-one-knee thing. You asked directly if she wanted to marry you, because you wanted to marry her, and you both discussed all the things this could mean. Or at least all the things you could comprehend that this could mean. Which, to be fair, is almost nothing.

  Mutually, you both agreed this was right. And it was. And it is. And I’m smiling again.

  I’ve already picked out the wallpaper for the baby’s room. Lavender bears holding golden fleurs-de-lis. Or maybe they’re knives? Hard to say. It’s in the catalog I put on your night stand. I left it open to the correct page, so you’ll order it.

  One thing that came up the other day was Amaranta’s career. She mentioned applying for a promotion at the bank. She wants to move into human resources and do personnel training courses, which she’s perfect for. She’s so confident and likable. She’s great with people.

  Plus, it would be a significant pay raise, and that’s wonderful.

  But I read up on that position, and it’s going to require a lot of travel. She didn’t really mention the travel part to you, which I bring up now only because you’ve already picked out the wallpaper for a baby room, and if she’s traveling a lot, she may put off getting pregnant, for how long? Forever?

  Just something to consider.

  I know you’re planning on staying at home, so raising kids isn’t impossible. Plus, I saw you opened an IRA. Excellent work. Putting money away, saving on taxes. You’re paying off your Amex each month. You’re growing up, Craig.

  You’re so content in your job writing press releases and online copy and the occasional slogan. (I know your marketing team voted you down, but I thought “Ford: You Never Chose to Be Born, But We Chose for You” was your best work yet.) With the people skills you have, you could be a manager, or a director of marketing. Someone with the power to hire and fire. Copywriters are some of the first to get laid off in hard times. We can’t have that.

  Plus your friend—I forget her name—quit for no reason at all. People come and go so often there. The management at that dealership is not to be trusted. By the way, interesting that you and what’s-her-name did not keep in touch, which oh, well. You’re married now. You have lots of friends. I guess it all worked out for the best.

  You’ve read my messages I know
. I crafted a needlepoint skull on the inside of your windbreaker. I left a skinned squirrel in your glove compartment. I wrote a letter, which I saved as DATE TIME AND DETAILS OF CRAIG’S DEATH.docx right there on your desktop. I knew that file name would get your attention. It wasn’t about your death, but about your life.

  It said: “You should try sleeping on your side. You’ve begun snoring. It’s keeping me and Amaranta awake. And it’ll keep your future baby awake. By the way, here are some helpful resources for best practices of parenthood and family planning.”

  And then I linked to a few interesting websites about the joys and practicalities of raising a child.

  It disturbed you so much that you immediately deleted the file, which is frustrating, because there were some really enlightening think pieces in there. Also the last link took you to a website I built that gives the date, time, and details of your death. I’m full of interesting, omniscient factoids. Sorry you missed out on that one. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll be better as a surprise.

  You also changed your password after you found my letter, but that didn’t work, because I can stand over your shoulder without you seeing me. You could try crouching under a blanket or a towel next time, but then you run the risk of actually seeing me. You will be seeing more and more of me as you get older, but I promise I have good reasons for all of this.

  Thursday, after I filled all of your jeans with warm, damp leaves, you yelled at me. You didn’t know who I was or anything about me or even for certain that I was there, but you yelled at me.

  I deserved it. It was rude of me. But we can’t communicate in a healthy way if you’re going to lose your temper. And it’s especially not good if people hear or see you, because they can’t hear or see me. As your PR director at Ford, Donovan Lewis, would say: “Bad optics.” (This coming from a man who writes deer erotica under the username yougotcervidae.)

  If you want to talk to me, try writing a note. I created a folder called “Fantasy Football” in your Documents. (Your wife’s never going to look in a folder called “Fantasy Football.”) Just save anything you have to say to me there.

  Oh, who am I kidding. Keep digging under the bed and looking behind clothes in your closet. Maybe check the attic. I heard a story on my favorite podcast, Criminal, about a guy who secretly lived in this woman’s attic for a year. She seemed pretty cool about it, given the circumstances. I think you should listen to that episode. You could learn a lot from that woman. I’ll link to it in the Fantasy Football folder.

  So obsess all you want, but don’t let it get the better of you. Take care of yourself, so that you can take care of others. How is Amaranta supposed to feel if she comes home to find her husband screaming at no one?

  Especially when she’s so stressed out from her recent interviews for the new position with the bank. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the job. She hasn’t told you this yet, because she’s only now finding this out.

  I listened to Steve Carlsberg’s call with the Regional Director yesterday. Apparently Susan Willman, a good friend of his, applied for the same HR job as Amaranta. This surprised Steve because Susan’s been running her own management consulting business, and he never thought she would be interested in leaving such rewarding, independent work. He never even bothered to send the job announcement to her because of this.

  But apparently someone helped convince Susan that a stable job working for a stable bank, alongside a stable old friend, would be a better career path than the uncertainty of entrepreneurship. Who even knows what unknown emailer would have told Susan about that job, or if that emailer was the same person who once put a Honey Nut Cheerios box full of tarantulas in Susan’s pantry.

  Like Steve, I was surprised. Susan’s not nearly as friendly or assertive as Amaranta, but never discount the bonds of friendship. Nepotism is a powerful persuader. But also, Susan has over twelve years’ experience in corporate training, so I think it was the right pick.

  Amaranta deserves better, but the Last Bank of Night Vale needs to do what is best for the business. As much as I love and respect your wife, Susan is simply more qualified. Steve is making the correct choice.

  What I’m trying to say is conserve your energy. Limit your frustration. Amaranta needs your fullest emotional support tonight.

  Oh, look she’s home. She’s crying. Remember to listen more than talk, Craig. She needs you.

  No. Don’t yell.

  You can’t help her by being mad at forces neither of you can control.

  She doesn’t need your empathetic rage. She needs your comfort, your compassion.

  Craig.

  Stop yelling. You’re yelling at me. You’re upsetting your wife. She’s confused.

  I’m going to touch your shoulder to try to calm y—

  Ow!

  You hit me.

  And you know it.

  You hit me.

  It was pure accident—a wild, hopeful swing—but I can’t believe you did that. Craig. Sit down.

  Sit. Down.

  I’m going to whisper something in your ear now.

  “Shut up, you obstreperous little imp. Sit down and listen to your wife.”

  You heard me?

  You heard me.

  Okay.

  You’re sitting now. She’s sitting now.

  Good.

  Put your arm around your crying wife. This moment isn’t about you.

  Focus, Craig. Oh, Craig. You’re growing up.

  I’m proud of you.

  Look at that. I’m smiling again.

  The Rest

  1830–1862

  1

  Albert woke before dawn, partly because he had a long day of work ahead of him, and partly because he liked the color of the sky when the light was just coming up on the horizon. The solemn blue calmed him, and the first thing he did was go out into the cold morning air and look at that sky and the ocean beneath it. Then he returned to his cottage, and cut himself some bread for breakfast.

  His morning routine, such as it was, done, he went out to examine the orange and lemon trees growing along the hillside down toward the water. Despite the cold, there was little chance of freezing in this climate, although the Year Without Summer fourteen years earlier had badly damaged that harvest. Ever since then, he had learned to not take the weather for granted, and so he walked through the trees, eyeing them carefully.

  This was the earth his parents had worked, until they had died a decade before, both of them to the plague. Since then he had worked it alone. It was not a rich plot, but it was his, and it was fertile, and he could eat from it, and sell enough for anything else he needed. It was a self-contained world. He had learned long before about what the outside world could do to a family, having his closest friend disappear from his life after her father was killed and her estate burned. He took that lesson with him. It was a fence he built around his life. He had no ambitions, but without ambition came safety. No one noticed him, and in not noticing, they did not harm him. Along with his own crop, he also regularly harvested from the remaining orchards in the estate next to his small plot of land. The estate house was still a charred ruin. No family had claimed that land. Perhaps it was too obscure a location, and so had slipped the attention of the squabbling aristocracy. Or perhaps the viciousness of what had been done to the inhabitants was still a stain upon its reputation.

  Not even the smugglers landed in its cove anymore. Ships steered well away from its shore. This suited Albert well. He would take a haunted reputation if it left him in peace. And so he walked the forty minutes or so through the woods into the lower slopes of my former estate, where the orange trees that had survived the fire hung heavy with unripe fruit. There wasn’t much to do at this point in the growing cycle. The trees had enough water from the damp air, and it was too cold for them to grow enough to need pruning, and so he just kept up his steady inspection. Once done, he started back toward his cottage for his midday meal, and then he froze. A figure, standing at the end of the row of oran
ges. The first other human being he had seen in this estate since . . . Since. “Hey!” he shouted, even though he had no more right to be in that abandoned orchard than anyone else. “Hey!” he said with bravery he did not feel, as he had not felt bravery since . . . Since. But still he walked forward, and the figure turned. It was a woman, his age. He knew who it was, even with all those wasted, vicious years between us. Mine was not a face he could forget.

  He smiled at me, and I shook. “I didn’t know where else to go,” I said. He reached out, and I stepped closer, and he touched me and said, “You’re home,” and in the moment of him saying that, I knew he was right.

  I had never seen where Albert lived. He had always hid it from me. And so there was an aspect of mystery, a crossing of a threshold I never thought would be crossed, when he led me back through the woods to the small orchard he worked.

  “Is this where you always lived?” I said, looking around me at the neat line of trees and the cottage, small but, like the trees, carefully tended.

  “Yes,” he said, with a dip of his head and a twist of his hands. “I know you always thought I lived on one of the other estates, and I was too ashamed to tell you the truth. But I’m a farmer, with only a bit of land. A son of farmers. We’ve worked this land since before there were any great houses on this coast.”

  Ashamed? I could have laughed, if there was anything like humor left in me. “Oh, Albert, your family made something. Your family brought food into the world. Our estate was fed by thieving. You were too good for us.” And then I stumbled, and realized just how hungry I had become in my long journey back to the place I had been born.

  Albert took me into the cottage, and I studied with interest the sturdy planks and beams, the way the light darted up the walls with the movement of the fruit trees outside, the way the window by the hearth was perfectly situated to look over the sea below. How wonderful this room was. I regretted every year I had spent not sitting in this quiet room, with this quiet man, who at this moment was cutting bread and cheese and placing it with some pickled vegetables on a tin plate. I ate greedily, then laid back on his bed without asking permission, because I did not have the strength to ask, and I slept soundly at last.