by Zoje Stage
“This is the chimney I found.”
“It’s gotta be a coincidence. I mean, you did the research about what it might look like, but that can’t be the literal building that was on our land.”
Shaw mumble-read, “‘The 1880s…before the establishment of the sanitarium…’” And then, loudly and triumphantly, “‘Called cure cottages in the surrounding’—that’s it, Orlie, that’s what I found. That’s what I painted. I’m dead serious—that is our land!”
Finally, he turned the book all the way around, jabbing a finger on the picture. Now she saw it: the towering tree—healthier then than now, even in black-and-white, but by all appearances the tree behind their house. In the foreground, much closer to the camera, half a dozen wan, grim women stood in a line beside a mustachioed middle-aged man. A couple of the women looked quite young, teenagers perhaps, and they all wore simple, but corseted, Victorian garb. Behind them was a log cabin–like structure with a stone chimney—and it did look like Shaw’s painting.
“This is real?” In spite of her shock, something was starting to align, and it felt right.
“It was a tuberculosis-cure cottage—they had these cottages around the area, I guess, before they built the big sanitarium.”
“What else does it say?” They were both on their knees now, excited.
He quickly scanned the page with the photo and the next page of text. “Not much…I guess people came from New York City. Other than the caption, it doesn’t say much about the cottages themselves.” He got lost for a moment, reading.
It was a remarkable bit of incredibly local history, and Orla was starting to fit jigsaw pieces together, but was she crazy for what she was thinking? “Can I see it again?”
He handed her the book. The caption identified only the man, a doctor, and didn’t state a specific location. But with the tree…
“This could be it, Shaw.”
“I know!”
“No, I mean the reason for everything.”
“That’s what I mean too. People came here and died of tuberculosis. In our backyard.”
She might not have ever believed such a thing before, but it seemed possible now: “Maybe our land is haunted by people who died here?”
They sat with that for a moment. Orla wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Of all the things she’d considered, a haunting hadn’t been one of them. Although maybe that was because of the variety and magnitude; a haunting translated as one entity, in her limited experience, not many.
“Maybe, somehow, they’re showing us…some part of them, their souls or who they were,” she said, thinking on the odd and beautiful things she’d seen.
“They showed me this.” He pointed to the picture again. “I understand it better now, this wanting I’ve felt—they wanted us to know, somehow, that they were here. They wanted me to be aware, to see.”
“It almost seems plausible,” she said, not fully sure what she was talking about. “And they don’t seem like…bad spirits. They’re not poltergeists, rattling around the house. But it’s still kind of horrible.”
Shaw laid the book, more gently this time, on the floor and flopped back against the bed with the relief of a man who’d successfully purged a demon. “It’s not the house, that’s the thing, it’s the land. And when they sent people here for the good-weather cure—how hilarious is that, clean air, I guess—they had nothing else to offer, medically. It’s so sad. And I know that part is horrible, but…ever since we got here there’s been this weird—”
“I know.”
“Feeling. This energy in the air. And this, we can work with this. Maybe they’re lonely, or…if their souls are unsettled, maybe they’re looking for some sort of resolution.”
Orla saw where he was going, but she wasn’t quite as ready to contemplate the next step, the how-tos of soothing the spirits in their woods. But it felt like progress. With this new possibility, she wanted to think back on everything that had happened, whatever its category—scary, awesome, confusing, maybe even coincidental—and examine it through this new lens. “I need to think about this more, look at every—”
“Tomorrow I’ll get online and see what else I can—”
Eleanor Queen’s wail interrupted him. “Mama!”
Orla scooted on her knees to the edge of the bed, facing the hallway from where the cry had emanated. “In here, love!”
“Papa.” Eleanor Queen slipped in, wearing a tortured frown and fuzzy fleece pajamas covered in rabbits.
“What’s wrong?” Orla lay back and lifted the covers so her daughter could crawl in beside her.
“Bad dream, Bean?” Shaw asked.
“Uh-huh.” Orla held her tight against her body, and Shaw leaned up on his elbow and rubbed his daughter’s back. “It was very, very, very scary.”
“Shhh.” Orla rocked Eleanor Queen as she cried.
There’d been a time when she was prone to nightmares, frighteningly real scenarios that often involved getting run over by a taxi. Eleanor Queen would claim she felt it crushing her bones. She’d scream out for help. It had been hard for Orla and Shaw to promise her such a thing would never happen in real life, especially when they’d had several close calls with aggressive drivers over the years. Even as savvy, fast-walking city folk, they couldn’t always defend against a car making a fast turn to beat out the swarm of pedestrians.
“There are no busy streets out here, so you’re safe,” Orla said.
“It wasn’t about New York, it was about here.” She snuffled a bit, and her tears subsided.
Orla and Shaw exchanged glances. “What happened, Bean?” he asked.
“The house…” Her eyes went wide as she looked at them, and then her face crumpled again.
“You’re safe in the house,” Shaw said. He sounded confident, reassured now that their troubles were “only” the unfortunate result of their home being too near a cure cottage that had offered no cures.
Eleanor Queen shook her head. “There was ice, like a river, surrounding the house. And the house was breaking apart, falling into the water. And we were inside, all crammed together, and we were gonna…the ice was gonna crush us, or we’d fall in the cold water and freeze to death. Tycho was crying. And then Papa fell through the floor!”
She couldn’t speak anymore and Orla held her tight.
The fine hairs on Orla’s arms and neck flagged their alarm. Eleanor Queen had always had such realistic nightmares for a child, but what was this about their house? And ice?
“It’s okay,” Shaw said in a soothing voice. “It was just a dream.”
“It was real,” Eleanor Queen wailed.
“It just felt real—that’s the way dreams are.” But Orla wasn’t feeling as convinced as before. Maybe their daughter was tapping into the lingering energies of people from long ago, but if they could still give her nightmares, that was a very real and immediate problem.
“You know what? I had a dream kinda like that a couple of nights ago.” Was that true? “But in my version a big boat appeared, and I helped you all climb in—”
“I don’t want us to die.” Though Eleanor Queen’s voice was muffled by blankets, the plaintive desperation was clear.
“We’re fine, you’re—”
“There’s a British saying,” Shaw said, overlapping Orla. “‘Safe as houses.’”
Orla was pretty sure the expression had something to do with financial investments, not the physical safety of actual houses. But this was even worse than when they’d try to reassure their daughter about the taxis, because her words were so chilling. The taxi threat forced them to be extra-vigilant, and they always made Eleanor Queen aware of their extra caution. “See? I’m looking Mr. Taxi Driver in the eye and he’s letting us cross.” What could they possibly tell her to dispel her fear of being crushed to death in their new house? She wasn’t sure if Shaw was telling the truth about his own dream or simply trying to do right in the moment and comfort his daughter. But she preferred his version, which at least
included the possibility of rescue, of them all making it out alive.
Finally Eleanor Queen drifted toward sleep.
“She’s sensitive to it too,” Orla whispered. “How do we explain this? It isn’t fair—”
“I know, but we can figure this out now, now that we have a better understanding. I’m really feeling more hopeful. Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll get online. We’ll figure this out, Orlie.” He kissed her cheek and then Eleanor Queen’s before inching up to switch off his lamp.
It was too much to say she felt heartened, but having Shaw back in true partner mode would surely help. She shut her eyes when he spooned beside her, solid and warm in the dark. Until his warmth made her think of his nightmare, a seeping chill, a heart stopping—and Eleanor Queen’s fear of them all dying in this place. She lay awake for a long time holding her child, counting Eleanor Queen’s breaths. It worried her more than she’d ever allow herself to say.
What if they couldn’t figure it out?
What if they couldn’t keep her safe?
17
At first she thought it was a teakettle. Still asleep, her mind registered only a shrill and persistent yowl. But as she returned to consciousness, Orla became aware of the empty space beside her where Eleanor Queen had spent the night. And Shaw was still on her other side, a warm lump. No one was making tea; it was her daughter, screaming an alarm.
She and Shaw both tumbled out of bed. Halfway down the stairs, heading toward the scream, they heard Tycho shouting from his room, “We got ten feet of snow!” Just like last time, he saw it as a cause for excitement. And he came galloping after them.
They found Eleanor Queen in the darkened living room. The girl faced the front of the house. Shaw fell to his knees beside her and made a quick check of her physical well-being. Orla couldn’t fathom the room’s darkness. There’d been daylight in their bedroom, sneaking through the blinds. They rarely remembered to close the curtains they’d put up downstairs, so why was it like night in here? And it was just as dark in the kitchen. The strangeness of it was oppressive and made the shadowy room scary enough that Orla wanted to scream too.
Tycho jumped up and down, pointing at the front window. “Ten feet of snow!”
And then Orla understood. The downstairs was so dark because…“He’s right. Oh my God, we can’t get out of the house!”
As Orla started to panic, Eleanor Queen let out a final squeak, falling silent as she leaned against her father. Orla opened the front door—to a wall of white.
“Close it!” Shaw called.
She closed it without understanding his urgency. The wrongness of everything—her daughter’s premonition, the snow, being trapped—made her skin ripple and she wanted to step out of it, set it aside like a damp leotard and wake up to a different reality.
“Are we asleep?” The words slipped from her mouth, but Orla was relieved that no one seemed to have heard. If only it were that simple.
Eleanor Queen plastered herself to her mother as Shaw abandoned her. He went from one window to the next. In the unlit room, each looked like it had been sprayed over from the outside with grayish concrete.
“They should hold. They’ll be fine. We’ll spend the day upstairs. And no one open the doors!”
“Why, Papa?” Tycho asked.
“Because if the snow starts to spill in, we might not be able to get them closed again. Come on, go upstairs—go on up to our room.”
“We’ll bring you some breakfast,” Orla said, trying to regain her parental composure. “It’s okay.” She rubbed Eleanor Queen’s back with one hand while trying to peel her away with the other.
“My dream’s coming true,” she said, clutching her mother’s shirt.
“No it isn’t. It’s just snow. But we have everything we need inside.” Even their new shovel was in the basement, thank God. Orla didn’t like the way Shaw was pacing around the room like a crazed animal. It gave her further urgency to get the children upstairs, lest Shaw’s unease contaminate their efforts to calm them. “And the house is strong and we’ll all have a slumber party in our room—”
“Can we play outside?” Tycho asked, jumping in place.
“Not today, Tigger.” Orla guided him and half dragged his sister toward the stairs. “Go, we’ll be up in a minute. Please, Eleanor Queen, it’s okay. Keep an eye on your brother?”
“Come see from my room!” Tycho said, grabbing his sister’s hand. Eleanor Queen allowed him to pull her, though the look she gave her parents was one of pure misery.
“We’ll be right up, I promise,” said Orla.
She and Shaw glanced at the ceiling as little footsteps trundled across the floor above, and a moment later Tycho began cataloging for his sister everything he could—and couldn’t—see from his window.
“What’s happening?” Orla no longer tried to keep the composure in her voice. “Were we supposed to get this much snow? Is it even possible to get this much snow?”
Shaw flipped on a lamp and collapsed onto the couch. He kept widening his eyes like he wanted to stretch them into focus or wakefulness. “It wasn’t in the forecast—I don’t know what’s up with these shitty forecasts. But it’s possible. Oswego got ten feet back in 2007, though that storm lasted several days. Some town there got almost twelve feet. And look, they were fine. They dug out—”
“Is someone going to dig us out?”
Shaw rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. He nodded as if he were trying to convince himself of some internal argument. “I can get out. Through one of the upstairs windows. Make sure the roof is okay, and start shoveling—”
“Can’t we call someone to come help us?” Orla didn’t wait for him to answer. She charged into the kitchen and picked up the phone receiver. She punched buttons. No dial tone. No comforting beeps. “It’s not working.”
“The snow probably buried the dish. Or knocked it off-kilter. We’ll try our cell phones from upstairs—”
“This isn’t normal.” She marched back into the room to confront him. There was an emptiness inside her like she was starving, but the thing that was missing wasn’t food. Nothing felt real. It made her a little light-headed, and the room started to spin and wobble and suddenly it was too easy to imagine Eleanor Queen’s dream coming true, the walls tumbling in. “Can ghosts make—”
She held out her arms as she swayed, trying to save her balance. Shaw jumped up and grabbed her.
“Definitely not normal, but it can happen here. It doesn’t happen often, but Buffalo got four feet in a single afternoon a few years back. Though that was western New York.” He was so certain there was a logical, real-world explanation, but Orla was spiraling in another direction. “They’ve got trucks and plows and snow removal—”
“So we just sit here? And wait?” she asked, gripping his elbow, still a bit unsteady on her feet.
“For now.”
She saw him battling his fear of something very, very real. This amount of snow was catastrophic. Life-threatening. He started pacing again.
The dark shape that had been lurking at the edge of her vision stepped forward into a spotlight—maybe the things that were happening weren’t completely random. Fear shot out from her heart, spreading ice through her limbs. Last night’s theory seemed ridiculous now, child’s play, because what was happening felt ever so much more empowered, more…intentional.
“You wanted to get online today.” She was thinking aloud.
“That’s obviously not happening.”
“It stopped you. And Tycho—how many times since we’ve been here has he asked about getting ten feet of snow?” Suddenly it seemed possible—as possible as anything else—that last night, they’d found the cover picture for the wrong box of puzzle pieces. Maybe it was something else entirely, but she couldn’t quite—
“What are you on about? Surely you don’t think this is Tycho’s fault?”
“No of course not, I’m just…things keep happening!” She knew she wasn’t as affected by their surround
ings as her husband and daughter, but she had sensed something too—something larger—and had tried, in her own way, to find reasons. The presence of a tuberculosis-cure cottage in their backyard was certainly interesting, but what if…
She’d expected a winter wonderland with the fantastic sort of imagery she’d seen in films, and she—they—carried a fear of missing their old lives, of struggling in their new ones. And here they were, surrounded by winter and fear.
“Maybe we…asked for this. Somehow. By mistake.”
“What are you talking about? You sound insane. We promised the kids breakfast.” He strode into the kitchen and turned on the overhead light.
Maybe she did sound insane; she felt it too. But this was a whole new level of crisis. She followed him into the kitchen, where he was already putting bread in the toaster.
“Remember that book we read? The Secret? Back when everyone was reading it? About how your thoughts, if you focused on the right things, could conjure your deepest desires?” People got on their knees every day and prayed to a God whom they believed could hear them and satisfy their desires. Maybe she hadn’t prayed on purpose—quite the opposite—but maybe it, the unknown godly forces she’d never seriously contemplated (not while her life and ambitions had gone more or less according to plan), worked regardless. “What if praying isn’t any different than thinking about things too hard? I’ve been afraid, and thinking about snow—”
“That book was ridiculous—didn’t you dismiss it as an offense to all hardworking people?”
Because she knew you couldn’t summon a ballet career with focused imagery, not without endless hours of practice and other fortuitous prerequisites. For better or worse, the natural world clung less rigidly to once-acceptable rules. “I’m just trying to explore all possibilities. Even stupid ones,” she muttered.
“There isn’t an explanation for everything. It’s snow. We’ll find out how widespread it is. They’ll clear the roads. We’ll shovel out.” He grabbed the coffee beans and slammed the cabinet door. “If I’d known you were going to go full X-Files, I’d never have seriously talked to you about…” He swallowed the rest of his sentence.