666 Gable Way

by Dani Lamia

  Aunt Hester had apparently not forgotten their last encounter. She raised her nose and looked at her grandniece down its angles. “What have you done to your hair?” she asked with obvious distaste.

  Phoebe had also not forgotten the last time she had spoken, or rather shouted, with her great-aunt. The pointless fight had ended with Phoebe’s acquiescence, which she had yet to get over. “I dyed it. You should give it a shot.”

  Hester ignored the insult. “We have a client in my parlor,” she said. “Did you come to my home just to blast your horn and disrupt my peace, or is there something you want?”

  Phoebe blushed. She hated groveling, but she didn’t have a choice. Thinking quickly, she said, “Sorry about the horn. There’s a loose wire or something. Happens sometimes when I put it in park.”

  A wave of energy washed over Phoebe at that moment. Her nausea struck again, and her temples began to pound sharply. She blinked and received the notion that the woman had not just cast doubt upon her words but was reading her innermost thoughts.

  Ridiculous, Phoebe thought.

  Before her great-aunt could say anything, Phoebe quickly pressed on, explaining about her losing her job, the eviction, and having only a quarter of a tank of gas left.

  “Please, Aunt Hester,” Phoebe pleaded, which turned her stomach more. “I’ve got nowhere else—”

  “Please, child! Shush,” Hester admonished and lifted her index finger to the air. She had grown her fingernails so long they looked like claws. Hester placed her hands on her hips and sighed. “Very well. You may come in. Be quiet until my client leaves and we’ll discuss it.” She turned and went back inside, not waiting for Phoebe to follow. The screen door screeched and slammed the second Hester’s long skirt fluttered past it, narrowly escaping being caught in it.

  “Well, gee, Phoebe,” Phoebe mocked. “Nice to see you. Fuck you very much for stopping by, Phoebe.” Shaking her head in disgust over her own obsequious behavior and Hester’s arrogance, Phoebe stepped onto the porch, feeling its cool, damp air bring out the goosebumps on her skin. The feeling brought back memories.

  There was something new here, however. Three sixes on a black plaque were screwed into the stone wall next to the front door. It was the address, if it was to be believed, though arbitrary, as the old Victorian had always been the only residence there.

  “Six-six-six Gable Way, huh? Oh, that’s just perfect,” Phoebe muttered and rolled her eyes.

  “Rawk!”

  “Shit!” Phoebe cried and jumped to the right, turning midair to face the noise. One hand covered her heart, the other her mouth.

  The source of the call was a raven in a wrought-iron birdcage suspended from a hook in the porch’s ceiling. The black bird regarded her with one eye, then the other. It shifted its weight from one claw to the other, giving motion to the perch on which it clung.

  “Holy shit. Big bird,” she whispered hoarsely. She hated birds, and getting out of the creature’s line of sight became paramount. Quickly, she opened the screen and stepped inside the House of the Seven Gables for the first time in nearly fifteen years. She made sure the screen door latched securely once she was inside.

  At first, Phoebe saw no changes to the home. She could see the kitchen door down the long hallway ahead. The tall double doors to the parlor on her right, where Aunt Hester had returned, were the same carved mahogany she remembered. She ran her hand along the cool, smooth surface. The wood felt dry, coarser than she remembered but otherwise the same.

  She took further steps inside and left the foyer to look into the living room. It seemed the same there, too, from the giant brown leather Barcalounger, the cream-colored chaise lounge, the obscenely large, marble-topped coffee table, the ugly yellow couch that she remembered was so uncomfortable, and the Price & Teeple upright piano near the window next to the vast credenza. Everything, it seemed, right down to the four-legged television near the door and the tube-amplified radio on the bookshelf. Most of the books even sparked familiarity.

  “No way,” Phoebe whispered. She walked up to the television and opened its cherry wood cabinet. The small screen was there, just as she remembered. The rabbit ears antenna still sat on top. “There’s no way this still works.”

  Sure enough, looking at the back of the device, the wires from the antenna were still attached to the back of the unit. No digital signal converter thingy. Why is it still in here?

  Phoebe stepped back after closing the cabinet doors and let her eyes wander over the room. It was silent aside from the ticking of the mantle clock on the fireplace. Her eyes went to the great big credenza still under the window, wondering if it was still stocked with liquor. The doors were colorfully hand-painted with life-like tulips, honeysuckle, and zinnia flowers, all gathered together in a scene of arrangements. When she was small it had been locked to keep her from its contents.

  The woodwork around the room’s windows and doors was just as she recalled. The rug under her feet was even still the same. The maroon-bordered, rectangular floor covering featured more flowers and elaborate designs and ran the length of the walking area, from the door to the credenza. The huge coffee table was the only piece of furniture that sat upon it.

  Phoebe turned around, and her eyes found two things that weren’t familiar. Two paintings hung on the wall above the world’s most uncomfortable yellow couch. She took a step forward for a better look and immediately regretted it.

  The paintings were horrifying, grotesque scenes of disfigurement, torture, and murder. The one on the left featured three men bound to posts, a fire set at their feet. The men appeared to have been whipped as well, and their mouths were open, depicting screams of unimaginable pain. There was blood and blackness caked to their flesh. To the left of the burning men were spectators, and upon their faces were expressions of amusement.

  Phoebe turned away from that one and bypassed much of the second, though it seemed to share a similar motif. “Gross,” she mumbled and crossed her arms.

  She realized that, up until she’d discovered the ridiculous paintings, she had been enjoying being in that room. This she thought odd, as the memories she had of her mother and Great-Aunt Hester were scarcely of good times. Hester had been a mostly absent babysitter, placing Phoebe in that very room for hours, alone and unsupervised, with nothing but her homework, some coloring books, and the tiny-screened black-and-white television.

  Phoebe stood for a moment near the window, letting the weak sunlight wash over her. She crossed one arm under her breasts and propped the other’s elbow on it, letting her hand cover her lips. The sky was still overcast, and the dead or dying trees at the periphery of the property cast morbid shadows on black earth below. Looking right, Phoebe found the eyes of the raven upon her.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and let her mind drift to a time when she stood in this oddly unchanged room, when she was small, in school, and waiting for her mother to pick her up after work. She had come to hate the House of the Seven Gables. She dreaded having to walk to it after school. She remembered the times when she’d be in a room, doing homework, here or in the kitchen, and she’d get that feeling of being watched. She’d become nervous—so distracted that little of her work would be done.

  Phoebe recalled the noises that accompanied that feeling. She listened, but none were present at that moment. The strange human-like humming or breathing sounds that she dismissed as shifting breezes were common occurrences that she attributed to the oddities of an old structure. Sometimes there would be a far-off groan or the sound of footsteps with no one there.

  It certainly didn’t help young Phoebe when Great-Aunt Hester addressed her fears by telling her it was all due to the spirits dwelling within the House of the Seven Gables.

  Phoebe thought through her mantra. I don’t believe in haunted houses. She breathed deeply, picturing herself sitting in the ugly couch behind her, watching afterschool cartoons. I don’t
believe in ghosts. I just don’t . . .

  “Hello.”

  Phoebe screamed and jumped at the strange male voice. She spun around, and though her body never contacted the credenza, a framed photograph of the house set upon its top fell on its face with a bang. The sound gave her a second start. She covered her mouth with both hands and looked back and forth between the man who had entered and the fallen picture.

  “Terribly sorry,” the man offered and took a step forward.

  Phoebe moved her hands away from her mouth. “What the fuck, dude.”

  The man, a tall one, too, taller than Hester, was blocking her exit. He appeared to be in his thirties, with dark hair and a perfectly trimmed beard that framed his face. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and the eyebrows, high on his forehead, were angular and perfect.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you, miss,” the man insisted and took another step forward.

  That accent. British? Here? Phoebe shook her head clear of the thought and focused on him. She put on her best frowny face, the one she practiced in the mirror whenever she felt the need to convince herself that she was, indeed, Queen of the Badasses. Fierce, Phoebe. Fierce!

  “That’s close enough!” she warned, pointing at his chest.

  His eyebrows went further up his skull, and he halted. “Of course.” He clasped his hands together, as if he were a haberdasher waiting on a customer, and pulled his bottom lip into his teeth.

  Phoebe drew a deep breath and leaned back on the credenza. She tried to look nonchalant in front of the stranger and realized he was rather handsome. He wore a black pullover sweater with a dark blue shirt’s collar protruding over the top and black pants. She closed her eyes again and exhaled through her pressed lips, trying to stave off an anxiety attack.

  “I do humbly apologize,” the man whispered.

  Phoebe kept her eyes closed, nodded at his words, and just kept breathing. In through nose, out through mouth. He doesn’t look like an axe murderer. I think.

  “I didn’t know anyone was in here,” he tried to explain.

  Definitely British, Phoebe decided. She opened her eyes and kept her breathing rhythm. She relaxed her frown, shook her head, and waved him off with the hand she wasn’t leaning on.

  “Dude—” she started.

  “I know.”

  “—you scared the shit out of me.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Don’t ever—”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  Phoebe cut herself off from finishing the sentence. The Brit did look contrite as he released his lip to reveal a smile, which, while cartoon-like, seemed sincere.

  “I didn’t know Miss Pyncheon had accepted another boarder,” he said.

  “I’m not a boarder,” Phoebe began, then added haltingly, “Well, maybe I am. I mean I don’t know if she’ll let me stay. I’m more of a guest. I think. But not yet.”

  “Oh,” he said, though he clearly didn’t follow.

  “I’m her niece.”

  “Oh?” This time he was taken aback, and his eyebrows dropped.

  “Well, grandniece.”

  “Ah.” The Brit scrutinized her face, adopting a curious expression as his hands disappeared behind his back.

  Phoebe shook her head once again and smiled. “I’m Phoebe Pyncheon,” she introduced and stepped toward him, offering her hand.

  The stranger tipped his head back apprehensively. Like Aunt Hester had done just a few minutes before, he looked down his perfectly straight nose at her. Slowly, he took his right hand and shook hers briefly.

  “Pyncheon,” he said as if he had never heard the name. “You’re Phoebe Pyncheon.”

  Puzzled by his change of demeanor, Phoebe just nodded and smiled up at him.

  “You’re Miss Pyncheon’s grandniece.”

  “Yup,” she answered brightly. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Oh,” he uttered and blinked. “Beg your pardon. My name is Holgrave. Alec Holgrave.” His eyes shifted ever so slightly from left to right. “Everyone refers to me as Mr. Holgrave—or simply Holgrave.”

  “Okay,” she replied. He was hiding something but she didn’t feel threatened by him. She looked past him, noticing something on the mantle above the fireplace. “What is that?”

  Holgrave watched the youngest Pyncheon as she stepped past him. She was attractive, he thought, though the blonde and blue hair seemed out of place for someone of her family line. He followed where her attention was focused.

  The statue upon the mantle was shy of a foot tall. It appeared to be a man wearing a pointed hat, sitting upon a plain high-backed chair. His hands lay upon the straight armrests. Looking closely, the figure wore a neutral expression on his face and featured a chin beard. At first, he appeared naked, but there was some type of wrap around his lower half. There were candles on either side of the statue, many halfway consumed.

  “Ah. That is Ba’al, a god of all seasons,” Holgrave explained. “He appears in many religions and mythology.”

  “He looks Egyptian.”

  “The figurine is styled in that fashion, yes.”

  Phoebe turned to face him. “Weird, huh?” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Indeed.”

  At that moment, the doors to the parlor opened and Aunt Hester’s voice and that of another woman could be heard. Phoebe held up her finger to silence Holgrave.

  Phoebe, overcome by curiosity, unashamedly tiptoed to the open living room door and arched her neck to listen.

  “By Friday morning, things will look differently, I assure you,” Aunt Hester said in a strangely melodic tone that Phoebe had never heard from the woman. It was calming and soothing, two things that Hester was not.

  “Thank you, Lady Hester,” the unseen visitor replied.

  To Phoebe, the woman sounded unsettled. Perhaps she had been crying some moments before.

  “Take care and get some rest, Mrs. Carp,” Hester wished her client.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Hester,” bid Mrs. Carp, and the screen door’s springs announced their movement.

  “Good afternoon,” Hester returned.

  Phoebe sensed that her great-aunt was not to wait for the closing of the door and dashed on tiptoes to the cushioned red chair next to the credenza. Holgrave watched with amusement, only to be caught with the goofy grin by the lady of the house.

  “Mr. Holgrave,” Hester addressed with surprise. “I didn’t hear you come down.”

  Holgrave wondered how she could have but let it pass. “Good day, Ms. Pyncheon. I have indeed.”

  Hester arched an eyebrow as she looked into his face. Holgrave simply glanced in Phoebe’s direction. Hester followed his eyes and found her grandniece sitting by the window.

  Phoebe tried to look as innocent as possible, still hoping her aunt would grant her a bedroom and a place to write her novel.

  Outside, a car drove past. Phoebe turned to look as the expensive imported sedan headed up Gable Way. The caged raven caught Phoebe’s eye and squawked.

  “Phoebe,” Hester called. “Come.” With that, the old woman turned on her heel and left the room.

  Phoebe looked to Holgrave, who widened his eyes comically and mocked Hester’s arched eyebrow. Phoebe uttered a giggle as she left the chair, walking after her great-aunt.

  Holgrave watched her as she went past. “Welcome to the House of the Seven Gables, Miss—” he began but paused awkwardly, “—Pyncheon. Welcome, indeed.”

  Phoebe hesitated at the door, and turned, noting his sudden uncomfortableness. “Thank you, Mr. Holgrave,” she replied and strode out, following her aunt.

  3

  The Room

  Hester’s long skirt flowed behind her as she walked up the hallway, her figure appearing to float as she went. Hester was wearing shoes with a substantial heel, and
they reported loudly against the floorboards with every step, the sound echoing from the closely placed walls.

  Approaching a door on the left, Hester halted, turned to her grandniece, and opened it. She gestured for Phoebe to enter, which she did.

  Phoebe recognized the sewing room from her childhood. In it was the same ancient Singer pedal-driven machine, the same chair, rug, elaborate curtains, everything. Even the pillows on the small rosewood-carved twin-backed couch had not been replaced. More of the same books were on the shelves here, too. Like the living room, the items were the same, just older, more worn, dustier.

  Phoebe resisted the urge to comment on the sameness of the house, leaving that topic for another time, if it were ever to come up. Somehow, small talk seemed out of the question, despite the huge favor she was asking of her relation.

  “So, after all these years, you come to me needing a place to stay,” Hester flatly stated.

  Phoebe faced her great-aunt and swallowed. She knew she was not the one to apologize for that, considering their last encounter. Realizing the greater need, she said, “If I’m imposing, Aunt Hester, I’ll leave.”

  “Nonsense. Of course, you’ll stay.” She gazed fixedly on Phoebe. “I will ask only that you help out around the place. Laundry, washing dishes, helping the cook, that sort of thing. I’m not a young woman and there are boarders here.”

  “Oh, I understand. I’m writing a novel and just need a quiet place—”

  “You’ll have it. There are four guests here, not including yourself. You’ll meet them at dinner.”

  Phoebe nodded and let her great-aunt do the talking.

  “The rules are simple. No late-night guests. Write your name on your food items when you put them in the kitchen. No noise, especially when clients come in. Clean up after yourself.”

  “Got it,” Phoebe inserted, thinking the list would go on. It didn’t.

  Hester seemed to lighten a little, though she didn’t smile. Her pale blue eyes searched Phoebe’s face for an elongated moment. “Come. Let me show you the available rooms.”