by Dani Lamia
“What are you smiling about?” Hester suddenly fired.
Oops. “Apologies for appearances, Auntie Hester,” Phoebe answered immediately. “I am glad that I didn’t hurt him and . . . I guess, Dzolali’s comment made me smile. I’ve been terribly worried since it happened.”
“Oh?” Hester followed in a tone that clearly expected Phoebe to continue. Her expression of doubt was deep and sincere. The words that Phoebe had said before storming out of Onenspek’s studio had stung, true or not.
Phoebe cleared her throat and looked down at the napkin in her hands. “Um, additionally, I am aware that I said some hurtful things—”
“Indeed,” Hester interjected and straightened in her chair.
“—and I beg for your forgiveness, Great-Aunt Hester.” She quieted and studied Hester’s eyes, fashioning a contrite expression.
The two women looked upon one another for a long moment. Holgrave sat motionless, silently looking from Phoebe, to Hester, to Dzolali, and back. Hester appeared doubtful, Dzolali prideful, and from what he could see of Phoebe, her right eye as it held Hester’s left, she appeared calm and sincere.
“Apology accepted, dear,” Hester said. “Mr. Onenspek has been working very hard and was most likely dehydrated. Not thinking clearly.”
“I understand, of course,” Phoebe said.
The meal continued with no more mention of the incident, nor of Onenspek’s injuries. Phoebe bore the pain in her knuckles as she grasped her utensils, aware of the bruising and swelling that made them ache.
When dinner was finished, everyone filed out, though Phoebe wished Dzolali had remained behind to keep her company as she cleared the table and sent everything to the kitchen.
***
Phoebe changed out of the dress and removed the jewelry to finish the laundry and the dishes. She put on a t-shirt and jeans, then went to the bathroom up the hall to remove the makeup, which, after a moment, she decided she liked enough to leave alone.
She went to the basement and went about folding the dry and transferring the wet loads of laundry. As she thought about it, she realized that the entities, or ghosts, had not harmed her in any way. She remembered the feeling of calm that had washed over her, even in the full view of the apparitions. She wondered if it had been a dream, for the details of her time with Dzolali, even those of the first night, seemed clearer.
With the stack of folded bedding draped across her arms, Phoebe returned to the first floor without incident. She went to the third floor, placed the clean sheets in the linen closet, and then went back down to the kitchen to do her dishes.
Phoebe was pleased to see that Alva had done most of the cleaning before she left. Phoebe dried what dishes were in the rack, put them away, and turned on the faucet to finish.
She heard the door swing inward and turned to see Holgrave peering through the opening, smiling sheepishly.
“Come on in, Mr. Holgrave.”
“I was wondering if I could be of assistance.”
“That’s becoming a habit with you,” she said pleasantly.
“I don’t mind the least bit,” he said with sincerity as he stepped in.
“I do appreciate it.”
He took his place at the sink and began scrubbing a plate. Phoebe watched him a moment, which Holgrave noticed.
“What is it?” he asked.
Phoebe eyed the cabinet across from them. “I was just thinking of Ned,” she said and wandered to it. “Was he out long?”
“He came to after you stormed out,” Holgrave stated thoughtfully. He turned to watch her search the cabinet. “He was quite ashamed of his behavior, I should mention.”
“Huh,” Phoebe uttered with curiosity. The gingerbread man tin was gone.
Holgrave followed her stare. “I’m sure Hester moved it,” he said.
Phoebe agreed and began opening other cabinets. “Is Hester working in her parlor?”
“Yes. All three of them are, actually.”
She opened another. No luck there. Crackers and giant cans of soup were stuffed in that one. The next one had much of the same, but something shiny caught her eye.
“A-ha,” she said.
“Find it?” he asked over his shoulder.
Phoebe grabbed the stool and climbed on it. “Nope. Somethin’ better.”
Holgrave, noticing what she was doing, shut off the water and quickly dried his hands. He moved toward her to assist if she needed it.
Phoebe moved some items out of the way and pulled a bottle of whiskey from within. She showed it to him, an impish grin on her face.
Holgrave smiled and accepted the bottle from her hand, which he then took in his own to help her down. It was a soft hand, and warm. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met.
“Are we supposed to have this?” he asked.
“It’s the good stuff,” she said and shrugged. “Not the cheap crap you’ve been sneaking from the credenza in the living room.”
Holgrave was shocked. “You knew?”
Phoebe giggled and hunted for tumblers. Finding a pair, she set them on the kitchen island. She looked at him expectantly.
“No ice for you?” He poured one.
“Nope,” she said. “I like things neat.”
“Duly noted,” Holgrave said as he poured hers. He set the bottle down and they clinked the glasses together. “To your very good health, Ms. Pyncheon.”
“Right back atcha,” she said and drank with him.
Holgrave’s eyebrows rose as she emptied it.
Noticing his expression, she said, “Don’t be judgy. It’s been a trying day. Another, please.” She turned from him and began drying the dishes he had washed.
“I assure you I am not . . . er . . . being judgy.”
“Thank you.”
“As for Ned, I dare say he will be looking to make his apologies to you at some point.”
“I should think so,” she said, imitating his accent.
Holgrave finished his glass and poured more. He left the glasses on the island and returned to the sink. He turned the water on and continued his scrubbing. They were nearly finished.
“I must say, Ms. Pyncheon, you looked, still look, actually, quite different this evening at dinner.”
“Like it? Dzolali’s been very generous sharing her old clothes so I’m not standing out so much.”
“Yes. Quite,” he said.
She could tell there was something more on his mind. “What?”
“Well, forgive me, but you’ve rather, in the most superficial of ways, I must add, accepted your great-aunt Hester’s way of life.”
“The wiccan thing?” she asked with a slanted grin and had another sip of whiskey.
“Exactly.”
“Just trying to not get kicked out,” she said, then quickly added, “Can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
“I understand,” he said. “I was shocked at your transformation. It seemed complete,” he explained. “Not being, as you say, judgy.”
“Sorry, if I was a bit cold at dinner,” she offered.
“Think nothing of it.” He returned to the sink to wash the remaining dishes.
Phoebe wanted to tell him about the possession, as she had come to understand it, with the spirit of Alice. She wanted to tell him about the occurrence in the basement, the ghosts of people that were somehow attached to the property, and the vision of Alice’s murder that she had been forced to watch. She remembered the use of the bowl in the vision, the same one that, at that very moment, was lying in the trunk of her car.
Instead of thinking of that any further, she chose the very next thing on her mind. “I was going to call Detective Backstrom to see if anything came out of that gingerbread thing, but . . . things took a turn.”
“I understand,” he said and handed her the plate to be dried.
“And I think they know I took one,” she added in a whisper. “But instead of blaming me, they took it out on Ned and cut him off.”
“So, it was withdrawal,” Holgrave surmised. “Withdrawal drove him to attack you.”
“He was demanding a gingerbread,” she confided. “That’s when he had me around the throat.”
“Of course,” he said as if he had discovered a clue.
“When I made the mistake of calling Hester out in front of everyone . . .” she trailed off and thought back to the one visitor that Phoebe had let into her room afterward.
“What is it?”
The thoughts and doubts crept back into Phoebe’s mind. As she thought through the events of the day, and had spent time away from Dzolali, her feelings of love and devotion to the Latina subsided just enough to allow her to examine things.
Is she bewitching me or seducing me?
“Phoebe,” Holgrave tried again. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head clear and looked to him. “Yeah, sure.”
Holgrave was sure that wasn’t exactly true, but considering what she had been through that day, he let it go. “Well, if there’s nothing else I can assist you with, I think I’ll go watch telly for a short bit.”
Phoebe gave him a half-smile. “Just be sure to go easy on the credenza bar. That dime-store-grade shit in there will mess you up.”
“Right,” he said. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” she replied and watched him leave the kitchen.
She stood in silent contemplation for a short time before pouring another glass of the high-grade whiskey. Before drinking it, she put the cap on the bottle and returned it to the cabinet. She put the stool back in its place next to the island and became aware of a breeze at her neck. Before thinking another thought, Phoebe knocked back the entire contents of the tumbler.
She placed her hand on the smooth wooden surface of the island, and her body went rigid. She coughed. The breeze was there again, and it was warm. With the house so quiet, she could hear the movement of the small bursts of wind that were striking her neck. Behind that airy noise was a faint, returning thump, as if someone were rhythmically double-tapping on a door while wearing winter gloves.
As the phenomena continued in synchronicity, Phoebe realized the resemblance to human breathing and a beating heart. That thought, together with the warmth on her neck, broke her fear-born paralysis. She bolted for the kitchen door.
I don’t believe in haunted fuckin’ houses. I don’t believe in ghosts, sorry, Alice, but fuck you very much!
Phoebe went up the hall toward the front of the house, intending to visit Holgrave in the living room. The parlor across the hall from Holgrave was busy that night, however. As Phoebe approached, the parlor doors opened and a client stepped out, and turned back to whomever it was she was speaking to.
Phoebe stopped abruptly, grabbing onto the round post cap of the staircase handrail. She heard Glendarah’s voice through the open door, and there were cars still driving up. Through the open screen door, Phoebe could see their headlights cast a white glow into the night.
The idea of running into any of the coven, even Dzolali, was suddenly an abhorrent idea. Worse still, she didn’t even wish to take the chance of being introduced to one of Hester’s clients. She didn’t want to be associated with Hester’s fraudulent psychic readings or have someone think she was part of the coven.
Phoebe launched herself up the stairs, not caring if someone heard the pounding of her footfalls or the creaking of the steps. On the second floor, she rushed into her room. There would be no writing this night, she knew, for her exhaustion was clouding her mind, and her body was weak. The pain in her knuckles rang through her hands anew from the washing of the dishes, and shame settled in. It was not for defending herself against Ned, but for having donned Dzolali’s dress and embraced the antiquated fashion so willingly.
Phoebe shut the light off and crawled into bed, fully clothed save for the sneakers. Thinking on it a bit, she sat upright, turned the lamp on, and got back out of bed. She stepped to the bedroom door, thoughtfully staring at the key in the lock.
She recalled confronting Dzolali about the drugs in the gingerbread men. Phoebe had accused Dzolali of drugging her, but what Dzolali’s reply had been, Phoebe could not remember. The fugue that covered those moments spurred a decision.
Phoebe pulled the key from the lock and went to the center window, opening it. She reached her hand outside and was about to drop the key to the ground when reason returned.
What if I have to pee? Never mind that, how will I get out of here in the morning?
Phoebe sighed, pulled her hand back in, and closed the window. She walked to the door, not knowing what else to do but take her chances.
Wait!
Phoebe went back to the bed, key in hand, and shut off the light. Then, into the darkness, she threw the key. Just to be certain her mind couldn’t contemplate where it landed, Phoebe shouted curses into the pillow, muffling the metal clanking of the key when it struck whatever it struck on its way down.
Ha! Now, I honestly don’t know where the key is. Plausible deniability!
Drunken and exhausted, Phoebe’s consciousness soon left her.
15
Relentless
Phoebe dreamt of someone at her door, turning the knob with a jiggle. Then there was a knock. Her corner room had transformed into a vast library, and the knock echoed up and down the rows of dusty books. Her bed was tucked in between them, though she could see her tiny door in the distance.
“Phoebe, dear,” Dzolali called through the door. “Come open the door, baby.”
“No,” came Phoebe’s answer. “Ga’way. S’eepin’.”
“Darling, girl. Open up,” she called again. “Get the key and open the damn door,” Dzolali growled.
Phoebe raised her middle finger to the bedroom door, and the knocking stopped. She sighed in relief and raised the blanket to cover the lower half of her face. In a moment, however, she realized she was not alone.
***
Phoebe opened her eyes and found Alice, once more standing in the basement and pointing to the space against the wall. Phoebe was becoming angry, not knowing what it was that Alice was trying to say, and apparently failing in her attempts at forewarning her of the danger yet to come from Hepzibah and friends, who, as the knowledge of the nightmare granted Phoebe, were not far, and looking for them both.
Phoebe tried to form the words of warning, but whatever came out of her mouth was scrambled, unintelligible. Still Alice remained, stubbornly pointing to the disturbed section of the dirt floor.
The frustration built until Phoebe snapped awake. “Goddamnit, Alice!” she called out. She sat up, expecting to find herself on the basement floor. Instead, she was sunken into the depths of the mattress and in the confines of the corner bedroom as she had left it.
Phoebe lay back down and tried to relax, but several minutes of rolling this way were not successful, so she got up. She went to the desk and opened her laptop, thinking she would do some writing to get her mind on something else.
The time was closing on 3:00 a.m., so said the clock in the corner of her screen. She sat in the chair and picked up her story where it left off, but after fifteen minutes, she realized that she had been chipping away on the same paragraph, writing it, then revising it, only to revise it again.
Finally, Phoebe grunted in frustration, saved the file without backing it up, and powered down the computer. She realized she needed the bathroom, so she went to her door. It was locked.
“Shit,” she muttered, just then remembering what she had done with the key. “Oh, this is just peachy.”
Phoebe turned the overhead light on and scrutinized the room. She stepped to the bed, thinking through her position at the time when she’d thrown the key across the r
oom.
She scanned the floor, not seeing it. She went all over the bedroom, working out many scenarios featuring the flying key bouncing off this, ricocheting off that, ending up on the floor, even a couple of scenarios where it landed on the window seat cushions.
Phoebe pulled up the cushions and searched around. Nothing.
The urge to urinate cared not for her predicament and built within her as she bent over furniture and pulled out the writing desk, even lifting the laptop and searching underneath.
“Oh, my God, Phoebe,” she groaned. “You are such a stupid bitch!”
She leaned on the dresser, then realized it was the one piece of furniture she had not checked. Her excitement renewed, she looked underneath it, then behind it, with no results. She put her body between it and the wall, forcing it forward. Once it was a foot from the wall, Phoebe got down and checked for it.
Not there. Fuck!
She began to pace, fully in the throes of bladder discomfort. Incensed, she gave the dresser a shove. It teetered and came back, and its front feet thonked on the floor and gave out a rattle.
The metallic sound was unexpected from a wooden piece of furniture, so Phoebe stared at it. The Air Castle fan stood on top, as it had since she moved in, so it was certainly that. She took it by the cage surrounding the wooden blades and gave it a shake. The rattle occurred again, and something fell out, landing on the dresser’s wooden top with a clink.
It was the key.
Squealing delightfully as relief without lifelong embarrassment was in her future, Phoebe snatched up the key, unlocked the bedroom door, and floated to the bathroom.
She finished and watched her face in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her eyes were lacking any trace of tiredness, though she had been asleep only for a little more than two hours until the dreams of Dzolali at her door and of Alice had occurred.
Damn you, Alice, she thought, then wondered if she had truly repelled Dzolali’s advance or if she had been mistaken about it all.
Phoebe stepped into the hallway, dimly lit as it was by the low-wattage lights. She returned to her bedroom and grabbed her sweater. She went downstairs and stepped outside through the front door, leaving the inner door open.