by Skylar Finn
“Shut it, Peter,” I said. I got up and collected my purse. “Time to go, cuz.” I ushered her out to the car like a rebellious pop star I was charged with managing. Tamsin gave up her battle to stay without much of a fuss.
“So, this designer,” she said once we were in the car, driving toward the cuckoo clock house.
“Margo’s stylist,” I said. “What about him?”
“I’d like to meet him, if I could,” she said. “Margo, too.”
I shrugged. “Sure. I’ll just tell them I’m taking my cousin on a tour of the mansion cause she’s a huge fan.”
“Ugh,” said Tamsin, rolling her eyes. “I hate her music, actually, but if that’s your alibi, I’ll play along.”
“If you hate her so much, why do you want to meet her? And Cameron?”
“I just have a feeling,” she said, then stopped. She stared pensively out the window. I glanced over at her. She seemed distant, and I got the impression that was all she wanted to say.
After I dropped Tamsin off, I traveled the winding, foggy road back to the manor. It got harder and harder to see with each passing moment, and at one point I nearly swerved off the road when a deer bounded across the street in front of me.
The manor was pitch black, both outside and in. There was no moon to speak of and I stumbled walking up the gravel driveway. It was so dark inside I could barely see to make my way up the grand sweeping staircase. I no longer wondered why Margo’s entourage chose to stay as far as they humanly could from the gloomy crypt that was the manor.
In the room I’d claimed as my own, I turned on every light—the green shaded banker’s lamp on the desk, the small Tiffany lamp on the bedside table, and the overhead light in the attached bathroom. It didn’t do much good.
I was so spooked I debated whether to leave all the lights on and pull down the heavy drapes hanging from the old wooden canopy bed before I went to sleep, to shield my eyes from the light. I changed out of my Cameron Goddard original and into pajamas. It was then that I heard it: the patio door directly below my room creaking open. I went to the large picture window and pushed aside the thick red velvet curtain.
I squinted in confusion to see two figures gliding across the lawn. I couldn’t tell who or what they were in the darkness, their heads and bodies obscured by the long hooded robes that shrouded their faces and swirled around their feet. I watched as they crossed the lawn to the forest, where they paused at the tree line before vanishing into the waiting woods.
I’ve never been much one for investigating. Every time I read a book or watch a movie and a character decides, during an especially suspenseful moment, to “investigate,” I question their judgement. It undermines my suspension of disbelief.
I, for one, would never investigate. I would stay inside, at home, and pull the covers over my head. I would pretend I didn’t see anything and that nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. And if it was, I wouldn’t want to know about it.
This was no exception. Witches, missing girls, mysterious figures shrouded in robes—I was already seriously considering whether this job was worth it. Coco wasn’t a huge fan of any place outside the city; I was sure if I told her things were getting weird, she’d pull me from the situation with a few stern I-told-you-sos. But maybe if I didn’t tempt fate by sleuthing around and getting involved—even more than I already was—I could see this thing through to the end. Preferably without getting murdered in the woods.
I decided that instead of questioning the presence of the robed figures (let alone pursuing them in a vain attempt to discern what they were up to, one which would inevitably lead to my untimely death), I would make hot cocoa and go to bed. All the ingredients were in the kitchen, and it seemed like the most innocuous activity imaginable.
Or at least, it should have been.
When I returned with my hot chocolate (extra marshmallows), I noticed a glint of light at the window. Thinking that perhaps the unknown robed figures were up to something visible from the window, I went closer for a look and pushed the drapes aside.
Hovering in front of the glass, two floors from the ground, was the spectral form of a girl. Her hair was long and tangled with leaves and dirt. Her silver necklace glinted in the dark night, and her large sad eyes implored me beseechingly while she floated in front of me, saying nothing.
10
House of Stone
I screamed and dropped the cocoa on the floor. In an unexpected turn of good fortune (compared to the rest of my life), the floor happened to be hard wood. This would save me the inconvenience of a messy clean-up, once I had hidden from the ghost of Martha Hope and it was safely daylight.
I had heard a lot of things and seen some even stranger ones over the course of the last twenty-four hours, but this was really too much. I yanked the curtains closed and leapt into the canopied bed, pulling the hangings around me like a fortress. I crawled under the covers and remained in a small ball, cowering. My mind flashed back on every ghost movie I’d ever seen, where the main character watches the terrifying shadow hover over their blanket sanctuary before something even worse happens.
I don’t know how long I stayed that way, my heart pounding, my eyes shut tight, waiting for some awful fate to befall me. Eventually, I started to calm down when nothing did. I remembered myself at the dinner table earlier, demanding why I could see things if I didn’t have the power to change them or to help the people that I saw. I felt the first creeping tendrils of shame at my cowardice and slowly lowered the blanket from my face. It was another five minutes before I worked up the courage to peek through the hangings around the bed. There was nothing in the room.
I crept toward the window and when I parted the curtain ever so slightly, I could feel a seam of cold air seeping through the window in spite of the heavy wooden sash. I peered around and pulled the curtain back farther.
There was nothing there.
The next morning, I awoke to the smell of frying bacon. I guessed that Margo was in a carnivorous mood this morning, and I felt relieved I wouldn’t have to struggle through a morning fry-up of parsley and twigs. I padded down the curving staircase, going over what I’d seen the previous night in my mind. It had taken me hours to fall asleep, remembering the sight of the girl. No less pressing was the thought of the robed figures on the lawn and the revelation about my powers that my family had laid at my feet over dinner. I’d scarcely been here a day and I was already in over my head.
Cameron was in the kitchen at the stove, humming. He wore gleaming white pajamas no normal person would have been able to keep clean for longer than thirty seconds, but Cameron was no ordinary person. He turned when I came into the kitchen.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, forking some bacon onto a plate and handing it to me. “Last to rise, last to dine. There’s toast in the toaster and marmalade on the table.”
“Marmalade?” Who ate marmalade?
“Some quaint old farmer-looking person in overalls was selling it on the side of the road,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Margo’s awake?” I asked, spooning the marmalade onto a piece of whole grain toast.
“Surprisingly, yes,” he said. “She’s in that hideous ballroom we’re converting into the recording studio. With Les.”
The piece of toast I’d just bitten into fell right out of my mouth, the marmalade splattering in an ungraceful blob on the front of my pajamas, which thankfully were not white. “Les is here?”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, his eyes closed blissfully over a steaming mug of what I desperately hoped was coffee. I scanned the counter and my eyes fell on a hulking beast of an espresso machine, one of those imported Italian numbers that cost about eight billion dollars and have roughly the same functions as a Verismo.
“Oh, thank goodness.” I fell upon it like a long-lost love and was hard-pressed to keep from wrapping my arms around it in relief.
“I know, right,” he said. “Seeing Margo in full-fledged caffeine withdrawal is not a pretty sight.”<
br />
I was less concerned with seeing Margo than I was with seeing Les. The idea of going into the ballroom in my pajamas was less than appealing, but not only was Cameron still in his pajamas, he had added a small throw blanket to his ensemble, tying it around his shoulders like a jaunty little cape. It was clear he couldn’t care less what anyone thought, so why should I? I guess that was how we did things at the manor.
Besides, I told myself, it’s not like I cared what Les thought of me. But even I couldn’t convince myself of so blatant a lie, and I lived in my head and told such lies to myself all day long.
The ballroom was just as vast as I remembered it and twice as drafty. Our bare feet slapped against the green marble floor and the black walls cast a gloom over the entire room, in spite of the long wall of windows facing the sweeping front yard and the lit chandelier dangling over our heads.
Margo and Les were huddled in a corner, hunched over a laptop. Their expressions were intent, lit by the glow of the screen. My stomach gave an involuntary, unpleasant lurch, twisting at the sight of them together. Margo glanced up and I was startled out of my jealous thoughts by her appearance: while she had been pale and drawn the night before, she now fairly glowed. Her eyes sparkled, and her hair shined. Her make-up was on point.
I wondered stupidly and fleetingly if love for Les had transformed her as it once did me. Then he turned and saw me. I forgot my jealousy, resentment, and my ability to form rational thoughts. His face softened into a smile as he stood, grasping my shoulders and kissing the top of my head.
“Samantha!” he said. “I missed you.” It was as if I’d gone six years without seeing him instead of twenty-six hours.
That was the thing about Les. No matter what I said to him, no matter if I ignored him or hated him or willed him into non-being, it made no difference. He would always treat me like his favorite person. Which, for Les, wasn’t saying much, but it was difficult to remain stalwart in the wake of the overwhelming tide of his affections.
Margo rolled her eyes. “That’s darling, Les, but if you could at least pretend to maintain some modicum of professionalism towards my entourage during your time here, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Of course,” said Les agreeably. Les had double majored in Economics and Business with a minor in Temperamental Women. He was impossible to ruffle. “I cannot wait to hear your new track, Margs. I’m excited by the possibilities.” He winked at me, and I felt an involuntary smile twitch at the corners of my mouth.
“Les,” said Cameron, sipping from his mug. “Is that your Tesla parked out front?”
“Yeah,” said Les, brightening. “Do you like it?”
“Um,” said Cameron tactfully. “It’s not that, exactly.” Margo mumbled something about “over-priced overrated sardine tin on wheels.”
“It’s actually not nearly as overrated as you’d think,” said Les.
“Les, honey,” said Cameron. “Where do you plan on charging it?”
Les looked stricken. “There’s no charging station here?”
Margo gave a shout of laughter that echoed around the ballroom. “Are you kidding me? There is no Tesla station in Mount Hazel.”
“Oh no,” said Les, looking crestfallen.
“Your Nova is here,” I pointed out.
“Oh yeah,” he said, cheering instantly. Les was a man of multiple cars and easy solutions. “That’s fantastic. But what will you do?”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Cameron breezily. “We have that hideous van out front.”
“The Sprinter? Aw, man! I love those things! Do you know, I once fit an entire hang glider—”
“Les,” interrupted Margo in a chilly tone. “I know you’re very excited about your outdoor activities, but if we could? This century, please.”
“Sure thing, Margs,” he said cheerfully, hitting a few buttons on his laptop. A simple beat started in the background. He adjusted the studio mic in front of the chair. “Let’s just get a little sample of what you have so far and we’ll go from there.”
“And please,” said Margo, closing her eyes. “Stop calling me Margs.”
“What happened to the producer?” I whispered to Cameron.
Cameron shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure,” he whispered back. “I tried calling him this morning, but he didn’t pick up the phone.”
“I’m thinking I need somebody besides DJ Swann for this,” said Margo, glancing over at Cameron. “To be perfectly honest.”
“That will probably be inevitable,” agreed Les. “Especially considering he left.”
“Left?” asked Cameron. “Where did he go?”
“They just found a body in the woods,” Les said. “I guess he already thought the house was haunted, for some reason, and that really spooked him. He grew up in a Cajun family in the French Quarter and he kept saying something about bad juju.”
“Wait, what did you say?” I asked, spooked. “A body?” I thought of the ghost at my window. I thought of Martha Hope.
“Please don’t go to pieces,” said Margo with an impatient sigh. “Who will censor my social media feeds if you run screaming into the woods?”
“I heard something about it on Sirius XM on my way here,” said Les. “Just that they’d found a body in the woods but hadn’t released any details. I figured, people get murdered in the city all the time. But I guess it’s a much bigger deal here.”
“That’s for sure,” muttered Cameron.
“Frankly, I’ve replaced so many people at this point, I’m considering just doing it myself,” said Les. “I produced Tapia’s album, and Ferrari Xmas. And she’s selling better now than she ever did when she worked with the Tempo Twins.”
“Speaking of replacements,” said Cameron. “When are we getting our new PA?”
“She’ll be here this afternoon,” said Les. “She just had a few errands to run.”
“Fabulous,” said Cameron.
“I can hardly wait,” said Margo. “Any day now, Les.” She took the headphones from around her neck and fitted them snugly over her ears, then pulled the microphone closer to her mouth. Les turned up his temporary beat and nodded encouragingly.
“One to have fun, two to numb the pain,” sang Margo. “My heart is a stone, my heart is alone. I just slipped through the cracks somehow. I just slipped through the cracks.”
It was unlike any Margo Metal song I’d ever heard. It sounded ethereal, holy. It was as if she swallowed an entire choir. There was nothing coquettish or coy contained within her lyrics, which were deceptively simple in contrast with the emotion she poured into the song.
“My house is made of stone. I live in it alone. One to have fun, two to numb the pain. I just slipped through the cracks somehow. I just slipped through the cracks. I just slipped.”
It was repetitious to the point of near monotony, but the longer she sang it, the further under her spell we slipped. By the end of it, I was surprised to find I had tears in my eyes. I was that moved.
Les’s eyes were aglow. I could practically see the dollar signs behind them. Cameron smiled warmly at Margo when she opened her eyes.
“That was lovely, darling,” he said.
“Margs—Margo,” said Les, practically swooning. He squeezed her tiny shoulder, and from within the drugged, hypnotic stupor the song had left me in, not the faintest twinge of jealousy stirred.
“I think we have a hit on our hands,” said Les.
In the kitchen, Cameron and I sang Margo’s new song while we squeezed fresh orange juice, moving around each other in an unspoken synchronized rhythm. In the ballroom, Margo continued recording with Les. I could just make out the haunting strains of her voice, drifting down the hallway.
“So, Les Rodney, huh,” said Cameron, startling me from my reverie.
I was too embarrassed to acknowledge the reality of my situation. I sighed.
“Don’t even worry about it, honey,” he said. “I’d go there. And I’m sure there are few women in your position who
wouldn’t.”
“Few women in my position haven’t,” I said. “That’s exactly the trouble.”
“I mean, he does seem like the human equivalent of drinking bathtub cleaner,” said Cameron. “A guy like that should come with Mr. Yucky stickers plastered to his body.”
Between my recently reunited witch-family telling me that I basically had super powers and the ghost of a murdered girl haunting my bedroom, Les Rodney seemed like the least of my troubles. I hadn’t even thought about Coco for almost two whole days, checking in with her only briefly via email to update her on my status once I arrived at the house and met Margo.
Here. Margo beautiful as ever. Seems bent on cultivating new gothic image. Coco preferred us to speak with telegram-like brevity for the sake of time management.
Good luck, Sammy, she’d written back. I have the utmost faith in you.
While I was glad this was the case, I for one hand was less certain regarding the prospect of my own happy ending. When Cameron went out to the heated patio to practice his sun salutations, I sat down at the vast cherry wood table with a small red notebook and a fountain pen. I divided a fresh page into two columns. One side represented my old life, the one I understood, in which I felt reasonably content—most of the time. The right side represented the many unsettling, unbelievable, and overwhelming things I’d discovered since coming here.
Home, I wrote on the left-hand side of the page. Dad. Jill. Coco. Work. I paused. Was I being honest with myself? At the bottom I wrote, highly reluctantly, Les. I regarded it. It looked a little thin.
On the right side, I wrote Mom. Grandma Aurora. Tamsin. Minerva. I had only known them for a day, and still they felt familiar to me as if I’d known them my whole life. I didn’t even wonder when I’d see them again. We hadn’t so much as exchanged numbers, and I knew I would see them again as surely as I was alive. It was strange.
Beneath their names, in capital letters, I wrote FAMILY. Then beneath that, witchcraft? I put a +/- symbol next to witchcraft. I went back and added a +/- next to Les. After a moment of careful consideration, I added hot bartender? beneath witchcraft? and added a plus symbol next to him. The rule of these Lists was that I had to be brutally honest with myself no matter what.