Unearthly Things

by Michelle Gagnon

But no. The fire was real.

  One whole side of my room was an inferno. The red drapes were roiling with dark smoke. The stack of cardboard boxes had turned into a pyre; flames danced around the top of it, licking the ceiling.

  I rolled off the bed and dropped to all fours. The smoke was so thick I could barely see. It was disorienting; for a few panicked moments I couldn’t figure out where the door was. Everywhere I looked, darting flames were claiming another piece of furniture.

  If I didn’t get out of here, I’d suffer the same fate. I heard people shouting and pounding on my door; it was locked, I remembered blearily. They couldn’t get in, which meant help wasn’t coming. I had to get out.

  A crash behind me as something huge toppled to the ground. Beads of sweat coursed into my eyes, melding with smoke-induced tears. It was so unbearably hot. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even gather enough oxygen to scream for help.

  I crawled across the floor, praying that I’d reach the door before passing out. The smoke clawed its way down my throat and into my lungs like a malevolent beast. After what felt like an eternity, my fingertips finally encountered the edge of the carpet. With a renewed burst of strength, I scrambled the final few feet to the door. I reached up and fumbled for the lock, managing to turn the bolt on the third try.

  The door flew open, nearly knocking me backwards. John and Mr. Rochester stood there in navy pajamas, their eyes wild.

  “Janie!” John grabbed my arm and hauled me into the hallway. “What the hell?”

  Alma flew past us, a fire extinguisher gripped in both hands. Despite the fact that it was nearly as big as her, she manned it like a pro, shooting a stream of white chemicals in a circle. The flames hissed as they fought back, smoke drifting past us like grasping tendrils.

  John dragged me farther down the hallway.

  I was still doubled over coughing. There was the shrill shriek of sirens outside. Heavy boots pounded up the stairs. Marion and Georgina stood at the end of the hall, glaring at me with identical expressions of condemnation. Behind them, Nicholas cowered, looking bewildered and afraid.

  And in the shadows, for just a second, I caught a glimpse of a pale head. When I blinked, it was gone.

  “What,” Marion demanded, “did you do to my house?”

  Despite the blanket John had thrown across my shoulders, I couldn’t stop shivering.

  We were clustered in the downstairs living room. I’d christened it the ebony palace; the dark, heavy furniture rendered it dark in the daytime, and positively oppressive at night. Richard had ordered us to wait here while the firefighters tamped down the final embers. He was still upstairs dealing with them.

  Flashing back on the raw heat lapping at my hair, I shuddered again.

  John was perched on the edge of the chair facing me, his eyes grave, the usual mocking smile gone. Marion and Georgina sat rigidly by the fireplace, wearing matching silk robes and icy glares. I had no idea where Nicholas was; Alma had probably taken him back to bed.

  “You were smoking.” Marion said it as a statement of fact.

  “No, I wasn’t,” I muttered. “I don’t smoke.”

  She snorted. “All you people smoke.”

  That penetrated the fog encasing in my head. “What do you mean, ‘you people’?”

  “Yes, Mother,” John said, getting to his feet. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  Marion avoided his eyes. “Teenagers from Hawaii. Everyone knows they smoke marijuana.”

  “Well, I never have,” I snapped. “And I’m pretty sure you weren’t talking about ‘teenagers from Hawaii,’ anyway.”

  Marion cocked an eyebrow. “Then how did the fire start? Please, I’d love to know why my house has been destroyed!”

  “It’s not your house,” Richard Rochester said from the doorway. Tufts of his hair jutted out, as if he’d been tugging on it; his eyes were red and weary. “It’s my house,” he continued somberly. “I just let the rest of you live in it.”

  Marion’s eyes flicked to me, then back to him. She rose, crossed the room, and laid a hand on his arm. “Richard, listen to me,” she pleaded. “I told you this was too much of a risk. It isn’t worth it. I can’t have the safety of our children jeopardized by the likes of her.”

  John made a disgusted noise. “As if you care about us.”

  “Shut up, John,” Georgina growled from her chair.

  “This is a load of crap.” John stepped forward and jabbed at the air with his finger. “And you all know it. This has Nicholas written all over it.”

  “Nicholas?” I said, confused.

  “He’s quite the little firebug,” John said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Marion said stiffly. “He promised to never do that again.”

  John returned her glare. “Yeah, like that means anything.”

  “But the door was locked,” I said confused. “It couldn’t have been Nicholas.” Unless he has a key, I thought. But recalling his terrified gaze, I dismissed the idea outright. He wouldn’t try to hurt me like that.

  Would he?

  “So you admit to being alone in there,” Marion said triumphantly. “Then obviously you were the one responsible.”

  “Where’s she going to sleep?” Georgina interjected. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Until that moment, my relief at surviving the inferno had dwarfed every other concern. Now my heart sank as I realized that I no longer had a room. And everything I owned was probably ruined. Including every photo of my parents, and the few possessions of theirs I’d held on to. At the thought, something inside me started to crumble.

  “Maybe you should stick her in the attic,” Georgina suggested nastily. “She deserves it, after all.”

  “Georgina!” Marion said sharply.

  Georgina’s face shifted, as if she realized she’d gone too far.

  “Don’t be such a bitch,” John snarled. “You’ve got plenty of room.”

  “She is not sleeping with me.”

  I was with her on that. Confined to a small space with Georgina, it might never feel safe to shut my eyes again.

  “We’ll call the Fairmont and book a room,” Marion said decisively. “That way the rest of us will be able to sleep more securely.”

  “You’d send her to a hotel?” John scoffed. “Wow, that’s low, even for—”

  “Enough!” Richard boomed.

  The room fell silent.

  “Janie,” he continued in a strained voice, “You’re not going to a hotel.”

  Marion opened her mouth; but he threw her a look, and she clamped it shut again.

  “We’ll figure something out,” he said. “At least a temporary solution.”

  “Well, then. I’m going to attempt to get some sleep,” Marion said stiffly. “I have a big day tomorrow. Apparently I’ll be trying to get this house back in some sort of order.” With a final withering glare, she swept from the room.

  Richard looked at his kids. “Georgina and John. Bed, now.”

  His tone didn’t brook argument. John glanced at me then went to the door, keeping his head down as he passed his father. Georgina was next. As she passed by, she glowered from beneath her lashes and hissed, “Bitch.”

  The adrenaline had dissipated, and I was left feeling shaky and weak. If I leaned back against the cushions, I’d probably fall asleep sitting up.

  Richard lumbered across the room and collapsed in the chair opposite me. He ran both hands over his face, like he was trying to scrub it clean. It only served to smudge the ash into his cheeks. “You’re okay?” he finally asked.

  I nodded, although in truth I felt very far from okay.

  “Good.” He sighed. “That’s good.” Grimacing, he continued, “We don’t have another guest room.”

  That was hard to imagi
ne in a house this size, but he was probably right. Marion had appropriated most of the vacant rooms for “salons,” “dressing rooms,” and various other equally senseless uses. “I can just crash in here,” I offered. “It’s fine, really.”

  “It’s not fine.” His frown deepened. “I suppose you could sleep in Georgina’s room; there’s a daybed in there.”

  “That’s okay,” I said hurriedly. “Really, I’d prefer—”

  “She sleep with me,” Alma barked from the doorway.

  Startled, we both turned. She wasn’t wearing her wig; strands of thin white hair barely covered her scalp. She was also coated with soot, which only added to the impression that a tiny troll had entered the room.

  “That’s a great idea,” Richard exclaimed. “Thank you, Alma.”

  “Wait, I—”

  He held up a hand and said firmly, “Alma has a very comfortable apartment. You’ll be fine there.”

  The night just kept getting worse. But considering the alternative, at least I didn’t have to worry about Alma trying to murder me in my sleep. Probably.

  Mutely, I followed Alma down a back corridor. I’d never been in this part of the house; I’d just assumed that the door behind the kitchen led to the basement.

  Instead, it opened on a tiny hallway with a ceiling so low I could reach up and brush it with my hand. It was dark, the wooden floorboards cold beneath my bare feet. Alma led the way, padding silently in her slippers. I couldn’t repress the sense that she was leading me into some alternate dimension from which I’d never emerge.

  She opened the door at the end of the hall and beckoned for me to come inside.

  I’m not sure what I’d expected; a tiny closet, maybe? Or an actual witch’s lair, with a dirt floor and roots dangling from the ceiling? Instead, I was surprised to discover that Richard had been telling the truth. The room was simple, but cozy. Cheerier than the rest of the house. It was furnished with a plush red sectional, a squat blue chair, and a thick carpet in a rich shade of orange; all the contrasting colors should’ve been fighting each other, but instead it looked an interior designer’s idea of shabby chic.

  A battered table along one wall held an electric teakettle and a hot plate; the rest of the room was filled with low bookshelves, charmingly mismatched end tables, and all sorts of knickknacks. The overhead light cast everything in a warm glow. Matching doors on the other side of the room were painted a faded yellow.

  My shoulders dropped as I relaxed. Home, I thought, then caught myself, startled. It was true, though; something about the shabbiness and clutter reminded me of our little beach cottage.

  Alma was blinking up at me, her eyes huge behind her glasses. Unless I was mistaken, the slight crease in her lips was a smile.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”

  She nodded, then shuffled across to one of the yellow doors. “You sleep here.”

  Hesitantly, I followed; but the bedroom was even more charming. A four-poster bed, covered with a quilt and stacks of throw pillows. The rest of the room was relatively plain: a bureau and bedside table, both made of wood polished to a high gleam.

  I picked up a framed picture from the table: a black and white image of a tall, thin man with his arm wrapped around a tiny woman. He wore a uniform, and she was extremely pregnant. Both of them beamed at the camera. It took a minute to realize this was a younger version of Alma.

  “Wow,” I said appreciatively. “You were gorgeous.”

  Alma made an indeterminate noise in the back of her throat and took the photo from me, setting it back on the table. Then she crossed to the bureau and rooted through it, pulling out a set of flannel pajamas. Handing them to me, she ordered, “Change.”

  I wanted to protest that there was no way they’d fit; but holding them up, I realized they were nearly my size.

  She went back into the other room, and I peeled off my clothes. They smelled terrible. I did, too, but the thought of showering was too exhausting to contemplate. I slipped into the pajamas and a pair of cotton socks; they were unbelievably soft and comfy. Alma reappeared clasping a mug in both hands. She set it on the bedside table, pulled back the sheets, and motioned for me to get in.

  “I’m fine now,” I said. “Thanks. I can just—”

  “Lie down,” she ordered. “And drink.”

  I was too tired to protest. I climbed into bed, the springs groaning slightly as I shifted to get comfortable. When I was propped up against the pillows, she handed me the mug. I sniffed it skeptically. “What’s in it?”

  “It make you calm,” she explained. “Good for throat.”

  I took a tentative sip: chamomile tea with honey. Relieved, I drank half of it in one long gulp. Fatigue seeped through my bones, and my eyes started to droop.

  I barely registered Alma taking the mug. She helped me ease down the bed, and tucked the blankets into a comforting cocoon. As I drifted off, she did the most startling thing of all.

  In a voice so soft it was barely audible, she sang to me.

  I couldn’t understand the words, but the tune was oddly familiar. The verses elicited images of a strange land, vibrantly green and overgrown. Brightly colored birds and peculiar plants. A broad expanse of water, with waves the same shade of blue I’d grown up with.

  As the last bit of consciousness slipped through my grasp, I felt Alma’s warm, withered hand on mine. She breathed a single word, but I was already fast asleep.

  Chapter XI

  Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links, was drawn out straight—every ring was perfect, the connection complete.

  When I awoke, Alma was gone. Bright sunlight streamed through the filmy white curtains. I didn’t want to leave. I was having a hard time reconciling this charming apartment with the brusque, cold woman I’d come to know. Of course, I never would’ve guessed that she’d sing me to sleep, either.

  I peeked into the other bedroom: it was nearly identical to mine, but the air was pungent with tiger balm and jasmine. I was happy to have the place to myself for the moment. It was quiet in here, a less weighted version of the silence that constrained the rest of the house.

  My throat was sore and raw from the smoke, but otherwise I felt okay. A small clock on the wall read 12:20 p.m. Wow, I’d seriously overslept. So much for school. Of course, my uniform was gone. Along with everything else I owned, probably. I could hardly bear the thought of going upstairs to see what was left.

  Breakfast first, I decided.

  I made my way down the hall to the kitchen: also empty, I discovered with relief. I ate a bowl of cereal and cleaned up after myself.

  Now what? I thought.

  Face the disaster of what used to be my room? Call Kaila, and Daniel? But I couldn’t; my phone had been on the bedside table, there was no way it had survived. The same went for my laptop. As the list of what I’d lost mounted, my legs faltered. I dropped back into a seat at the kitchen table and clutched my head, fighting the urge to cry. That won’t accomplish anything, I reminded myself fiercely. Everything important was already gone anyway.

  “And I thought I was a late sleeper.”

  John looked immaculate as always, dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater, his blond hair falling in perfect waves. There was no outward sign that he’d been awakened in the middle of the night by a raging fire.

  I, on the other hand, looked every bit as ravaged as I felt. “Where is everyone?” I asked wearily.

  He ticked them off on his fingers. “School for Georgie and Nick. Dad is at the club. And Marion is holding court at one of her luncheons, of course.” He eyed me. “You look like hell.”

  “Gee, I wonder why,” I said.

  “You didn’t set the fire, did you?”

  I scowled at him. “Of course not.”

 
; “It would be understandable,” he said.

  Only then did I see what he was implying. “Yes, John. I tried to burn myself alive. That was my genius plan.”

  He shrugged. “That, or you were getting high. And if so, I’m highly offended that you didn’t offer to share.”

  “I don’t smoke pot,” I said sullenly.

  “Kind of strange that it only damaged your room, though,” he said, an odd expression on his face.

  “Why is it strange?”

  “No reason,” he said vaguely. “Anyway, what’s the plan?”

  “The plan?”

  “For today.” He waved at my outfit. “Will this be your new look?”

  “My clothes were destroyed,” I reminded him.

  “Right. I’d take you to Saks, but despite our frequent buyer status, shopping in pajamas might raise a few eyebrows.” John raised a hand to his chin and considered me. “I have an idea.”

  “It better not involve me running around naked,” I muttered.

  He flashed a grin. “You said it, not me.”

  “I’m not wearing any of Georgina’s stuff, either,” I warned.

  “She’d skin us both,” he scoffed. “No, something else. Back in a bit.”

  Five minutes later, he returned and tossed me a pile of clothes.

  “Where are these from?” I asked suspiciously, sorting through them. Jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and a fleece jacket.

  “They’re mine,” he said. “Might be a little big, but they should fit all right.”

  I held them up: he was right, the jeans would be a few inches long, but the shirt would fit fine. “How old are these?”

  He shrugged. “From when I was twelve or so.”

  “And you still have them?”

  “Don’t tell Marion,” he said with a wink. “She’d be horrified to know there was anything vintage in the house.”

  I wondered why he’d kept them; John didn’t strike me as the sentimental type. Still, I was grateful to have something clean that didn’t reek of smoke.

  I showered and changed, then wandered back through the house. I found John in the media room, absorbed in a first-person shooter game. Cartoon violence raged across the widescreen TV.