The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft

by Jacqueline Baker

  Of what?

  Why, the house, I suppose. I don’t understand it. I’ve never even heard of the fellow.

  The fellow?

  The one who used to live here, or his mother did, or his family, or I don’t even know. Some writer. I don’t go in for any of that stuff.

  What stuff ?

  He shrugged. Ghost stories, or whatever. My sister’s crazy for it. She gets this magazine, with these terrible stories. She’s read some of them to me. I don’t much care for them myself. Covers are all right. But if Mother catches her with them, I tell you.

  He stopped, then, straightened and lifted his chin.

  Anyhow, you’re lucky they aren’t home right now, my folks, or you’d get an earful. I’m supposed to tell you to move on and not come around here anymore. You’d best do it.

  Forgive me, I said. But you misunderstand. I’m not a fan.

  No?

  In fact, I’m a relative. A distant relation.

  The boy stuck his hands in his pockets.

  And I’m sorry to trouble you, but my aunt is quite ill. She grew up here, you know, and she was hoping I’d come have a look around for her, give her word of the old place.

  Your aunt?

  That’s right.

  What’s her name?

  Phillips. Annie Phillips.

  The boy shrugged.

  She’s very unwell. Dying, actually. I’d like to bring her some word.

  You can’t come in the house, the boy said, frowning.

  No, no, of course not.

  I’d get a hiding, sure enough.

  No doubt, I agreed, no doubt. But I wonder, would you mind if I just have a quick walk about the place?

  The boy looked doubtful. I don’t think you ought, I’m just on my way out.

  My aunt would be ever so grateful, I said. I don’t know how long she has and, well, she may never have the chance to come back and see the place.

  The boy bit his lip. I don’t think so. My folks are up in Philadelphia.

  I wouldn’t dream of asking to come inside the house. Just wanted a stroll about the grounds.

  I don’t know.

  You say you’re alone here?

  The boy looked at me sharply, suspiciously. I didn’t say that.

  Your folks are in Philadelphia, you mentioned. I’m from near Philadelphia myself.

  If you say so.

  I shook my head sadly. Well, I said, thanks. I’ll, well, I’ll tell my aunt the old place is still here, anyway. I guess that’ll have to be enough.

  The boy chewed his lip. Then, in a quick movement, he unlatched the gate and, for a moment, I thought he’d changed his mind. But then he just stepped through and latched it behind him.

  I’m awfully sorry, he said. Maybe you could come back next week, when my folks are home.

  But—

  I’ve got to go.

  One thing more, I said, and the boy turned. There wasn’t an older man here today? Sickly, gaunt?

  The boy just frowned at me. It occurred to me, then, that Flossie might hold more sway with him.

  Might I just introduce my friend, and I turned to indicate Flossie waiting on the street behind me.

  The boy looked over my shoulder at the empty street.

  What friend? he said.

  I found Flossie on the other side of a glossy hedge, seated on a low rock wall covered in moss. The shadows fell all around her. She’d slipped off her shoes and was massaging her stockinged feet.

  What on earth, I said.

  Well, you left me standing there so long, she accused.

  It was not five minutes.

  Well, I’m very tired, she said petulantly. And these shoes are brand new and pinch my feet something terrible.

  Well, why did you wear them?

  She shot me an irritated glance. Honestly, Arthor, do you know nothing?

  I gave her my hand. Come on, then.

  She slipped back into her shoes, making terrible grimaces. Are we going back now?

  Not yet, I said. I peered out into the street to make sure the boy had gone. Then I opened the wrought iron gate with a slow, rusted creak that seemed to float out into the silent street.

  Arthor P. Crandle, Flossie said in mock surprise. Breaking the rules?

  I sighed.

  How fun, she said.

  I held the gate open for her, then latched it again behind us.

  The sun was setting just beyond the woods which lay in a long line blackly at the edge of the lawn. I recalled my employer’s story, his grandfather’s story, the grave there. The shadow of the house was long and dark and we stepped into it. Flossie shivered and rubbed her arms as we passed in front of the verandah.

  It is something, she said. Imagine living in a house like that. It makes me just want to put on a long gown, you know, with a scandalously low back, like Ginger Rogers, and stand on the verandah sipping a pink gin. Oh, look, a fountain. Honestly, Arthor, won’t you slow down?

  She had stopped beside the stone fountain just off the verandah. It was cracked and covered in bird droppings, its basin filled with black leaves. I thought I saw something scurry there.

  Flossie laid a hand on the cold stone.

  What a shame, she said. Imagine this in its day. Has your aunt ever spoken about it? I bet it was something. That’s where I would have been as a girl, anyway, sitting in the sun here on a summer’s day, imagining all the possibilities.

  Which is exactly, I said, what you should do.

  What?

  Sit here and rest. Look, here’s a lovely spot.

  But it’s dirty, she said. And cold.

  I stripped off my overcoat and draped it over the fountain’s edge.

  There you are, I said. It’s a shabby old thing anyway. Rest your feet and daydream all you like, and I won’t be a moment.

  Where are you going?

  Just to poke around a bit, out back.

  What for?

  I shrugged. Just curious.

  She bit her lip.

  What is it? I said, growing impatient.

  Is it true what you said?

  What did I say?

  About your aunt? That she is dying?

  I laughed irritably. Of course not.

  She looked at me reproachfully.

  What else was I to do, for heaven’s sake?

  She lifted her shoulders.

  Listen, I said, just wait here a minute. I won’t be long.

  I began to cross the lawn. The shadows had spread out fully across the ground, almost touching.

  It’ll be dark soon, she called after me.

  I’m quite aware, I called back without turning.

  Arthor? she called.

  I stopped, exasperated, and half turned. The lawn was vast between us. She looked small, pale there in the shadow of the big house.

  What time does the streetcar stop running? I don’t want to walk all that way back.

  I’ll be just a moment. I turned away from her.

  It’s an awfully long way. Arthor?

  But I was hardly listening. My blood had turned cold. That presence, that feeling from Sixty-Six, was there with me. My skin crawled. I lifted my eyes toward the dark line of woods beyond the horse barn. A glimpse of something, maybe, there between the branches, a quick shifting, and then it was gone.

  I came around the side of the carriage house in dread, past rusting rakes and shovels and burlap sacking and old buckets, toward the woods. I almost expected to see the child there, waiting.

  But there was only the overgrown grass and the darkening woods beyond, the black tangle of branches. I could feel the cold damp air spreading out toward me, could smell the marshy, black rot stench of it. The sun was down now, the sky tinged barely pink above the black trees knifing upward. The grasses hushed and parted before me as I passed through. The marshy earth, sucking beneath my feet, seeped up water like cold steeped tea into my shoes.

  Another quick movement: it could have been the black wings of a crow, so fa
int was the stirring in the gathered darkness there, or a conjuring of my own imagination. But I knew it was the child, leading me. I ran, stumbling through the tangled grasses.

  And then it happened. I recalled the feel of those small hands on my back, and all at once, again, I was falling. I hit the earth, the wind knocked out of me, the sky gilded pink above and already fading, too beautiful to last.

  There it was.

  Not two feet from my upturned hand. Overgrown with moss, long grasses, brambles. I would not have found it had it not, yes, found me. Had the child not led me. I pulled myself to my knees. I could feel the pulse in my head, throbbing. There was a gash in my ankle, the blood welling up sticky and bright, and I pressed a muddy palm against it as I clawed the weeds away. I rubbed the top of the stone with my shirt sleeve. The moss was slippery, wet, and came away easily, like a skin on milk. Sarah Susan Phillips. Etched rudely into the stone.

  There, where I knew it would be, was the chip in the corner. I pulled the chunk of stone from my pocket. It fit. Exactly where it was supposed to. I almost wept.

  Arthor?

  I turned to see Flossie standing a few feet away at the edge of the grass. She held my overcoat before her, as if to hand it to me or fend me off. She had an odd look on her face.

  What are you doing? she said.

  Go back, I said, waving at her, lightly I hoped. Go back; I won’t be a moment.

  You’ve blood on your sleeve.

  Blood?

  She glanced behind her at the great house there on the rise, looking, darkened, down upon us.

  Arthor, she said, hugging herself, you’re scaring me.

  Don’t be silly. I’ve only cut myself on this stone.

  I saw you go down.

  That’s right. I’ve just scraped my ankle a little. It’s nothing. Go on. I’ll be right there.

  But she did not budge. As I knew she would not.

  I don’t want to go back there.

  Don’t be silly.

  I have a bad feeling.

  Flossie—

  I’m not stupid, Arthor, in spite of what you may think. I can see quite clearly you’re up to something, and if you don’t tell me right now what it is, I’m going back to the street and calling for that boy. I’m scared.

  He’s not home, I said. I may even have laughed.

  You’re acting crazy, she said.

  I shook my head. The darkness fell all around us. It fell and fell.

  Flossie, I said. Listen. All right? I’ll tell you. It’s probably nonsense, but there’s this, this family lore, you know, in his—my aunt’s family, about this silver mirror, or a pier glass, he said—

  Pier glass? Who said?

  Buried here on the property. It’s probably nothing. I thought myself it was nonsense. But I’ve only just now found the spot.

  She stepped a few paces into the long grasses, then stopped.

  Arthor, she said, it looks like … a grave. Sarah Susan Phillips?

  It isn’t, I said. It isn’t. She isn’t buried here.

  How do you know that?

  Because she’s in Swan Point Cemetery, in the Phillips family plot, with the rest of them.

  Them?

  Us, I mean. The Phillipses. Lovecrafts.

  Great god.

  Flossie bit her lip, shivered.

  She’s the one who buried it. She’s been dead fifteen years. But this, I said, running a hand across the stone, is much older. It looks to be some fifty years at least. Doesn’t it? Which would be right. That’s when she was supposed to have done it.

  Flossie came closer, the long grasses shushing as she passed through. She knelt down beside me in the marshy earth.

  Do you really think something’s buried here?

  There’s a whole story about it. I can’t tell you now. I leaned toward her. Flossie, I know it seems crazy.

  She frowned but was curious too, I could tell.

  Finding a flat, sharp stone, I dug a little hollow beneath one corner.

  If I can get my fingers under, I said, digging my fingers into the soil, and pry it up, and then if you can get your hands in, we’ll just turn it over. There, I said, lifting the corner up.

  It wasn’t as deep, or as heavy, as I’d thought. Flossie hoisted the stone over and we flipped it onto the grass. It broke into three pieces.

  I ran my fingers over a black mulched hollow where the stone had been. It was latticed with the white roots of weeds, ghostly and beautiful in the dusklight.

  It’s getting dark, Flossie said.

  I know.

  All at once she was on her feet, her dress clinging muddily to her knees.

  I know where there’s a spade, she said. And she was off across the field toward the horse barn before I could stop her.

  The wooden handle of the spade was worn and smooth in my palms. Flossie’s face hovered next to mine, her hot breath on my neck.

  Are you sure about this? I said. For now that we’d come this far, I had doubts. Looking under a stone was one thing. Digging into someone else’s property—a grave, even a fake grave—was quite another.

  There was a smear of dirt across Flossie’s mouth. Her intensity, her excitement, was intoxicating. Her eyes glistened blackly in the half light. There was a pause, as if everything in that instant stopped, and then her lips were on mine, and they were cool and soft. I thought I’d never felt anything softer. She pulled her head away and looked straight into my eyes. I became aware all at once of the sweet spring smell of the night and the grass, the crickets, the stars wheeling over us, the sharp bite of her lipstick.

  Arthor, she said, hurry.

  I stabbed at the muck. The soil was soft and rich and wet as I sloughed it out into the grass. Not a foot down, the spade struck something solid. Flossie and I looked at each other. She grabbed my arm.

  It may just be a rock, I warned.

  It won’t, she said. It won’t be. Hurry, we’re losing the light.

  I dug all around the hard place, then got down on my hands and knees and scrabbled the loose earth away.

  It’s a box, I said. My god. Flossie. There’s really something here.

  Get it out, she said.

  I pried the box up out of the earth with a sucking, wet sound and sat back on my haunches, breathless. I put the box down on the grass between us and smeared the mud and dirt away with my palms. It was wooden and looked as if, at one time, it had been expensive. There was something engraved on the lid, but it was so clogged with dirt we could not make it out in the dim light.

  It’s a silverware box, Flossie said. Like people keep their good silver in, so the air won’t tarnish it.

  It’s forks and knives?

  I don’t know. It would be, it could be, worth a good deal. Maybe. I don’t know. But it could be anything in there. Anything.

  I sat looking at it.

  I can’t, I said.

  Her face was lost to me now in the dusk.

  What do you mean?

  I don’t know. It feels … something’s wrong.

  She looked over her shoulder at the great house.

  Oh my god, she said, grabbing my sleeve, someone’s coming.

  The distant swing of a torch moved across the grasses at the edge of the house, back and forth, someone walking this way.

  Arthor, she said.

  I can’t, I said. Something’s wrong.

  Hello? came the voice, calling out across the field. Who’s out there?

  Flossie hissed, For god’s sake, Arthor, and reaching out, she grasped the tarnished clasp and flipped the lid open.

  We sat there, at first, not able to take it in, to understand quite what it was we were looking at in the falling darkness.

  There, impossibly small and nestled in a bed of what must once have been a deep blue velvet, curled the white bones of an infant, badly deformed.

  3

  All along the streetcar ride back down Butler Avenue, Flossie sat turned from me with her head in her hands, weeping. We were the
only ones on the car at that hour and I was glad of it.

  The conductor looked at me strangely from beneath his cap as we were disembarking. All right? he said to me.

  She will be, I said.

  He frowned at me deeply before pulling away.

  I took her arm and guided her back up College Street in the darkness, the streetlight pooling out beside us on the cobblestones, past the John Hay Library, and in through the front door of Sixty-Six. I saw her inside her apartment.

  You’ll want to wash up, I said, and when she looked at me mournfully, questioningly, I said, I’ll wait.

  The water ran a long time in the next room, and I sat with every light I could find burning to help dispel that overwhelming feeling of darkness, of heaviness, that had weighed upon me since Angell Street. I did not want to think about that old mahogany box. Did not want to think about what we had disturbed. I recalled us there in the darkness, putting the box back hastily and pressing the soil over it again with our palms and shoving the broken stone back in its place, with my own chunk of gravestone there where it belonged, before ducking off into the woods as the torchlight neared, someone calling out at us even as we fled. Then how we waited, huddling there in the woods, shivering, until all was, again, darkness. Sitting there in Flossie’s apartment, looking at my soiled hands, I almost wept myself.

  Flossie emerged finally with her wet hair combed back from a face pink and raw with scrubbing. She wore that peacock blue dressing gown, but all the charm had gone out of it.

  Do you want coffee? she said flatly.

  I shook my head.

  She took the violet throw and curled up into herself in the armchair by the window, looking out at the streetlights and the night.

  Finally, she said, Why, Arthor?

  After a long time, I said, I don’t know.

  Will you stay?

  I nodded. I did not want to be alone upstairs any more than she wanted to be alone downstairs. And I didn’t see why either of us should be.

  I just need some air, I said.

  I stepped outside and stood in the spring darkness. The air was fresh, clean. The stars blinked through the bare limbs like fireflies, coldly. The sky looked closer than I’d ever seen it. The night was full. I stepped out into the lane and looked up at Sixty-Six. The second and third floors were, as always, dark. Light shone out from Flossie’s apartment, and I could see in through the living room window, to the armchair. Flossie was not there. I felt a terrible loneliness, an emptiness. How saddened I would be when we could no longer be friends.