The House of Dies Drear

by Virginia Hamilton

  It happened so suddenly, Thomas had the notion that time had stopped. His mind went blank. Then it began to function almost reluctantly again, as did his struggle to free himself. One endless thought clawed its way into and out of his head: No old man who was lame, who was like any old man anywhere, even if he weren’t lame, could ever catch him from behind. No, nor lift him off the ground and hold onto him.

  Devil! Devil!

  “Let go! Let me go!” Thomas whispered.

  The man, that Pluto, heard Thomas and laughed. It was a mean laugh, like a snarl.

  “You rounders,” he said, “think you can come scare me out of my wits! You want to know? I have found it before you, and you ought to see it!”

  Something bright exploded inside Thomas. He had no time to put away carefully and remember what Pluto had said. Now he was awake, when a moment ago he had felt inside a dream. He lashed back with his elbows, in a motion that was swift and unexpected. Pluto let out a grunt, and his body sagged just enough for his arms to relax.

  Thomas ran free.

  That devil was coming also. Thomas could hear him, and he was not running, but striding swiftly through the trees.

  Thomas was over the crest of the hill. Below him were lights in the new house. The house was sweet to see. Thomas laughed—it was no better than a cry—and he ran faster once he had cleared the trees.

  Thomas burst open the kitchen door, tripped over the threshold and slid across the linoleum on his stomach. He hit the table; dishes crashed to the floor. He lay there, trying to breathe. Someone bounded down the stairs. It was his papa. He heard his mother calling, “What is it? What’s happening?” Somewhere above, the twins let out a tired wail.

  Mr. Small was shocked by the scene that greeted him. Thomas lay sprawled half under the kitchen table, with broken dishes around him. There was mud on his trousers and a lone, dirt skid mark across the linoleum. The kitchen-door lock had been pulled completely out of the molding and hung, useless, by one screw. Mr. Small couldn’t think why he had locked the door in the first place, since he knew Thomas would be returning by way of it. But he had, and now he couldn’t imagine what force had pulled out the lock.

  Mr. Small kneeled beside Thomas. “Thomas. Son,” he whispered. He didn’t touch the boy, but absently picked away bits of splintered glass from Thomas’ shirt.

  Mrs. Small came in and kneeled down. “Who did this?” she said. “Is he bleeding? Thomas! Please get up!”

  “Lock.” Thomas managed to say. He tried to keep his voice from trembling.

  “It’s … he’s coming … lock.” He was too tired to bother with making sentences. All he wanted his mother to do was lock the back door so Pluto—that devil, whatever he was— wouldn’t be able to get him.

  There was the sound of heavy feet on the rear veranda. A loud knock on the door caused it to slowly swing open. And framed by night stood that massive, black and bearded man some souls called Pluto.

  Chapter 7

  A MOVEMENT OF cool air from the open door fanned springy curls tucked behind Mrs. Small’s ears. She’d never seen old Pluto. Her hands clenched, as some instinct to defend her family made her stand boldly in front of him. When the loud knocking started, she had moved forward. She stood there, not menacing but watchful and strong.

  Pluto stepped over the threshold in a direct but courteous manner. He had thick, white hair and a full white beard, just as Mr. Small had described. And he was tall, taller than any elderly man Mrs. Small had ever seen. His broad shoulders drooped forward with age, causing his huge head to seem as untamed as that of a white gerfalcon.

  What Mr. Small hadn’t done was put the whole picture of Pluto together for Mrs. Small—his beard and hair against the dark brown skin of his face, out of which peered glassy, green eyes. He was somehow larger than dream or nightmare. She studied him from head to foot and did not think about him being lame. It was something other than his fearful head that caused her face to tighten. The way Mr. Pluto dressed seemed out of place and out of season, although there was no one thing that was wrong.

  Too well ordered, Mrs. Small thought. Yes! Just too well groomed for a country man!

  The idea came to her that maybe Mr. Pluto had planned with great care some particular effect.

  But why? She wondered. She carefully wiped her damp palms on her apron and extended her hand to this stranger.

  “You are Mr. Pluto.” Her voice was uncertain. “I shouldn’t sure … my, gracious, I was staring at you. I’m awfully sorry!”

  Mr. Pluto walked near and politely took her hand. He wore heavy hide gloves; they looked new, and he did not remove them. He said nothing. He retreated to a place just within the open door, where there was least light.

  “This is Thomas, my son,” Mrs. Small said. She turned slightly in Thomas’ direction, where he still lay half beneath the kitchen table. There was an awkward silence in which Mrs. Small tried not to notice the mess Thomas had made. For it was Thomas alone who had caused the dishes to crash down upon his head. Mrs. Small slowly freed herself from the shock of Mr. Pluto, and, in the silence of the kitchen, she understood clearly what must have befallen her son.

  Quickly Mrs. Small spoke again. “And this is my husband. I believe you two already know one another.” Looking at Pluto, her features tensed. Her eyes darkened, as though shadow passed over her vision.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Small,” Pluto said. He was boldly cordial. “I’m afraid I mistook your boy.” He cleared his throat.

  Thomas, still shivering, watched Mr. Pluto secretly from beneath his arm.

  “There are strangers … every once in awhile …” Pluto said darkly. “They come out here and they mean no good. I chase ’em off. I thought your boy was one… .” He nodded at Thomas by way of apology. His eyes flicked toward Mr. Small and quickly away before they could make contact. He did this several times.

  Now why is he shifty? Thomas wondered. And he’s a speechmaker, but he doesn’t seem to know his speech, or else he hasn’t written all of it yet.

  Thomas shot a glance at his father. He couldn’t have been more surprised by the look on his face.

  Mr. Small stood stock still, in a pose of deep concentration. His arms were rigid at his sides. He stared so hard at old Pluto, his whole face seemed caught in a terrible spasm.

  Thomas whistled silently through his teeth. Secretly he looked at old Pluto to see if he had noticed. But Pluto was staring into some neutral space above the table, as if waiting agreeably for what was to come next. Thomas had another look at his father, only to find him his usual self. Whatever had caused him to become upset no longer showed in his expression, nor in the way he stood there.

  Was I seeing things? Thomas asked himself.

  “Nice to see you again,” Mr. Small said. He picked up his pipe and walked around the table to shake hands with Mr. Pluto. “I want to thank you for taking care of things. You did well putting the rooms in order—saves me a lot of time and energy. You’ll work yourself too hard though.”

  “Why, the big moving van came at the beginning of the week. I took my time,” said Pluto. “I hope it’s all right”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Mr. Small. “Everything is fine just the way you arranged it.” He watched Pluto as though he had been struck, suddenly, by some new and strange idea of him. Again Pluto would not meet his eyes, but appeared to pull back from him as far as he could without moving physically.

  Mr. Small took a step toward Pluto and shifted the conversation without warning.

  “How’s the black doing, and the bay?” he said matter-of-factly. “I remember you were working on their shoes.”

  The question startled Pluto; there was no place for him to back up to without going out the door. “Oh …” he stammered. Mr. Small took another step forward. “Yes … yes, sir!

  “The bay is fine, just fine.” Pluto was talking fast, and Mr. Small did not move. “But I had to hobble that black,” Pluto said. “He’s got the chill, but he won’t
stay still. He tries to run all night to get away from it. I had to hobble him, had to tie his feet to keep him from bursting his heart.”

  “Horses?” said Thomas. “Papa, horses?” He was on his feet, forgetting his fear of Pluto. He thought of Pesty and that Darrow boy, and the black horse they had with them.

  “Mr. Pluto has three horses, son,” said Mr. Small. “I told you he uses two at a time for the buggy he gets around in. At night, he keeps them in the cave on the other side of the hill from here. The black has simple fever, which is odd, isn’t it, Mr. Pluto, in a horse of such dark color? I thought simple fever hit horses with lighter coats, such as the whites and grays.”

  “Yes … well.” Mr. Pluto thought for awhile. He seemed to struggle with his memory, and Thomas watched him. Indeed they all watched him, as though he were not just strange, someone they’d only heard of, but a man beyond their knowledge.

  “If it was just a heat problem,” Mr. Pluto began, “say heat like they have in India, it wouldn’t have hurt the black. It wasn’t the heat though, it was nervous shock.”

  “I had no idea nervousness could act on a horse’s heat centers,” Mr. Small said. He had taken another step forward, and Pluto became agitated.

  “Not nervousness,” Pluto said. He squeezed his gloved hands together. “Nervous shock. Nervous shock! By haunted things nothing living should have the unhappiness to see!”

  At once Thomas had a vision of night and Mr. Pluto’s black horse grazing the hillside. A specter floated slowly nearer, until it was beside the horse. The horse lifted his head, standing there for a second before falling with a thud to the ground.

  “Papa, ghosts!” Thomas whispered. “He’s talking about ghosts!”

  Mr. Small looked sternly at Thomas; after that Thomas stayed quiet. Then Mr. Small looked hard at Pluto. At that moment, Thomas saw the faintest trace of amusement on Pluto’s face. His father didn’t seem to notice it.

  “You have a sick quarter horse on your hands,” said Mr. Small. “This is a lonely stretch of country. I’m sure the town boys like fooling around along the stream. Thomas, didn’t you tell us you met two children out here today? One of them was a little girl called Pesty. She was riding a black horse, Mr. Pluto, and I believe she left the impression the horse belonged to you.”

  They all stood still in the room, with the quiet slowly closing in on them. Mr. Small’s meaning had been clear to Mrs. Small and clear to Thomas. But if he had meant to startle Mr. Pluto with his knowledge of an unhobbled, seemingly well horse, he had been mistaken.

  When Pluto started speaking, he didn’t even bother to lift his voice above that hostile silence; he seemed not to consider that Mr. Small had raised the possibility he might be lying. Now he kept his eyes on Mr. Small’s feet moving steadily forward.

  “That Pesty!” Mr. Pluto said, fondly it seemed to Thomas. “She can do more with a wild animal than any small child should be able to do with anything!”

  “You mean to say a child could unhobble a full-grown quarter horse suffering from simple fever?” Mr. Small’s voice was angry now.

  “No,” said Mr. Pluto quietly. “No, I mean to say that Pesty can ride that black anytime. Anytime at all, as long as it’s day. But once night hits, that horse has the fever of nervous shock. And I have to hobble him so he won’t burst his heart with running.”

  “You’re not talking sense, man!” said Mr. Small. He was well on Pluto now and with a few more steps, he would be able to see whatever it was he was obviously looking for.

  “Sense!” The word hissed around them, stopping Mr. Small’s forward movement. There was a twisted smile on Pluto’s face. Thomas still couldn’t see that face as well as he had when the firelight had played on it.

  “Sense,” Pluto said again, less in anger than with sadness.

  He looked gently at Mrs. Small. He looked at Mr. Small with that odd trace of amusement on his face. He stared vacantly at Thomas, then up at the ceiling. And he spoke in a kind of chant that sounded old and worn, like history.

  “When hoot owl screeching, westward flies,

  Gauge the sun …

  Look to Dies,

  And Run.”

  Mr. Small stepped forward. Pluto moved into the frame of the gaping door. Like fluid, the tall figure of him flowed out and was the same as darkness. Thomas didn’t even hear his feet on the veranda. But he was gone, leaving them free for awhile of whatever it was had possessed them.

  Chapter 8

  “IT WILL JUST HAVE to hold until morning. I can get into town then and buy a new lock … maybe two or three locks, the way things look here. India! Can you beat it? That’s the puzzle!”

  Mr. Small was speaking to himself. He wasn’t aware that Mrs. Small and Thomas listened to him, so intent was he on his work at the kitchen door. He had been working on the door for the past ten minutes. He had looked out once, right after Mr. Pluto had disappeared into darkness, and then had spent a few minutes trying to slam the door shut. But without the spring lock, the door wouldn’t stay closed. He had taken two dinner knives and slid them in the groove of the doorframe. One knife he placed by the lock and the other just below the doorknob. He then slid the latch in place.

  “No. No,” Mr. Small muttered to himself. “Something else. Something different. Was it about the head? No, that was all right … perhaps the neck. The shoulders? If I could have just realized the difference when I shook his hand! If I could put my finger on it … that’s what it was. The gloves! He’s trying to conceal his hands. He might have burned himself badly. I’ve told him the kind of work he does is too hard for a man his age. And being the superstitious man he is, he will be afraid to see a doctor. He will suffer with pain as best he knows how, because a doctor has supernatural power the same as a ghost!”

  Thomas and Mrs. Small listened. They understood that something had to be haunting Mr. Pluto. Whatever it was, part of it had taken hold of Mr. Small. Although he was finished with the door, he still stood before it, talking to it as if it were alive.

  “Good Lord!” he was saying, “the man is history! He doesn’t have to leave this land, that other side of the hill. And yet he is running just as hard as the slaves had to run, as if he were one! He stays here, colliding with the past on the one hand and the present on the other. But does he mean to run to the one and away from the other? Or run to both and pull them together? Here he stays … now why! Why does he stay?”

  Finally Mr. Small sat down glumly at the kitchen table, with one hand cupped over his mouth. Thomas, after taking in the large, lopsided kitchen, sat down beside him.

  Mrs. Small busied herself by cleaning off the table and sweeping up all the broken dishes. She didn’t utter a word to Thomas or his father. When she had finished, she deposited all the trash in an empty carton as quietly as she could.

  “I think I could do with more coffee,” Mr. Small said finally. His voice no longer held that feverish, crazy sound, Thomas noticed.

  If he goes around talking to some more doors, Thomas thought, I’m just going to have Mama take him to a hospital.

  “It’s still good and hot,” Mrs. Small said. “Thomas, will you have your coffee black, too?”

  Thomas was so surprised he couldn’t think of anything to say. His mother never allowed him black coffee. What small amount of coffee she would permit him to have came only at Christmas or Thanksgiving, and then it was mostly cream and sugar with a dash of cinnamon.

  “Oh, I know,” Mrs. Small said to him, “but you know you’d dearly love to have it strong and black, the way your papa does. And since you’re sitting here … well, it’s your birthday.”

  She poured two full cups of black coffee, placing one cup in front of Thomas and one in front of Mr. Small. She then poured a half cup for herself and sat down between them.

  The smell of coffee filled the room. It flooded Thomas’ mind with kitchen and coffee memories of long ago.

  Mr. Small raised his cup. “Happy birthday, Thomas,” he said quietly.

/>   “Yes,” Mrs. Small said, “happy birthday!”

  So it was that Thomas had his first full cup of bittersweet, black, black coffee. He felt so good sitting there in the new kitchen, in the new house, with his mother and father. He felt as though he were at the center of whatever would happen next. Talk would happen next. He could tell that by his mother’s excited face and his father’s solemn one. They would talk things out the way they always had. Late at night, he’d often heard them in the kitchen talking things out, with that pure, hot smell of coffee filtering up to his room.

  “Mama,” Thomas said after awhile. He had taken a few sips of coffee. “… do you think now you are here and have seen everything that you’ll ever want to go back home?”

  Mrs. Small sat very still. Thomas thought she looked tired. He knew he was tired—all of them were. But he had to know right now how she felt about staying in the new house. And he knew none of them wanted to think about Mr. Pluto just yet.

  “No, Thomas,” said Mrs. Small, “I don’t think so. Your father and I have moved around quite a bit, it’s true. We travelled this whole country in a camper we made ourselves.”

  “Looking … looking,” Mr. Small said quietly.

  “We finally settled in North Carolina,” said Mrs. Small, “and we stayed there a good long while. But it was never right for us. No. No, never go back.”

  “And you won’t be afraid of Mr. Pluto?” Thomas couldn’t help asking.

  “Thomas!” Mr. Small spoke sharply. “Nobody talking about ghosts and chanting verse is going to scare us out of this house. Nobody is going to take it away from us.”

  “Do you think he will try?” Thomas said.

  His father was silent. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, but said nothing.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Small, as though to answer Thomas and clear their thinking at the same time. She looked searchingly at Mr. Small.