Threshold

by Sean Platt

  Iris ran back, and slipped a piece of paper into his hand. “My number. Call me.”

  “Really?” he said, hardly able to believe she wanted to see him again.

  “Really. Someone has to teach you an appreciation of the finer movies of the eighties.”

  She threw her hands around Hudson and kissed him.

  It was all he could do not to shut the door and lock his dad out and get back to what they’d been doing. But given his lack of a condom, Dad’s cock blocking was probably for the best.

  Outside, Dad honked.

  Iris laughed as she pulled away. “Bye, Hudson.”

  “Goodbye, Iris,” he said, though there was nothing good about this bye.

  **

  After a few minutes of driving, Dad spoke and killed the torture of silence. “So, did you have fun?”

  “Yes.” Hudson was still mad, but also glad that Dad wasn’t ripping into him.

  “She seems nice … Iris. Do you like her?”

  “Yeah,” Hudson grinned. “She’s great.”

  “I’m glad you made friends.” Dad cleared his throat. “I don’t want to embarrass you, so I’ll say two things then shut up. First: Don’t ever lie to me or leave the manor without permission again — under no circumstances whatsoever. If you do, I swear to all that is holy, you will never live to see another blue sky. And, number two: The next time you’re with Iris, or any girl, be smart. Honestly, Hudson, I don’t care what you do. Well, I do, but you’re fifteen, and I’m not about to stop nature, but please, please, please, don’t be stupid. I—”

  Hudson cut the embarrassment at its knees.

  “Got it, Dad. I promise, I’m not stupid.” Even though he was pretty certain that he wouldn’t have let something like not having a condom stop him from losing his virginity. Not with Iris. She was perfect.

  They fell back into silence. Hudson realized that he felt happier than he had in a while, and he wondered how long it would be before he’d see Iris again.

  * * * *

  HAZEL

  Hazel hadn’t left the library since Dad went to find Hudson. She had the reputation for needing extra attention and creating drama — even though she wasn’t creating anything, only reporting things as she saw them. It was Hudson stomping off like a toddler whenever he didn’t get his way.

  The manor’s library was amazing. It had a lot of books that Hazel knew, thousands she didn’t, and a private cloud network with everything else she could read on a tablet. Hazel had always loved to read, but it was hard to get lost in other people’s worlds when her own had become so awful. But now, in the manor where she could somehow feel Mom, Hazel felt hungry to tear through every book in the library in hopes of finding ones her mother had read too. Perhaps the books would serve as a bridge not just to another world, but also back to her mother.

  She was reading A Wrinkle in Time when the door opened and Carter entered the room. Dad had been encouraging her to read the book forever — it was one of his favorites as a kid — but she’d never been able to get into the story. This was the first time she found herself liking it. Hazel closed the book at page 47, the furthest she’d ever made it, and looked up at the caretaker.

  “Hi, Mr. Carter.”

  “Your father’s gone to find your brother.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes.

  “I know,” he said, stealing her thoughts. “And they say you’re the drama queen!”

  They laughed.

  “How would you like to explore the house a bit? I’ll take you places that your brother doesn’t even know about, then you’ll get to be Little Miss Know-it-All if you explore together later.”

  “Yes, please!” Hazel loved that idea. She set the book on an end table. “Mind if I leave this here?”

  “It’s your book and your house, Ma’am.”

  Hazel smiled. It was surprisingly nice to be called Ma’am. “So, where are we going?”

  He put a finger to his chin. “Not sure. Attics are always interesting and full of old stuff. How does that sound?”

  “Awesome!”

  “Well then, the attic it is. I’m sure it’s a matter of time before your brother wants to go up there, anyway. So you’ll get the lay of the land first.”

  He winked then walked toward the double doors, gesturing for Hazel to follow. She practically leaped from her seat and scampered behind him, out of the library, into the hallway, and up several flights of stairs toward an attic adventure.

  “Hazel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I heard some commotion last night. I looked out the window, and saw you outside with your family. What was going on?”

  He kept his eyes forward while walking. Not looking at Hazel made it easier for her to answer. She drew a deep breath and said, “I saw my mom.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yes,” Hazel nodded, maintaining pace two steps behind Carter. “I’ve been hearing my mom’s voice since she left. It’s usually like a whisper. She tells me that everything will be okay. But last night, for the first time, I actually saw her in the gazebo.”

  “Really?”

  The caretaker stopped, stood on his tiptoes, and batted a dangling cord until he had a firm grip on its end.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me to ask Dad about someone. I did, and he said it was a friend from work. I’m not sure what Mom wanted him to say. Maybe she wanted me to have proof that we talked, since I wouldn’t know about his friend otherwise.”

  “And what did your father say? Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed kinda mad. Do you believe me?”

  “Oh yes.” He smiled. “Indeed.”

  “Really? Why? Hudson always thinks I’m making stuff up.”

  “I have my reasons, sweetheart, but I’m not sure I should say. I wouldn’t want to upset your father. That isn’t my place.”

  “He doesn’t have to know,” Hazel promised. She pitched her voice to a whisper. “I cross my heart, Mr. Carter, I’ll never say anything to Dad, or anyone. I want to know what you do; I want to know why you believe me.”

  “Well, Miss Dawson, if you can’t forget to drop the Mr. before the Carter, I’m afraid I won’t be able to share anything.” His smile widened. “But since I know you’re trying your hardest to do just that, I suppose I can tell you.”

  He held his palms open. Hazel timidly set hers into his.

  “Your mother was special. I’m sure you know that already, but I’m not sure you know exactly how special she was.”

  “How was she special?”

  “Your mother, like you, Hazel, could see things that most people can’t.”

  Hazel felt a smile stretching across her face. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your mom saw ghosts, Hazel. And what’s more, she talked to ‘em, too.”

  “Are you telling me the truth right now … Carter?”

  “I solemnly swear on the manor and all it means to me.”

  Hazel didn’t know the caretaker well, and what little knowledge she did have had been gathered over the last few days. Still, she understood that his solemnly swearing on the manor was like her friend Jeanine swearing on her dead brother’s grave.

  “So, what kind of ghosts did my mom see?” Hazel only realized she was whispering after the words left her mouth.

  Carter said nothing.

  “You’re making up a story. I can tell. Mom used to look like that when she was about to tell me something made up.”

  “Oh, I’m not making anything up, dear. I’m deciding which story to tell.” His face brightened as he leaned forward. “The second time your mother came to visit, we were all in a flurry. Your Great-Aunt Scarlett had just passed away. But old Scarlett was a ‘hellcat of a woman’ as Alastair said plenty. She le
ft behind some rare jewelry and documents when she died, stuff the family needed for various reasons. All the heirs were searching the house. Davenport — his father, not the man you met — hired a small team to help. He had to talk Alastair into it, since Alastair thought the idea was awful. After all, who knew Galloway Manor better than the folks who had lived inside it for generations? Davenport insisted that they had nothing to lose. Alastair finally agreed. He was right — they turned up nothing but nothing after sifting for days.”

  Hazel’s heart beat faster, knowing what was coming.

  “Your mom came to visit a day after they left. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “She knew where Scarlett had hidden her stash of whatnots, without knowing what it was, or even that we were looking. She got this glaze in her eyes, right in the middle of eating her grilled cheese. She set it down next to her soup, stumbled from the dining hall like she was drunk, then disappeared. Alastair was up in a flash, but your mom was already gone. When she came back, around ten minutes later, she was holding Scarlett’s stash, but had no memory of the minutes she’d lost since dropping her sandwich.”

  Hazel felt breathless. “Then what happened?”

  “That was it. She came back into the dining hall and set the box on the table, next to what was left of her sandwich. She looked around and to no one in particular said, ‘She told me this was for you, and that you’d be happy to get it,’ then your mom pushed the box toward the table’s center, emphatically nodded, and sat. She picked up her grilled cheese and started to chew as they found what they’d been searching for. She finished her sandwich without another word. Later when asked, she claimed no memory.”

  “That’s so weird. And sort of cool!”

  “Oh, it’s definitely that,” Carter agreed. “Your mother was very cool. And whether or not you believe in unnatural happenings like ghosts — even those who see the impossible will sometimes cling to insisting they didn’t — there were things she could do that … well, that couldn’t be explained, or argued.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Carter looked thoughtful. Hazel thought he might be wondering how much to tell her.

  “You can tell me anything about my mom. I’ll believe you, and she would want me to know.” Hazel didn’t know if that was true, but it felt like the right thing to say.

  “You’re right. I’m sure she would.” Carter paused for what felt like forever, then finally said, “What would you say if I told you that she could move things with her mind?”

  “No way.” Hazel wondered if he was pulling her leg. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s amazing. How did she do it? Just by thinking?”

  “She just could.” Carter nodded at a stack of books piled on an end table beside an overstuffed shelf. “Like those books over there. She would stare and stare, sometimes for what seemed like forever.”

  “How long?”

  “A minute. Three. Once for an entire day.”

  “What would happen … after she stopped staring?”

  “Eventually, the something your mom was staring at would start to move, slowly at first, but then fast and jerky like she was trying to wrestle control. But, eventually, she got pretty good, and it was like she was holding it in her hands.”

  Hazel gasped. “What did people say?”

  “No one could really say much of anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m the only one who saw it, and everyone always thought I was crazy anyway — an old coot long before I was, filled with old ideas and too much superstition.”

  “Why do you think Mom never told me about that? She would’ve wanted me to tell her if I could mind-move stuff. Are you sure you’re not messing with me, Mr. Carter?”

  He held his hands in front of him, palms out. “I swear on the manor, for the second time in too soon, kiddo. I’m not messing with you. You said you’d believe me, and I figured you were old enough for me to say things straight.”

  “She should’ve told me.”

  He set his hand on her shoulder. “Your mom probably didn’t tell you because she knew how people would respond. People have a need to understand their world, and get scared when they see things that don’t match what they know. Some people retreat, but others attack. She probably found it easier to simply forget or pretend it never happened. How could your mom tell you when she couldn’t even tell your father about Galloway Manor?”

  “Why didn’t she tell him, or any of us? About the house or Great-Uncle Alastair?”

  “I’m sure your mom had her reasons.” Carter smiled. “Now what say we go look and see what we can find in the attic?”

  He gestured for Hazel to climb the ladder. She started, and he followed behind. The attic was dark until he reached the top and turned on the lights, which lit only parts of the attic at a time, leaving the rest in patches of darkness.

  Hazel looked around the beautifully arranged attic. In the spots she could see, everything was neatly stacked and spotless. The space felt recently tidied. “Why is everything so clean?”

  “What do you know about the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “That it’s a bridge in San Francisco.” A pause, then, “And it’s the world’s longest suspension bridge.”

  “It is a bridge, but not the longest. Don’t feel bad, lots of people think that. It was the longest when it was built. Now I think it’s number 12, behind the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in New York, England’s Humber, a bunch of others, and finally the Akashi-Kaikyo in Japan — though who knows, there could be a longer one after I stopped paying attention. What else do you know?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Ever hear how the Golden Gate gets painted?”

  “With paint, I assume?” she said with a giggle.

  He laughed. “Well, yes, but it’s how they paint it that matters. They start at one end, paint it, get to the other, then go back and do it again. Know why?”

  “Because it’s as big as this house?”

  “Yes,” he smiled. “Because of its size. The Golden Gate is large enough to always need painting. Like Galloway Manor, which is constantly in need of cleaning. We start at one end, move to the other, then start over and clean it all again. We refile, organize, stack, move, dust, wipe, scrub, and — this is my favorite part — update each room as needed. The manor would have ended up with Wi-Fi and whatnots, flat screens in every room eventually, but we have it now because of this guy.” He laughed and jabbed a thumb at his chest.

  Carter patted Hazel’s shoulder, then led her to a stack of boxes. They all looked new, not like attic boxes at all. Hazel had only been in one attic before (the one at their old home in Las Orillas), but she’d seen plenty of movies and read enough books to know that attics were dingy and poorly lit. Boxes stored inside them were fatigued by age, caked with dust, and collapsed at the corners. But these boxes were sharp, clean, and strong, in towers so neat they were almost unsettling.

  “We can blame Alastair for the orderly manner of the boxes.” Carter pointed to the towers. “He was a bit rigid. Liked things just so. And I imagine we’ll keep making them just so to please his spirit.”

  He went to one of the smaller stacks and opened the top box, peered inside, then turned to Hazel. “This is the one. You’ll probably love everything in this stack.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Well,” he said as he gestured for Hazel to join him. “Let’s see!”

  Carter pulled down the box, set it on the floor, then sat beside it. Hazel’s bottom landed beside his. She lightly clapped while waiting for him to open the box.

  “It’s nice to see you so excited.”

  He lifted the lid, and Hazel looked inside. She didn’t know what she expected, other than something that might be magic. But the box was filled with books.

  “Don’t be disappointed.”

  He reached inside, then handed Hazel a brown hardcover, blank on the front, back, and spine. />
  He winked. “You want magic, there’s magic in there.”

  Hazel opened the book to its middle and peered at the handwriting. She looked up. “This is someone’s journal.”

  “Alastair always encouraged family guests to record their thoughts during their stay.”

  “Do you think my mom has a journal in here?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it’s possible. That’s why I brought you up here.”

  “How do I know where to look? That’s a lot of boxes.”

  Carter stood. “Unfortunately, these aren’t archived as well as they should be, so I can’t tell you for certain. I suppose your mom’s box would be somewhere near the top. Maybe this one.” He negotiated the pile, trying to withdraw the second box from the top when a girl appeared in the attic from nowhere.

  Hazel cried out, then realized it was only Mara.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Hazel shook her head, embarrassed. Mara was the closest thing to a big sister that Hazel would ever have, so she didn’t want the girl to think she was a scaredy cat.

  “Yes, Mara, what is it?”

  She smiled at Hazel, then turned to Carter. “My mom needs you for a minute, when you have one.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is this a right now thing?”

  “She said, ‘when he gets a moment,’ but yeah, she was doing that thing with her mouth.”

  “Of course.” Carter turned to Hazel. “I’ll be right back, dear. Hopefully, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the meantime.”

  He finished pulling the box from the top of the tower, set it in front of Hazel, lifted the lid, patted her shoulder, then turned and followed Mara down the attic stairs.

  She looked through the boxes beside her, then more after that. Hazel had no idea how long she spent poring through journals on a hunt for her mother’s, searching for a younger version of the scribbles she’d seen on so many notes, sorries, I love yous, and you can do betters — secret notes sometimes stashed in her pockets.

  Hazel found something that might have been her mom’s in the fourth box, toward the bottom, but after reading a page she thought the author was male. She was reaching for another box when an odd sound — like a bird chirping — startled her from the attic’s only dark corner.