The Supernatural Enhancements

by Edgar Cantero

  “Until Christmas?”

  “No, they’d leave just before Christmas.”

  Niamh lipped for me the words winter solstice.

  “Maybe they were celebrating Ambrose’s birthday,” I said.

  They gave the idea some thought, but then Mr. Brodie recalled that this tradition stretched back to pre-Ambrose times. They didn’t seem aware that Ambrose’s birthday was in February.

  “And those were the only visitors in the whole year?”

  “In such big groups, yes. At other times, they’d drive by one or two at a time, but that didn’t happen often. Some did come more often—like that young gentleman Caleb … something. They went on trips together, Ambrose and him.”

  Mrs. Brodie seemed to foresee a quarrel with her husband when they got home, but she said this nonetheless:

  “Some people think they’re Masons.”

  Her husband dived into his palm.

  I feigned surprise and appeared to meditate for half a minute (which I really spent imagining how fourteen-year-old Wild Turkey would taste mixed with 7UP) and then said, “Well, if that’s the case, we’ll find out soon, won’t we? By Masonic law, a Mason is allowed to identify another Mason only after that other Mason is dead. So when a friend of Ambrose’s turns up, I’ll ask him and will report to you.”

  I think my tone served to thaw the ice; Mr. Brodie laughed at the prospect. They were about to stand up when Niamh showed them her notepad: What about the ghosts?

  Mr. Brodie said cheerfully, “That’s probably false too.”

  LETTER

  * * *

  Axton House

  Axton Rd.

  Point Bless, VA 26969

  Dear Aunt Liza,

  […]2 The second visitor arrived at dinnertime. We were sitting at the table when we heard a car braking on the gravel. Niamh meant to take his picture for you, but I told her not to. Mr. Knox (so he introduced himself) epitomizes the anachronistic Virginian high class I told you about when describing Glew: Nothing about him belongs to this era—not his car, not his hair, not his handshake, nor his accent (says Niamh). However, framed in the doorway of Axton House, he fit perfectly. Had he rung the doorbell of my old apartment, I would have mistaken him for a time traveler.

  He apologized for the late hour; he was just driving past on his way to Lawrenceville (about thirty miles northeast) when Glew informed him of our arrival; naturally, as an intimate friend of Wells’, he wished to welcome us. He wouldn’t join us for dinner, but he didn’t mind watching us eat. He’s younger than Ambrose was, somewhere in his forties. Reminds me of Jeremy Irons.

  Niamh took some Polaroids of the dining room (second door on the right from the entrance) so you can picture the scene. I doubt we’ll be using the room a lot: The pink arras and high, dark beams seem to stare down on our food with disapproval. The Gothic atmosphere demands a bleeding carpaccio; instead, we were having spaghetti and meatballs. Picture us sitting at the north end, Knox at the south, nearest to the fireplace. He seemed surprised that Niamh was laying the table.

  “Shouldn’t a servant be doing that?”

  “If you mean the butler, he deserted even before seeing how we leave the bathroom in the morning.”

  “Strückner has resigned?” I think he regretted the incredulity in his pitch as soon as the sentence parted his lips.

  “Do you know him? If you see him, tell him he won’t get his job back easily—Niamh cooks like God.”

  Niamh was anacondaing a meatball as big as her head. Knox watched us eat like we were on the Discovery Channel.

  “It’s funny. I knew Ambrose for so long, and yet he never talked about you.”

  “It’s okay; he never mentioned you either. Of course, we never talked much, what with having never met and everything.”

  “And what exactly was your kinship?”

  “Ooh, wait, I know that one—I’m his second cousin twice removed. Meaning his grandmother Tess and my great-great-grandmother were sisters.”

  “Mm-hm. I suppose I could have a second cousin twice removed myself and not know about him.”

  “It came as a surprise to me too.”

  “And he left you this house.”

  “And all of its contents.”

  “Was that the extent of his will?”

  “Oh, no, there was more. There was us, then something about the lands … Glew is working on it. I’m told I have the last word on that, but I guess we’ll just give it away to its current tenants.”

  “Give it away,” he parroted. “Do you know how much that land is worth?”

  “Very little, compared to what we’ve got now. You must understand: I just realized I don’t need to work again in my life. Not that I’ve worked a lot, really.”

  “What did you used to do?”

  “I was a student of geography.”

  “Ambrose liked geography too,” he observed, while his mind attended some less trivial matter. “Didn’t the will say anything else?”

  “You’re certainly curious. Did you have your eyes set on the silverware or something? Because we can talk about it.”

  “No, no, not at all.” He almost blushed here. “I am just looking for an explanation for what Ambrose did.”

  That invoked a mournful silence. We tried to suck pasta quietly.

  “So, nothing else? Not a note? No instructions for Strückner or anybody?”

  “I’m afraid not. Although … Wait, what was your name again?”

  “Knox.”

  “Caleb Knox?”

  “No, Curtis Knox.”

  “Oh, nothing then.”

  “But I do know Caleb. If you mean Caleb Ford.”

  “Ford! That was it. My mistake—Ford, Knox …” I realize I was behaving like an ass, but that’s fine. It proves I have many registers.

  “What was in it for Caleb?”

  “I don’t know. Glew is looking for him; he’s missing too.”

  “He’s on a field trip.”

  “Really? Please tell Glew; he’ll be glad to know. Where is he?”

  “Africa.”

  “Where in Africa?”

  “Central Africa.”

  “You can be more specific; I’ve seen a couple maps in my life.”

  “Kigali.”

  “Wow.” He almost got me there. “Rwanda.”

  “That’s just where he started; his work must have drawn him deep into the country. He can be untraceable for months during these excursions.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Since April.”

  “He might not even know of Ambrose’s death.”

  Knox just nodded irrelevantly. After a minute or two he resumed: “It’s funny he left you this house.”

  “Didn’t we go through that just now?”

  “No, I mean … not in that sense. Somehow, Axton House is a poisoned gift.”

  This silence here was somewhat heavier, lonelier than the preceding one. The former was an elevator silence; this one was a walking-through-the-woods-by-night silence.

  “I mean,” he clarified, “that this house is not a real treat.”

  “Excuse me; could you speak a bit louder? I didn’t hear you from this end of the room.”

  “Yes, I know: the three-story mansion, the ten-thousand-volume library, the conservatory … But besides that, the house comes with a dark background.”

  “I see. The rumors, the nocturnal noises … The secret rites …”

  He didn’t even blink. On the contrary, he added, “The ghosts …”

  “Bullshit.” I would have never dared to say that in front of the Brodies, but I could afford it now.

  “Sure, nothing but fables. But they make one of Axton House’s features; fables come in the package. ‘A house with supernatural enhancements,’ as I think Edith Wharton put it.”

  “They don’t affect me.”

  “They did affect your predecessor,” he replied, visibly grateful for my walking into that. “And his father too.”
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  Niamh asked on her notepad, Did they really kill themselves the same way?

  “Yes, they did,” he said, leaning back after squinting at the message. “Same age, same time, jumped from the same window.”

  “Which window?”

  “Third floor, third on the north side, main bedroom.”

  That’s where we sleep. It’s where I’m writing this now.

  Mostly to deflect his attention from the deep impression on Niamh’s face, I challenged him:

  “How come it affects members of the Wells family and nobody else?”

  “Who else is there to be affected?”

  “Strückner?”

  “I would have admitted he was not affected until you told me he resigned.”

  “Touché. What about the women?”

  “Ambrose’s mother died when he was a child. Breast cancer. His father raised him. Well, mostly the Strückners did: Strückner senior as a nanny and male figure, then Strückner junior as his butler and friend.”

  “And higher in the family tree? Ambrose’s grandfather Horace?”

  “Sadly my knowledge doesn’t reach that far back.”

  “Isn’t it more reasonable to take Ambrose’s death as a consequence of his father’s death, i.e., to assume that he was traumatized and bore the scar throughout his life, until he reached the same age, and the old wound reopened, and he followed his father’s steps just to end the pain, rather than speculating that two different people were independently induced to commit suicide the same way at the same age by some unknown agent?”

  “Good application of Occam’s razor,” praised he.

  “How old was Ambrose when his father died?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And they died at the same age, you say. Fifty, isn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  The only argument I could come up with to comfort Niamh and myself was that I still have a twenty-seven-year grace period.

  NIAMH’S NOTEPAD

  * * *

  (In bed.)

  —You forgot to ask if they Masons.

  —You’re right. Anyway, if Knox is a Mason, he didn’t seem the kind who would be open about it.

  —I don’t like him.

  —Nor do I.

  —He doesn’t like us either—like we’re in his way.

  —You mean, like he wanted the house for himself? Why?

  —I think Knox part of the Xmas party group, & Wells their leader. K. expected W. to pass him the baton.

  —Right. That’s why he kept asking what was in the will. Or if there were any messages for him, or Strückner.

  —Maybe Strückner & Knox in cahoots?

  —Or Knox hoped to be handed the baton through Strückner.

  —You made him jealous. Now thinks Caleb the one to succeed Wells.

  —Yeah, I just said that to probe him. But it’s true there was a Caleb in the will. I’d forgotten until the Brodies brought up the name. It’s exotic.

  —I think I’ll like Caleb better.

  —There’s a better prospect yet. If Wells runs these yearly meetings that Knox and Caleb attend, and now Wells is dead and Caleb doesn’t know … how many more don’t know?

  —You mean they coming back for Xmas?

  —Why not? Ambrose wasn’t a notable man, just rich. His death didn’t make the papers. It was unexpected; he wasn’t ill or anything. Most of his associates drop by only once a year. Caleb was one of the assiduous, and he knows nothing. Conceivably, neither do the others.

  —So, we don’t interfere? We stay silent & have the dining room ready for winter solstice?

  —Could be fun. Tomorrow I’ll go through the office. I might find a guest list or something. You search Strückner’s room: Check if he did receive any instructions. Any questions?

  —Can we move to another room?

  —Why?

  —I’d rather have you sleep on the 1st floor.

  —There aren’t any beds on the first floor.

  —Isn’t it like tempting fate?

  —That’s why you’re here—to protect me.

  A.’S DIARY

  * * *

  I woke up after midnight. I’m not sure about the time. The bed is so vast that lying in the middle of it my elf eyes can’t read the LCD clock. Niamh must be sleeping somewhere else on the mattress, in hollow silence—not a swish, not a breath. Outside the canopy lay the immeasurable dark void.

  I rolled over to my left and sat at the edge of the bed, ready to leap into space. I almost didn’t expect to touch a floor under my feet. I stood up and went for a glass of water.

  Luckily, the bathroom is just across the hallway. Like a bat, I guided myself by sound: first the creaking floorboards of the hallway, then the silent tiles of the bathroom. I did have some trouble finding the light switch (they’re all too high). With the lights on, I noticed for the first time that the ceiling is vaulted like a tunnel. I drank some water from the sink and glanced at the mirror. I could see my skin with outstanding detail. I checked the bulbs and saw the light grow brighter. I squinted at the white glow reverberating on the sink, the wall tiles, and the shower curtain, haloing them all with an aura that seemed to corrode the outline of all objects and that of a shadow on the curtain. Not my shadow. A shadow behind the curtain.

  As soon as I understood that, the bulbs went out.

  I stood there, waiting, until my scorched eyes got used to the dark. Quietly the moonlight redrew the room: hardly a whisper, compared to the recent electric cry.

  Then I strode to the tub and pulled the curtain open.

  It would be stupid to pretend I found anything. I couldn’t even tell whether the whole episode had been a dream when I woke up in the morning twilight, next to Niamh wrapped up in the quilt like an insect in a cocoon. But I did remember the shadow. I remembered the position of the light above the mirror and I knew it couldn’t have been my shadow. There had been somebody standing inside the tub.

  Niamh stirred, stretched herself out of her patchwork chrysalis. She turned over, and a good-morning nive froze on her lips.

  I asked what was wrong. She ran to the dresser and brought me a mirror. I have a burst vessel in each eye—both my sclerae dyed crimson.

  The bathroom lights are burned out. And of course there’s no trace of anything or anybody in the tub.

  That was the third visit.

  * * *

  2 Some paragraphs in these letters are omitted to spare the reader redundant information. All omissions will be signaled like this.

  NOVEMBER 6

  A.’S DIARY

  * * *

  The second-worst thing that can happen at a medical exam is having the doctor call in a colleague because he needs a second opinion.

  And the worst thing that can happen is that they ask you permission to take a picture.

  Despite their attentions, though, our visit to the little Point Bless clinic has been overall useless. Though I enjoyed the ride and the horror in the pedestrians’ faces as Niamh drove me there doing a hundred and twenty in our mile-snouted Audi.

  We had breakfast at Gordon’s, the local café on Monroe Street that youngsters around here must consider the definition of tedium. I loved the place. It was quintessential U.S., with its window tables and the many sauce bottles and thingies against the glass, just like in the movies. It made everything we said very interesting. Not that it actually wasn’t; Niamh did find my account of the bathroom poltergeist pretty transcendent. And the sunglasses I was wearing at the time certainly added some mystery.

  —Shouldn’t we call someone?

  —“Who you gonna call?”

  —Electrician!

  SECURITY VIDEOTAPE: RAY’S HARDWARE AND ELECTRONICS

  * * *

  1995-11-06 MON 11:02

  An unshaven YOUNG MAN in sunglasses looks straight at the camera.

  [A WOMAN, in a down vest and wool hat, comes behind the counter.]

  WOMAN: Hi.

  YOUNG MAN: Oh, hi. Uh, th
e woman at the café said if I want an electrician I must come here and talk to … Sam?

  WOMAN: Wait, I’ll call him.

  [She leaves. Behind the man, a skinny KID in punk rags, fifteenish, is browsing through the shelves. Her dark hair falls in ringlets down her temples, ends à la garçonne at the back, and freezes in a volcanic eruption of dreadlocks and wool ribbons on top.]

  [The man turns to see her unwrapping a box.]

  YOUNG MAN: Who’s going to pay for that?

  KID: [Distractedly points at him.]

  YOUNG MAN: Am I? God, I don’t know what to spend my money on. What a piece of nouveau riche scum I am.

  [Kid presses some buttons on the voice recorder she has pulled out of the box.]

  RECORDING: —ce of nouveau riche scum I am.

  YOUNG MAN: Cool. [Inspecting the device.] Where do you put the tape in that?

  KID: [Indicates a word on the box.]

  YOUNG MAN: “Digital.” Wow. Seems like yesterday we went to see Arrival of a Train and ran out of the theater in panic.

  [The woman comes back.]

  WOMAN: Is it a problem with your car?

  YOUNG MAN: Uh, no, no, it’s my house, I just wanted an electrician to come by.

  WOMAN: Is your power out?

  YOUNG MAN: No.

  WOMAN: Any twitches, tension drops … ?

  YOUNG MAN: No, quite the contrary. It works too fine. I’d just like somebody to check it out.

  WOMAN: Well, you know, we mainly sell appliances and tools. Sam only goes to homes for emergencies.

  YOUNG MAN: Oh. I see.

  [The woman eyes the kid tampering with the voice recorder in the back.]