After You Died

by Dea Poirier

  It takes nearly two hours to drive to the Howey Mansion from Ocala. When we finally turn down the street, I notice something strange. I see someone for a split second before they run behind a tree. A shadowy figure that feels vaguely familiar. It’s probably a spooked kid, scared to get caught sneaking out. I push it from my mind.

  To be sure we aren’t seen, I park a couple streets away. Old lady Howey, or her watchful neighbors, love to call the police. The property is covered in about forty thousand no trespassing signs. Kids are caught constantly sneaking in here. I don’t want our trip cut short. I want Olivia to enjoy every second of tonight. Olivia practically jumps from the car, a spring in her step like she’s on a pogo stick. I catch up with her quickly, and she takes my hand. Her warm fingers wrap around mine. We walk along the road’s edge, moonlight streaming down through the tree branches.

  A breeze kicks up as we walk. The scuffs of Olivia’s feet echo through the night. I’m surprised by how quiet she is, especially on a night like tonight. She’s obsessed over the Howey Mansion for years. I’d expected her to rehash the entire history of mansion trivia she’s collected during our car ride. But her mouth was a thin line of nothingness.

  She fidgets beside me, crossing and uncrossing her arms as she walks, until I finally ask, “Is everything okay?”

  She nods, but it seems forced. Silence falls between us again, and in that silence a bad feeling blooms. She seems to look everywhere but at me. I’ve seen something on her face all night, but I have no clue what it might be. Olivia isn’t the type to keep anything bottled up. The moment a thought pops into her head, it comes right out of her mouth.

  Finally, after nearly five minutes she says, “Hey, Ash?”

  I look at her, she’s hiding behind her blonde curls. “Yeah?” I ask as smoke pours from my lips. This timid, shy side of her is strange.

  “I was thinking...” She doesn’t look at me, instead she looks at the houses, the trees, anything to avoid eye contact. Olivia never has trouble communicating what’s on her mind. That’s one of the reasons I love her, I always know exactly where I stand with her. “Do you still...” she continues.

  I stop walking and look at her. When she finally makes eye contact I say, “Just spit it out.”

  It takes two drags from my cigarette before she speaks again, just long enough for me to think I sounded too harsh.

  “Do you still love me?” she asks, and her voice trembles.

  I balance the words carefully in my mind. And finally settle on asking, “Really?”

  She nods as she chews her lip and tugs on one of her stray curls.

  “Where are we going right now?” I ask. Deep down I know she’s going to think that I’m avoiding the question, which, I have been known to do, but not today, today I have a point to prove.

  She squints, but finally humors me. “The Howey Mansion?” she says, as if she isn’t quite sure. Even though the mansion looms at the end of the street.

  “That’s right, because ever since you were little, all you could talk about was that damn house. The rock walls around it, the ivy, Hell, you even obsessed about Spanish architecture for two years because of it. You told me all about how it was built, speculated what it looked like inside. You even built a little dollhouse to try and mock it up. You planned how you’d one day be rich enough to buy it, and you’d have me and Eden move in with you. But you called dibs on the turret,” I explain.

  She bites her cheek and kicks the toe of her shoe into the ground. A hollow thump, thump, thump echoes through the empty street with each kick.

  “That mansion is your dream. The second I heard about old lady Howey getting hauled away, all I could think about was the look I’d see on your face when I told you.” I smile, and take a drag from my cigarette. “You lit up like a bottle rocket.” I step closer, close enough that there’s less than a breath of space between us. Close enough that I can smell the scent of oranges on her skin.

  She looks down, and says, “That doesn’t answer my question.” As dark as it is, I can still see her pink cheeks flush.

  “Yes,” I say as I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into me.

  “Yes?” She looks up through her eye lashes at me.

  Sometimes, on the rarest occasions, the smartest people you know can be so dumb it’s actually painful. This is one of those times. I roll my eyes playfully, knowing what it is she wants to hear. “God, Olivia, yes, I love you.”

  She reaches up, her hand circles behind my neck. Olivia pulls me down, stretches up on her tip toes. Her breath is hot on my lips, but I refuse to close the distance between us. The first kiss is gentle, barely a kiss at all. It shouldn’t make my stomach leap, or flutter, or my blood rush—but it does. Then she kisses me harder, her soft lips press against mine, I taste her mouth, and she presses her body against mine.

  She pulls away, her curls bouncing as she stands flat on her feet again. A wide smile is set across her face. “I love you, too,” she says.

  A fire spreads through me. I’ve been waiting for her to say that for fourteen years. Every-fucking-day I’ve wanted her to say it. I pull her back into me. “Are we finally going to do this? Go steady. I mean.” My hands rest on her hips, my fingers twitch begging to venture further.

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders, and pulls me down. Her breath hits my ear, she whispers, “Yes.” Her face against mine brings heat to my cheeks.

  “So, what is this? What are we?” The question sounds stupid once I’ve said it. But her face doesn’t fall. That smile is still plastered to her face.

  Pink tinges her cheeks. “Well, you’re my... boyfriend,” she says coyly, it’s almost a question.

  “Yes, I am,” I say, and then kiss her gently. My mouth falls on her lips, cheek, neck. When I reach her collarbone, I feel her shiver. Goosebumps rise under my lips.

  She giggles, “We have a mansion to get to, don’t we?”

  I relent, I don’t want to. I may have been after her for fourteen years, but she’s been after this mansion nearly as long.

  Though the walk should only take ten minutes from where we parked, we’ve been out here nearly an hour. Ancient crooked trees, heavy with moss, stand sentry around the fence. We reach the rock wall, the iron gates are weighed down with locks and chains. Bound to the gates are several no trespassing signs, we ignore them, everyone does. It’s never made sense to me why they bother locking it up, the wall around the perimeter isn’t even four feet tall. A dog could jump over without batting an eye. It’s not keeping anyone out. It certainly isn’t going to keep us out.

  I climb over first, and offer my hand to help Olivia. She straightens her dress, and dusts it off before continuing. The tile roof of the house glows in the moonlight, slick with dew. Layers of ivy creep from the ground, covering the turret on the right side of the house. It’s so dark, the usual light pink color of the stucco is barely a faded beige. White arches stick out from the walls framing three floor-to-ceiling windows. Unkempt topiaries grow around the front door, like they’re guarding it, or maybe hiding it. A long winding driveway curves across the overgrown yard, past the front door. I watch Olivia as she stares in wonder at the house, smiling from ear to ear.

  “One day, we’re going to get married here,” she says, her words are heavy, like a promise.

  Halfway across the dew-covered lawn, we stand in the shadow of the house. I’m on my fifth cigarette. Olivia has spent the last four minutes staring up at the ivy-covered stucco—not that I’m counting. I stand watch while she stands in wonder, like a kid in a toy store for the first time. My eyes are on the street when I see movement. At first, I’m not sure I saw it at all. But as I watch, I’m sure I see a figure in the distance, watching us.

  “Ash?” she asks, she’s a few feet behind me now, close to the backyard.

  “It’s nothing, let’s go,” I say automatically, I don’t want her to worry if it’s nothing. I don’t want anything to ruin this night for her.

  I click the metal
lid of my lighter open and closed. It at least drowns out the sound of frog croaks that are putting me on edge. The pit of my stomach prickles. Olivia walks in front of me, finally she’s meandered into the backyard. Once we can’t be seen from the street, I feel the slightest bit of relief. Still, I start smoking my sixth cigarette.

  That’s when I see it again. I’m sure I saw someone run down the street and hide behind the fence. Maybe Dominic followed us. He knew we were coming tonight, I know he’d love to see the inside of the mansion.

  “Hello?” I call out. But only the crickets answer me back. I turn around and follow Olivia.

  “Who are you talking to?” Olivia asks as she glances back at me.

  “Didn’t you see that?” I ask her.

  She stops and peers at me over her shoulder. “See what?

  “Never mind, maybe I imagined it.”

  A towering tree weeps next to a small pond, it’s so large it looks like a tower. The spindly branches are as restless as my hands, moved by a breeze I can’t feel. Spanish moss clings to the branches, and grazes the surface of the water. At the edge of the pond a marble statue is slowly being consumed by green moss. It’s an angel with open arms. Only the palms and face remain white. Orange trees huddle in small pockets before a forest springs up, forming a natural wall around the property.

  Next to the pond is the only thing here I don’t want to see, the mausoleum. The idea of burying your dead relatives on your property is the creepiest thing I can imagine. It’s carved from marble. The edges of the structure are precise, perfect. Black veins creep their way up the marble, like tendrils. The mausoleum has avoided the fate of the statue, no moss has begun a trek up its walls. The wrought iron door curves clutching an ornate stained glass feature.

  Olivia creeps closer, I catch her fingers. “Please don’t tell me you’re going in there,” I say, my feet planted firmly in the ground. I want it to be clear there’s no way I’m going in that mausoleum.

  “Fine, I won’t tell you,” she laughs.

  I sneer at her playfully.

  “Oh, come on, Ash, it’s no worse than a cemetery. You don’t even have to go in. Just stand at the door.” She points to the left of the door, there are a few pavers gathered, like some idiot just couldn’t be close enough to these corpses. Like they were building a patio to have their coffee on, right outside the mausoleum. “If you stand right there, I bet you can’t even see inside. The ghosts won’t even know you’re out here.”

  I shrug and say, “Fine.”

  She comes closer, her arms wrap around me. A gentle kiss falls on my cheek, then on my neck. Heat rushes through me each time her lips brush my skin. She pulls away and beams at me, waiting for me to smile back. I offer her a half smile in return. I brush away the curls from her face. The heat between us grows. She pulls me tighter, into a deeper kiss. The way she pulls me and wraps herself around me, it’s hard to tell where I stop and she begins.

  She breaks away. “Can’t you feel how exciting this place is?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Nope, all I can feel is someone watching us,” I admit, looking toward the front of the house. I feel the heat of eyes against my skin.

  “Ash, there’s no one watching us, we’re alone out here,” she says, but then again, Olivia doesn’t ever see danger.

  “If you say so,” I say, there’s no sense in arguing with her.

  “Maybe it’s old man Howey’s ghost,” she offers.

  I roll my eyes at her and a forced laugh escapes me. A scraping sound cuts through the night as Olivia pushes in the gate on the mausoleum, it’s so loud, it might wake the dead. She disappears inside, and I survey the backyard as I smoke my cigarette. I look over the pond, behind the angel statue a dark figure stands, watching. Fear races through me, my heart beat a furious warning.

  Run. My mind screams, but I know we can’t. We’d be better off getting into the house. I won’t rob her of tonight.

  “Come on, Olivia, let’s get inside,” I say, but there’s an edge to my voice.

  She comes to the door, her face deathly white, like all the blood has disappeared from her body. Her eyes are impossibly wide, saucers. That’s when I hear a twig snap behind me.

  I look behind me, all I see is the Howey Mansion towering about thirty feet away. I must have stepped on a twig, snapping it. Olivia clamps her hand to her chest, her mouth a tight line, her eyes, milky saucers with blue baubles in the middle. Even her curls seem to expand with fear, like the way a cat’s fur stands on end.

  “Sorry, that was me,” I say, heat rushes to my cheeks. Nothing feels worse, quite as embarrassing as making the girl you love fear for her life.

  Her hand clutches her stomach as she spends a few moments catching her breath. Even though she seems to breathe easier, the fear still courses through me, a fire in my veins. I still feel someone watching. Even though they no longer linger behind the statue. They’re out there, somewhere. They may not be behind me, but they are close. I feel them.

  “Let’s get inside,” I say, not wanting to alarm her, but the house would be safer.

  She hops from the mausoleum, and laces her arm in mine. I light another cigarette as she stares wide-eyed at the back of the house. It’s more ivy than house, if you ask me. She unlaces her arm from mine and bounds up the steps to the porch. Porcelain tiles cover the entire patio, which is larger than the entire first floor of my house. Ornate concrete pillars circle around the entire length of patio, creating a decorative and functional barrier. A shallow, screened-in porch covers the back door and a row of windows.

  And just our luck, every single one of them is locked. After we test every dusty doorknob and rusted window, Olivia notices the lattice leading up to the second story. It’s buried in ivy, and I fear it’s rotten beneath the layers of foliage.

  “I’m going to try climbing up,” she says as she motions to it. She bounces off the ground onto it.

  “Good idea,” I say, but immediately follow it up with, “but, be careful. No telling how old that is.”

  We’ve been climbing trees nearly as long as we could walk. It’s not her abilities I’m concerned with, it’s what’s hidden beneath the ivy that has me worried.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says playfully.

  Once she’s up, I follow. I pull myself up to the roofline and find myself looking over the second story patio. It’s a flat, sparse expanse. A simple stretch of flat concrete roof with a couple benches. Two dead potted plants sit on either side of a bench, long since abandoned. Up here, everything is covered in a thick coat of moss.

  When was the last time anyone was up here?

  There’s a small landing near the edge of the patio, behind that, up a few steps, there’s a door. Olivia reaches it first, she rests her hand on the knob for a moment, probably willing it to open. The handle turns and she sighs. She disappears into the house, and I follow. Once inside, I take a deep breath, relief. Aged wallpaper, tobacco, and the faint smell of something rotten curls into my nostrils.

  Yellowed walls seem to glow. The moonlight pours in through the moth-eaten curtains. Somehow, the glow seems to pool in the middle of the room, like it’s being cast by a force we can’t see. White rectangles leave echoes of where paintings used to hang. The paintings now lean against the walls on the floor, muted by thick layers of dust. This room hasn’t been used for some time, or so it seems. Dusty white sheets hide furniture pushed against all the walls. Small cracks snake through the plaster, and seem to gather around a forgotten fireplace.

  “This place is magic,” she whispers, she beams as she looks around in awe.

  I step carefully through the room, following her, dust billows around my feet. We step through double doors. She walks in each and every abandoned room, tracing her fingers through the thick layers of dust. The entire second floor is lost in time. We weave through bedrooms draped in cloths, bathrooms adorned with ornate mirrors and claw foot tubs. A library greets us at the end of the east wing, an ornate wooden desk in the middle of the
room. Piles of books, bloated by humidity, cover every inch of the desk, the floor, they’re even piled in the chairs.

  A curved staircase leads us downward, the first floor is much more lived in. But down here the rotten, earthy smell grows stronger. It’s something I’ve smelled before, but I can’t quite place what it is. On the first floor, she heads into what looks like a ballroom, I stand in the hall, footsteps echo down the stairs. Olivia doesn’t hear it. But fear flickers through me so fast, my whole body goes rigid. Whoever was outside, is in the house. And soon, they’re going to come down those stairs.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her eyebrows perked up. She’s not smiling now, she looks concerned. I think it may be her mission to make me love this house as much as she does.

  “We’re not alone Olivia. We need to leave, now.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  She rolls her eyes at me, like I’m not serious. Like I’m playing a joke on her. She takes my hands in hers, tilts her head to the side and flashes me a soft smile. Her hand brushes across my face, hair, as if to calm me. It doesn’t work. Instead, it only intensifies the feelings that I need to protect her. To keep her from whoever might be upstairs.

  “You’re hearing things, there’s no one here. There’s just one more thing I want to see, okay? Then we can go.”

  My teeth are on edge, locked. My whole body is tense, ready to fight. Ready to do whatever I have to, to keep her safe. I relent as she pulls me down the hallway toward the kitchen. There’s no talking her out of anything. And I won’t drag her from this house kicking and screaming.

  She opens a door along the back wall of the kitchen, the rotten smell is so thick in the air, I can taste it. I think old lady Howey might have had a cat that someone forgot about. Olivia looks in the doorway, like it’s exactly what she was searching for. I follow behind, and see it’s a stairway leading down. Basements are rare in Florida, they tend to flood during hurricanes, or rain, or just because.

  My guts twist into knots wound as tightly as her curls. Every step further into the basement, makes me more nauseated. My skin crawls. Olivia stops at the bottom of the stairs, her hand claps over her mouth. I turn, and that’s when I see the pile of bodies beside the stairs. The bloated bodies are piled on top of one another, like a pile of old, dirty socks. Black veins bulge beneath tight skin, black eyes stare. A swarm of files buzz around the pile.