by Lisa Unger
“Mr. Grann is not having a good day,” said Billy, taking his place in the corner of the large room. He spread his legs and folded his arms across his middle. He’d stand like that, so silent for the hour that she often forgot that he was there. “We’re having trouble getting along with others.”
Winston’s gaze was lidded and dull, his posture that of a sullen teen. She tried to avoid making prolonged eye contact with him.
“This place,” he said, rolling his eyes. “These people.”
“What happened?” asked Claire, opening her file and looking over her notes from last week. Archie is restless. He doesn’t like it here, Winston had complained.
“There was an incident in the lunchroom,” said Billy when Winston remained silent.
“How was that my fault?” said Winston, sitting up, animated. “If one psycho sticks a fork into the eye of another psycho, and neither one of the psychos is me, how do I get blamed?”
“You were there,” said Billy. “What did you say to Jimmy?”
A smile. Winston tried to move his arms, shifted uncomfortably, and then leaned back with a jangle of chains. “Nothing. I didn’t say a word.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Billy. He had the tone and bearing of a man used to dealing with the mentally ill, and beneath the obvious strength of will, there was a kindness, even respect. That was why Claire liked him; too many guards, doctors, orderlies, and nurses she’d met in her career had lost their humanity. Winston was human. Deeply deranged, ill, but human. He needed help as much as he needed punishment.
And learning about him might make the world safer for someone else, though it was far too late for all the people he’d hurt. It was that idea that drove her work, and kept her coming back to talk to Winston.
We often come to this work to understand ourselves, are motivated by our own compulsions, said Dr. Bold. What is it that motivates you, Claire?
“You’re looking well, Claire,” said Winston, flashing perfectly straight, yellowed teeth. “Fresh.”
He drew out the last syllable, a sibilant hiss, and Claire cringed internally, though she was quite adept at controlling her facial expressions, her body language. She often felt that he could see past her professional facade.
“Dr. Allen,” admonished Billy.
“Dr. Allen,” said Winston.
“Thank you, Winston,” she said. “Let’s get started.”
Later, when she tried to remember the conversation that followed, it was foggy. She could hear her own voice, his, as they talked about the quality of his sleep (poor), whether he was taking his medication (he was), the state of his appetite (ravenous).
A painting, or rather the print of a painting, hung on the wall behind Winston. Within most institutional settings, one didn’t usually find art. But the head of this facility, a man named Raife Warren, believed in art as therapy. So painting classes were a part of the patients’ schedule, and the walls were adorned with the works of inmates, as well as works from Warren’s private collection. Warren was an art scholar and a doctor of psychiatry with a degree in law enforcement, an unusual combination. It showed in the practices of the facility—which were creative, humane, and innovative.
She’d stared at this particular work many times. It was a haunting watercolor in shades of gray, red, and black of a sleeping woman, her body composed of swirls and cloudy spaces, her face obscured by a stack of windows, revealing another world, a stark landscape of dead trees.
Winston was talking, his voice a drone in her awareness. Claire rose, suddenly, powerfully drawn to the image. She walked past Winston, who gave her a knowing smile, and she put her finger to the glass.
“Doctor?” Billy’s voice was drained, distant, as if he were standing at the end of a long tunnel.
Claire moved through the painting—impossible.
But there she was in a red-and-gray-washed world, with a man sitting easily on an Eames chair, waiting for her. Long and svelte, dressed in black, with thick, cascading dark hair pulled back loosely. His face, paper pale, was drawn, cheekbones severe. She moved nearer to him, her footfalls echoing on the hard floor. The air had substance, subtly resisting her movement.
“Dr. Allen.”
His eyes, a milky blue, blazed. She felt naked, exposed before him. Distantly, there was a desire to run, but her limbs were filled with sand.
“I’ve been wanting to see you for so long,” he said.
She didn’t have a voice either.
“Sit,” he urged. “Please.”
And there was a chair across from him; she moved there slowly, primly, seated herself.
This simply couldn’t be happening. Was she dreaming? Distantly, her thinking mind struggled. Had she entered a fugue state? Maybe brought on by the persistent stress of her work, the shambles of her personal life, the chronic feeling of unhappiness she’d carried with her since childhood? It was possible. People, seemingly whole people, snapped all the time.
There was a sound, a distant hum. Muffled voices. Did someone scream?
“Why do you waste your time with Winston?” he asked. “He’s such a disgusting little man.”
“Archie,” she said, finding her voice.
He smiled, pleased, leaned forward. “You know me.”
“Yes.” She knew him by another name.
There was a vibration in the air, something that made her skin tingle.
“You have always known me. You and I, we met long ago, didn’t we?”
Her body shivered, remembering. The big old house, its creaking floors, its dark corridors and hidden passages. The rambling woods. The path that led to the old, abandoned building, dilapidated and forgotten. She carried those memories with her always.
“And all these years you’ve been looking for me.”
Was that true? Maybe it was. Dr. Bold had urged Claire to ask herself why she continued with Winston, with her research, when it was so clearly taking a toll on her life, her wellness. There was always an answer. One just beneath the surface of whatever she’d said to convince Dr. Bold and herself that her interest was purely clinical.
“Well here I am. Is it everything you imagined?”
He moved like smoke, wrapping himself around her, suffocating her. Only when his teeth found her neck did she manage to scream.
3.
Matthew stepped out onto the porch, coffee in hand, the air crisp, sun peeking over the horizon. For a second, he almost felt hopeful. Almost.
Cawcaw.
Crows. A murder of crows. Someone had a sense of humor, didn’t he, when he came up with that particular collective noun? The great black birds with glass beads for eyes and that teasing, derisive cawcaw—goddamn it, they were absolutely everywhere.
Right now, three were perched along the fence, staring. They were clearly nesting in one of the cupolas, and in the barn that had been transformed into a multicar garage for his grandfather’s collection of antique vehicles—which had sat idle and untended for so long that it was essentially a junkyard in there. Not a single engine would turn over. Another giant problem with no easy solution.
“Those birds,” he said.
Samantha was clearing the old plants from the beds in front of the house and along the walkway. She’d started the job the day after they’d arrived. “I like them,” she said, standing upright to draw an arm across her brow. “They’re mysterious.”
“They’re disgusting.”
That wasn’t the word he was looking for, exactly. Unsettling. They were like a portent, or an accusation, or a reminder that nothing about this situation was ideal. “No one likes crows. All we need is to be showing the house and have someone think they’ve stumbled into a reboot of The Birds.”
“We’re a long way from showing the house,” Samantha said, somewhat defensively.
Which he didn’t love. She didn’t seem quite as eager to sell as he was. Maybe it was because they had no idea where they were going to go next.
She’d managed to weed and clear all the flow
er beds along the front of the house, down the path to the drive. It was a huge job, and there were great piles of dead shrubs, weeds, desiccated plants off to the side. It seemed impossible that she could have accomplished so much by herself, and before he even woke up. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, so she’d been out here in the dark. But that was her way—throw herself into whatever she was doing, don’t stop until it’s done right. Even when she’d been sick, he couldn’t get her to slow down. I feel like if I slow down, I’ll die, she’d told him.
She stretched now, peeled off her gardening gloves.
“You haven’t been sleeping well,” she said.
“No.”
That was the goddamn understatement of the year. He’d barely slept at all since they’d arrived at Merle House, over a week ago now. In the mirror this morning he’d noticed that the circles under his eyes were so purple and dark that they looked like shiners. Like he’d been in a fight. The house was kicking his ass. Daily.
“Well,” he said, forcing brightness. “The Realtor’s coming today. Just to look around. Get a sense of the place.”
He didn’t want to tell her that this was the only Realtor who had even returned his phone call.
A frown. “What time?”
He looked at his watch and then up to the sky, which threatened rain. “Ten.”
She nodded, kept her eyes on him. “I heard your phone ring last night.”
“Did you?”
“Late,” she said. “It woke me. I thought you answered it.”
“No,” he lied. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Maybe you should check and see who called. What if it’s important?”
“I’ll check.”
She kept her eyes on him, even though he averted his, pretended to be very interested in the crows again. He felt the heat of her gaze. There were a lot of things she hadn’t said, things any other woman would have. She’d been too sick, too weak, to rail as she should have at the time. But she was getting stronger. And lately he was seeing a new expression in her eyes.
His late-night conversation still rang in his head.
Do you still think about me? Matt, do you?
Sylvia, please. Don’t call me again.
Sylvia. He’d never touched her, not the way she claimed. He’d never laid a finger on her opal skin in desire.
Practically every other professor he knew had had some kind of fling with a young student. College girls, they were of age, many of them eager to please, some of them with a thing for older men in positions of authority. Opportunities were rife. It wasn’t just professional ethics that had kept him in line his whole career. Matthew only ever had eyes for Samantha; she was his sun and moon since the day they’d met. Until there was Sylvia, who appeared midsemester in his comparative literature class, found a seat in the front row.
What was it about her? The flame of her hair, her elegant, slender body, the turn of her pale neck, the oceanic depth of her gaze.
He’d started dreaming about her, her face appearing when he made love to his wife. He’d been stern with himself. Stop it, you idiot. Once he’d lost his train of thought in class, distracted by the way she rubbed at her shoulder.
Then, one night, as he was ending his office hours, she’d knocked on his door.
“Matthew.” Samantha’s voice snapped him back.
“What?” he said, startled. “Sorry.”
“Can you help me bag up the weeds?”
“Of course.”
It took ages to wrestle the detritus into the big bags. He could have Peter bring the pickup truck and haul away the bags. Might as well, while the guy was still on the estate payroll. At some point, he was going to have to let the groundskeeper go. But Matthew, always one to put off the unpleasant, had not let him know that yet.
As they were finishing up, a late-model black Mercedes drifted into view and came to a stop in front of the house.
Matthew had propped the gate open at the head of the drive, much to Peter’s dismay.
The kids, Peter had warned. They sneak up here all the time. They do a lot of damage. Matthew knew where the kids were probably headed. They’d find their way there whether the gate was open or not. They always had.
Meanwhile, Matthew was sure that now that the house was inhabited by able adults, there’d be fewer issues. Besides, he wasn’t going to drive down the road every time he had to let someone in. An electronic gate was not an option. The lowest bid had been nearly $20,000.
A tall, severe person in a black suit emerged from the car. The truth was he hadn’t been totally sure in their conversations whether Avery March was a man or a woman. And as the very slim person with slicked-back, longish gray hair approached, Matthew still wasn’t totally sure. March seemed to glide rather than walk, and Matthew wiped off his hands on his pants and went to greet him—her?
“Mr. Merle?”
“That’s right.” Something about the body language kept Matthew from offering his hand right away.
“Avery March,” March said with a little bow, both hands on the handle of a black case.
Matthew nodded and turned. “Pleasure. My wife, Samantha.”
“Oh, we’re wrecks,” said Samantha, smoothing out her clothes, then offering her hand.
“Not at all.” It looked like they exchanged a firm handshake. That was manly, right? Or was that sexist? Plenty of women had firm handshakes.
But when March took Matthew’s hand, the skin was so soft, the hand itself so delicate. He noticed a glint of diamond studs. And there was a feminine prettiness to her features, the light scent of lilacs wafting from her clothes.
“Well,” said March, looking back and forth between them, then up at Merle House. “This place is every bit as impressive as I remember it. But we are going to have to do something about those crows.”
Remember it? When had she been here before?
“I think the crows come with the house,” Samantha joked.
March gave her a concerned look. “That will never do.”
“I told you,” said Matthew, glad to have someone agreeing with him about anything.
“The house, the name. Merle. It literally means black bird,” said Samantha. Was there something defensive, protective in her tone?
Avery March was undaunted, shaking her head firmly. “Something will have to be done. People don’t like crows.”
“Well,” said Samantha, matching March’s clipped tone. “Whatever it is, it will have to be humane.”
March looked at her, a quick up and down. “Of course.”
“Should we go inside?” asked Matthew.
“After you.”
In the foyer, he heard music playing. Jewel must be up. The raucous tones of the death metal she favored were just a whisper on the air. The angry music used to rock the walls in their old place. But Merle House seemed to swallow sound. There was no shouting from room to room, and none of the phones were getting consistent service. So if he wanted to talk to Samantha or Jewel, he had to go looking. He’d never even seen Jewel yesterday.
“Is there someone else here?” asked March.
“Our daughter,” said Samantha. “She’s not too happy with us at the moment.”
“Moving is a difficult transition, especially for kids.”
“Do you have children?” asked Samantha, light, trying to make conversation, or make up for the tension over the crows.
“No,” said March with a firm shake of her head. They both waited for her to go on. But no. “I’ve heard from other clients.”
They all stood awkwardly for a beat, the music tinny and faint on the air.
“Coffee?” offered Samantha brightly.
March seemed to consider, then nodded. “Maybe we should sit and talk first, about the house, about your expectations and plans, before we tour the property.”
“Good idea,” said Samantha, leading the way to the kitchen.
There was only one plan as far as Matthew could see. Fix as little as possibl
e to get rid of this monster at the highest possible price, and reboot the life to which he’d taken a wrecking ball. Get his wife to forgive and trust him again. Maybe it was too much to ask that his daughter stop hating him. But that would be nice too.
And all this needed to happen as fast as possible, before this place got its hooks in. It had a way of doing that. He’d seen it before. Another item filed away in the things-he’d-rather-not-remember category.
March and Samantha disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. And Matthew stood listening to Jewel’s music.
Was there another sound beneath the racket? He’d heard it a few times. A kind of low hum. It was a sound that he found vaguely familiar. He stood, listening, and he found himself remembering the final summer he’d spent at Merle House—and his childhood friends, Claire, Ian, and Mason. And everything that happened.
He found himself thinking about Havenwood, which seemed more like a dream than an actual structure that still stood, as far as he knew, about a mile away from the house through the woods.
“Matthew,” said Samantha from the kitchen doorway. That annoyed, snap-out-of-it tone. “Are you coming?”
“Sorry.”
She walked up close to him and grabbed his shirtsleeve. “I can’t have you checking out, okay? I’m not doing this on my own,” she said, her voice a low but urgent whisper, eyes pleading.
He touched her face, traced a finger along her jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She smiled at him, just a little, but it was something. “I know you are.”
He pulled her in for a kiss; to his surprise she leaned into him.
“God. Get a room.”
Jewel breezed past them and pushed into the kitchen. Samantha leaned against him for a second and then followed.
Great. Family meeting.
He stood alone a moment, still listening for that strange hum. When he didn’t hear it, he pushed through the kitchen door, feeling a tingle of unease.
4.
Claire’s phone was ringing. The chimes reached her through layers and layers of drug-induced sleep. She resisted. And then swam up toward the sound, a gentle jingling of bells.
In the dim of her bedroom, she reached for the phone, hand slapping at the bedside table, where she’d left it. But by the time it was in her palm and she was pulling off her sleep mask, the ringing had ceased.