House of Thirteen

by Andy Lockwood

  Could this be what they had been looking for? Or did this house have more than one creepy secret within its walls?

  Delicately, as if cradling Pandora’s box, Joe carried it to the couch, setting it on the table before her as she sat and looked at it. To the casual observer, it was a book. It was old and more than a little worn. The gilt lettering was almost nonexistent on the spine, but the imprint was still there. She traced her fingers along the letters, her lips speaking the words silently.

  Finnegan’s Wake. Joe’s nose wrinkled and she shook her head. No wonder it had gone unnoticed. She had tried reading Joyce’s final novel once of her own accord. She had understood none of it, never getting beyond the first page. She’d given it up and promised never to make the mistake a second time. Now, she turned the false copy over in her hands. On the inside, where the covers should open to pages, it was flat and featureless, save for the insets where the book locked itself to the shelf. She looked it over again, looking for a way inside. The puzzle box had to open to some sort of secret, but did she dare? Was this something she was willing to handle herself? Alone?

  She pushed forward, exploring the edges, feeling for some sort of clue – all the damn detective stories had clues that gave everything away, why didn’t this? Did it flip? Did it slide? Maybe it lifted off? She had no idea, and the more she thought about it, the more her curiosity ate at her and she no longer needed anyone to be here when she opened it. Rather, she wanted to have the answers ready when Ren returned. She could see the seam that held the lid, or what she thought was the lid. There was no indication of a way to slip or pull it loose. Again, over and over, she rotated the forgery in her hands. It made no sense to make a container that could not be reopened. But that was exactly what made it the prize they were looking for, wasn’t it?

  She set it on its end, staring at the words on the spine, waiting for them to speak to her. Joe had hoped something might click in her brain, but it was a long shot – she knew little to nothing of the story, except her loathing for it. She picked it up again, holding it up at an angle to the light. There was something faded – a snake of sorts – worn away with the words and almost completely lost to obscurity. It’s tail wound at the top, and the beast slithered its way down the spine into and out of the words, leading down, where it faded at the bottom edge. She considered it again. The head pointed toward the bottom corner. She positioned her fingers where the snake was staring. She pressed hard, and then twisted it in her hands, digging her nails in and pulling. She was certain the snake had to be an indicator – a clue – not just a pretty accent. Nothing gave, nothing moved. She considered one of the many heavy objects in the house she could shatter this forsaken relic with. If she wanted to destroy it, she could, but she had no desire. Like the rest of the objects in her home, she wanted to preserve this one too; to return it to its place on the shelf, minus its secrets. To do that, she needed to outsmart the puzzle box.

  She looked at the back cover, where the snake was pointing, and wanted to strangle the rotten little reptile as it taunted her. She poked and prodded, her brain boiling with frustration. Finally, she could do nothing but growl, twisting it in her hands as she pushed and pulled in various directions. There was a small but obvious knock that rang out, and she stopped. The front cover had slid away from the spine. It was barely a centimeter, but as seamless as the rest of it appeared to be, this was definitely something new. And it was certainly enough to rekindle the fire in Joe’s heart. She turned it, pressing again. The back cover followed suit, slipping away from the spine. She was getting somewhere now. She braced it between her knees, holding it tight as she pressed her palm against the spine, hoping she was pushing from the right direction, hoping this was the next step. She almost dropped the book when it creaked out loud. The sound was awful, but the spine had definitely budged. She pushed again, cringing at the sound. It was rough wood rubbing against itself. She clenched her teeth against it and continued sliding the spine up. She removed the spine and set it on the table.

  She looked down at the opening that had appeared before her, spying into the interior compartment. She brushed her fingers over the object inside. It was a silk cloth wrapping that held its contents fast in the space. There were spaces on the top and bottom that she could almost slip a fingernail into. Slowly and with great determination, she managed to pick a corner of the silk handkerchief, pulling gently, grabbing a little more with each insistent tug.

  Though it seemed like all progress had come to a standstill, eventually she worked the edge loose enough to hold solidly between her fingers, tugging until it tugged back. The silk was taut and Joe worried she would tear it. She had no idea if the clue was the fabric itself or the object within. She could risk neither. She turned the box over and started from the beginning on the other end, teasing the fabric out of its hiding place. Obsession had sunk its claws deep into Joe. She had already managed great success; she would not give in when she was so close. Her face tightened as she worked, the world around her fading away into obscurity. Here there was only the box, its contents and Joe. Nothing else mattered. She picked at the fabric, tugging until she could use it to pry the entire parcel loose. She pulled the object out, a large flat rectangle wrapped in silk, just smaller than the novel it pretended to be. Joe was almost positive she knew what she was holding without seeing it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Joe screamed, the box and the parcel clattering to the floor. She shook with tension and the aftershock of fear, quickly rebounding with a frustrated response as she stared up at Ren, whose surprise might have rivaled her sister’s.

  “Who just sneaks up like that? Why didn’t you say you were back?”

  “I did. You didn’t answer.” Ren peeked around Joe, looking at what she had dropped. “What’s that?”

  “It might be our mystery,” she retrieved her prize from the floor and caressed the silk wrappings that kept it safe. She bent again and picked up the false book in her other hand. “It was hiding inside a puzzle.”

  “Really,” Ren took the container from her, turning it over in her hands before looking back to Joe. “Really?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Aren’t mysteries usually wrapped in enigmas?”

  Joe snatched the container back, slipping the spine back into place. “I guess whoever built this didn’t know that’s how it’s done.” She snapped the covers back into their rightful places and passed the completed puzzle box back to Ren. She ran her hands over it, feeling how tightly sealed the object was. Even watching how it went back together, she wasn’t sure she could repeat the process to open it. She was doubly sure she wouldn’t have figured it out on her own without a tantrum – or three. “It’s elaborate, isn’t it?”

  “That’s putting it lightly. How did you find it?”

  “It was an accident. I was just trying not to worry about you.” She pointed at the shelf it had come from. “I guess it’s true what they say about ‘the minute you stop looking’.”

  “Remind me to try that the next time I need to make progress on anything.” She leaned against Joe and gave her a smile. “Can we unwrap our present now?” She eyed the parcel with an eagerness usually reserved for children who sneak glimpses of their presents before Christmas.

  “Yes, but we have to gentle,” Joe tugged the package away from her sister’s greedy hands; wanting to make sure her instructions were understood. “Gen. Tly. Please.”

  Ren surrendered, realizing that her enthusiasm might not be appreciated with as much effort as Joe had put into figuring this puzzle out on her own. She leaned back, watching as Joe unfolded the fabric, one silken fold at a time.

  Fold by fold, Joe opened the scarf to see a small leather-bound book within. It was so immaculately preserved. It had a natural curl to the covers, probably from years of use and handling, but the pressure of being contained for so many years had held it to almost-original flatness. As Joe lifted the book in her hands, preparing to open the cover, Ren instincti
vely closed in, almost perched on Joe’s shoulder to get a good view. Joe cracked open the journal, holding it delicately so she wouldn’t damage any of the pages as she flipped through. On the inside cover was the same cursive scrawl that was displayed all over the house. In his own hand, he had written:

  The Personal and Private Reflections of Gen. William Delaney, 1856 -

  Ren’s heart stopped dead in its tracks. The snipe hunt was over. Joe looked over her shoulder and tapped that blank spot that was usually reserved for an end date. They both knew the answer that filled in the blank. They knew when he had died, and how. It was obvious that his dying thoughts were not to update his journal. But the question now was who had hidden it and why? What were they going to find in this journal that would make it so valuable?

  Joe flipped the pages slowly, gently, using the silk to keep her fingers from tarnishing the aged pages. To Ren, it sounded brittle like rice paper; thin antique pages that reminded her of her grandmother’s bible. She flicked a smile as she read over Joe’s shoulder, the sounds and smells of her grandmother’s living room coming back to her, thoughts she hadn’t actually had for years. Not since she was a child. Exploring old familiars did that to her, always possessing her and pulling her through the current of time to another place. Joe had stopped on a page for too long and Ren felt the need to nudge her from behind, a less than subtle hint that Joe quickly picked up on with a labored sigh.

  “You can’t rush perfection, you know.”

  “I don’t want perfection, I want answers. The truth is never pretty anyway, so it can’t be perfect.”

  Josephine nodded. Though brash, Ren wasn’t far off track. They needed answers. The whole story, unfortunately, would have to wait. Answers always had a way of creating more questions than they bothered to solve. She flipped the pages, scanning for key words. Anything that might give them a clue as to what made this journal special enough to be buried away. From what she could gather, it really was his own personal thoughts; things that he could not allow to see the light of day.

  Private thoughts, dark thoughts.

  Here, he tucked away his doubts about the military and political movements of the nation. He had seen something coming to a head. If only he had known that terrible disagreement that was going to wind up being the Civil War, but he hardly had to worry about that. The fever had taken him before he had to see his doubts realized and his fears materialized. She flipped ahead, as rapidly as the brittle pages would allow. Her brain delayed, sending the impulse a moment too late. Her eyes had seen something but it hadn’t fully registered. She carefully backtracked.

  “What? Did I miss something?” Ren leaned in more, gripping Joe’s shoulders as she turned the pages in reverse.

  “I saw something.”

  “What?” Ren tried leaning in as far as she could physically do so. Joe shook her shoulders, trying to shift Ren’s weight a bit.

  “Patience…” She couldn’t concentrate on both Ren’s vulturing and concentrate on the scripted pages at the same time. She scanned flipping back through slowly, reading the lines in reverse. Right to left and bottom to top, taking one word at a time, making sure she didn’t miss it again. When she finally found it, she stared, believing her eyes even less now than when she first suspected. She wanted to get away from the book as quickly as possible; it had to be causing hallucinations.

  “This can’t be right.” Joe pointed at the words and held the page up to Ren. “Read it. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

  “You know I have trouble with his –“ Ren eyes were slits of concentration, widening with the same disbelief Joe’s held. “Does that say Eunice Abernathy?”

  Joe nodded. “Maybe it’s coincidence? Or a family name?” She set her jaw, knowing that it was all wishful thinking. One answer, but now they had so many more questions.

  Ren just stared at the name on the page and shook her head. “How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m afraid we might have to ask her.”

  ELEVEN

  Ren was up bright and early. Normally, such things were almost impossible to fathom. It wasn’t that she preferred night to day, she rather enjoyed the sunshine but she had noted time and again that it took that much more coffee to function earlier on. But today was going to be something special. She skipped down to the kitchen, starting an extra strong pot of coffee, and took her time getting ready for the day.

  After an extra hot shower, she slipped into a nice pair of breezy slacks and a light grey blouse. She threw her black velvet blazer on over the ensemble and finished the outfit with a silver chain. She smiled as she regarded herself in the mirror, swaying back and forth, amused by the way the jacket tails would billow slightly when she turned. Fun, yet completely professional. She moved toward the door and paused with her fingers on the knob.

  Are you sure you’re ready to do this? What are you going to do if this really is as big as you imagine?

  Her thoughts nagged at her, worry and fear holding the door fast. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She reminded herself how far she had come in this short time. Not just anyone was able to come back for a second chance at life, much less be able to handle the news without going insane. She and Joe had managed plenty in the last handful of days on their own. Tau hadn’t shown his face for two long days and not only were they able to get a better look at William’s journal, but they handled a weekend with the museum open for business all on their own. If they could manage tours and questions on a staff of two, they could certainly save the world from whatever hulking evil was looming on the horizon.

  She laughed to herself and twisted the doorknob, officially beginning the day.

  She sat over a cup of coffee and a bagel, reading William’s secret journal with a notebook of her own right beside it. At the edge of the table, she had a couple of his journals from the museum. In her own notes, she cited pages and passages from William’s various journals, trying to recreate a timeline across the collection. The “secret” journal appeared to be a place to put notes he wanted to keep off public record. She had gone between the books for half a day before she realized that he had marked every entry. Ren had enough trouble deciphering his handwriting that she hadn’t noticed at first, but when he intended to switch journals mid-story, there was a small blot of ink at the end of the line. It was a small touch, practically undetectable, but one that proved to be a solid indicator. After that, it didn’t take much time before she switch between books with the ease of turning a page.

  In the years before the war, William had been put in charge of a company that guarded a supply line leading west. He would occasionally travel the route, guiding the caravan to the end of his jurisdiction on the trail. William found the further he travelled out into the vacant unknown; the more he found peace in his days. He had no taste for the aristocracy in the big cities. He wanted a quiet life, and thought he was close to finding it.

  He took to trading with and befriending those he found on the trail, packing extra supplies to exchange for information about the area, or rare items that he could find nowhere else that he knew of. In particular, he did a lot of trading with Jacob, who seemed to know the lay of the land. Jacob had two sons and a daughter who helped him care for his stake. He spoke often of leaving the farm behind and following the stories of glory in the west. There was plenty of talk of fortune and freedom beyond the territories. William had no interest in anything that reminded him of the life he had all but abandoned in the eastern states. He was comfortable right here in the middle, somewhere he could stake a claim, settle in, and let the world grow up around him.

  It was on one of his many visits that William noticed a blade hung on the wall in Jacob’s home. It was a long blade, almost a foot and a half long. William had drawn a picture of it in the journal, commenting how much it reminded him of an officer’s dagger upon first glance. The blade was thin with a deep black handle and “shimmered like it had a light that shone from within”. William was instantly t
aken with it. He tried to discuss the weapon with Jacob, asking if it had been a family heirloom. Jacob refused to discuss the weapon and all polite conversation after.

  A number of times, William returned to trade with Jacob, and each time their business ended when the conversation turned to the knife. But William would not let it go. There was something about it that called to him.

  During a particularly bad winter, William found Jacob down on his luck. He had sent his children on earlier to trade with a fort in the north and seek refuge during the colder months. He had hoped that the soldiers would pity the children, but expected Jacob himself would have no such luck, so he remained behind. William gifted Jacob with what he needed to get through the remaining months. Jacob tried to refuse, having no way to repay him. When William insisted and began unloading, Jacob saw no other recourse, and gifted the dagger to him.

  William wrote that, though grateful for the supplies, Jacob seemed insistent yet reluctant to part with the dagger. He added that Jacob’s entire mood darkened as they parted ways. It worried him and he set to scheduling a return trip as soon as the he was able.

  By the time he returned, luck had indeed turned on Jacob. The season had broken and spring was fighting for control over the territory. Jacob’s home was a guttered ruin. The charred remains of his home and three bodies were the first things William came across on his next patrol. By whatever luck, his daughter had been spared. She was crazed, starving, and almost feral, having survived on her wits alone until the patrol discovered her in the brush. They tried to capture her, to see to her safety, but she fought them like a wild beast – until she set eyes on William. He made note that her eyes lit on the dagger and she instantly cooled. He presumed it was because she had remembered it from its time in her home. William did the only thing he could think to do: he took the young girl in. He helped bring her back to sound mind and body and, with no living relatives that she was aware of, took her in his care.