by Tom Deady
She pictured herself sitting on a rocking chair on the porch that ran along the entire front. Decorative columns that looked colonial were chipped and faded, but Dalia envisioned them a gleaming white. Her gaze was drawn to an oversized window on the third floor that looked oddly out of place. It must reach almost to the floor. The house’s clapboard shingles had been painted white, but it looked like the last touch-ups might have been done decades ago. Now, the house was mottled gray and green over a washed-out wooden color. The trim was almost completely rotted.
The shutters that had survived, formerly black, hung askew, clinging to the house in a somehow desperate way. Most of the windows were either smashed or boarded over. Except for that big one on the third floor. The grounds had done their best not to be reclaimed by nature, but had mostly failed. The weed-choked ‘lawn’ was over three feet high and still almost beautiful because of the wildflowers that bloomed there. Trees and shrubs grew wild, the ones close to the house seeming to want to hide it. In just the few minutes she’d been taking in the house, another dozen people had arrived. Dalia looked around in dismay, her dreams of restoring this monstrosity to its former glory fading quickly.
“Don’t worry, the vast majority of these people are gawkers. The same type of people that slow down to rubber-neck at car wrecks.”
Dalia turned to see a striking woman, her hair so black it almost looked bluish, like that of a raven. She may have been a few years older than Dalia, but she couldn’t be sure. Her eyes were a piercing green, but friendly, Dalia decided. “Do you think so?”
The other woman shrugged, lips curling into a smile. “Well, based on the dozens of these things I’ve been to, that would be my expert opinion.”
Dalia felt out of her league. “It’s impressive that you’ve restored so many houses.”
The woman cocked her head, her eyes widening. “Gods, no. I haven’t restored any yet.”
Dalia laughed. “Doesn’t that make you a gawker?”
At this, the other woman threw her head back and laughed. “Touché. But I really think this is the one.”
Dalia glanced back at the house. “Why this one?”
The woman turned to look at the house. “Just a feeling. I’ve been looking for something with a sense of history. Something different.”
Dalia nodded absently. “I’m more interested in the architecture, but…” She searched for the right words. “Yes, this one is different.” She felt the other woman watching her and turned away from the house.
“I’m Zadie Williams,” the woman said, extending a hand.
They went out for coffee immediately after the showing and had an outline of the restoration plan done a couple hours later. Dalia left the coffee shop shaking. She didn’t know if it was too much coffee, the prospect of getting the house, or Zadie. Perhaps all three.
Six months later, the house was in the early stages of restoration. They’d been working non-stop nights and weekends gutting the interior. The stone masons had begun work on the fireplace and they’d spent the evening picking out wallpaper patterns. There was no furniture yet, but they decided to celebrate in the house, anyway. Spreading a blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace, they ate Chinese food and drank wine from paper cups. And they laughed.
Dalia reached for the wine bottle at the same time Zadie did and their hands touched. Neither of them pulled back and they looked at each other, Zadie’s intense expression mirroring Dalia’s curious feelings. They leaned into each other and kissed. Dalia had never experienced anything like it. She’d only been with men before and never in a serious relationship. That first kiss…the gentleness of Zadie’s full lips, the taste of wine on her tongue…it changed her. Some dormant desire awoke and she knew Zadie was the only person she would ever love. It sounded corny, like a junior high crush, but it was real.
g
“After that,” she finished telling Slade, “we were inextricable. The restoration project became a labor of love; our love for each other and our mutual love for the house. The work—and it no longer felt like work—flew by. Over the next few years, we had most of the house restored to historical accuracy, and most of the furnishings to match. It was a fairy tale, it was perfect, we were perfect. Until we weren’t.”
Dalia paused, knuckling tears from her eyes. She chewed her bottom lip, staring into the fire, shocked to be sharing her feelings with this stranger. He was staring at her, rapt, but showing no emotion. Then she continued.
“I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started to go bad, but it was right around the time we were putting the finishing touches on the upstairs bedrooms. We’d already decided this was no longer a renovate and resell project; we were creating a home.” Dalia uttered a strangled sob, and wept, putting her face in her hands. Oh, Zadie, how I miss you. She regained her composure enough to go on. Slade had remained silent.
“We’d researched the time period the house was built, intent on restoring the interior with all antique pieces to depict the late nineteenth-century styles. We spent some of the best times together crawling around antique stores, rummaging through estate and garage sales, and traveling anywhere and everywhere searching for the perfect furniture.”
She paused again, the ghost of a smile erasing her forlorn expression. She looked around, nodding, her situation forgotten for a moment. “We did a fair job, would you agree, Mr. Slade?”
Slade pulled his own gaze from the fire. He looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “You’ve done a wonderful job,” he said quietly. The house creaked and the window panes rattled under a sudden gust of wind. The fire crackled, then a knot exploded sending sparks in all directions. “Coleridge agrees as well,” he added with a distant smile.
Dalia stared, unsure if he was joking or not. She felt a chill that shouldn’t exist in front of the roaring fire. Get him out, now! The thought jolted her in its urgency, and she clasped her hands to her elbows searching for warmth.
“Anyway,” Dalia said, “enough about us. What do you want? I’d like you to go, Mr. Slade.”
Slade gave her an appraising look, confused by her sudden change of tone. “Yes, well.” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh. “This would have been easier if Zadie…if she were here with us.”
Slade sank into his seat. His expression had lost its air of superiority. He looked haggard and somehow smaller after mentioning Zadie. Get him out! Dalia closed her eyes against the shrieking voice of her instincts. When she opened them, Slade was staring at her. Have I lost time like I did earlier, looking into the fire? Slade looked alarmed. No, he looks scared.
“Miss Cromwell, are you feeling ill?”
Dalia nodded her head slowly. “I’m afraid so. I don’t know if it’s the shock of you showing up or just a simple cold, but I simply cannot bear any more this evening. Please, go away and leave me be.”
The tremor in her voice angered her.
Slade got to his feet but made no move to collect his coat. Dalia caught a faint aroma of cinnamon and gasped. Zadie always favored cinnamon tea and the scent seemed to linger around her. Slade was staring again.
“You feel something, too, don’t you?” he asked, eyes wide.
Dalia bit her lower lip. What does he feel? “Please, I…” She was unsure of what she wanted to say.
Slade stepped closer. “There’s power here, isn’t there, Miss Cromwell?” His voice was low but insistent. Almost menacing.
Dalia blinked, suddenly sure his face would be different somehow. But it wasn’t. “What do you want, Mr. Slade? Why are you really here?”
Slade’s expression was one of innocence and confusion, but his eyes betrayed him. There was a knowing there, a cunning. He glanced about the room, eyes wide, somehow gleeful. Then his eyes narrowed, as if sensing she could see through his facade. “Very well, then.” He backed up and sat down. Dalia’s eyes scanned the room, as if searching for help that wasn’t there.
&nb
sp; He rubbed a hand across his beard before he spoke. “I believe you are in possession of something I want. Something I simply must have. I mean to have it before I leave. One way or another.”
Despite the heat being thrown from the fire, Dalia’s skin went cold, a ripple of gooseflesh covering her arms. She thought of Zadie. What would she do in this situation? Dalia stood, her face growing hot. “This conversation is over, Slade, if that’s even your name. I’m going to ask you to leave. Once. Then I shall call the police.” She crossed her arms, channeling her smoldering rage into a look that dared him to challenge her.
Slade smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid not, Miss Cromwell. Not until our business here is concluded. Perhaps we should table this part of the conversation while you give me the nickel tour of Coleridge?”
Dalia’s lips tightened, her nostrils flaring as she drew in a breath. Instead of lashing out, she reached for the phone, expecting him to lunge at her to prevent the call. Instead, he sat staring, an odd, bemused look on his face. Dalia dialed the operator, never taking her eyes off Slade. The hissing emptiness made her pull the phone away from her ear. The line was dead. Slade just watched, his eyes reflecting the glow of the fire.
“The storm must have taken down the lines.” His tone was jovial and Dalia heard the real message loud and clear: You’re trapped here with me. “Now, about that tour?”
The memory of Zadie’s fearlessness slipped away. The realization that she was a hostage in her own home was staggering, impossible, but here she was. I’m younger than him, probably stronger, too… The thought was cut off by Slade’s guileful look even before he spoke.
“I’m afraid fleeing will get you no further than the phone call did. Let’s not make this more adventurous than it needs to be.”
His voice was flat, almost sounding bored, but the threat was undeniable. “Please, just tell me what you want and leave me alone.” A fuzzy black curtain began to descend as she slipped toward a dead faint. An electric shock ripped through her, jolting her back to full consciousness. Slade was beside her, gripping her arm. She pulled away with a sharp cry, gasping to catch her breath.
“I thought we were going to lose you for a moment, Miss Cromwell.” Amusement touched his voice.
“What do you want?” Dalia repeated, her tone reed-thin. She swallowed, wanting to be strong but unable to muster any courage.
“Why, I want the same things you do. Happiness, the love of a good woman, a warm bed to sleep in at night.” Slade’s pupils shrank to pinpoints, his grin a travesty on his face. “But for now, I’d like to see the house you and my daughter so lovingly restored to its former beauty. Not such a terrible thing to ask.”
Dalia nodded, an eerie resignation blanketing her. Maybe if I do what he says he’ll go away and leave me alone. “Wh-where would you like to start?”
Slade’s grin turned into a horrid smile. “Now we’re talking, Miss Cromwell. Let’s begin right here and work our way up, shall we?”
Dalia nodded again. Tears of frustration and fear burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Very well.” She took in a shaky breath and pointed to the fireplace. She loved the house, as had Zadie, and talking about it not only pleased her, but in this case, calmed her. She could almost forget she was doing it under duress. Almost. “The fieldstone hearth is the centerpiece of the restoration…” Dalia fell into an almost tour guide-like chatter, describing each room, the condition it was in when she and Zadie bought the house, and the methods they’d used to restore them.
Slade remained nearly silent as they walked the first floor, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions. When they’d finished, he motioned toward the stairs. “Onward and upward, as they say.”
Dalia was halfway up the staircase when the vision of her kicking backward to send Slade tumbling down the steps invaded her mind. She could hear his footfalls behind her. His chest would be at the perfect level for her to—
“Now, now, Miss Cromwell, things are progressing so…civilly. Let’s not ruin the moment.”
Dalia fought the urge to turn around. If I look at his face now, I will go crazy. “Who are you, really?” Her voice was surprisingly steady. She heard his ugly chuckle behind her and shuddered a second time.
“My name is Slade, just as I represented. I may have exaggerated my relationship with your Zadie, however.” He cleared his throat. “Though, after my extensive research, I almost feel like she is my daughter. I believe my performance of the grieving father at your little shop was quite good, wasn’t it?”
Dalia stopped at the top of the stairs and turned, putting distance between them. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want? Are you enjoying this…” She waved her hands around. “Whatever this is?”
“All in good time, Miss Cromwell, all in good time. Please, finish the tour.” His tone was jovial until he spoke the next two words. “I insist.”
Dalia sighed, resigned to letting Slade’s game play out, but also considering what was on her desk in the bedroom. If I can get it without him seeing. “The first bedroom on the left we used as a guest room…” And so it went on, through the four bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second floor. While in the master bedroom, Slade had examined the four-poster bed, giving Dalia time to slip the silver letter-opener into her pocket. Slade had turned to her, shaking his head but saying nothing. Did he know? They arrived back at the top of the stairs.
“Excuse me, Miss Cromwell, what about the third floor?” Slade’s tone was that of a child on a field trip asking where the mummies and dinosaurs were.
Dalia turned, frowning. An old childhood memory surfaced. Dalia in the bulkhead, her brother sitting on the old wooden door, refusing to let her out. The helplessness she’d felt. “You mean the attic?”
Slade made a dismissive gesture. “Semantics. Third floor, attic, whatever. Shall we?”
Dalia was sure now that whatever Slade was up to, he knew more than he should about the house. Not only the house, either; he was one step ahead of her at every turn. She opened the small door to the narrow staircase that led to the attic. The third floor. She stepped on the first tread and it emitted an almost human noise. Not a creak or squeak, this was much louder and shriller, an ear-splitting screech. It brought back a memory of Zadie like a gut punch. Hadn’t Zadie gone to the attic once without her? She pushed it away and flipped up the light switch. In the attic, a single bare bulb flickered on, casting odd shadows on the stairs. Then she continued up, feeling Slade’s gaze on her the entire time.
Dalia always felt claustrophobic in the attic, even before. It was a finished room, but the low ceiling and sloped walls were in sharp contrast to the high-ceilinged, spacious rooms of the first two floors. She paused at the top of the stairs, watching the dust motes do their lunatic dance in the shafts of dim light. The oversized window at the top of the stairs looked out onto the street, but Dalia saw nothing through the streaming rivulets of melting snow on the glass. Cardboard boxes lined the room, all stacked neatly and labeled with Dalia’s careful printing. At the opposite end of the long, narrow room, the window’s twin was covered with a sheet of plywood. Dalia looked away quickly.
“Move along, if you will, Miss Cromwell.”
Dalia jumped at the sound of Slade’s voice, then stepped deeper into the gloom of the attic room. She turned and eyed him flatly. “And here is the attic.” Slade gave her that knowing smile. But just what is it he knows? “Seen enough?”
His smile widened. “Hardly,” he said, and brushed past her. He walked the length of the room slowly, reaching one hand up to caress the angled wall in an almost loving manner. He stopped in front of the boarded-over window at the far end and crossed his arms. “Now, now, what could have happened here?”
Dalia clenched her teeth, her hands folding into tight fists. Slade’s voice was a taunting sing-song that told Dalia two things: He already knew what happened, and he was enjoying her pain. “You seem to know a g
reat deal about the house and me. What do you think happened, Mr. Slade?”
He turned and ran one hand across his bearded chin. “Something tragic, I fear.”
Dalia stared across the attic room. Slade’s face seemed to morph in the gray light, looking younger, then much older, then…something entirely different. Dalia stepped back with a slight gasp, but Slade’s face was back to normal. A trick of the light and shadows, she told herself. Dalia strode toward him, her eyes cast downward, not wanting to see that ugly piece of plywood behind Slade. She stopped in front of him and raised her gaze to meet his, her hand sliding toward her pocket. “Why are you here, Slade? You’ve seen the house, now out with it. I’m tired of your games.”
“Very well, Miss Cromwell.” Slade turned from side to side, bending slightly to peer at the short horizontal walls where the slanted walls met. He straightened, that switchblade smile creeping back onto his face. “I wonder, would you have the original plans to the house, by chance?”
Dalia cocked her head to the side, a memory tickling her. Something about the plans and Zadie. “Whether I have them or not is irrelevant. We’re done here, Slade.” She turned and started her way across the attic, floorboards creaking to mark her path, hand still on the weapon.
“Have you explored the alcoves, Miss Cromwell?”
Dalia stopped, her eyes slipping first to one side of the room, then the other. Alcoves? Hadn’t Zadie mentioned alcoves? She couldn’t remember, nor could she recall seeing them on the plans. Then again, their renovations only included the first two floors. Would she have even noticed the third-floor plans? A dark curiosity filled her. The kind that killed the cat, she thought. She walked back to where Slade stood, intent on wiping that arrogant look off his face once and for all. Dalia pulled the letter-opener from her pocket with the smooth quickness of a gunfighter drawing his revolver. She thrust it toward him, aiming to cut his throat, the thought of watching him bleed out suddenly appetizing. The blade slashed through the air and, with a gleeful satisfaction, she saw a flash of red.