by Tom Deady
Then Slade had a hold of her wrist, his eyes ablaze. He twisted it sharply, sending the letter opener skidding across the floor between some boxes. His ascot was sliced through, but the blade had gone no further. Slade clicked his tongue, making the sound of a disappointed parent. “I thought we were through with such silliness, Miss Cromwell.”
Dalia’s nostrils flared, her teeth clenched, but she remained silent. “Now, now, Miss Cromwell, I haven’t lived this long by my wits alone. All I’m asking for is information.”
Dalia’s lips curled into a sneer. “If this is some kind of home invasion fantasy, Slade, I believe you’re missing the mark.” It occurred to her that that’s exactly what this was. Though Slade brandished no weapon—none she could see, at any rate—but an invasion it was, nonetheless. Of her home. Her and Zadie’s home. The memory of Zadie and the house plans came to her as she went to the stairs, not pausing at the sound of Slade’s laughter behind her.
THREE: Interlude: Dalia and Zadie
The day was hot and muggy, but overcast, the air heavy with the threat of a summer thunderstorm. Dalia and Zadie had been stripping wallpaper in one of the upstairs bedrooms all morning, fans cranked on high and the radio blasting jazz music. Dalia was on her hands and knees scraping a stubborn piece near the baseboard, t-shirt plastered to her body with sweat. “Zadie, can you toss me some sandpaper?”
Something warm and slimy landed on her back. She screamed, leaping to her feet and swatting at whatever it was. She peeled the sopping strip of wallpaper off her back, staring at it. Then she heard Zadie’s laughter above the din of the fans blowing and the mournful wail of the jazz sax.
Dalia considered tossing the sloppy mess back at Zadie, but instead let it drop to the floor. “Please tell me that means it’s lunch break?” She made a pouty face, drawing another laugh from Zadie.
“Burgers on the grill and a couple of cold beers ought to do it?” Zadie said, raising an eyebrow.
Thirty minutes later, they were on the stone patio eating rare cheeseburgers and drinking beer. The sky had darkened considerably and it wasn’t a foregone conclusion that they would even finish their meal before the storm hit. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a cool wind had picked up, sending last year’s dead leaves swirling about. The smell of ozone was overpowering, as threatening as the swirling clouds.
Dalia watched the dancing leaves, then let her gaze take in the rest of the property. The house sat on just over two acres of land, most of it in the back. The lawn was bordered by several flower beds—all unkempt to the point it was impossible to tell what had grown there. Huge maples and oaks lined the far end of the yard, blending into the town forest beyond. The centerpiece of the yard was a defunct stone fountain in the shape of a cherubic-looking boy pouring water from a bucket. If it was functional there’d be water, that is. As it was now, the boy was covered in lichen and much of the stonework was chipped, including the bucket. “What do you think about the yard? It’s one thing we haven’t really planned.”
Zadie drew from her beer, appraising the yard herself. “I’d love to get the fountain restored. We could do the clean-up ourselves, but we’d need a stone mason for the repairs. And a plumber, I assume. The lawn is easy enough, but what I know about flowers and plants would fit in this empty beer bottle, so unless you have a green thumb, we’ll probably need a landscaper for that part.” She shifted her focus closer, to the patio. “This…I’m not sure. What about you? Any ideas?”
Dalia nodded. Too often their ideas were eerily similar, and this was no exception. “I can probably get the flower beds up to snuff, but if you want to bring trees in, we’ll definitely need a landscaper. The patio isn’t in terrible shape, I’m just not sure how to balance the aesthetics versus the function of it.” The patio was accessible from the kitchen, but it was a flight of steps to get down to it because of the slope of the land. “A deck would be more functional, but the look wouldn’t work. I guess if we have a mason for the fountain, they can do the patio repairs as well.” She looked at Zadie, who was watching her with an expression Dalia couldn’t define. “What?”
Zadie stood and walked to her, bending down to give her a quick but passionate kiss. “I’m in love with you, Dalia Cromwell, that’s what.” Dalia savored Zadie’s warm lips, her searching tongue.
A tremendous crash broke up the moment, and the rain came. Not in a slow sprinkle that grew heavy as the clouds gathered, but in a sudden, terrific deluge. Mom would say ‘the skies just opened up,’ Dalia thought, as she ran for cover, laughing with Zadie all the way up the steps to the kitchen.
They toweled off and scurried about the house, closing all the windows against the onslaught of lashing rain. Lightning flickered almost constantly for the next hour, accompanied by quaking thunder that rattled the windows in their frames. Zadie sat at the kitchen table, pondering over a crossword puzzle. It was her thing. Well, one of her things. She was amazing, so well rounded. She was athletic and intelligent, able to converse with anyone on almost any subject. In private, though, she was a slave to crosswords, word searches, and cryptograms.
She’d once spent an hour teaching Dalia about Caesar ciphers and word-counting coded messages. She’d gone from wide-eyed enthusiasm to her usual sly, lascivious smile when she told Dalia she’d devise a six-nine code.
“I see you’re at your mania again. I’m going to clean up the bedroom we were working in then take a shower once the storm passes,” Dalia called on her way up the stairs.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” Zadie replied, her voice turning playful, that libidinous grin spreading across her face, “and I don’t mean in the cleaning up.”
“Promises, promises,” Dalia answered.
Though the storm had brought with it a cold front, the air in the bedroom was oppressively humid. Dalia set about the task of gathering the tattered strips of wallpaper and putting them in trash bags. She took the scrapers to the bathroom and rinsed off the glue and paper that had stuck to them, setting them on a towel by the sink. Back in the bedroom, she surveyed their progress. Most of the wallpaper was off the walls, no minor feat considering there were three layers. There were still several patches of glue that needed sanding, but overall, they were in good shape.
The baseboards and crown moldings were stacked against one wall—more sanding. They had pulled up the ancient carpet to reveal hardwood floors underneath. They weren’t in terrible shape but needed some TLC, which meant, of course, more sanding. Still, Dalia could picture the room in her mind, freshly painted with the trim sparkling white, a wonderful contrast to the darkly stained floors. It would be beautiful.
Outside, the storm was winding down. Dalia stood at the window, watching it for a moment. Lightning still flashed but it was flickering weakly, like a dying lightbulb. The rumbles of thunder sounded desperate, struggling to be heard. She turned to head to the master bedroom and gasped. Another flare of lightning from the fading storm had illuminated a shape in the doorway. “Zadie, you scared the shit out of me.”
Zadie walked slowly toward her, an enigmatic smile on her face. “Such language from a well-read, educated woman. What would society think of a prominent shopkeeper who used such obscenities?” She stopped directly in front of Dalia.
“Probably the same thing they’d think of said shopkeeper sharing a bed with another woman. Particularly one of such wild tendencies.” She leaned in and kissed Zadie. Zadie returned the kiss, then pulled away, breathless.
“Shower. Now.” She turned and walked out of the room, peeling off her t-shirt as she went.
Later, the two lazed in bed, hair still wet from the shower, talking about the house. What had started as an investment opportunity had turned into a mutual fixation. A passion.
“I was looking at the original house plans while you were cleaning up. They don’t show the attic the way it is now.” Zadie shifted to her side, head propped on one elbow, her other hand caressing Dalia’s breast. “I can’t find any documentatio
n that it was remodeled.”
“Mmmm,” Dalia moaned sleepily.
“I think the alcoves must have been added by a previous owner, no permits pulled or anything. Maybe they used it as another bedroom or a makeshift study of some sort? But it’s always so hot up there, not ideal for either. Not good for much other than storage.”
Dalia’s eyes fluttered but didn’t quite open. “We should check it out.”
Zadie was nodding. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. No time like the present.” She looked at Dalia and smiled. While good sex gave Zadie a burst of energy after, it lulled Dalia into a deep sleep. “Guess I’m on my own,” she whispered, and gave Dalia a kiss before slipping out of the bed.
“On your own,” Dalia mumbled, only stirring when the squeal of the steps to the attic sounded, then she was asleep.
FOUR: Slade’s Find
Dalia added a log to the fire when she got to the living room, then went to the kitchen to brew a fresh cup of tea. She tried the extension in the kitchen but got the same eerie hissing, as if the sound was coming from some incomprehensible void. She knew if she went to her car, it would not start. Something was happening here.
While the water boiled, she went to the dining room to look out the side window at the storm—she hadn’t looked out any of the back windows since, well, before. She heard noises coming from the attic, banging sounds, and idly wondered what Slade was doing.
Through the wind-driven sleet, the streetlight looked like the strange moon of some distant planet. The snow was changing to freezing rain, pelting the window relentlessly. Dalia thought it must be what it sounded like being stuck in a car during a desert sandstorm. She sighed and closed the curtains, just as the teapot began to whistle. The noise bothered her, it sounded angry somehow, and she hustled to the kitchen to pour her tea.
She was sipping the hot tea when she heard Slade’s footfalls on the steps. She didn’t bother turning when he spoke. “It looks like your Zadie liked her secrets.”
Dalia took another sip of tea, her gaze never leaving the fire. Had Zadie kept secrets? She wouldn’t give Slade the satisfaction of seeing any doubt or suspicion in her eyes. She continued to stare at the fire, trying to clear her mind before he… Before he reads your thoughts.
Slade walked in front of the fire and turned to face her. Silhouetted by the glow of the flames, he looked demonic. He stepped aside and sat down, and Dalia noticed how disheveled he was. His clothes were covered with dust, his shirttail pulled out, his sliced ascot hanging askew, and his hair was wild. Dalia saw all those things but took no real notice of them. It was what he was holding that captured her attention.
“Coleridge does not give up its secrets easily, but I am nothing if not persistent.” He licked his lips hungrily and stared at the books on his lap.
Dalia gasped, recognizing one of books as Zadie’s journal by the flowing script of the handwriting as well as the silly doodles of flowers and animals. Zadie had bought it when they moved in, and Dalia had watched her write in it every evening. Zadie would twirl her hair, eyes aimed skyward as she thought about her entries, her tongue poking out a corner of her mouth when she put her head down to write. She’d wanted to ‘capture every moment of their adventure together.’ When was the last time Dalia had seen it?
“That doesn’t belong to you,” Dalia said. She felt more violated seeing him holding something of Zadie’s. She stood, trembling with rage. “You have no right, Slade. No right!” She lunged for the book, but he pulled it out of her reach with a movement that was too quick to see.
“Nor does it belong to you, Miss Cromwell,” he said calmly.
Dalia grabbed the poker from the stand and brandished it in front of her. “Enough! Put the book down and leave while you still can.”
Slade’s lips curled in a cruel smile. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Our business here is not through.”
She stepped closer, ready to swing the poker at his head. “I’m not joking, Slade.”
Slade turned his attention back to the book, flipping open the cover. Dalia’s eyes widened in shock, the act of defiance fueling her rage. She’d been a decent softball player in high school, a better hitter than a fielder. She stepped into the swing, switching the trajectory toward his knee and swinging for the fences. Despite her anger, she wasn’t ready to be a murderer.
The poker connected with a loud thwack, the impact reverberating up her arms. Slade was idly flipping through the pages of the book on his lap with his free hand. The other hand held the end of the poker.
He caught it? Dalia stared, acutely aware that whatever Slade was, she was powerless against him.
No, that wasn’t true. She’d almost gotten him with the letter opener. She was not powerless.
The poker grew warm in her hands, then hot. She let it drop with a small yelp of pain, turning her hands to see the scorch marks on her palms, the faint smell of burning flesh assaulting her.
“Now, if you’ll take a seat and refrain from any more foolish outbursts, perhaps the evening won’t take a turn for the worse.”
His voice was gentle but held an underlying threat, like the buzzing from a wasp nest. She moved on shaky legs to her chair and sat, never taking her eyes off Slade. He let the poker slip from his grasp and continued studying Zadie’s book, oblivious to Dalia’s presence. He snapped it closed with a shake of his head and began examining the second book. It was an older, leather-bound work, too faded for Dalia to read the title.
Dalia reached for Zadie’s book but pulled her hand back. Slade saw the movement and turned to her “May I?” she asked thickly, hating her submissive tone.
Slade’s expression was unreadable, but he handed the book to her, returning to the other volume on his lap.
Dalia stared in shock at the book in her hands. Part of her couldn’t wait to open it and feel the words of her lover. But another part of her was terrified at the thought. What had Zadie been hiding? Surely something terrible if she’d bothered to squirrel the book away in the attic’s alcoves. Tears welled in her eyes as she took in Zadie’s small drawings on the cover. Dalia had always told her she could have been an artist. Her drawings were wonderful, full of detail. A giant sunflower, so heavy it bent the stalk. A tree, bare of leaves, with birds crammed on every branch. A house with clouds above it… Dalia gasped. Not just any house; this house. She could tell by the back door and the oversized window on the third floor. Dalia pulled the book closer, tilting it toward the fire, her eyes narrowing. She sat up straight and turned to Slade. He was too engrossed to notice.
Dalia released a shaky breath. Something beyond fear had gripped her, something older and primal. She looked again, hoping she wouldn’t see what she thought was there. But of course, it was. In the third-floor window of the house was a face, its eyes wide and mouth opened in a scream. Next to the face, two hands pressed on the window. The temperature in the room seemed to drop and Dalia jumped when the logs in the fire shifted, sending orange sparks dancing up the chimney. The part of her that had wanted to open the book a moment ago was gone. Throw it in the fire. But she couldn’t. Something was happening here. Not just tonight, she now knew, but something that had started before Zadie’s death. The odd, distant behavior Zadie had exhibited, the bouts of silence that bordered on depression. She had to know what it was, and what Slade had to do with it. If she didn’t, it occurred to her she might not live through the night. Whatever Slade wanted, he meant to have it by any means necessary. Hadn’t he said as much?
With a trembling hand, Dalia opened the book.
FIVE: Zadie’s Words
May 15,
The house is everything I thought it would be! Yes, it is going to take a LOT of work until it’s the way Dalia and I want it, but if we love it with as much passion and energy as we love each other, it will be perfect. We sat at the small table in the kitchen looking over the plans, but I couldn’t help watching Dalia examine them. She is so beautiful, and the way her e
yes widen and she chews her bottom lip when she gets excited about a new idea just melts my heart. What have I done to be so lucky to have her in my life and for us to have found the house of our dreams?
May 27,
We decided to focus on the dining room, since the living room is going to need a mason to get the fieldstone fireplace back to its original splendor. Dalia and I had some great laughs over the current décor in the dining room, straight out of the dark ages! The wallpaper is a yellow/gold color and is even flocked velvet! We almost fell over in fits of giggles rubbing the walls! It was almost sad to start steaming it off. Almost.
June 1,
The dining room is naked! All the moldings are down and every inch of wallpaper (all four layers) is gone. We bought electric sanders at the hardware store and tomorrow we will be on our hands and knees all day sanding the hardwood floors. So much sexual innuendo there but I’m too tired to be clever. Instead, I’ll save my last ebbing strength for the real thing. Here I come, love!
June 2,
I have come to a major life-changing decision: Sanding floors is for strapping men in tight t-shirts who look sexy wearing goggles and dust masks. It is not, however, for Dalia and me. We put in a great effort, but after several hours of shoulder-breaking work with little progress to show for it, we threw in the towel. The professionals will be here next week to strip all the floors, not just the dining room.
In unrelated news, I was moving some boxes up to the attic and had the strangest sensation. I didn’t see any ghosts or hear anything or feel any cold spots. It was just a creepy perception I wasn’t alone. It’s not that I don’t believe in those things (though I am a skeptic), it’s just that I’ve never experienced anything like that before. Something to keep an eye on?