12382 words (49 minute read)

March 16, 2020: 98.5℉

One
Bon Voyage

Kittie was boning up on her bird facts when a news alert popped up. The Carrington’s had taken her up on her offered, though rarely requested, bird watching tour (weather permitting) and she was looking forward to chatting and tromping through the woods with them, each with a pair of binoculars and a laminated guide to local birds, so the new virus was the last thing on her mind when she saw the headline on her phone: 

San Francisco and Bay Area will shelter in place to slow coronavirus spread:
San Francisco, Santa Clara, San Mateo, Marin, Contra Costa, and Alameda counties are affected.

Almost every guest was from one of those counties.  She clicked through. 

“What are people supposed to do that aren’t already at home? Am I supposed to tell them to go home?” she asked Alfred, and without realizing she was doing it, Kittie swallowed, testing for signs of scratchiness. It seemed okay. She reached up to feel her glands. Maybe a little swollen, but nothing to get alarmed over yet. Or was it? And what exactly did a shelter in place mean? 

She read through to the bottom without finding anything of use to her, so she navigated to the Mercury News website and scanned for more information.

Coronavirus: Six Bay Area Counties to ’shelter in place’

Residents banned from leaving homes except for essential work, food or services

In a dramatic and unprecedented move reflecting growing alarm over the rapidly spreading coronavirus pandemic, seven Bay Area counties Monday announced sweeping shelter-in-place restrictions effectively confining millions of residents to their homes for three weeks with exceptions for essential work, food or other needs.

The new orders by health officers in Alameda, Contra Costa, Marin, Santa Clara, San Francisco, San Mateo and Santa Cruz counties appear to be the most aggressive public response to coronavirus anywhere in the U.S. so far. The directives are criminally enforceable and go well beyond Monday’s stepped-up calls for increased “social distancing” from the nation’s capital, evoking lockdowns in parts of hard-hit Europe...

“Three weeks? Criminally enforceable??” She whispered. “Sweet Jesus, what am I supposed to do?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. These were the moments she missed Michael the most. He would know exactly what to do. She pictured his face when he was in business mode, his dark eyes sparkling, his jaw set, a hint of a smile on his lips, his heroically bushy eyebrows arched. He was most himself in moments like these, buzzing with ideas and quickly making plans.

Since Michael died, everything was harder. Her decision-making was sluggish and instead of feeling energized by new problems, they made her want to curl up and go to sleep and pretend they were Not Happening. Not Today. Not Ever.

When she had been in the first throws of true knock-you-on-your-ass, punch-you-in-the-gut, bring-you-to-your-knees grief, she’d had to drag herself out of bed to buy a few necessities. It was the toothpaste aisle that did her in.

For forty-five minutes, she stood, trying to decide between the myriad kinds of toothpaste in front of her. She read the backs of each, picking them up in turn and replacing them on the shelf, barely registering the words.

Whitening. Fluoride. Strengthening. Fresh.

They all flashed white and enameled in her mind’s eye, all the same. At some point, she’d been so overwhelmed, she just left her cart where it was and hurried home empty-handed, only to fetch the old toothpaste out of the garbage. 

She still remembered clutching it in her hands as she slid down the bathroom wall, holding it to her chest like a treasured doll and sobbing until her throat hurt and her eyes were swollen. It was like that then. The merest touch could rip open the bleeding wound of grief that never quite healed, and the toothpaste was something real, something still tangible that had been held in Michael’s strong, living hands. It felt like a link to that life, a life where he’d load up her toothbrush before doing his own, just one of the millions of tiny ways he’d loved her, and one more that would never happen again.

It took her a week to go back to the store. She’d been afraid of a repeat and only returned when she used up all the travel-sized toothpastes in the house. She’d thought about introducing a new toothpaste in her life, one tiny marker to signal that she was starting a new phase on her own, but instead, she’d carried the old toothpaste with her in her purse and replaced it with exactly the same kind. Who needed a new life anyway, when the old one had been perfect?

Things had improved since those first black weeks, but she’d yet to fully return to herself. She knew it was something to do with grief. People died of heartache, didn’t they? In those first weeks, she wished to be one of them, the pain had been so big and almost physical. No, not almost. It was physical. That’s why it killed people, but there was nothing for it but to endure. To put one faltering step in front of the other and hope to survive the trauma of having the center of your universe wiped out, like a black hole, and grief’s gravity was just as strong, the blackness as complete. 

The despair and the heartache she had expected. The way it had stolen part of her mind away had been an unwelcome surprise. The way she’d find herself staring at the microwave, wondering what its buttons did. Or forgetting the names of coworkers she’d known for years. At first, she’d worried that on top of everything else, she was developing dementia, but no, it had been the grief.  There was virtually no aspect of her life that had not been affected by the depth of her loss, but she did wonder how long it would linger. How long before she could have her own mind back? How long before every decision would stop being haunted by Michael’s memory, and then how long before she’d wish to be haunted again because at least it made him real?

But with or without Michael, today she was going to have to make a plan, and she tried to picture what he would do if he was here.

“Start by making a list. We’ll pro-con this son of a bitch,” he would have said, “It’ll help organize all the thoughts racing through that busy head of yours, Kittie-Cat.”

Her business cards said Kate McEwan, but her close friends called her Kittie, a nickname that started in grade school, but only Michael could call her Kittie-Cat. It was bad enough being called a pet’s name, but it was so much worse when it came from a strange man who thought he was being cute. When Michael said it though, well, it had just been different and she smiled at the words now, coming unbidden as they were, and tried to channel him and remember some of her own spark as she pulled out a yellow legal pad and considered her options.

She could pretend she hadn’t read the headline and let the day go on as usual. That may have worked in the old days when guests depended on a copy of USA Today slipped under the door or Tom Brokaw to deliver the 5 o’clock news, but surely every guest already had an alert on his or her phone, waiting to panic them upon finding. So that was no good.

“Try again, Kittie-Cat.”

She could wait for guests to come to the desk and tell them in person, but again, it would be too late. They’d likely already know, and it would give them the impression she wasn’t proactive. One always had to think about the Yelp reviews these days, and she couldn’t afford to be the inn that was slacking on health and safety measures.

She put down her pencil and laid her cheek on the desk and let her eyes trace Alfred’s silhouette behind her. She had so many questions and no one to ask.

“What do I do, Alfred, Alfie old buddy?” imitating Alfred’s droll English accent, her bottom lip sticking out just a tad, and she guessed he’d have hated being called Alfie.

She navigated to the county’s website. This was far more informative, and she decided the best thing to do would be to print a copy for each room. She could slide the pages under doors, and at least it would give the appearance that she was being proactive. Guests could interpret the information as they wished, and she’d tell the rest of them in person as they came through. 

And that got the ball rolling. She let out her breath. A plan helped. A list helped. On her legal pad, she wrote:

1.      Print docs – 20

2.      Place under doors

3.     Send a message to each guest’s phone

4.    Call all hands staff meeting 

5.     Review new bookings

She paused a moment, chewing on the pencil, and then wrote:

5.      Hold onto your ass

 

Two
The Woman Alone

The Carrington’s were the first to go. 

It only took seven minutes – Kittie timed it - before Mrs. Carrington came down the hall with a look on her face that told her everything she needed to know about their plans

“We saw your note, sweetie. Does this mean what I think it means?” Mrs. Carrington asked, and  the concern in her voice nearly made Kittie cry. It was so much like her own mother’s.

“I think so, well, I’m afraid so. I’m not entirely sure what it means for us here in Sonoma County, but clearly the powers that be are taking it very seriously."

“I heard two people have died in California already, and then there’s that business with the cruise ship. They’re going to get us all sick, and me and George just can’t afford that. Not at our age.”

“I know, me neither. If I get sick, there’s no one to take over and well…well, I don’t really want to think about what would happen.”

“Don’t you have family that could help, dear girl?” Mrs. Carrington asked, the look of concern back on her face.

“It was just me and my mom, but she passed a little over ten years ago I’m afraid. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, it’s just all the bad news is making me feel glum. I’m like George - strong as a bull even if I don’t look it, and I’m sure we’ll all find out it’s no worse than that swine flu soon,” Kittie said, trying to make light of it. She wasn’t so sure though. Not sure at all.

“Do you think so? I hope you’re right. George thinks this is the Big One. Like, the end of the world big. Me and George, we’re Baptists, and we’re not fanatical, but it sure feels like maybe this might be the moment when the Lord decides to call us all home.”

“I’m not much of a churchgoer myself, but I hope not. Of course, it would get me out from under this mortgage.”

Elaine smirked and pointed her finger at Kittie, “You shouldn’t joke like that. The Lord might just take you seriously.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Lord, if you’re listening, I want to live to pay off my mortgage and finish this season of the Great British Baking Show. Please don’t let the coronavirus take me until then. Amen.”

“Kittie!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t joke. It’s just that or cry.”

“Amen to that. But I didn’t come down here to chit-chat, unfortunately. George is packing the bags, and I’ve come to settle our bill. We think we better cut our trip short. It breaks my heart to do, but here we are.”

“Yes, here we are. Here we sure are.”

And so it went. The residents of The Bird House Inn had flown. Every guest, gone. One by one, they’d all come down to settle their bills. The suitcases crowded the lobby, though for once, the people did not crowd each other. The young couple from the third-floor honeymoon suite was the last to go, and when they finally came down to the reception desk, the lovely young woman stood at a distance, cupping her elbows in her hands, staring at the ground while her gentleman friend checked them out. Kittie felt the girl’s desire to keep her distance, as if the virus was closing in around them, and empathized.

Now, the inn was empty. No one sat in its sumptuous chairs or admired the fire that burned in the big stone fireplace, where devils and cherubs looked out from their carved perches with equal disinterest. They’d been alone in this big old house plenty of times before and would be here long after the last guest left for good.

No one walked the thickly carpeted hallways or admired the brutal majesty of the grounds from the empty tables of the grand dining room that looked out to the gray sea, where each crashing wave sent a spray of white into the air above the rugged cliffs.

Only Kittie remained and she was in shock. She’d never been alone in The Bird House, and she didn’t know what to do. An inn never closed. There was no procedure to follow. She didn’t even have a closed sign, so printed one out and taped it to the door. Hopefully, this would all be short-lived, but if it went on more than a week, she would have to buy a real sign.

The house felt different now that she was alone. Too big. Hollow. She was reminded of the way she’d felt the first day she’d stared up at it, as if it might like to come crashing down and take her with it. 

Loom.

The word came back to her again, it’s letters stretched, the o’s long ovals that howled. The mouths of the ghosts she’d drawn as a kid.

The buzz of happy activity was all that kept her going in the months, who was she kidding, years since Michael had died, and all that kept her distracted from the possibility that this whole experiment was Not Going to Work. The flurry distracted her and gave her purpose. She wasn’t sure she was prepared to be alone with just her thoughts to keep her company yet. Well, her thoughts and Alfred.

She locked the door and stared at the empty parking lot. It was surreal. Very much like the end of days, just as Elaine said.

In a way, it felt inevitable, like this was the thing she’d been waiting for all her life: a break. Maybe it had to do with Michael dying. The world came to an end that day, and she’d been shocked when everyone else had gone on living like nothing had happened. The sun had risen and people had gone to work and traffic had clogged the streets. Didn’t they know that it was over? There was no point to it any more? Finally, the rest of the planet was catching up and coming to a sudden, if belated, halt.

She thought of all the dystopian novels and television and movies. Since the cold war, hadn’t we all been expecting the world to end, and been not just a little surprised when the earth had gone on spinning? Sure, there were more animals going extinct now than in all of human history and climate change was slowly but surely doing what it could to kill us while we all looked on disinterestedly, but it seemed like humanity had been waiting for the Big One. Hadn’t that been what all that hiding under desks as children had meant? The reason people devoured The End of the World in fiction and watched the destruction and murder and violence on the 24-hour cable news stations? We’d all been waiting for oblivion since we’d failed to nuke ourselves in the sixties. 

No, longer than that. We’d been waiting since at least the New Testament had ended with the Book of Revelation and its cliffhanger ending.

Kittie tried to remember what the four horsemen of the apocalypse had been and counted them on her finger. War. Famine. Those two were easy, but what were the other two again? She thought maybe Pestilence was one. Was that like plague? She thought so, but couldn’t remember the fourth. Was it the antichrist? Maybe. And maybe he was already here, but so was pestilence. Come to save us from war and famine and the antichrist. 


She tried to answer a few emails but after thirty minutes of staring into space, she gave up and read all the stories she could find on the shelter in place and began to feel a little giddy. 

“I do believe you’re getting hysterical, Mrs. McEwan,” she said in Alfred’s droll voice again. 

And maybe she was, but the longer she reflected on her situation, the more she realized that what she was feeling was pure, unadulterated joy.

If it was the end of the world, then REM had it right because she felt fine. Better than fine. It was like she’d been holding her breath all these years and could finally let it out. Just let go and get off the hamster wheel. The end had come. The waiting was over. The jack in the box had sprung. The worst had come and it wasn’t so bad.

It seemed counterintuitive. She should be terrified of the virus and just as scared about her business, and she was, a little, but mostly she felt like a kid getting a sick day. A whole afternoon of watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and I Love Lucy ahead of her, while her mom brought her soup and popsicles. 

“No, it’s better than a sick day. It’s a snow day,” she said to herself, because school and work and everything was canceled for everyone. Everyone was staying home. Everyone was gifted an unexpected reprieve, and there would be nothing to catch up on because everyone was nestled inside their homes. Finally, she had an excuse to do nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing.

No employees to manage. No vendors to pay. No events to arrange. No guests to attend to…not a care in the world.

“We haven’t had a snow day in quite some time, have we Alfred?” She looked over her shoulder, but Alfred had nothing to add. 

She called all the staff she had not already spoken to and cleared their schedules for the three week shelter in place. She’d pay them through the end of the month of course (though how exactly she would do that remained a concern), but she did ask Sofia and Mary if they’d be willing to come one last time to clean the rooms. Both declined, citing the virus. She couldn’t blame them, and in a way, she was glad that she wouldn’t have anyone to supervise. Her staycation could begin now.

It would be her first vacation since the inn opened and she decided to kick it off with microwave popcorn and a movie in the lobby like an honest to goodness sick day. 

Sunshine streamed through the curved glass windows and their slow dripping over the last century made them ripple, giving the light that poured through a liquid quality, and making the room warm and cozy, even on the cold March day. 

She threw a few logs onto the fire and grabbed a blanket to settle in to watch The Trouble with Harry, one of Hitchcock’s few comedies, and one of her favorites. on the gold-colored velvet settee that stood where the original was once a mouse nest. It was a treat seldom afforded to her when guests were around - a lounging purveyor didn’t exactly exude professionalism, but there was no one to judge her now. 

The room was a little creepy, a little off, and that was by design. Guests wanted a bit of thrill when checking into a Hitchcock themed inn. The high ceilings and black chandelier and the fireplace with its devils and Alfred behind the desk all added to the atmosphere, but it was the wallpaper that sealed it. It wasn’t as creepy as the original had been, but the repeating pattern of enormous blackbirds perched on black roses and skulls over a creamy white background was still off-putting. It was the wrongness of the scale and the proportion, and the way the birds’ beady eyes seemed to follow you around the room. 

And apparently, it was bad luck.

During the grand opening, she’d hosted an open house for locals to walk through, have a glass of wine and some cheese, and (with any luck) move past their bad feelings, because she needed their help. She needed employees and vendors. She needed their good reviews and their recommendations, and a slot in their pamphlet holders for her brochures. 

A silver haired woman with a pinched face and glasses, who ran one of the antique shops in town (and, who was on her third glass of free wine thank you very much) motioned to Kittie, crooking one finger to call her over, and then pointed to the wall. There’d been no preamble, just, “My dear, don’t you know it’s bad luck to have bird wallpaper?” 

“I did not know,” Kittie replied coldly. The day had not gone as she’d hoped. The locals were not particularly complimentary in general, mostly nit-picking her choices, and this woman was no exception. 

“Oh yes. Very bad. Lucille Ball once bought a house with bird wallpaper and ripped it out immediately. Started to do it with her own bare hands, I think. I’m surprised you wouldn’t know that.”  Kittie had to bite her tongue. Did this woman seriously think she made business choices based on the whims of a long dead comedian? Had she not noticed the name of the inn? It was called The freaking Bird House. 

She tried to keep her tone light, and mostly failed. “Well, bully for Lucille Ball. I guess I won’t be asking her to stay!”

“She’s dead.”

“I know. I was making a joke.”

“It wasn’t very funny.” 

“I’ll try harder next time,” Kittie said.

The woman rolled her eyes and continued. “Anyway, I just thought you should know that it’s bad luck to have bird wallpaper because it’s a well-known bad omen to have birds inside a house at all. I think some guests will find it off-putting. If you had done a little research, you might have saved yourself the trouble.”

Kittie saw red. She didn’t need know-it-all busy bodies telling her how to run her business. The thing was done. It was named. The business cards were printed. The Bird House was its fucking name, and she loved it. Loved it until this old biddy made her question it, and that made her angriest of all. She didn’t want to question it. She especially didn’t want to feel superstitious about it. 

Grief made Kittie superstitious, a type of madness that began only minutes after Michael died, as if slightly different choices that day would have changed things. If she’d only made luckier choices, he would still be here. 

Like, what if they had not gone for a run and had just stayed in to watch a movie instead? Maybe he wouldn’t have worked his dear heart so hard, and so she stopped running. 

Or, what if she had run behind him instead of overtaking him, so she would have seen the signs and intervened before it was too late? And so, she began dropping slightly behind anyone she walked with. 

What if they had not eaten that big breakfast, and instead, only had juice? And so, she stopped eating breakfast. 

Those things, at least, had some place in reality, though she understood it was illogical. It would not bring him back, but sometimes, she thought that if she could just get the magical combination right, maybe, just maybe she could. Or at least, maybe she wouldn’t kill someone again. 

But it didn’t stop there. Her superstitions only grew worse. 

What if she had followed the nursery rhyme warning, and not stepped on a single crack? So, she started watching for cracks and carefully stepped over them. 

What about ladders, spilled salt, and open umbrellas? Check, check and check. She counted stairs and always skipped the 13th. She held her breath when walking past mirrors, and she looked for good omens too. Spotting deer was good luck. And so were birds. They’d become good luck charms in her grieved brain, and now this woman was trying to tell her the opposite, and she was afraid the warning would find all too fertile ground in her wounded mind.

“Is that right? And what about people who keep parrots or parakeets? Is that okay? Or are they continually chased by bad luck?” Kittie asked the woman.

“Hm, I don’t know. Good question. I don’t think I’d keep them though. Too loud,” and the woman moved on to talk to someone else, but Kittie looked it up later. 

The woman was right about Lucille Ball who had apparently been terrified of birds in the house. So, Kittie did some more Googling, and learned that it was an old and well known superstition. Even the people at Audubon knew it.  She pulled up their website and read with a pit in her stomach, “A bird that flies into a house foretells an important message. However, if the bird dies, or is white, this foretells death.”

“.... foretells death,” she repeated. Another bad omen. The worst kind in fact, and now it was too late to go back. 

Foretells death. 

What was done was done. The bird had flown and the paper was hung and the name chosen and Michael paid the price. The owl tried to warn her, and she had not listened. She had seen a bird in the house on the very first day. A sign that she ignored because she did not know it for what it was. All those other couples passed but she made Michael buy it, and now he was dead, and she had named it The Bird House.

 

Three
The Mountain Eagle

Kittie and Michael had driven to Bodega Bay to see a cliff-side lot where maybe they could build a vacation home someday. The real estate listing said it still had “part of a Victorian home,” though they only wanted the land. The phrase “part of” excited her imagination though. What did “part of a Victorian home’’ mean exactly? She pictured Manderley in ruins, the remnants of brick fireplaces jutting from scorched ground like broken teeth in a jawbone.

Siri’s directions lead them north up the Pacific Coast Highway to Bodega Bay where they turned directly off Highway 1 and onto a long drive through eucalyptus trees heavy with hanging lichen, the west coast’s answer to Spanish Moss. Their shaggy trunks and bearded heads gave them the look of Tolkien’s ents, something primeval, a remnant of the time of the dinosaurs. She rolled down the window and filled her lungs to bursting with the slightly medicinal, ocean scent, and closed her eyes to let the smell tickle the part of her brain where nostalgia lived.  

It reminded her of camping with her family when she was just a tyke and her family was still of the nuclear variety. In that single breath were marshmallows bursting into flame, the sticky charred remains popped whole into her mouth and the warmth of her musty, flannel-lined sleeping bag, her face frozen against the dewdrops of the tent walls. It held cold, clear streams and her mama’s makeup-free freckled face as she made pancakes over the Coleman stove and her little fists in her dad’s full brown beard as she rode on his wide shoulders. There was love and adventure and innocence in that breath. She was in love. This was the one.

“You’ve reached your destination,” Siri said, and Kittie looked out into the forest and wondered.

“Do you think we made the right turn?” she asked.

“I think so, but Siri doesn’t think there’s a road. I guess we’ll know when we hit a dead end.”

“Or go off a cliff, Thelma and Louise style,” she answered.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But for the record, I’d like to be Louise.”

“Deal,” she said, and then fell into silence again. Banter didn’t feel right here. The bright day melted into dusk in the dense trees. Mist clung to their bases, and water dripped from the lichen, and her feeling of anticipation (and something else like dread) swelled with each long turn of the road, until they rounded a final curve and a house suddenly appeared through the trees, towering on the edge of a cliff. 

Michael parked the car and they both sat staring up at it in stunned silence.

House was a misnomer. This was a mansion, three stories high with a square cupola that rose another two in the center. 

“Whoa…” Kittie whispered.

“Whoa is right,” Michael whispered back.

The word “loom” floated into her mind.

Loom

That time, the first time, it was soft like a cloud or the fog from the trees, and yes, the house loomed over them - there was no other word for it. Kittie craned her neck to see the top of the cupola. It was vast and vaguely threatening and made her feel too small in her body and too vulnerable even inside the car. All that unsteady mass above her, higher than she could see, and the wrecked remains could all come crumbling down on them, a murder-suicide, in one last vicious act. 

This was not the remains of a jawbone Kittie imagined; it was a skull picked clean. It was painted a creamy white that was peeling off in great sheets and graffiti marred the walls. Black soot surrounded the places where the window had been, probably lost long ago to vandalism or fire, turning them into empty eye sockets, except for the bottom two, huge and curved, where despite the grime and soot and moss that covered them, they reflected back just enough light to give the appearance of watchful eyes. It made no sense to Kittie that those huge sheets of glass, so delicate and so enticing to a teenage boy with a rock, could still be intact.

Despite the damage, the bones of the house were beautiful. The house was framed on either side by the groves of eucalyptus with their scent of home and familiarity, but the trees didn’t obstruct the home’s view of the blue sky and the sparkling blue bay. For a Victorian, it had remarkably clean lines including a curving porch and just enough ornate gingerbread to make it look stately instead of gaudy, though something about it unsettled her. Maybe the twinkling glass like eyes that made Kittie think there was life left in this place. So no, not quite a skull. More like the bones showing through the face of a burn victim, fighting for life.

Kittie realized that Michael was looking at her. 

“Your wheels are turning. Spill it. What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Michael asked. 

“It’s....” Kittie started. It was too much to put into words all at once. 

“It’s what?” he asked.

“Not what I expected.” That wasn’t the half of it, of course, but anything else sounded absurd. She couldn’t tell him that it made her feel watched. She couldn’t tell him it looked like a burn victim. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that she wanted it desperately. Had to have it, even though they hadn’t even stepped out of the car yet.

“Same,” he’d said simply, and she sensed that Michael was having similar feelings. 

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

 “It kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Me too.”

They sat in silence another minute and then Kittie said, “But it’s beautiful too. It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe? I can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s ‘off’ somehow.”

“Mind meld,” Kittie said back.

“I’ll tell you one thing though; I sure didn’t expect this from the description. I thought we were just coming to see some land,” he said, transfixed.

“Me too. Did we come to the right place? Maybe there’s something further on we’re here to see?”

“Maybe, but it looks like the road dead ends here. If there’s more, I guess we’re hoofing it,” he said, checking his phone just to be sure.

“The price couldn’t include a house like this though, could it?” she asked.

“I mean, it must, right? It’s likely a teardown, so the price assumes you’re going to invest some cash just cleaning up the plot so you can build,” he said.

“You think it’s a tear down?” she asked, her eyes wide. The house was certainly unsettling, but the idea of tearing it down bothered her more than she’d expected.

“Absolutely. The ocean is hard on buildings to begin with, and this one looks like it had a pretty bad house fire, followed by who knows how many years of neglect and being beaten by the elements...it’s got to be full of rot and rats and who knows what else.”

“It doesn’t look that bad to me. I mean sure, there’s a lot of work to be done…” Kittie started.

“A LOT of work,” Michael interjected.

“Yes, a lot, but that doesn’t mean it has to be torn down, does it?”

“I think it probably does. That’s why it’s priced this way. Likely appraisers and engineers and contractors have already told them so,” he said.

“Okay, I’m sure you’re right, but pretend for just a minute that it was salvageable. Would you want to live here if we could?”

Michael sucked air through his teeth, and then sat in silence for a moment, looking up at the mansion, clearly doing some quick pro and con calculations in his head. “The view is exactly what I was hoping for. Better even. I’d have expected a flat lot with this view and the privacy to have been snapped up a long time ago. I honestly can’t believe no one has purchased it already. But the house…. I’m not sure anything would convince me to save that house.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Too many problems. Too expensive. Not my taste. Mostly, it’s creepy as hell. I’ll say one thing though, they don’t build them like that anymore and even if they did, no one could afford to do it."

“No, they don’t. It reminds me of this house from when I was a kid, back in my hometown. It was a Victorian, though not as big or spectacular as this one, but it was beautiful. When it went up for sale, my mom and I went to see it every time they had an open house, and we’d stay for hours. There was no way we could have afforded it, but we’d wander around and imagine we could - where our rooms would be and where our furniture would go, and what changes we’d make. The fantasy got so real for both of us, that when it did sell eventually, I think both our hearts were a little broken. I can still imagine it all now, picture every detail of that house. There was a turret and secret passages and a dumb waiter - it was all so magical to a kid. I guess part of me will always love old houses like this because of it.”

Michael watched her for a moment, his eyes sparkling, and he shook his head at her, “How do you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?” she asked back.

“Know just what to say to get me to do anything you want.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it!”

“No, you only said you’d been dreaming of a house like this since you were a deprived little girl. Well, if it would make you happy, I would save this creepy house and live haunted ever after with you inside of it. And we could cheer it up. You know, get rid of the soot marks, and evict the rats, and make it new again. And look at that tower at the top. I can already imagine making you a little reading nook up there.”

Kittie beamed at him and gave him one of her wide open smiles that made him fall in love with her. She threw her arms around his neck and said, “You’re the best husband a girl could have, you know that?”

“I am pretty sure I have a mug back on my desk somewhere that says as much.” 

“You know me so well, my love.”

“If making you happy is as easy as buying you a creepy old house so that you can have a reading nook, you know I’m going to do it,” he said, looking into her well-loved face. He kissed her, softly and parted her lips just a bit with his tongue, his hand in her hair. A warm tingle ran from the top of her head all the way through her belly as she kissed him back. She laughed then and said, “We better go meet Janice before we get into trouble.” 

“Nah, forget her. Someone else can have the house. I’m busy right now.

She laughed again and kissed the tip of his nose. “C’mon you old horndog”.

“If I must.”

They got out of the car, holding hands as they walked to where Janice, their agent, pulled up in her own car and was waiting in front of the steps of the front porch, discreetly looking up at the house instead of towards their parked car. 

“Hi, Janice, nice to meet you. I’m Michael McEwan, and this is my wife, Kate.”

“Nice to meet you, and my friends call me Kittie. I’m getting the feeling we might be getting to know each other, so you might as well too.”

“Nice to meet you both and thanks for meeting me here. Any trouble finding the place?”

“We missed the turn off 1 the first time, but otherwise, no problems.”

“Good, I know it can be tricky. So, what do you think so far? Can’t beat the view!”

“No, you can’t beat it. It’s unbeatable, so fill us in. What’s wrong with it? I have to admit that we were pretty surprised when we got here. We thought we were coming to see a plot of land with a few burned out fireplaces on it. Instead, there’s an enormous house. What’s the deal?” Michael asked.

Janice smiled up at it, and Kittie couldn’t quite read her expression, but if pressed, she’d have called it a smirk and wondered why. “It is beautiful, but there’s much more damage than you can see from here and it’s been condemned by the county, unfortunately.  The buyer is going to have a lot of cleanup to do if they plan to build, and I’ll be frank, it will be expensive. We’ll take a walk around and I’ll show you the damage.”

“It was one of the first homes built in Bodega Bay actually. It’s hard to believe it’s gone, really, it’s been such a part of the town lore for as long as there’s been a town,” Janice said as they walked across the overgrown, patchy lawn.

“When was it built?” Michael asked.

“1800s, but I’d have to double check the year. More than a hundred and fifty years though, I’m pretty sure,” she said as they reached the corner of the house and Kittie suddenly understood the violence in the phrase “part of a Victorian.” It was like coming upon a body and thinking they were only sleeping until you noticed a shotgun blast had blown off the back of their skull. 

The back half was gone. Completely eaten up by fire. 

“I can’t believe it’s standing at all, but especially with that much height. What’s keeping it upright? It’s almost like magic.” Kittie said and Michael nodded his agreement. It was a sheer rise five stories up with nothing to support it and nature was doing her best to claw down what was left. Vines grew into the remaining rooms, and green fuzz, black mold and patches of white mushrooms were growing on beams and broken plaster. Kittie imagined raccoons must have moved in, along with bats and mice and dark skittering beetles.

Michael whistled and said, “I don’t know, but what a shame...it will all have to come down, if it doesn’t fall down on its own first. I’m sorry to burst your dreams Kittie, but there’s no saving this. Better to start from scratch.”

Kittie looked up at the wreckage and knew he was right, but she couldn’t quite let go of the idea. 

“Will you check out the views of the ocean though? I mean, wow. Spectacular. That would make it worth the effort,” Michael said, clearly trying to lift her spirits. He took her hand and they stood together, hand in hand, and watched the sun sparkling on blue water.

“It’s breathtaking,” she responded half-heartedly. It was breathtaking, but she couldn’t shake her disappointment. It broke her heart to think of tearing down what was left of the house. 

“They think it was arson unfortunately, and the owners decided it was too expensive and overwhelming to rebuild. They are selling it as is, so the new owner will have to deal with the cost of demolition and cleaning up whatever toxins might be left from the fire, plus these old houses were full of lead paint and all kinds of chemicals we don’t allow in homes today that might have seeped into the soil.”

“When was the fire?” Kittie asked. 

“A little over a year ago now. It’s been in the same family since it was built, but they only used it for weekend getaways every now and then. A fire started while they were away, and no one was here to call the fire department until the flames were visible down the road.”

“Did they catch who did it?” Kittie asked.

“I’m not entirely sure…” Janice looked down at her shoes as she said it, and then back up at the house, and Kittie wondered again. Was that guilt that flashed across her face? Or was she lying? It sure felt like she was avoiding meeting her eyes. “A couple of teenagers were questioned, but I don’t think charges were ever brought. And truth be told, I’m not sure the fire investigators came to a real conclusion on this one. It could have been arson or a squatter or just faulty wiring in an old house.”

“I’m still shocked the price is as low as it is. Wouldn’t you say this is below market rate, Janice? The market is hot. They could be asking, oh, I’d guess a couple hundred thousand more for this property, easy, but it’s been sitting on the market for six months. Why?” Michael asked and Kittie wondered if he’d noticed it too. Wondered if maybe he was testing to see what other fibs she might tell.

Janice demurred for a moment. It was clear it wasn’t a question she wanted to answer, and Kittie guessed she was choosing her words carefully.

“Well, I…” Janice stammered 

“I know the ruined structure is going to be a problem for some people, but properties like this are hard to find. What’s wrong with this one? Where are the bodies buried?” It was just a saying of course, but the blood drained out of Janice’s face. 

Kittie and Michael looked at each other - another mind meld - and then Michael said, “Are there bodies buried here?”

“Well, yes. Since you ask. This all would have been disclosed of course, I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you, but it’s a very old house. There’s a small graveyard, all from the Cary family, back through there in the eucalyptus grove,” Janice said, and pointed with one long red nail towards one end of the grove, near the coastline.

“Huh. I was not expecting that,” Michael said, and looked at Kittie.

“Me neither. I’m not bothered, are you?” Kittie asked.

“No, not bothered. Quiet neighbors are the best neighbors,” he responded. “So, that’s not a deal breaker, but I can’t imagine it would be for many. Are you trying to say the price is due to the graveyard? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, no. I wouldn’t say it’s due to the graveyard, but you asked about bodies. The price is more to do with the reputation the property has around here. I was really hoping to show you what it has to offer. The rest of it is all just, well, small town talk. You know how it is.”

“Small town talk I understand, but we’re an hour from San Francisco and clearly the talk isn’t going that far. So, what’s the talk?”

Janice sighed and crossed her arms. It was clearly not how she’d imagined this going. “If you must know, the talk is that it’s haunted.”

Kittie and Michael gave each other that look again. “Haunted? You’re serious?” Kittie asked.

“I am afraid so.”

“And do you believe that it’s haunted, Janice?” Michael asked.

“Honestly? I just want to sell it.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s an answer. Janice, I do believe you’re holding out on us,” Michael said, smiling, his arms crossed over his chest.

Janice sighed again. “Look, I don’t believe in things like hauntings, but I will be honest because it will come out one way or another, though I’d hoped it wouldn’t be before you’d even looked at everything the property has to offer. The house…how do I say it? It has a history, and as I say, it’s more than 150 years old. In 150 years, there will be a lot of happy times, and a lot of sad times. Births and birthdays and graduations and anniversaries, but also deaths. That’s just part of life. But people don’t keep telling stories about Aunt Edna and Uncle John’s happy 25th anniversary party 100 years later, do they? No, they talk about all the worst things that ever happened. They talk about the murders and suicides and the stillbirths and the adultery, because that’s what makes good gossip, and pretty soon, it’s all anyone remembers any more, despite there likely being no more bad stuff than in any family. It just so happens that this family was here a long time in a small town where they were not well liked.”

“Makes sense. But it’s still not enough to scare off a San Francisco investor. I think you’re holding out on me Janice.”

“She said murders and suicides, Michael. Plural. That might be enough. Or was that just a turn of phrase?”

“It was not just a turn of phrase, I’m afraid. There have been at least four murders and four suicides.”

Kittie’s eyebrows shot up, “At least?”

“As I say, it’s an old house.”

“I think there’s more to it,” Michael said, the sparkle still in his eye. 

Janice sighed again. “I’d chalk it up to a series of unfortunate events. Just bad luck. The family was considering selling before the house burned down, and when it did, obviously they lost a tremendous amount of value, but also got a tremendous insurance payout, so they aren’t as bothered as you might guess. We’ve been in contract a few times, and something has happened every time. The first buyers pulled out when the wife got a cancer diagnosis, and they didn’t want to take on this kind of project while going through treatment. The next family had a job loss that meant they couldn’t afford it anymore. And the last couple, well, I’ll be honest. They wouldn’t say why they pulled out. Just did. Probably got cold feet. Happens all the time.”

“Fair enough, though I’m still surprised,” Michael said.

“Can we go inside?” Kittie asked.

Janice blinked at Kittie in stunned silence. She’d assumed this sale was over before it had even begun.  

“Inside the house?” Janice asked, clearly astounded.

“Yes, I’d like to see it,” Kittie answered.

“I…I…well I don’t know if I’d recommend it. It’s -” Janice stammered.

“The whole thing might fall in on you, and that’s if you didn’t fall right through that porch first and I’m not ready to be a widower just yet,” Michael warned, as Kittie started towards the front door. “It’s full of rot and termites. Even if the structure is safe, you might get bitten by something in there. And that’s to say nothing of the ghosts.”

“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!” Kittie said. “I want to see it. Don’t you want to see it?” Kittie said.

“Um, that would be a hard no from me, Kittie-Cat. That’s one thing I can live my whole life without seeing. I’d still like to walk the property if you’d care to show us Janice. If we think it might be the one, we’ll want to hear more about those ghost stories, but that can keep for now,” Michael countered, and Janice looked relieved to not have to argue the point.

“I promise I’ll be careful,” Kittie pleaded, giving Michael the old puppy dog eyes. She realized she was being a child about this, but she found the idea of a haunted Victorian mansion irresistible. 

“I tell you what. If we put in an offer, we’ll come back with the inspector and hard hats. And closed-toed shoes. And pants. Gloves. Maybe masks. What I’m saying is we’ll come with protection. That place requires some prophylactics if you know what I mean.”

“Ha-ha,” Kittie rolled her eyes. “Fine, you’re right, I know you’re right, but aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

“Not one bit. I know what’s in there. A bunch of mold and rat shit. No thank you,” he said.

“Baloney. I know you’re curious. I know you’re dying to go in there just like I am. See if there’s really a ghost,” she said, eyes narrowed, and finger pointed at his chest.

“Mm, I’d call it more worried I’ll get rabies than curious in this instance,” he said.

“Really? And here I thought I knew you. Guess you’re just not as adventurous as I thought you were,” she teased. Michael crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at her. He was clearly not going to budge on this, but for some reason, she really wanted this. The house was calling to her and she had to know what was inside. “Okay, compromise - what if we just peek in from the back? Look through the open backside from a safe distance?” she asked.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he said and winked at her. 

Janice interjected then, “You’ll still want to be very careful. There’s broken glass and parts of pipes sticking up from the ground back there.”

“Please hold onto my arm at least. I do not want you toppling over in those heels,” he sighed, the battle lost.

“No problem, sailor,” she smiled, and he smiled back at her, that beautiful smile of his. He had one dimple of his own, and two days of dark stubble that made him look effortlessly handsome, though it was painstakingly manicured. 

He winked at her again, a secret one just for her that said, “I love your sense of adventure”, and she felt that tingle in her belly again. She kissed his cheek and gave his arm a squeeze and they were off towards the remains. 

Sea figs were overtaking the foundation, and hid the bits of rubble beneath, causing her to trip more than once and for Michael to give her a “See? I was right” look though he was gentleman enough not to say anything. Between the sea figs were big patches of bare scorched earth, still black with soot, as well as bits of broken glass, ends of old pipes, and several crumbling chimneys. 

Instinct made them all stop about twenty yards from the back of the house, likely the subconscious part of their animal brains that could judge where the house would fall should it suddenly give way.

Kittie expected to see straight into the house, but it was just a brick wall. In fact, the wall was probably built for just this purpose - a firebreak. Houses this large with this many fireplaces often had a firebreak, and this one had worked. Though the brick was charred and crumbling in plenty of places, the house still stood. Dark green vines grew up the brick, reaching their twisting green tentacles almost to the top of the third floor. There were holes in the ivy where doors or hallways must be, but all within was black. 

“Well, that’s not as exciting as I’d hoped,” Kittie said.

“What were you hoping for? The ghost of Mrs. Muir to pop out?” Michael teased.

“Honestly, yes. I think that would have been very appropriate, don’t you? Though it was the ghost AND Mrs. Muir I’ll have you know. The ghost was a ship captain.”

“I seem to recall Mrs. Muir turned into a ghost in the end,” Michael said.

“Spoiler! I’m sorry Janice. I hope he didn’t ruin it for you.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, so you’re good,” Janice said, not nearly as amused as the McEwan’s were with themselves.

“I guess I was expecting to see a five-story diorama of a Victorian house. You know, like a real-life dollhouse with the back cutaway and all the little rooms open for us to peek at,” Kittie said. 

“I’m sorry it disappointed you darling, but I promise we can come back another time with more appropriate equipment. Janice, I think it’s about time to take a look at the rest of the property. We have dinner reservations and you said there was a path down to the beach?”

So, they continued on, Janice yammering on about acreage and sewer lines, and Kittie let herself fall further and further behind. Eventually, she dropped so far behind that she needed to cup her hands around her mouth to yell, “I’m just going to run back to the car and get my phone!” before turning around and heading back to the house.

She stood in front and craned her neck all the way back to see to the top of the cupola, at the very top of which was a round, porthole-like window that reminded her of a ship, as if some wealthy ship’s captain hoped to recreate his sea home on land.

Maybe there actually is the ghost of a sea captain in there, she thought and smiled to herself. 

She walked up the steps to the porch, hand on the railing. She tested each step to see if it would hold weight before moving forward, though the third was missing entirely.

She stood on the porch and studied the great wooden door. It was swollen, perhaps a consequence of the damp sea air or perhaps the attempt to put out the fire. She wondered if it might be locked, and for a moment, she hoped it would be. Then, she could just turn around and find Michael again, no harm no foul. But instead, she reached for the big brass handle of the door and gave it a turn. It was locked, yes, but she could see that it wasn’t completely flush with the jamb either. She put her shoulder against it and shoved. It squeaked as it gave an inch, so she shoved again, this time stumbling as it swung open under her weight. She stood just inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Inside was a parlor with remarkably high ceilings. The front-facing windows were at least 12-feet high, with curved glass that rippled with age and had probably cost a fortune when it was built.

Hell, Kittie though, it would still cost a fortune to install windows like that today. 

They were coated in dust and soot, so despite the bright daylight outside, the open door provided only a dim pool of light to see by, but it was enough to see that the room was remarkably intact. Dark wood beams ran along the ceiling where a plaster rosette and loose wires were all the evidence left of the chandelier that must have hung there. The carpets were spongy underfoot, and it smelled of smoke, rotting wood, brine, and rat piss. There was still some furniture, including a velvet-covered settee that was losing most of its stuffing. When something within it moved, she stepped back and bumped up against an enormous hutch that was tipping precariously to one side as it sunk into the spongy floor. All its drawers hung out like lolling tongues, likely left that way after some previous trespasser came through looking for valuables. 

She wished she had asked Janice more questions before she’d come in. 

Who died?

Who was murdered and by whom?

And where? 

She wanted to know everything about this place. The idea that it was haunted didn’t put her off at all. To the contrary, it only added to its allure. It wasn’t just a construction project, but a psychic one.

She took a few tentative steps further into the house, testing the ground before making another, and froze when she heard a rustling nearby that didn’t sound like the skittering of mice. It sounded large, and it was coming from just beyond the reach of the doorway’s dim light. Slowly, she reached into her pocket, and landed on the comforting rectangle of phone that was not actually in the car. She pulled it out, hoping to use the flashlight, and as the screen lit up, something was on her. 

It was in her hair, screeching, and tearing at her scalp. She flailed her arms blindly and hit something large and soft. A loud flapping seemed to be coming from all directions at once and whatever it was, it was back on her again immediately. 

There was so much air, as if a tornado had been conjured where she stood, her hair swirling around her face. She crossed her arm over her eyes, but it left her mostly blind, and then something sliced into the soft skin of her pale underarm. She tried to make her way towards the door while keeping her face covered, running and half tripping, she slammed into the hutch. It gave a shudder and a creak that filled her with a whole new wave of dread. She uncovered her eyes long enough to get her bearings and bolt for the door as the screeching and horrible beating wings continued around her head. She tripped on the threshold and fell to her knees on the porch, as an enormous owl flew away into the trees. 

She stayed where she was, knees bent, forehead pressed to the porch boards, panting. She tried to remember if she had screamed but couldn’t. 

“What will I tell Michael?” she wondered out loud. He’d been right of course, and she didn’t want to admit it to him. Mostly, she didn’t want to sour his feelings about this property. After shopping for more than a year, she knew this was the one for them and she wasn’t going to ruin it now by terrifying him. So, she focused on slowing her breath before making her way to her feet again. 

The owl got her pretty good on the arm and scalp. She imagined blood dripping down her face like it had when poor Tippi Hedron was attacked in the movie The Birds, and she gingerly reached for her scalp. She looked at her fingers - blood, but only a little - and wondered if she would need stitches. Her arm wasn’t so bad. She was bleeding, no doubt, but nothing too deep, but she worried about what kind of bacteria might be hiding on an owl’s talons. 

She was about to leave her spot on the porch and head for the car when she noticed the plaque next to the door: The Cliff House, Built 1848. 

“So, you’ve got a name, you Old Bitch,” Kittie said. “That was some way to greet your new owner.”

In the end, Michael only wanted to make her happy and they put in an offer the same day.

It was amongst the happiest times of their marriage; pouring over plans and deciding on revisions; imagining furnishings and where their future children, grandchildren even, might play. They debated over tile and flooring and countertop samples and imagined all the hikes and picnics and holidays that would be spent here.

And then he died, and all the dreams with it.

Four
Vertigo

It was easy to picture it all again - the darkness and the owl and the burn marks, the rotting floors, climbing ivy, and nesting rats, and something more sinister too, because loss and superstition and tragedy, both the house’s and her own, were all tied up in her feelings about the house. 

She closed her eyes and tried to forget again. 

Despite its beauty, its smartly and modernly appointed rooms, full of plush materials and beautiful objects, the house still gave her the creeps. Could a building have a memory or personality of its own? Was this room just posts and beams and plaster, or did it absorb the more than a century of human dramas that played out within its walls each day? She thought so. What was Rebecca without Manderley or Pride and Prejudice without Pemberley? The Shining without The Overlook? Each was as central a character as any of the people, their names as well remembered by generations of readers.

She remembered feeling at home here quickly, and she knew it was anthropomorphizing, but she’d often imagined that the house was thankful to her for saving it. It was hard to look at the room and believe it could be the same place they first explored that day as a happy couple, but she spent all that was left of her money, energy, and love to rescue it. Construction crews cleared out the toxic debris and re-laid piping, wiring and foundation, built walls and glazed it with monumentally expensive sheets of glass. She’d agonized over every decision, every color and tile and floor plan and together with her architect and her builder, they created something wondrous, an alchemy born of old and new. 

She opened her eyes and looked towards the staircase, that beautiful curving staircase, white with black steps and white risers like piano keys, all remarkably intact, not needing more than good clean and polish. The steps themselves were rounded, and the overall effect was feminine; a pale and dark-haired woman, coiled below the water and preparing to spring to the surface. Floating above it all and bathing it in soft light was a round skylight, domed in cut glass, each piece carefully restored to original. .

That first day she’d seen it was with Michael. He made good on his promise to return, as he made good on all his promises to her but one, and that day the dome was cracked, with vines growing through the missing panes. They’d come with the inspectors, this time dressed in hard hats with headlamps, leather gloves and steel-toed boots and carrying Maglites. 

“You look like a modern-day Indiana Jones, Mr. McEwan. Too bad you’re wearing a hard hat instead of a fedora,” she said.

“Now there’s an idea. Fedora style hard hats for men who like cosplay and need to protect their skulls. I’ll write up the business plan immediately,” Michael responded. 

“I think you’re onto something there. Make a Lara Croft version for women and suddenly staying safe will seem like fun.”

“It would have to come with that thigh strap. If only you had one of those to wear today - why didn’t we think of it?  You are a woman who could pull off a thigh strap you know.”

“Oh really?” she said, giving him her most devilish grin. 

“Oh really. What a lost opportunity. Why didn’t we invent this sooner?” he said as he wrapped his arm around her waist.

She kissed him and laughed, “If I did, we never would have made it down here to do the inspection.”

She settled into the crook of his arm as they walked towards the house. “You’ve got a point there. Yep, you’ve got a definite point. My first note back is that a thigh strap is perhaps a distraction from the serious business of treasure hunting and or construction at hand. My rebuttal is that it’s worth it. It’s like the toughened-up version of the garter belt. Any amount of lost time is worth it for a garter belt.”

 “If I get one and promise to wear it the next time we come out, will you bring me out to explore again before we demolish it?” she asked.

 “Are you using my weakness for your beautiful body to get what you want? I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it. What kind of wicked woman have I married?” he laughed and smiled at her, eyes sparkling.

 “A very wicked one. So wicked you could say I was evil. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

 “You’ll have to show me later.”

“You got it, Indie. And maybe you can keep the hard hat on.”

“Only if you do.”

“So, do you suppose we’ll find treasure in our Temple of Doom today?”

“I sure hope so,” he said. And it really had felt like Indiana Jones entering the Temple of Doom, as they looked for hazards and swept cobwebs heavy with dust from their faces, searching what was left of the Cliff House for treasure. 

Michael was right. The place was a death trap and already scavenged for anything of value. Even the wires were pulled from lighting fixtures for the copper. “Like vultures pulling out the entrails,” Kittie whispered to him in the dark. 

She’d brought her camera to catalog everything, and in the end, the only thing of value they’d taken home that day were the photos. Armed with flashlights and her camera’s flash, they’d seen the original pressed tin ceilings of the front sitting room as well as the tattered wine-colored Victorian wallpaper that they’d assumed was laced with arsenic, and slowly poisoning its inhabitants. 

“If only it was yellow,” Michael mused, as Kittie snapped a photo and checked the back to see if she’d managed to capture the detail in the dim light. It was peeling off and hung in tattered shreds, but the pattern could still be seen clearly in some places. It was an intricate toile depicting what was likely meant to be peasants lounging in the countryside, birds wheeling overhead, but it gave Kittie the creeps. “Are they dead? Or are they supposed to be sleeping?” she asked and wrinkled her nose. 

“I’m going with sleeping, but it does look kind of like the aftermath of a massacre. Nobody sleeps with their arms crooked like that.”

“No, they don’t, and I don’t think women back then would let their skirts ride up that high either. It gives me the heebie jeebies.”

 “Agreed. I’ll be glad to see it gone.”

“Same,” she’d said, “But this fireplace is worth saving.” She stood inside the hearth and placed her palms above her head on the smooth marble surface, cool and damp, blackened from countless fires over the century. 

“Maybe, but it doesn’t really go, does it?”

“The juxtaposition of the old and the new could be cool. Plus, it’d be a sacrilege to let something like this end up in a dump.”

 “Are you sure? Those don’t put you off?” and he pointed to two horned human faces carved into the bottom corners. 

“It gives it character.”

“If you love it, we can ask the contractors about it when they come for the walk through.”

“I love it.”

“Alright, let’s see what we can do then.”

Kittie photographed it all - the parquet floors and what was left of the settee and the chest that had nearly crushed her on her last visit. It had since crashed to the floor, and the impact split it in two, revealing 100 years of dust, spider nests, and accumulated mouse droppings. 

They stepped over the broken remains to the next room and both stopped in their tracks. The staircase literally glowed from the diffused light from the domed skylight above it, ethereal in the dark house. They stood hand in hand, their faces lit as if by moonlight, gaping at its unexpected beauty. Broken panes of glass in the skylight allowed vines to invade like a tentacled sea creature into a submarine, and they marveled that it could still be standing, any of it, but here it was. Not just standing, but almost unmarked. Nearly pristine and absolutely remarkable. 

Looking up the spiraling staircase into that dome of soft light, sealed the deal, and despite everything that came after, Kittie could not give up on it.

They continued to wander through dark hallways and past intricately carved solid wood doors, into rooms with the detritus of abandoned lives and years of ill use: condom wrappers, liquor bottles, broken box springs, and wire hangers. They’d both grown quiet as they searched the house, though Kittie continued to document it all with her camera, feeling like both an archivist and a crime scene photographer.  

When they’d finished their search, they walked hand in hand, still in silence, and climbed into the car to stare back at the Cliff House, wondering what exactly they were getting themselves into. 

The whole drive home, Kittie and Michael excitedly discussed what they would restore, save or recreate, how they would blend the new with the old, and what to show the architect. And of course, the staircase was now their main focus - that gorgeous wonder of architecture - and whether it could be recreated.

When they returned home, they sat at the kitchen table, each with a glass of wine, and Kittie plugged the memory card into their laptop and pulled up the pictures. They scrolled through the photos of the marble fireplace, the pressed tin ceiling, and the curved front windows. The next photos should have been the staircase, but instead, they were black. 

“That’s funny. I wonder what happened?” she mused. She scrolled backward and then forward again, closed the application and opened it again. 

“Bad memory card?” Michael suggested.

“Maybe, but it was brand new,” Kittie answered, and continued to scroll forward. In all, there were nine blanks in a row, nine completely black photos. And the tenth was the hallway just beyond the stairway, the first without the staircase in the frame. 

“Huh, well, it seems to be working again,” Michael said as Kittie continued to scroll. They scrolled through the rest of the day’s shots and found that every single one that featured the stairway, even just a sliver of it, developed black.

“What the hell? What do you think that’s about?” Kittie asked.

“I have no explanation for you. Probably it’s that we just bought ourselves a haunted house, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I was thinking exactly the same thing,” she said in a deadpan that did not reveal her actual fear.

“Mind meld,” he said and raised his glass. “To the McEwan’s Haunted Mansion.”

She lifted her own, “To the McEwan’s Haunted Mansion.”

Wasn’t it Shirley Jackson who said some houses were born bad? She wasn’t sure if this one was born bad, or if it had died bad and been mistakenly resuscitated, and she supposed if the latter was true, then that mader her the house’s Dr. Frankenstein, but at least she loved her monster.


ting!