A Heart So Haunted, page 17
I really needed to get a mock-up ready for a client. But I couldn’t bring myself to open her file. Instead, I’d spent the better part of my afternoon scouring the internet for anything related to the property. Library archives, my old university source compilations, research papers, anything. But instead of finding leads on what I should be worried about—Hadrian being stuck in this house—I’d searched articles that detailed his time period. What he might have seen in the newspapers. What he might have done in a day’s time. Historic events around the years that would have mattered to him. What kind of lightbulbs they had before he’d … passed.
Then I’d searched burial records. I’d stopped myself before I’d gotten too far.
I set my laptop aside and reached for my nightstand drawer. The papers were folded together, one over another, so at first glance they didn’t look like anything important. Prying eyes wouldn’t notice.
I took Hadrian’s photograph off the top. Was it the eyes that were throwing me off? Or the way he held his jaw, clenched and rigid?
Then—a faint click click click.
My fingers tightened on the page. The TV’s mute sign still held strong in the screen’s corner. To focus, I patted the bedsheets for the remote, and turned it off.
Immediately the house sounded vast. The whir of the refrigerator could be heard from downstairs. Gently, I placed the papers back in my nightstand. It was probably the tree branches on the window, if I thought about it. And even then—
A shadow swept under my closet door. The room was dark, but the shadow was so deep it looked like a hole that swallowed the floorboards.
My fingers tightened around the nightstand drawer handle.
For a split second, I thought it might be Hadrian taking me up on the closet hiding. But then I thought about the light issue I’d had when I’d stayed that first night. How things had happened before Hadrian had been out of that room.
“Hadrian,” I whispered. My throat tightened when the click click click came again.
Maybe it wasn’t him after all.
I started to pull my sheets back—sleeping on the couch would be better than this—when the door unlatched and drifted open, tender, before stopping a few inches later.
One clawed hand curled around the closet door’s edge.
Both relief and anger flooded me.
“You”—I lowered my voice to a hiss, grabbed a pillow behind me, and chucked it at the closet—“you jerk. You scared me.”
That chattering came again. A glint of ivory on the other side—jagged and sharp—made me realize it was his teeth that were making that noise. He was chuckling.
At me.
“I wanted to give my gratitude.”
“I don’t want gratitude, I want my blood pressure to come back down.”
“Either way, Landry, I would appreciate it if you at least took my thanks.” A long pause. He ushered the pillow aside. “The lightbulbs you chose are much better.”
The sudden seriousness in his tone felt like a weighted blanket on my chest. Any hint of irritation seeped straight out of me. If there were any moment to be thankful that the lights were all out, it was then, because the heat crawling up my neck felt like a collar ready to strangle me.
I tucked myself back under the covers and set my laptop on my nightstand, next to my water bottle. I glanced at the closet door crack, but his figure wasn’t defined enough for me to see exactly where he stood—or crouched.
“You’re welcome,” I said softly.
Rain began to patter against the glass. A rumble of thunder rattled the walls before falling silent.
“You spend much of your time renovating this place,” he said.
I inhaled through my nose. “I do.”
“You do this for work.”
“Well, not this house, I suppose. It just kind of happened.”
“Because of the woman before who passed.”
A nod. My cheek rustled against my pillow. I tucked my hands under my chin for warmth. He was here, talking to me. At night. And that realization made my skin feel too tight, the air too sharp.
“Tell me about it.”
No one besides Sayer and Emma ever really asked me about my work. So why was Hadrian asking any different?
“My work or my aunt?”
His inhale caught. “Anything.”
I pulled the sheet farther over my nose. “Why?” The single word was supposed to come out a bit stronger, sturdier, than it did. Instead it sounded wilted and a little pitiful.
“Maybe—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “I have a lot of free time to roam, Landry. Perhaps you intrigue me.”
I scoffed. “I don’t do much besides wait for an order to show up, strip wallpaper, and paint things.” But even I knew that was a lie.
What I really wanted to ask was if he knew where I’d gone today. If it was wrong that he kind of intrigued me, too.
I wanted to ask him about his life. What it had been like before cell phones and cars being the main mode of transportation. I wanted to know what it was like waiting for updates in the newspaper instead of social media. Or what had changed the most from his time to now—what he missed, what he didn’t miss. What he used to like to do, what he hated.
“You brought a trunk with you. I want to know where you come from. What you do.” Another pause, this one baited, heady. “Whatever you wish to tell me.”
“A trunk,” I echoed. I scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Still, I couldn’t see him. “You mean a suitcase?”
“Yes, a traveling case.”
“Well, my mom and I lived in Stetson, in an apartment, after my parents got a divorce. I went to school here, through high school, before I went to college for design and business. And now I’m back here.”
His laugh darkened, the clicks turned sharp. “So that is all? Your life in a few short sentences and nothing more?”
I curled further into myself. What more would anyone want to know?
“Why interior work?” He opened the closet a few more inches. Lightening flashed, briefly illuminating the jagged edges of his shoulders, the dips and valleys of his , his hand. “I know little about jobs nowadays. Enlighten me.”
“I don’t know. I was good at it. I liked creating mood boards. Organizing ideas and stuff, how textures would play off each other. Coming up with ways to make a house a home, I guess.” I didn’t know why it was so hard to look him in the eye when I spoke. I stared at an eye in the wood floors, instead.
“Mm. A house a home.”
When he repeated it like that, anger bubbled inside me out of nowhere. And I knew why. All I’d ever wanted as a child was a home. So I’d found myself in giving that to other people.
And here I was, with the very home I’d always wanted, and I didn’t even want it anymore because it was too painful. I’d diminished it to a set of zeros behind a dollar sign on paper. I’d told myself that it was a thing to fix, to remove, to give away to someone else who would love it and care for it.
Because what was a home worth, if it only held memories that hurt? What was a home if it just reminded me how much I hated how my life had turned out?
“What about you?” I said, a bit reedy. “Mr. Business Man.”
His hand, which idly dragged along the closet edge, stilled. “Pardon?”
Oops. I floundered for another reason—besides my going to the library—to explain myself. “Your clothes. I figured if you cleaned up nice enough, you might have been a semi-important guy back in the day.”
His slitted eyes narrowed. “Do I hear a jest from your mouth, or do my ears deceive me?”
“I doubt it, they’re kind of big. You could probably pick up radio signals with those things.” Not so much large as pointed, but he reacted, which made my heart flutter.
This made him sit forward. Before I knew it, he crawled out of the closet like a creature from a horror movie, but the riled irritation in his eyes wasn’t mean—but playful.
“Now you stoop as low as to make jokes of my appearance in relation to items that I know nothing about. A rather cowardly way to make fun of a person, don’t you believe?” His nails dragged along the floor. I held my ground—well, I held my side of the bed. I didn’t back up, only narrowed my eyes back with a suppressed smile.
“Says the creature crawling along a woman’s floor in the middle of the night. I’d say your peeping Tom act could use some work.”
“Now you’re being cruel. You know regal businessmen like myself have little social skills outside of ledgers. And I am out of practice. How else do you expect me to speak to women?”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. I covered my mouth to muffle it and sat up. He’d stopped in the middle of my floor, his figure flickering in and out of sight with every dash of lightening.
“I’m sorry, Hadrian, if I hurt your feelings.” I stifled a chuckle. “I was teasing.”
He relaxed a little. “Your voice. The hum.”
My eyes dropped. “What do you mean?”
“Just now, when you spoke, you smiled and hummed. It sounds like the wings of those tiny birds … What are they called …” He scratched the side of his neck. His heart, I noticed, oozed freely, but as it always did, the blood disappeared as soon as it ran down his hardened midsection. “They come to the window every now and then. Small little things, needle beaks. I saw them all the time as a child around my mother’s—ah—flower beds.” He made a pinching motion with his fingers.
I wrapped my arms around my knees. The rain grew louder against the roof, a steady hum, around us.
“You mean hummingbirds?”
“Is that what they are called?”
My brow furrowed. Hummingbirds had been around long before Hadrian’s time. At my worried expression, he cleared his throat. His horns waved as he glanced around.
“I apologize. Some memories are not always clear. I can recall my favorite breakfast as a child but some parts … are gone. And, as you saw, there was no one else to speak to in that room, so I have no one to ask.”
A hole in my chest yawned wider. Sadness. Was he admitting that he was lonely?
I chewed on my lip. “That’s okay. I didn’t mean to … I really am sorry, if I hurt your feelings. The joking, I mean. I just—sometimes things come out, and I don’t know if it’s always received how I hear it in my head.”
“You did nothing to hurt my feelings, Landry.”
A nod. “Okay. I trust you.”
“And when you say my name, your voice lowers. Just a hair.” He paused. It was ironic, seeing him trying to articulate how he was feeling so eloquently. A blush rushed under my skin.
“I’ll make sure to say it with gusto next time,” I said with a smile.
His expression remained serious. “No.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “I like how you say it much better.”
I wiped my hand over my face. Prickles of heat started up my neck. “Well, I’m flattered.”
“Now, Landry,” he said, but this time, my name turned into a growl. “Tell me about this inspection that went so poorly.”
“You heard that?” Because of course he had.
“Well, I may have followed.” He cocked his head. “But conversations would waver in and out before if I was not near. This one, however, I heard from upstairs.”
“Before, as in before you got out of the room?”
His jaw worked side to side. “Yes, I suppose so.”
My thoughts churned. Hadrian made it sound casual, but even in his creature form, there were two lines between his eyebrows. Concern.
“Does that worry you?” I whispered. Did it worry me? I couldn’t tell. Not yet.
“I suppose not. It keeps me aware.”
I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the expectant, sharp attention that he held on me. The way he crawled over to the dresser and sat down, leaned back, and watched me in the shadows. Back to the two floating eyes that illuminated like a cat’s with every lightening flash and thunder rumble. Or maybe it was that I knew he, of all people, might understand about this house. Because it had been his once, too.
I sighed. Licked my lips, and whispered, “The house means a lot to me. And the person that Emma brought in, I’m not fond of. I just—want it to be in good hands.”
He nodded. “All right. Tell me more, if you would like.”
And for the first time, I did.
Chapter Fifteen
With the papers tucked away neatly in my room, I spent the next few days touching up the bathroom paint and the kitchen. The heat climbed like a lethargic spider over the walls, the slick edges of my lungs, and skin of my lower back. I managed to sift through the other half of the office, but came up empty handed, just as I had in the attic and Aunt Denny’s bedroom.
Then, like a roach I couldn’t be rid of, Eleanora appeared in the middle of the front porch one late afternoon.
My clothes were speckled with paint. My legs and arms were flecked with dried greens and deep teals—feathery strands of auburn hair hung in my eyes, plastered to my temples, my forehead. I needed to take the garden hose and shove it down the front of my shirt.
Emma didn’t look any better. Our uncomfortable silence gradually teetered into small talk—I think there was an unspoken agreement to let it lie for the time being. When Eleanora had knocked on the door, we’d been in the midst of said small talk, me on the ladder, painting the accent wall in the library, with Emma as a base. It scared me so badly, my toe slipped, the paint roller slipped, my other hand slipped—everything slipped, including Emma’s grasp on the ladder legs. My leg went through the step rungs, the roller clattered against the wall before bouncing into my face, then fell and hit Emma in the eyes. I ended up dangling from the last ladder rung, both hands on the floor. Emma shrieked and tried to wipe the backs of her hands over her eyes.
“Oh my God,” she hissed. “It burns! Why does it burn so bad!”
I tried to pull myself up. Paint dribbled into my mouth. “Wait, wait, I’ll get a towel.”
Emma leaned against the wall closest to the hallway, cursing.
Then the doorbell rang again.
Now, we both stood, hands folded in front of us, feigning professionalism. Eleanora shuffled through her papers, making preening noises every few moments as she looked at the library. At least she hadn’t commented on the dried green paint on either of our faces.
“Yes, yes,” she cooed, like we’d done something magnificent. “Love how it’s coming along. The place looks wonderful. I see you took my suggestions to heart?”
I scratched at the corner of my mouth. It pulled, likely from the paint. “I did,” I lied.
Emma’s eyes snapped to me. Widened a bit, as if to say, Don’t placate her.
My shoulders relaxed. I’m trying to make her leave, I said with a tiny chin jerk. My eyes flitted to the door for emphasis.
I was almost 95 percent positive that the wall she’d wanted taken out was the one I had just painted, but the fact that she hadn’t mentioned it yet remained. Then again, if I were desperate for a listing, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned the wall yet, either.
Eleanora leaned through the doorway, straining to peek down the hall, as if to make sure the kitchen hadn’t evaporated in the last ten minutes. “Mm, yes, I suppose. The kitchen is amicable. A bit—cabin-esque, but it will do for now.” She tutted. “That wall, though.”
Ah. There it was.
My jaw tightened. The kitchen looked a lot better than when it had been infested with roosters, and her thoughts were cabin-esque?
Emma caught the sleeve of my shirt and gave it a tug. Gave me a look.
Then, with the sweetest, thickest smile she could conjure, she turned to Eleanora.
“Eleanora. Yes, hi.”
Eleanora’s eyes slid to Emma like she was gum on the bottom of her shoe.
Emma lifted herself, as if oblivious. “Listen. The timeline is a bit tight for the list you gave us, yes? We’re—Landry is moving as fast as she can. And there hasn’t been a chance to inform you that there is another realtor we’ve had come out to the property to take a look as well. Everything we’re doing right now is based on the betterment of the house—not what you think will sell.”
I stifled a cough. Emma’s eyes darted to me, but I turned briefly, covering my mouth. She really just said that.
Like an owl, Eleanora’s head swiveled. The room grew tight.
I fanned my neck, then stepped in front of Emma. “Emma is right. We’re still shooting for end of summer, but I’m afraid I’m still considering my options and what will be best for Harthwait.”
Eleanora licked her teeth. A drawn pause.
“Well, either way, I’d love to see the rest of the house,” she breathed. A false sense of optimism. She gentled the sharp corners of her mouth, but I still saw the shark lurking below the surface. “I do apologize, I was under the assumption that we had a, how would you say, gentleman’s agreement about the listing going under my name?”
My eye twitched. “I never signed any paperwork, and I never agreed that the listing was yours. You came recommended by a friend, which I’ll take into consideration, but as you know, this house is a special piece of architecture. It deserves a good fit.”
For the first time, wrinkles appeared around Eleanora’s plumped mouth. “I see.” She brushed by me, the smell of her saturated perfume following her. “I suppose I should hurry along with the rest of the house, then. I have other listings to go to, and though I’d love to stay and negotiate, I think it would be a good idea to let you sit on it for a while.”
I motioned for Emma to stay put as I followed Eleanora, who had already crossed the hall into Aunt Cadence’s office.
Dust particles—the lived-in kind, not the forgotten kind—floated through the air, hovered over the ornate rug and pooled sunshine. The front lawn glowed with afternoon light, the curtains peeled back enough to hint at the treetops canvassing the property. Eleanora stepped through the opposite door, chin high, spine tight.
I paused in the middle of the office, shut my eyes, and took a breath. Just to exist. It would be fine—things would work out. At least this gave me a bit of leverage with her and—
