The Face in the House

22

The house sighed and groaned as Teddy made her way back downstairs, blanket, pillow and Isabelle's diary bundled in her arms. Though the night's events had come to an end, the sensation of chaos lingered in the air, like gasoline waiting for a spark. Her legs dragged, muscles tired and sore from standing too straight and too still in the basement. Still, her mind buzzed with energy.

She stood in the living room-turned-seance room, where she planned to sleep that night. But much like her head, the room seemed to radiate with life. Alone in that small, dark room, Teddy had the feeling of standing in the middle of a party that was suddenly too loud, too lively, all shouting voices and bumping shoulders. It was too much.

She turned away, practically ran out of the room, but the chaos followed her, grew louder, more urgent with every step. In the hallway, the walls felt close, a nightmare funhouse, the end growing further and further away. The walls of her throat tightened too and she gasped to catch her breath.

When she reached Rose's room, she fumbled with the doorknob, burst inside, and slammed the door. With the door shut firmly behind her, a shocking silence met her ears. The storm inside her head dissolved. The party was finally over.

She took a deep breath and laid on the bed. It was the most comfortable bed in the world, and she had no idea how she hadn't noticed it before. It hugged her body, warm and supportive. Her eyes closed and she imagined she was lying in the cupped hands of some benevolent god.

But just before sleep could take her, the reality of the evening exploded in her mind. The seance, the sickly-looking boy, his straight-backed brother, fear in their eyes. A knock at the door. His voice. We know about Edward Poole! The body. The spiders. Swarming, wriggling and writhing . . .

She sat up straight, eyes open, taking in Rose's room as if for the first time. In the pale darkness, she could see the broken mirror, its pieces still sparkling on the floor. She shivered, wondered why she had taken solace in this dreadful room. I'd rather sleep in the basement, she thought, but that was a lie.

Still, she had to admit there was a calm warmth to the bedroom that wasn't there before. The thought of leaving the bed was unsavory, and the thought of sleeping on the stiff old loveseat was practically disgusting. She had been so afraid of Rose's room ever since the incident with the mirror, but now she was certain that all the fear lurked beyond its walls.

Rose's room, she thought. She knew her grandmother was gone, but she wondered if there was some small trace of her left. Some little bit of warmth in this otherwise cold, dark house.

You're a clever girl, Teddy. Perhaps you can make sense of this nonsense? Rose's words rang in her head.

She rubbed her eyes, smudging her makeup, then reached for Isabelle's diary.

Dear Diary,

Mother would have cried "witch" if she had heard of such a foul, unlucky week. While I am not so excitable as she, the word "curse" does come to mind.

Firstly, Mr. White is dead. It was no poison or spell or incantation that did him in as mother would be so quick to proclaim. I should know as I played nurse in his final days. He was not a fit man, his health was failing for some time, and on Monday he passed. It is awful of me to speak of death in such frank terms, but, due to the following circumstances, I am in no state to grieve.

A couple days later, the mistress called myself and the butler into the kitchen. She was dressed in elaborate mourning attire, all fine black silk and velvet, her face veiled. Though through that veil I could detect no sign of tears or redness one might expect from a widow so fresh. She looked quite well-rested, if you ask me.