Mexican Gothic(59)

Leave right this instant. This is no place for you.”

“What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

He stared at her, his hands still gripping her own. “Noemí, just because there are no ghosts it doesn’t mean you can’t be haunted.

Nor that you shouldn’t fear the haunting. You are too fearless. My father was the same way, and he paid dearly for it.”

“He fell down a ravine,” she said. “Or was there more to it?”

“Who told you?”

“I asked a question first.”

A cold pinprick of dread touched her heart. He shifted away from her, uneasily, and it was her turn to grip his hands. To hold him in place.

“Will you speak to me?” she insisted. “Was there more to it?”

“He was a drunk and he broke his neck, and he did fall down a ravine. Must we discuss this now?”

“Yes. Because it seems you’ll discuss nothing with me at any time.”

“That is not true. I’ve told you plenty. If you’d really listen,” he said, his hands extricating themselves from hers and resting on her shoulders in a solemn motion.

“I’m listening.”

He made a sound of protest, it was half a sigh, and she thought he might begin to talk to her, but then a loud moan echoed down the hall, and then another. Francis stepped away from her.

The acoustics in this place, they were odd. It made her wonder why sound traveled so well.

“It’s Uncle Howard. He’s in pain again,” Francis said, grimacing, so that it almost looked like he was the one in agony. “He can’t hold on much longer.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.”

“You have no idea. If only he’d die.”

It was a terrible thing to say, and yet she imagined it must not be easy to live day after day in that creaky, musty house, walking on tiptoes so as to not upset the old man. What resentments could sprout in a young heart when all affection and love had been denied?

Because she could not imagine anyone ever loving Francis. Not his uncle, nor his mother. Had Virgil and Francis been friends? Did they ever look at each other, wearily, and confess their dissatisfactions?

But Virgil, though perhaps also nursing his own grievances, had gone out into the world. Francis, he was tied to this house.

“Hey,” she said, extending a hand to touch his arm.

“I remember, when I was small, how he’d beat me with that cane of his,” Francis mused, his voice a hoarse whisper. “ ‘Teaching me strength,’ that’s how we put it. And I thought, dear Lord, Ruth was right. She was right. Only she couldn’t finish him off. And there’s no point in trying, but she was right.”

He looked so absolutely wretched, and although what he’d said had been terrible, she felt more pity than horror, and she didn’t flinch, her hand steady against his arm. It was Francis who turned his head away, who shirked her.

“Uncle Howard is a monster,” Francis told her. “Don’t trust Howard, don’t trust Florence, and don’t trust Virgil. Now you should go. I wish I didn’t have to send you off so quickly, but I should.”

They were both quiet. He had his head down, his eyes lowered.

“I can stay for a bit, if you want me to,” she offered.

He looked at her and smiled faintly. “My mother will have a fit if she finds you here, and she will be here any minute. When Howard is like this she needs us nearby. Go to sleep, Noemí.”

“As if I could sleep,” she said with a sigh. “Although I could count sheep. Do you think that might help?”

She ran a finger across the cover of a book that lay at the top of a pile, by the chair she had been occupying. She had nothing more to say and was simply delaying her departure, hoping he might speak to her more, despite his reservations; that he’d get to the matter of ghosts and a haunting that she wished to explore, but it was no use.

He caught her hand, lifting it from the book, and looked down at her.

“Noemí, please,” he whispered. “I didn’t lie when I said they will come and fetch me.”

He gave her back the oil lamp and held the door open for her.

Noemí stepped out.

She looked over her shoulder before turning a corner. He seemed a bit ghostly, still standing by the doorway, with the glow of the lanterns and candles in his room lighting his blond hair like an unearthly flame. They said, in dusty little towns around the country, that witches could turn into balls of fire and fly through the air.

That’s how they explained will-o’-the-wisps. And she thought of that, and of the dream she’d had about a golden woman.





17





N


oemí hadn’t been lying about counting sheep. She was too energized by all the thoughts of hauntings, of answers to puzzles, to be lulled into an easy slumber. And that moment when she’d thought to lean forward and plant a kiss on Francis’s lips was still bright in her mind, electric.

Noemí decided that the best thing she could do was take a bath.

The bathroom was old, several of the tiles were cracked, but under the light of the oil lamp the tub appeared intact and decidedly clean, even if the ceiling was defaced by unsightly traces of mold.