A Mother Would Know (2)
A woman and her dog all alone in this big Victorian house.
* * *
The first time I saw this house, it beckoned to me. A whisper. An outstretched arm. The curl of a finger, bony but elegant. Its pull was hypnotic.
I stood at the curb, staring up at the imposing staircase, the shuttered windows, the pointed roof. It reminded me of my grandma. Not because she had a house like this, but because she was strong, tall in stature and had a presence that overshadowed everyone around her. That was this house.
The surrounding homes were lower—at street level with only a few steps leading up to a small porch. This one sat high above them, more than a dozen steps leading up to a large wraparound porch. None of the other homes had the personality this one did.
“Can you imagine the stories this house holds?” I whispered under my breath, the words coming out in white puffs that disintegrated in the air like cigarette smoke. Without a word, Darren put his arm around me, steadying me as we made our way up to the front door, the cold January air enveloping us. We’d left the kids with a sitter, since Kendra was only seven, and Hudson five.
Jan, our real estate agent, had a hard time getting the lock to work. And with each passing second, Darren’s uneasiness showed in the way he held his jaw, the way his hold on me tightened.
As if I couldn’t pick up on the subtle clues, he finally let out a frustrated grunt. It was obvious he already hated the house. Not that I was surprised. He’d made it clear to me that he wanted a newer home. Granite countertops, crown molding and updated appliances. But when we’d toured the ones he liked, I felt stifled. Uncomfortable. A fish flopping in the sand.
I wanted a house with history. A heartbeat. A voice. From what Jan had told us, this house had gone through multiple owners in the ten years before we’d bought it and then had been vacant for months. It was in obvious need of some TLC. The paint was chipped in spots, and in one of the rooms there was an odd wallpaper, red with black circles that almost looked like floating heads.
“A fixer-upper,” Darren had called it.
“Charming,” I’d countered, causing Jan to smile.
Despite all the issues, the house gave me a sense of comfort. Familiarity. Inside its walls, I became a fish that had finally found the water and breathed deeply through its gills.
Plus, I’d always wanted to live in midtown, and this was the perfect time. I’d just joined a new band called Flight of Hearts, and we’d hopefully be playing a lot at clubs and bars in this area.
It wasn’t until after we’d moved in that I found the newspaper articles about six-year-old Grace Newton’s mysterious death inside this home over fifty years ago. She’d died of a brain bleed, caused by a fall down the stairs.
It was ruled an accident, but many neighbors and family friends suspected it had been anything but. According to some of the newspaper articles I’d read, there were reports of bruising on Grace’s skin for months before her death. And even the coroner had said she had contusions and cuts that were old; healing. Not from the fall.
Many people in this neighborhood believe that Grace haunts this house. Roams the halls. Plays in the attic. Traipses around the backyard.
When we first started hearing the rumors, Darren said they were ridiculous. But I’m prone to think they’re true. From the moment we moved in, I could feel her. A breath at the back of my neck. A charge in the air. A presence in the room. And sometimes when I took pictures of the kids in Hudson’s room, orbs appeared on the photos after I had them developed. Seriously. It’s why I suspect Hudson’s room had once been Grace’s.
The AC kicks on above my head, startling me. I hug myself tighter.
It’s eerie to think about the similarities between Hudson and Grace. Both were the younger of two siblings. They might have shared a room. I’ve seen pictures of Grace: dark hair and chocolate brown eyes—same as Hudson’s. They had the same delightful smile, and a matching dimple on the left cheek. But most startling of all: both of their lives were irrevocably changed by an untimely, suspicious death.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe...
Catch a tiger by the toe...
Mom took us to the zoo this week. My favorite part was the tigers. One of them kept pressing his face against the glass. It made me giggle. I wished I could reach inside and pet him.
“No, trust me, you don’t want to do that,” Mom assured me with a little cluck of her tongue.
“Why not?” I asked, peering up at her, eyes wide. “He looks just like Dexter, and I love petting Dexter.”
“Dexter?” Mom raised her eyebrows.
“Cliff’s cat.” Cliff was our neighbor. His cat sometimes made his way over to our lawn.
“Oh. Right. Well, Dexter is a cat,” Mom said. “This is a tiger.”
I stared through the glass, standing so close the tip of my nose brushed it. The tiger slunk past, walking slowly and stretching out his front paws the same way Dexter did. My right sock slipped down my calf, and for a second it felt like a bug. I reached down to scratch it, then tugged the sock back up. “He’s cute.”
“Just because something’s cute doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Mom said. “He’s a natural-born predator.”
Andie pushed off the enclosure, backing away from the tiger cage, frowning. “I don’t wanna look at the tigers anymore. They scare me,” she said, looking up at Mom with tears in her eyes, her lower lip trembling. She pressed her knees together, the lace from her knee-high socks rustling like leaves in the wind.