Maybe, I finally decided, it’s because wearethe same. I am Black Wood House. I am horrid and awful and poisonous. All along I was peddling that self-help shit to hide my rottenness. I was an Instagram queen with perfect hair and teeth and a heart of darkness. But now—now I am free.
The house didn’t want to be fixed, pulled apart, made new and clean again. And neither do I. I ceased the renovations. I listened when it told me to stop. Maybe that’s why the house spared me.
Or maybe…I shake my head. Maybe I’m just crazy.
I open Google and type in “vet nursing courses near me.” The waiter appears at my side again. He looks down at my phone, blatantly snooping. “Vet nursing? That’s cool!”
I smile broadly. “Thanks! Time for a change of career, I think.” I look away dreamily. “I’ve always loved animals. Been a vegetarian for twenty years.”
“I’m a dog person myself.” He smiles and refills my lavender tea while somehow maintaining eye contact. “Free refill on the house.”
“Thanks, lovie.” I tilt my head, letting my blond braid swish over my shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Anthony.” He grins eagerly, and I suppress a frown. I wonder if he’ll let me call him Gabriel.
He slides a biscuit next to my cup. It’s buttery yellow, the size of my palm. He smiles so hard I feel like his face will crack. “What’s your name?”
Ah! I’ve been waiting for this. I take my time, adjusting my paisley skirt around my ankles. I reach up to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun, and the wooden beads of my bracelet click together like ice cubes.
“Emily.” I smile at him. “My name is Emily.”
Epilogue
He drives slowly up the snaking driveway, past the lone tree in the front yard. Its trunk and branches are so bare it looks like a charred hand in the dark. The night is cold and still and silent, lit only by a sliver of moon and one headlight. He got lost trying to find the house. He’s been driving for six hours now, and his calves and wrists ache.
He stops the car, stares up at the house, and thinks, Oh God, what the hell have I done?
He swipes at the layer of sweat on his upper lip. Helplessly, he turns to his silent, pale wife. She stares straight ahead, clutching her handbag to her chest.
From the back seat, his young daughter leans slowly forward, her breath hot against the back of his neck. “Daddy?” Beth says in a strained voice. “This isn’t it…is it?”
What have I done? What have I done?
He reaches for his wife’s hand, feels it trembling. Or is ithishand shaking? He swipes at his upper lip again as waves of panic crash over him.
I did what I could, he tells himself resolutely, eyes on the horrid house. A man’s gotta provide for his family, and they’d long worn out their welcome at his father-in-law’s place. He and his wife worked four jobs between them, scraping every damn dollar together to save a deposit. But God, the bloody housing market is ridiculous. They’re asking for a 30percent deposit these days! Who can afford that? Not him.
Black Wood House was aquarterof median house prices. A quarter! He’ll demolish it himself if he has to. Brick by bloody brick. He’ll build a new home on these massive grounds for his growing family. But for now, thank God his daughter isn’t old enough to google the house’s terrible history.
“This is the one!” he says brightly, steeling his voice so it doesn’t crack. “This is your new house!”
Silence.
“There’s four bedrooms. Two bathrooms!” He rattles them off, voice tinged with hysteria. Silently, his wife slides her hand out of his. He knows he’s scaring them, but he can’t seem to stop talking. “Plenty of room to run!”
In the back seat, his daughter begins to cry. He can’t bear it. He exits the rental van crammed full of their meager possessions and lurches to the front door. Wordlessly they follow as he pushes the front door open. The smell hits him first. Stale air, stuffy. Terrible.
Creeeeeak,went the porch.Creeeeeak,went the door. He takes a step forward, and the door slams shut in his face.
He jumps back, shocked. He reaches for the doorknob and rattles it. “What the hell,” he mutters, rattling it again and again. The door is locked.
The wind, he thinks. But despite the cold night, the world is still. Thereisno wind.
Shit, he thinks, shoulders slumping. How the hell am I going to get a locksmith to the house at this hour? The panic roars again, sliding over him like a skin. Not that a locksmith would evencomehere. Not to Black Wood. The realtor admitted as much.
“If you run into any problems,” said the balding realtor, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “you might have to fix them yourself. You won’t find a builder within fifty k’s who’ll touch the place.”
The town tried to bulldoze it years ago. But the realtor didn’t tell him that.
