Dalton
The cigar room on the second floor has been untouched since the early 1930s. The moth-eaten fabric that covers the furniture smells sharply of damp and mildew, and the once lively floral wallpaper is peeling from the walls, revealing horse-hair plaster beneath.
I huff a breath as I look around, the darkened corners of the wide, square room beckoning to me. I ignore it, like usual, but that creeping sensation licking up my neck continually steals my attention as I lay out sheets of plastic across the mahogany floor and prepare to repair what wallpaper I can salvage.
I’m not sure how I got into this line of work. My dad had been a contractor, and since it had just been me and him growing up, I spent a great deal of time following him from job site to job site, mingling with the various tradesmen and technicians he worked with day in and day out. He got a job in the Garden District in New Orleans–fixing up an old Greek Revival mansion. That’s where I’d met the teams who spend hours upon hours meticulously restoring historic homes to their former glory, despite the cost and time spent. Most people would have suggested tearing this room down to the studs and starting over.
Hell, most people would have razed this house, drained the marsh, and built something new.
But that’s the thing about these old Louisiana families with their old money and vile pasts that gave them their fortunes in the first place. They want everything to stay just like it was, just like it’s always been. Change is their constant enemy.
I crouch, mixing a sheer plaster base coat in a five gallon bucket. I’ve already cleaned and sprayed the room, trying to cut down on the dust and mold likely spawning behind the wallpaper. The Gregorys don’t care about that. None of these old families do. They want their houses to shine like a beckon to an era when they were kings and queens, and their entire day was spent counting their coins and drinking champagne.
Ms. Gregory wants the house fixed up. It had been the last request she’d made before her condition escalated. That was ten years ago now, and I’m the fifth painter who has graced this house with my skill set.
I’m only here because I’ve lasted longer than the rest.
The house wants to rot, to succumb to the marsh and the shadows of the cypress grove.
I stand and look out the window at the wide, cracked driveway as an unfamiliar car rolls to a stop. I narrow my eyes at the man who steps out, a hand raised to shield his face from the sun.
Bailey, the day nurse, gets out of the passenger side and waves toward the porch where Layla has just stepped outside dressed for a journey.
Her white sundress shows off her muscled legs, her skin kissed by the sun. Her golden blonde hair is braided down her back as she walks over to Bailey and excitedly converses with her before they disappear into the car with the man. I watch Layla climb into the back seat, her white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as she pulls the door closed.
She thinks leaving this place will give her the clarity she’s desperate for. She’s wrong. She should never have come here. Ms. Gregory spent decades keeping her family–especially the young, impressionable women–away from this house.
That idiot lawyer in Hahnville fucked it all up, and Ms. Gregory is too far gone to do anything about it now.
I roll my lower lip between my teeth as I watch the car speed down the driveway, the vines hanging from the trees scraping across the sunroof while dust kicks up in its wake.
Layla could drive hundreds of miles away from this place, and it wouldn’t matter. She’s already trapped, just like me. Just like everyone who came before us, and those that will come after.
Hours pass. I press the remains of the wallpaper back to the plaster, securing it in place. I sketch the wallpaper in the areas where it’s withered and melted away, preparing to patch it with hand-painted wallpaper that, in the end, will match the original so perfectly no one who comes into this derelict room will know the difference.
The sun is setting by the time I leave the cigar room and walk upstairs. My studio is bathed in golden light that shreds the lingering shadows and sends warmth throughout the room.
“I asked you to stop moving things around,” I grumble to myself, sitting down on a stool and edging closer to the canvas resting on an easel by the window. I give it a single glance, frowning at the shocking dark red paint seeping through the hand-stretched canvas. I shove the canvas off the easel, letting it fall to the ground. “Fuck off, seriously.”
I’m answered by silence.
I spend the rest of the day practicing the gentle strokes needed to mimic the petals and stems on the wallpaper downstairs. Night falls before I finally leave my stool and go stand by the window. I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light it, taking a long drag as I watch the trees dance in a light breeze. No storms tonight, at least not for the next few hours.
A figure moves between the trees, taunting me. I arch my brows as it skirts across the tree line across from the driveway and disappears into the shadows.
This fucking house.
I turn back to my easel and find the canvas I’d discarded earlier is back in place. A half-finished portrait of Layla stares back at me.
I take another drag from my cigarette and lean against the windowsill, staring into those big blue eyes. Blood red paint drips from her lashes and nose, rolling down to the bottom of the canvas.
I should leave her alone. There’s no reason for me to have taunted her like I did the other day, but something about her presence here unnerves me. She’s not supposed to be here. She can’t be here. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun while I do what I can to send her running back to wherever the hell she came from in hopes she’s still got a fucking chance of walking away from this unscathed.
She’s in New Orleans tonight. Maybe that’s a good thing, given how active the dark corners in the house are tonight. A scratching sound–like nails along a chalkboard–scurries overhead, knocking dust loose from the rafters.
The house doesn’t like that she left.
I smirk at the thought, then take the painting off the easel while pinching my cigarette between my lips. I send my knee through it and let it drop to the ground.
“Leave her the fuck alone.” I pick up my car keys from the table next to the door and leave, unsure of where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.