CHAPTER 32

Thank god Holly Sherwin had cleaned up a bit since she was a teenager, Amanda thought as she headed downstairs for dinner. Lost most of her puppy fat, cut her hair and dyed it blond. She didn’t look as pretty as the photo on her website, but who did?

But her girlfriend, Nisa—she assumed they were partners, why share that horrible room otherwise?—she was beautiful, slight, dark, her hair close-cropped, her eyes a deep brown that appeared gold when they caught the light. Amanda had watched a few online videos of her performing. Nisa Macari was the real deal—incredible range, though Amanda liked her original songs best.

As for Holly’s play, it seemed to be a vehicle for Nisa’s music, and a potential star turn for whoever played the witch. Possibly the part of the black dog, too. Amanda would have to watch for that. You never wanted to share the stage with an animal or child or puppet.

But Amanda as the witch would command the stage: it would be her sacred space. Actors rarely talked about being possessed by a character during a performance—it’s all technique, discipline, practice, blah blah blah, not to mention eating disorders, plastic surgery, addiction, narcissism, and the occasional bit of sociopathy. Amanda knew all about it, she’d gone to Juilliard and studied with Stella Adler, done her share of classics and also crap.

Often, the audience couldn’t even tell if there was a star, or former star, or almost-star, onstage. But she knew: she’d witnessed how something else takes over when a great actor performs. A pedestrian sentence becomes poetry. Words that didn’t make sense on the page sound like an incantation. It made sense, really—theaters began as sacred spaces. Probably the first actors were participating in some ritual sacrifice. There was undeniably ancient power there. How else to account for the fact that people were still producing Euripides?

Actors didn’t like hearing Amanda spout this sort of thing, and directors really hated it. When Amanda mentioned it to the guy who’d directed Medea, a hotshot who’d previously worked with Peter Sellars (not the funny one, the other one), he’d stared at her like she’d spat on his office floor.

Holly and her girlfriend were in the kitchen when she arrived downstairs, also the young man who’d ridden up with them. Stevie Somebody. Amanda’s friend Jeremy had told her about him—they knew each other from the downtown club scene. He’d been in Oliver! as a boy, there was some nasty story there.

Liddell, that was it. Like the girl who inspired Alice in Wonderland. He must have been a sweet-faced little boy. Even now he looked like he subsisted on fresh air and goodwill. Amanda took a moment to prepare herself in the hall—smoothing her hair, squaring her shoulders—and then poked her head around the corner of the entry. “Oooh, is this where the party is?”

“Amanda! Yes, come in, you can help us schlep everything out to the table.”

Holly handed her a platter as Stevie bounded up, a fistful of silverware in each hand. “Amanda Greer, we have a friend in common…”

And just like that, they all seemed to know each other and were settled around the dining table. Which was huge and could have sat twenty, but everyone dragged a chair to the end closest to the kitchen, where Holly had propped the door open. The dining room was gloomy, the only light an old standing lamp with a vaguely sinister Art Nouveau look, like that Aubrey Beardsley drawing she’d immediately regretted looking at in the Tate.

Within minutes, its bulb was flickering, and so she exclaimed, “Are we having a séance?”

Nisa had laughed and Holly had looked a bit nervous, but Stevie jumped up and returned to the kitchen, where he found some candles in heavy silver holders. He lit them and carried them back to the dining table, where they cast long shadows that crept toward the corners of the room. It was still too dark, so Amanda opened the door to the hall, too.

“My god, it’s pitch-black out there!” She’d fallen once in her own house not long ago—granted, after polishing off a bottle of pinot grigio, but it could happen to anybody. “Did someone think to leave a light on?”

“I’m not sure we even know where the switches are,” Nisa mused. “Did you see them, Hols?”

Holly frowned. “No, but—”

“We’ll be fine,” Stevie reassured her. “I’ll walk you to your room and make sure you’re safe.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. Did he think she was his grandmother? “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

The dinner was excellent, a casserole Tru had already prepared, along with fresh-baked bread and a green salad. There was even apple cobbler for dessert. Amanda was relieved to see that Holly had carried down several bottles of Rhône for dinner. Amanda had brought wine to Hill House as well, along with two bottles of an eighteen-year-old single malt, all of which remained in her room for the nonce. Nisa took a number of pictures for her social media feeds. Amanda made a point of lifting her chin and tilting her head so her good side showed.

“Hashtag Hill House?” Nisa asked, finger poised above her screen.

“How about Witching Night?” countered Holly.

“Whatever.”

Nisa tapped at the phone. Amanda wished she could see the photos first, to make sure she didn’t look like the dog’s breakfast, but it turned out she didn’t need to worry.

“No signal,” Nisa announced in aggravation. “I thought Ainsley said we could get service up here.”

Holly corrected her. “Ainsley said we could get intermittent service. It’s better upstairs, but she said we should stay out of the big room at the end of the hall. It’s not safe. Like the tower, I guess. Structural problems.”

“That’s just an excuse,” said Stevie. “If it’s not the site of an ax murder, it’s structural problems. What it really means is, the house is haunted.”

“It is not haunted.” Holly looked annoyed. “Even Ainsley said it wasn’t. People have to disclose that before they rent it.”

“Before they sell it,” said Nisa. “In this rental market, you can get away with not disclosing anything.”

“I’ve always wanted to see a real haunted house.” Amanda smiled. She’d invite Nisa to walk with her in the morning, and offhandedly suggest adding her own name to the hashtag. “It will make for a good story when we’re promoting the play.”

Holly pushed aside her wineglass. “Can’t wait for that conversation.” She stood, went into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water.

“It’s okay,” Nisa said soothingly, and rubbed her girlfriend’s neck. “Thank you, Holly, for having us all here.”

Amanda reached across the table for the bottle. She refilled her glass. “Slainte, Holly,” she said.

“Slainte,” everyone chimed in, and they all clinked glasses except for Stevie.

Nisa sighed. “Come on, Stevie.”

“What?” demanded Amanda.

“He won’t toast,” said Nisa. “He—”

“I’ll toast,” Stevie broke in. “I just won’t clink.”

“Why not?”

“My Polish grandfather said it’s bad luck. It rousts bad spirits.”

“‘Rousts’?” Amanda downed her wine, holding out her empty glass to Nisa. “Who are you, Robin Hood? Well, here’s to Holly, anyway. Clink.”

She tipped her glass toward Stevie, spilling red wine on the tablecloth. “Sorry,” she said, but made no move to clean it up.

Holly started to her feet but Nisa pulled her back into her chair. “Leave it.”

“But it will stain.”

“It’s already stained. Look.”

Nisa pointed to a large liver-colored blotch in the center of the tablecloth. Amanda saw a smaller, darker stain near her own plate. She hadn’t noticed it till now. Had she done that? She didn’t think so. She touched the smaller stain and withdrew her finger. A smudge like the residue of a spoiled plum covered her fingertip. She hastily wiped it on the tablecloth, hoping no one had seen it.

“What’s on the docket for tomorrow, Hols?” Nisa asked.

“Our first read-through, how does ten sound? Nisa, you might want to share a couple of your songs.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Amanda, and saw Holly’s mouth tighten.

Stevie nodded. “Sounds good.”

“I thought I’d take a walk beforehand and go over my lines,” said Amanda. On the tablecloth, the plum-colored stain had spread. She pushed her plate to cover it, stood, and moved to a chair on the other side of the table, where there was more light. “If anyone wants to join me.”

“I’d be up for that,” said Stevie. “Maybe.”

They all fell quiet, sipping their wine or prodding at the remains of dessert. Stevie seemed to be stewing about something—her comment about Robin Hood? Toughen up, kid, she thought, and poured herself more wine.

“Ainsley said Hill House isn’t haunted,” he said. “Which I think is sort of unfair. What’s the point of a place like this without ghosts?”

“She’s wrong.”

Amanda set down her glass and made a slow, sweeping gesture, the one she’d used as Prospera at the end of that Chicago production of The Tempest. The Tribune review said she’d seemed more Norma Desmond than sorceress, but Amanda had taken that as a compliment. “We’re the ones haunting it,” she proclaimed. “Actors, we channel the spirits. What do you think acting is? Bringing the dead to life.”

“Characters in a play aren’t dead,” said Holly. “They’re fictional.”

“But they aren’t alive, either, are they? Not until we summon them.” Amanda had given this speech before, addressing college acting classes or community theater fund-raisers. Only there nobody interrupted her. “We memorize words, arrange objects in a ritual space, wear special clothing. Then, after weeks or months of preparation we’re transformed. We’re possessed. Something else enters us.”

She hissed the last few words, looking from Holly to Nisa to Stevie. A candle flame flickered, and she was gratified to see Stevie’s enthralled expression as she continued.

“If you’ve opened yourself to it—if the words are under your skin so you can feel them moving when you move—you become a vessel. All those figures brought back to life, over and over again across the centuries—Clytemnestra and Hamlet, Doogie Howser and Prior Walter, Alexander Hamilton, and of course your Elizabeth Sawyer…”

She turned to Holly beside her. “Elizabeth Sawyer,” she repeated. “We’re bringing her back to life, you and I…”

She let her voice fade into the dim room and inclined her head demurely, waiting for the applause that usually came at this point.

“What is that?” cried Stevie.

She looked up to see him staring—not at her, at the tablecloth.

And not just Stevie: all of them, gaping as Amanda glanced down to see the stain spreading across the white cloth, the color of red wine or beet juice.

But not blood, she thought, pushing her chair back as she stumbled to her feet, not blood, how could it be blood?