CHAPTER 39

Stevie lay in bed, listening to the quiet house around him. No footfalls, no sound of running water, no voices. He stared at the ceiling, tracking spidery cracks in the plaster, the wobbly line where violet-patterned wallpaper had begun to curl away, then let his gaze drop to the wall opposite his bed. The door was hidden behind the dresser but he knew it was there. His secret.

But had he really seen it? Seized by sudden panic, he jumped up and went to the dresser, crouched to slide his hand behind it.

And yes, the door was still there, he hadn’t imagined it. He recalled how it had felt, the smooth planed wood and the minute brass knob. He thought of grasping the knob and turning it, pulling the little door open. He could do that now, it would take half a minute to move the dresser and open the door and…

He squeezed his eyes shut. Better to postpone the pleasure. Like sex: let the anticipation build. Plus, if he explored it now, Nisa or Holly or Amanda might knock at his door, asking him to join them for breakfast. There’d be plenty of time later. He could wait till after everyone else had gone to bed. If he found nothing, it would be a funny story to tell them tomorrow morning. If he did find something…

He straightened, dressed, made his bed, and left the room. Holly and Nisa’s door was shut. Amanda’s too. He padded on down the dim stairway, the gloom belying the sunlight he’d seen through his window. The main hall seemed even bigger than it had yesterday, probably because there were no people in it.

And there seemed to be more doors than he recalled. The old music room, the billiards room, dining room, kitchen; and now he noticed two other doors, between the game room and dining room. He hadn’t investigated that side of the house—as far as he knew, none of them had. In all he counted a dozen doors, all closed, and three—no, four corridors, leading who knows where.

He stood, musing. How many people had lived here since Hill House was built? Not many, based on Holly’s account of what Ainsley had told her. Had they spent much time in the billiards room or conservatory or library?

And what about children? Didn’t people back then have a million kids? Nisa had said there’d been a family here in the 1980s, another bit of info gleaned from Ainsley. Stevie turned in place and tried to imagine kids running up and down the stairs, shooting pool in the room down the hall, playing hide-and-seek in those mysterious halls and dimly lit rooms. This was exactly the kind of house he’d daydreamed about as a kid, huge and rambling and just waiting to be explored.

Yet Hill House pushed back against all that. Standing alone in the main hall, he felt it—like a hand shoved hard against his face, making it impossible for him to breathe, to see or call out for help…

Gasping, he stumbled backward, bumping into the stairway’s newel post. He looked around but of course he was alone. He cocked his head—maybe the others were awake by now? He heard nothing from upstairs, though after a moment there came a low clink from the direction of the kitchen. Someone making coffee, or doing last night’s dishes.

But he didn’t smell coffee, so he remained where he was, feet sinking into the Persian rug that covered the floor. Its once-bright flowers had darkened to dingy purple and rust, and it was full of holes left by moths or mice. Near the front door, a large section of the carpet was stained. It was body-sized but didn’t resemble a body, just a formless blotch. Mold? Or a leak?

He looked up to see a crack in the ceiling high above him. The crack ran from the chandelier to the wall where the tower was attached, which showed signs of a shoddy repair job—plywood panels, a seam of gray caulking like an exposed intestine. A padlock was attached to the door that opened onto the tower. Stevie walked over and gave it a tug. Locked, of course.

He turned and continued to the kitchen, halting at the open door. A man stood staring into the sink. When he heard Stevie he looked up, scowling.

“Oh, hey.” Stevie lifted his hand in greeting and walked into the room. “I didn’t know anyone else was—”

“What the fuck is this?” The man reached into the sink and held up the soiled tablecloth. He looked angry, and scared.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that,” Stevie stammered. “Someone spilled some wine at dinner. We figured we’d just clean it properly in the morning.”

The man shot him a disgusted look. “I don’t give a—”

“Tru.”

Someone pushed past Stevie—Melissa. Yesterday, she’d been wearing sparkly eye makeup and a bright do-rag. A little much, but Stevie assumed she’d been making an effort to greet the newcomers. She wasn’t wearing any makeup now.

She hurried to the sink. “Let me handle it, Tru.”

Her husband shoved it at her. The sopping fabric filled her arms as she shrank from him, and he glared. He was almost as tall as Stevie but rangy, with deep lines scored beside his mouth, and hands covered with scars and calluses, a flattened pad where the tip of one finger had been sliced off.

Stevie looked away. Melissa had darted off to open a door to the veranda, sodden tablecloth clutched to her breast. Gazing at her wet clothes, the water pooling at her feet, Stevie felt weak with shame. She lifted her head to stare at him, then raced out the door.

Stevie hesitated, glancing over to see that Tru was now in the pantry, angrily shoving aside cookware. Stevie turned and slipped outside after Melissa. She’d moved to the back of the house, where she stood examining the tablecloth.

“Hey,” he called softly, not wanting to take her by surprise. She looked up, her face blotchy and heavy-eyed, as though she’d underslept. “I’m Stevie.”

“I remember.” She gave him a wan smile, and he walked over to join her. “Did you get some breakfast?”

“Not yet. But dinner last night was fabulous. Your husband’s a great cook.”

“Mmm.” She swiped a strand of hair from her eyes. The do-rag was gone, and he clearly saw the bruise it had been meant to hide. Was she deliberately not wearing it now? Trying to signal that something was wrong?

Melissa clocked his concern. “I bashed my head in the pantry a few days ago,” she explained. “This place—every time I have to work here, I bump against something. Once I almost slipped and fell down those stairs in the hall—I grabbed the rail just in time, I would have broken my neck otherwise. Tru hates me coming here. He knows what people think.”

Stevie felt his face grow hot. “I didn’t—”

“I hate it, too.” She began to fold the sopping tablecloth, fuming. “This fucking place. Hill House. Ainsley shouldn’t rent it out.”

“Holly said she needs the money to keep it up.”

“Better if it just fell down,” Melissa snapped. “It’s not safe.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue, but she’d turned her attention back to the tablecloth, pressing it against the veranda rail to squeeze out excess water. Which, Stevie noted in alarm, was still pink, despite having soaked overnight.

“God, I’m so sorry about that mess!” As he reached for the tablecloth, Melissa batted away his hand.

“Just leave it,” she ordered.

“But that has to be some kind of antique, right?” She nodded, holding up a damp corner so he could see the monogram embroidered there: HC. Stevie winced. “Look, we can pay for it, or replace it, or—”

She straightened to stare at him. Without the glittery eye makeup, her deep-set eyes seemed alarmingly acute and a bit contemptuous: the eyes of a person accustomed to dealing with simpletons from away. “The tablecloth doesn’t matter, Stevie. Once it’s dry, we’ll burn it.”

“Burn it?”

“Won’t be the first time.”

“No wonder Ainsley needs to rent the place out.” He’d meant it as a joke, but Melissa wasn’t amused.

“She doesn’t need to,” she retorted. “She chooses to. That’s why Evadne and I keep an eye on it.”

“Evadne? The lady in the trailer?”

“My aunt. The two of them go way back. They’re constantly arguing, they’re like sisters. But Ainsley renting out Hill House is one thing they will never agree on, and…”

“And you’re with your aunt?”

“Yeah. But Ainsley writes my checks.” She lowered her head—self-conscious, maybe. “Still, this way, I can help Evadne. That’s why she lives up here.”

“To watch the house?”

She nodded. “You’re here for a week?”

“Two. Holly—she’s the one who organized everything, this is a really big deal for her. And, I mean, it seems okay—”

He leaned against the rail, staring at the sunlight falling through bare tree limbs, the bright blue sky overhead. “It’s actually really beautiful, after being in the city for so long.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. All I can say is, be careful. Try to stick together at night.”

“And don’t go in the basement.”

Again, Stevie hoped for a smile. He didn’t get it, just a look that mingled anger, resignation, and perhaps pity. Embarrassed, he let his gaze drop to the silver ring she wore, the amber stone catching the sun so it glowed against her hands and chipped nail polish. “Your ring. Is it by the same person who did Ainsley’s?”

“Yes. Evadne made it.”

“Evadne?” he echoed in surprise.

Behind him, the door opened. He turned to see Tru, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Missy, you want to give me a hand with the boiler? I need to change the filter.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Tru stepped back inside as Melissa hurriedly gathered the tablecloth. “I’ll help him with that before we drive back home. So if you think of anything you want from town, find me and let me know. I’ll drop by later with some food for tomorrow. We’re supposed to get bad weather.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She stepped past him, holding the tablecloth at arm’s length, and headed for the door. “Be careful,” she called without looking back.

The kitchen door closed behind her, and Stevie stared at the trail she’d left in her wake: a sluice of water that was no longer pink but deep crimson, extending across the veranda floor.