CHAPTER 63

Amanda drove down the hill, unnerved—she’d left quickly, so that the others couldn’t register her disquiet. Like Holly, she didn’t want to lose what they’d begun to accomplish.

And after listening to Stevie’s recording, she wondered if the sniggering whispers she’d heard in her bedroom had in fact been him and Holly and Nisa. What if there really was another force at play?

She recalled that first time she’d seen Holly in the audience during her performance of The Stronger, decades ago, and Holly’s frightened reaction when Amanda broke the fourth wall. The temporary sanctuary of the performance had been destroyed, breaking the implicit promise between actor and viewer: that none of this was real, that there was a boundary between the two that could not, would not, be breached.

That was what was happening at Hill House, she thought. A protective threshold had been breached, some kind of psychic fourth wall broken. Others disparaged Amanda for her belief in the ritual power of theater, but she knew she was onto something.

Holly was right—their reading this morning had been extraordinary. Amanda was accustomed to hyperbole from directors and playwrights, along with their criticism and rafts of notes—you needed that unbridled, occasionally delusional, belief to carry you through opening night.

But Holly’s excitement hadn’t been misplaced. Amanda had felt it too, and the others as well—she’d seen their faces in the minutes before that damn hare arrived. They couldn’t leave now. If there was even the smallest chance that Evadne Morris could provide a rational explanation for what was going on at Hill House, Amanda was willing to take whatever came with it.

And even an irrational explanation might do, Amanda thought broodingly as she drove on. Holly either had lied about talking to Evadne or chosen not to share what Evadne had said. And the others were lying, too. At the least, they weren’t being totally honest. Neither was she, Amanda admitted to herself. She’d said nothing about the horrible voices. She hadn’t imagined them, she was sure of that. But the others already thought she was in her dotage—spilling wine, dozing off. She didn’t need to add any fuel to that fire.

She drove down the hill with care. She knew her Morris Minor wasn’t the best car for northern winters, but it was one of her few remaining vanities. She’d be damned if she’d replace it with a Subaru. Amazing to think that the day before, there had been blue October skies and golden leaves.

Now it felt like winter. Or, if not winter, its sullen and tantrum-prone younger sibling. The wind had torn the last leaves from the trees and sent them whirling back into the air, making it difficult to see. Very large drops splattered against the windshield, grayish-white and viscous. Snow? It couldn’t be snow, it wasn’t yet Halloween.

Evadne’s car was in front of her home. Amanda parked and sat for a minute, composing herself. She hadn’t rehearsed what she was going to say—sometimes it was better just to improvise. In any case, she suspected that Evadne was far too canny to be taken in by politesse or dissembling. She stepped out into the rain and marched through sodden leaves to the front door.

It opened before she could knock. A woman about her own age, with long graying hair and a face that looked like it had never seen the working end of sunscreen or concealer. She stared at Amanda, though not with suspicion. More resignation, perhaps, like she’d been expecting her.

“I apologize for coming here like this,” Amanda said. “I’m—”

Evadne peered past her to the Morris Minor sitting in a deepening puddle. She brought her attention back to her uninvited guest. “I know who you are. Amanda Greer.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.” Amanda smiled. Always nice to be recognized.

“You were in that awful movie about the talking clam. But you better come in. Give me your coat.”

Amanda stepped inside, shaking rain from her hair as she peeled off her cashmere Prada, secondhand but no one knew that but her. She waited as Evadne shoved aside old barn jackets and an ancient yellow sou’wester to make room for her coat in an alcove beside the door.

While she was busy, Amanda took a few quick steps into the kitchen to get a look at the living room beyond. Beard the lioness in her den, she thought. Evadne’s home was extremely tidy. Braided rugs on the floor, original artwork on the walls, a sleek small woodstove that glowed cheerfully. A short hallway that must lead to the bedrooms and bathroom. A low table held a number of candles carefully arranged around piles of stone, along with a statue of a bare-breasted woman in ancient attire—conical cap, elaborately patterned skirt. In each hand she grasped something that might have been a small crescent moon, or maybe a snake.

“What do you want, Amanda?”

She turned to see Evadne, arms crossed and head cocked, regarding her coldly.

“Hill House.” If Evadne wasn’t going to mince words, neither would she. “I have some questions.”

Evadne remained where she was. She wore a sweater that looked hand-knit, not a frumpy pattern but bright zigzags of indigo and violet, the kind of sweater Amanda saw on young actresses on Instagram, with their blown-up lips and buccal fat removal. When Evadne said nothing, Amanda volunteered, “That’s a beautiful sweater. Did you make it?”

A long silence. “I did. Sit.”

She pointed at the couch. Amanda sat. Evadne continued to fix her with that Medusa’s stare, then settled in the armchair across from Amanda. “Why are you at Hill House?”

“I’m part of a group of actors who’ve rented it. I think you met one of us this afternoon? Holly Sherwin? I’m sure she told you—”

Evadne’s mouth tightened. “I asked you.”

Amanda nodded and gave her the short version. Amazingly talented playwright, wonderful small group of performers, including an incredible singer, a terrific opportunity for all concerned…

“Why are you here now at my house?”

“Well…” Amanda chose her next words with care. “The play is based on an actual event, the burning of an old woman accused of witchcraft in 1621. Elizabeth Sawyer. That’s my role. I thought you might share some insight into the character.”

“Because I’m old and poor and alone?” For the first time, Evadne smiled slightly.

“No, of course not!” Amanda shook her head, horrified by her gaffe. “But—I saw your garden, the standing stones and the mirror ball. I have a friend who’s a Wiccan, and I thought you might—”

“Why didn’t you ask your friend, then, instead of barging in on someone you don’t know?”

Amanda stared at her helplessly. Evadne’s pale blue eyes appeared almost white: her fury had sucked away whatever color they once held. Amanda swallowed. When all else fails, tell the truth.

“Hill House—I thought you might know something about it.”

“Why?”

“You live nearby.”

“No! Why do you want to know about Hill House?”

“Because…”

Amanda lowered her gaze, trying to figure out how to respond, and noticed Evadne’s ring. Heavy silver, with a large piece of amber in it. Like Melissa Libby’s. Like Ainsley Rowan’s. She looked up again. “Because some things have happened there.”

“What kind of things?”

“A rabbit came down the chimney. A black rabbit. Holly said she’d seen it by your house, so we thought it might be yours.”

She stopped, thinking how ridiculous this would all sound to a disinterested observer. “We wondered if it was all right. If it was yours, I mean.”

“He wasn’t a rabbit.”

“Right, sorry—your hare.”

“He wasn’t that either.”

Amanda licked her lips. “Oh. Well. I hope he wasn’t hurt.”

“He’ll recover.” Without looking at it, Evadne tapped her ring. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“How did he—how did he get into the chimney?”

“How would you get into a chimney?”

Amanda laughed, but Evadne wasn’t smiling. She tapped her ring again, twice this time. Tap. Tap. “Just tell me what else happened at Hill House.”

Shit. Amanda had seriously misjudged this woman. Evadne was friends with Ainsley—Holly had said that. Melissa too. They all had matching rings. If Amanda told Evadne what they’d seen or heard at Hill House, she would no doubt pass it on to Ainsley. Who might take offense and boot them out.

And Amanda didn’t want to leave.

Evadne’s eyes had narrowed, her finger poised above the amber stone on her ring. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Amanda’s heart fluttered. It’s a code, she thought. She’s signaling them—Ainsley and Melissa. She actually is a witch.

She raised her eyes and saw Evadne staring at her. Very slowly, Evadne began to smile.