Hannah Costelle

One Year Ago

When she woke, the darkness behind her eyelids was too complete, the air around her face too cold. The immediate panicked feeling of her gut plunging into her spine was familiar, an almost nightly ritual now. But repetition didn’t make any of it less terrifying.

She knew she wasn’t downstairs anymore, where the nightlights shone from every outlet and the plastic stars glowed on the ceiling—where real starlight, too, peeked through the lace curtains and reminded her she wasn’t alone. No, here there were no lights, no windows.

With a whimper, she allowed herself to feel the bed beneath her, the covers tucked around her as though by a loving parent. It wasn’t the twin bed she’d gone to sleep in, with its polka-dot comforter and piles of stuffed animals. This mattress was hard, the sheets stiff and scratchy. And yet there was something cushioning her. She moved just her pinky toe back and forth along the bed. The ancient springs creaked. Her toe displaced some of the softness, and she struggled not to sob.

She didn’t need to open her eyes to know where she was. To know that every inch of the bed beneath her—the covers around her, the abandoned room she’d tried so hard to stay away from—was covered in a layer of dust.

She squeezed her fists closer to her chest. She was so tired. So tired of going to sleep downstairs and then waking up in the middle of the night in this same horrible place. It had been weeks of this, months. And every morning when she went back downstairs, she felt herself whittling away.

A tear slid from her closed eye down her cheek, dampening the pillow of dust.

She couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t fight it. Some broken part of her broken mind must have known this was where she belonged, and this was where she had to stay.

None of them would understand this.

How could anyone ever understand this.

Chapter One

They were expecting a house built on top of a crooked hill. A house that lurked on the edge of a town where every Halloween the children dared one another to ring the doorbell. A house you would drive up to only as a last resort, after blowing a tire or losing a phone signal, squinting through the lightning on a dark and stormy night.

But that was before they’d set off on this cloudless summer afternoon, their windows rolled down to the sweet songs of wood thrushes. They’d grown more and more apprehensive as they pulled off the highway and down a winding side road, past fields of lush wildflowers. They’d turned at the cherry red mailbox in silence. And now the pruned trees and fragrant bushes finally parted, and the house came into view.

The small black car stopped in the middle of the driveway, a hundred feet from the porch.

“You’re sure this is it.”

It wasn’t a question. The skeletally thin woman in the driver’s seat wasn’t in the habit of second-guessing people she knew to be competent.

“Um…well, the address on the mailbox was right…” The woman in the passenger seat shook her phone, as though hoping to bring the GPS to its senses and make it take them somewhere properly frightening. “Look, it is gothic revival, isn’t it?”

It was. The house was large enough to be called a mansion, with a rambling structure that allowed sunrooms and towers and oriel windows to grow out from every available wall. The peaks of the gables were tall and steep, shooting up past the surrounding trees. The edge of the roof was lined all the way around with ornate bargeboards and lacy moldings, as were all the windows and doors, lending a gaudy, overdressed motif to the whole affair. But all of that was proper for a mid-1800s revival home in the country. All of that was expected.

What wasn’t expected was that sometime in the last century and a half, someone had decided to paint every inch of the house pink. A fantastically bright, perfectly bubblegum pink. Even the more modern tool shed and garage across the yard were pink. That, combined with the huge flower beds sprouting up around every window and the blooming vines climbing up the walls, made this mansion, nestled in its own private glen with the blue sky smiling down on it, seem like something out of a goddamned picture book.

“Well.” The woman in the passenger seat tucked her phone away. “I for one am outraged there aren’t more gargoyles.”

The thin woman’s frown deepened. “There wouldn’t be any—”

“That was a joke, Nell.” She pulled down the visor mirror to check her lipstick. “How do I look? Professional?”

Nell glanced at her companion, barely taking in her huge round glasses, the yellow summer dress that accentuated her full, permanently rosy cheeks.

“Mmm,” Nell grunted, looking back at the house.

“You look nice, too, you know.” The rosy woman tugged at the mass of braids coiled atop Nell’s head and straightened the cuffs of her T-shirt, which she wore over loose, rolled-up jeans that made her legs look even longer and thinner than usual. Nell didn’t acknowledge the fussing. “You know the drill,” her companion continued. “We want to look like serious academics, but not too serious. Nell, look at me. Nell. Nell.”

“Mmm?” Nell said.

“What did I just say?”

“Be serious.”

“Nell…”

“Chloe…” Nell said, matching her tone.

“I said don’t be too serious,” Chloe said. “These people are letting us into their home to share their story, not to be interrogated about attic space and crown molding.”

“I listen to their stories.”

“I know you do, but…” Chloe pinched the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses. “But we have to finesse a little, you know? We still need their permission to use the story for the book.”

Nell looked at the house again. “I’m not sure we’ll even want it. None of the other places have looked like…Snow White’s cottage. The letter made it sound different.”

“Nah, this is what it described. ‘Secluded gothic revival mansion,’ right?”

Chloe dug into her overstuffed purse and brought out the creased letter she’d received in the mail two weeks ago: five full pages of perfect looping cursive that laid out one of the most interesting situations they’d encountered in their research so far. They’d first read it huddled around the desk lamp during a late night at the library, both feeling their excitement mount as the descriptions grew stranger. They’d practically jumped for joy when the last paragraph invited them to drive down for a visit to see for themselves. Or at least Chloe practically jumped for joy. Nell settled for a satisfied smack of her palm against the table that made surrounding researchers glare up from their laptops.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it says,” Chloe said, skimming the pages for the hundredth time. “Sure, we may have pictured a little more gothic, a little less revival. But look, if it’s a bust, at least we’ll get a meal out of it. Remember? ‘I’d be honored if you would come for a chat, cucumber sandwiches and sangria will of course be provided.’ Now if that’s not hospitality, I don’t know what is.”

“Mmm,” Nell grunted again.

“Would you just drive?”

The car pulled forward.

Chapter Two

As Chloe opened the creaking screen door to knock, Nell walked around the porch. She reached up to run her fingers along the arches between the pillars and cupped her hands against the thick mullioned windows in a vain attempt to see inside. When she peered around the side of the building she saw that the mansion was even larger than it first appeared from the driveway. Its rooms seemed to keep expanding in different shapes and sizes, sending the house farther and farther back into the surrounding woods.

“Getting interesting yet?” Chloe asked.

Nell didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Chloe could read the set of her friend’s jaw, recognize that familiar gleam in her eyes.

The sound of footsteps in the grass behind them suddenly made them turn to see a wiry young man walking barefoot through the yard from the woods beside the house, a book in one hand and a cell phone in the other. He glanced up from the screen as he passed and smirked. Then, without pausing on his way through the garden, he let his eyes roll back in his head and drew his finger in a slow line across his throat. He smirked again and disappeared into the garage. Before Chloe and Nell could exchange a puzzled glance, a beat-up blue truck backed out of the garage and peeled down the driveway, sending a cloud of dust swirling in the breeze behind it.

“Very welcoming,” Chloe said.

Nell shrugged and turned impatiently back to the door.

“It’s a big house.” Chloe knocked again. “They might not hear me. Though you’d think they’d be expecting us.” She checked the clock on her phone. “We’re right on time.”

Nell cocked her head toward a metal contraption protruding from the wall by the door. It was a brass likeness of a deer head, about the size of a fist. Its mouth was open wider than would have been natural, and from it protruded a long chain with a ball of pink glass at the end. Nell reached out and pulled the chain down. Immediately, the loud jingle of bells echoed from inside, followed soon after by sounds of movement.

The door swung open to reveal the broad smile of a middle-aged woman wearing a holey T-shirt and jeans with dirt pressed into the knees. Her hair was worn loose to her shoulders under a sunhat, which seemed to have neglected its duties this afternoon—a fresh red burn spread across her cheeks.

“Welcome!” the woman said. “I’m so glad you found the place okay. Though to tell you the truth I was almost hoping you’d take a wrong turn somewhere—it would’ve given me a chance to change out of these grimy clothes and make myself presentable. I always lose track of time when I’m in the garden. I guess I thought it was more important for the roses to look their best than for me to.” She laughed at her own joke and held out a hand, dirt caked under the pink-painted fingernails. “I’m Talia O’Keefe.”

Chloe mirrored her smile and shook her hand warmly. “Chloe Henderson. And this is Nell Jones.” Nell nodded once, the left corner of her mouth pulling up a fraction. “Thank you so much for inviting us to your home,” Chloe continued. “The gardens are absolutely stunning.”

“Well, it’s an all-consuming hobby, but at least it keeps me off the streets.” Talia let out another laugh, like the peal of bells that announced their arrival. “Please, come in, come in!”

They walked into a foyer that was just as cheerful and brightly lit as the outside of the house. The space felt surprisingly open for a building of this age and style, with high ceilings and wide doorways leading to a sitting room on one side and a breakfast nook on the other. The black diamonds lining the mullioned windows meant less natural light, but that was compensated for with sheer curtains, cream walls, and plenty of bright white lamps. Tables were adorned with flowers and family photos.

The only dark spot in sight was the narrow staircase by the hallway, which seemed to have retained its original nineteenth-century dimensions and deep knotty wood color. Nell glanced up the stairs as they passed, but she couldn’t see whatever lurked at the top, where the steps curved and vanished behind a shadowed wall.

“Please have a seat,” Talia said when they reached the sitting room, gesturing to a dainty couch by the window.

Chloe sat and crossed her legs under her skirt, but Nell remained standing, wandering slowly around the room, running a finger along the textured wallpaper.

“Amos is just getting the sandwiches ready in the kitchen,” Talia said. “I wrote about Amos in my letter, didn’t I? I’m so glad it arrived safely, by the way—I know it’s old-fashioned of me, but I really do think letter writing is a lost art, and sometimes it’s just the only proper way to, well, privately explain something. When we used to give parties here, I was known for my excellent handwritten invitations. Everyone likes getting real mail, you know. It’s like a little treat. Anyway, I’ll go tell Amos you’re here. If you don’t mind, he can go ahead and talk to you for a moment while I splash some water on my face and get out of these rags.” She beamed at the pair again. “We really are so glad you’re here.”

When she’d disappeared down the hall, Chloe and Nell glanced at each other.

“Not quite what I was expecting,” Chloe said.

Nell shrugged.

“Still, she seems like a nice woman.”

Nell shrugged again.

“Very open to talking, at least.”

Nell nodded once and continued her examination of the space. She traced the carved flowers winding around the wooden hearth—dogwood blossoms tangled with rosebuds—then knelt down and pulled up the lid of the compartment under the window seat.

“Ghosts?” Chloe asked.

“Blankets,” Nell said.

“Damn.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not.” Chloe sighed. “I just want to remind you that we’re here to make logical connections and form reasonable theories. Not—”

“You must be the doctors.”

They turned toward the hallway, where an old man in a plaid flannel shirt was walking in, one hand leaning on a cane and the other holding a tray laden with finger sandwiches and a pitcher of fruity iced drink. Chloe hurried across the room and took the tray from him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Very kind.” His smile was polite enough, but his attention seemed elsewhere. He limped across the room and sat in a spindly chair while Chloe set the tray on the coffee table. “I’m Amos O’Keefe, Talia’s father-in-law.”

Chloe offered her hand. “Chloe Henderson. The woman sticking her head in the fireplace is Nell Jones. And we are doctors, but not the medical kind. We’re PhDs from Vines University?”

“Apologies,” he said. “We’ve had a lot of different kinds of people here in the past few months, and I tend to get their credentials mixed up.”

“It’s very kind of you to open your home to us, Mr. O’Keefe,” Chloe said.

“Amos, please. And it’s really not my home to open. I just live here. Go ahead and help yourselves to the sandwiches. And pour as much sangria as you like, too—there are cups there, and more in the fridge.” He glanced over at Nell, who had nodded when they were introduced but was still wandering the room. “Ms…Jones, was it? You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable, Ms. Jones. Or do you both prefer ‘doctor’?”

“We’re fine with just plain Chloe and Nell, thank you.” Chloe placed a sandwich on her plate. “Please excuse Nell, she’s just taking in the architecture.”

“Can she talk for herself?”

“When necessary,” Nell said, turning her head a fraction toward them.

Chloe glared at her and cleared her throat.

“I mean, yes,” Nell said. “All the time. Often for no reason at all.”

Amos almost smiled. “Please excuse me. I’m not used to people who are as quiet as I am. It’s much easier to be around chatterboxes. Take the pressure off, don’t they?”

Nell smiled slightly. “Yes.”

She finally walked over to sit on the couch next to Chloe.

“It’s coming back to me now, what you two do,” Amos said. “Talia read about your project in her alumni newsletter. I think she even left the issue out here to impress you…”

He rummaged through the neat stack of magazines in the basket on the coffee table and tugged out the newsletter from a few months ago. One of the articles highlighted on the cover was titled Vines Faculty Embark on Unusual New Research. Below was a short snippet of the article within: Two of our esteemed professors are traveling across the country this summer to visit sites where inhabitants claim to have experienced— The rest of the blurb was covered by a March issue of Better Homes and Gardens.

“You’re writing a book about the cases you investigate, is that right?” Amos asked.

“That’s the plan,” Chloe said. “As long as our theory holds up.”

“Once we agree what our theory is,” Nell muttered. Chloe shot her a look.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised Talia contacted you,” Amos said. “You’re not the only so-called experts I’ve served snacks to over the past few months. No offense intended. It just gets exhausting explaining everything to strangers again and again.”

“Listen, Amos, you don’t have to talk to us right now if you don’t want to,” Chloe said. “I understand you all have been through a lot. The last thing we want to do is exploit your family. We won’t use this story in the book unless you’re all completely comfortable with it. For now, just think of us as curious academics, here to listen and learn.”

“And maybe even help,” Nell added.

Amos met Nell’s eyes, searching for sincerity. “I don’t see how you could. But I suppose anything’s worth a shot.”

“Thank you, Amos,” Chloe said. “Could you start filling in some blanks for us while we wait for Talia?”

He nodded and straightened in his chair.

“Do you mind if I take notes?” Chloe asked. “Actually, if it’s not too strange for you, could I record our conversation?”

Amos waved his hand, and she reached into her purse to pull out her phone, a pen, and a yellow legal pad. Nell didn’t move, simply continuing to stare at Amos as he fidgeted.