Chapter 12
Theo: Matt works for the post office and he says those realty ads were delivered Monday.
I shake my head at the text as I wander over to the library’s reference section. It’s my first shift, and Loretta suggested that I spend some time familiarizing myself with the different technology they have in case patrons need assistance.
Tucked among the dictionaries and encyclopedias and law books that look older than my mother, there’s a row of tables housing two microfiche machines, a multipurpose copier, and a few other devices. I sit down in front of one of the book scanners and open it so I look busy while I answer Theo.
I’m grinning the whole time I type. I love that I got under his skin and made him doubt his theories.
Amity: So then a gust of wind blew it onto the stairs.
Our house has one of those slots in the front door, so I’m sure that won’t be the last piece of displaced mail we find.
I toggle out of our text chain so I don’t watch it, waiting for his typing ellipses to appear. I will not be that girl.
Sitting underneath Theo’s messages is a chat with my father. I stare at the thumbs-up emoji he sent this morning in response to the “before” pictures of my room, my stomach twisting. It took two days, and that’s all I get? He couldn’t even be bothered to type out a full word.
At this point, I don’t know why I keep reaching out to him. Every time I do, he makes me feel worse. But he’s my father. Isn’t that supposed to mean something?
My phone buzzes with a new message, and a giant paragraph from Theo blinks onto the screen.
Theo: Think about it, though. The paint not drying.
The hardware falling off the doors. The faucet exploding.
It’s like the house is telling you it doesn’t want you there.
Then this ad, of all the mail, ends up following us up the stairs?
It’s not a coincidence. I’m telling you, they’re warnings.
And they line up with other stories that are out there about the house.
Like Gregor Marshall, the man that died there.
His neighbors claimed he was struggling to fix up the house too.
Popping to my feet, I push in the chair and hurry over to the public computers. If Theo wants a debate, I’m happy to give him one. I just need some solid ammo.
My initial search results are useless. Mostly Reddit posts and other forums that buy into the idea that the Harlow Homestead is haunted. Some of their theories are more bonkers than Theo’s. One guy insists that my house has become sentient and is literally eating its inhabitants.
People have wild imaginations.
I adjust my search terms for my second attempt and get better results. The one that jumps out at me first is a recent article from a university in Boston where two professors have solved the mystery behind Gregor Marshall’s death at the Harlow Homestead in August of 1843.
…just five years before, the town of Harlow’s Rest had been fitted for gas lighting, almost two decades after the technology first came to Boston and other major New England cities.
Neighbors report Gregor complaining about headaches and dizziness—symptoms common to extended exposure to gas—and the description of his corpse in the town records matches the effects of asphyxiation…
“Yes!” I yell, then slap a hand over my mouth. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I slouch, hiding behind the monitor.
God, I really am a weirdo. Who else cheers in a library like they’re at a sports game?
I let a few seconds pass to make sure I didn’t draw Loretta’s attention before snapping a photo of the most relevant paragraph from the article and texting it to Theo.
Amity: No ghosts in the 1800s. Just a gas leak.
Next I dive into the microfiche, looking for any write-ups about Harlow’s Rest from the early 1700s.
It takes a bit of digging, but I finally come across a small paragraph in a pamphlet that discusses how lots of new residents were leaving Harlow’s Rest and resettling in Dighton, Taunton, and other nearby towns in response to huge hikes in the cost of rent and land.
The end of the article goes so far as to accuse the Winthrope family—the ones who tried turning the homestead into a boardinghouse—of corruption.
That would explain the revolving door of tenants Theo mentioned that began after the Harlows’ deaths.
Sitting back in my chair, I try to recall what else he talked about when he was arguing with Jesse on Monday.
Of course, my uncooperative brain would rather remind me about the way his voice sounded when he called me impossible.
And how my arm went up in flames when he brushed against it on the stairs.
I consider Googling lobotomies just to show my brain I mean business.
Clicking open a notes app on my phone, I list everything I remember.
All the tenants that left
Gregor Marshall
A fire?
Construction gone wrong
I’ve already found answers to the first two, so I settle back at a computer and get to work.
It takes a while to find what I need. Loretta stops by once to see how I’m doing and seems perfectly happy with my explanation that I’m practicing my research skills so I’m better able to help patrons.
Then two different elderly people need me to show them how to work the copier.
But between the interruptions I uncover information that explains away each event at the house.
The fire was easy—from the court reports, it looks like the renter was an arsonist.
I couldn’t find anything that directly addressed the problems with renovations in the nineties, but I did look up the company (We’ll Fix You Contractors) and their reviews were pretty atrocious for a long time.
To the point that I’m not surprised they are no longer in business.
So that would account for why workers wouldn’t stick around and people were getting hurt. I’m guessing nothing was up to code.
I take screenshots and type up more notes, tucking it all away for future reference. Then, since Theo still hasn’t responded to my text about the gas leak, I look for even more evidence. Not for him. But because I’m nothing if not an overachiever.
Besides, research is fun!
I’m back to picking my way through old pamphlets and letters on the microfiche when Arden’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Whatcha doing there?”
I flash them a smile. “Getting to know the microfiche machine.”
They tilt their head. “In the four years I worked here, I don’t think anyone ever asked me to use these dinosaurs.” Sliding into the chair beside me, Arden idly taps the buttons. “Loretta probably gave me a walkthrough, but it’s”—they mime something leaving their brain—“now.”
“I have a deep love affair with research. There is not a machine in this place I don’t know how to use.”
“Hot,” Arden jokes, and we both laugh.
Leaning over, they scan the issue of The Crier—one of the first newspapers in the area—that I have displayed. “So what are you reading about—record-breaking snowstorms, or the Harlow Homestead?”
“Homestead.”
“Our very own haunted house.”
“Do you believe the stories?”
Arden lets out a derisive sound. “Hell no. They’re absurd. Mercy Harlow wasn’t possessed. She didn’t murder everyone. The entire Harlow family died of TB. I wrote a paper about it for my Science in Our World course last year.” They do a little dance in their seat. “Got an A too.”
Relief seeps out of me like air from a balloon. It’s nice to know that not everyone here is carrying EMF meters and memorizing the incantations for an exorcism (which something tells me Theo has already done). “What about all the other people who died or left or whatever?”
Arden shrugs. “Life was a ticking time bomb back then. You could die of a paper cut.” I make a mental note to use that one on Theo. “No one was being run out by ghosts. Just the universe in its complete randomness.”
I decide in that moment that I really like Arden.
“What’s got you so interested in the house?” they ask.
I take a deep breath. My knee-jerk reaction is to insist I came across the article while testing the microfiche, but my stomach wrenches at the thought.
I don’t want to lie to them. And they didn’t think my dolls were weird.
They called them art. Maybe they won’t think my living situation is weird either.
“We…uh…live there. My mom and me.” My fingers go white from how hard I’m twisting them in the hem of my shirt.
“Oh sweet, that house is enormous.”
The relief feels like free-falling. “My mother is letting me have the whole second floor, like a little apartment. I get to decorate it and everything.” I bite the inside of my lip.
It would be cool if they helped since design’s their whole niche, but panic fizzes beneath my skin.
We’ve only talked twice. It’s too soon to invite them over, right?
Even if they did ask to collaborate on a crochet project, that’s different than saying come back to my place in a completely platonic way.
Arden saves me from having to get the words out. “Hell yeah, can I help? There’s this great little shop downtown that has super unique stuff.” They gesture at my brightly patterned floral T-shirt and wide-leg jeans. “It’s totally your vibe.”
I’m still thinking about those words an hour later as I guide the Pilot down the driveway at home.
Totally your vibe.
Before I get out of the car, I shoot off a text to Taylor.
Amity: Do I have a vibe?