Chapter VIII
VIII
The house had always belonged to Farthings, would always belong to Farthings.
Blanche and Herman left it to their children, who left it to their children, etc., etc., until it reached four strange sisters with a ghost in their attic.
The ghost, Henry, was not a Farthing, rather he was an anomaly, taken in by Farthings when his own family had died. You might say he was adopted by Farthings, adopted by the house, and you might also say he was adopted by Persephone, loved as if he were one of her very own.
The Farthing house was built on a very special piece of land, directly in one of Persephone’s footsteps. It was a house of the in-between, just like the Farthings were children of the in-between. It was a bit magical, that house, just like the Farthings were a bit magical.
And you might say that is why, when Henry died in the Farthing house, he never left, as if the house itself could not bear to let him go.
I took Clara with me to Dark Magic on Friday evening. I didn’t want to go by myself again and Clara wanted to see what the cute girl looked like, so it killed two birds with one stone.
The weather had turned in the last few days.
It was cold, yes, obviously, it was winter in New York and it wasn’t a stretch to be cold, but there was something behind the cold.
Something in addition to the cold. It was a very specific type of cold, a different kind of cold.
It made everything feel a bit … hopeless. Quiet. Terrible.
“Does everything feel a bit—”
“Yes,” Clara said, interrupting me. We were paused at an intersection, waiting for a walk signal as cars zipped by. “It’s the tear.”
“The tear?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “There’s something coming out of it.
A coldness, a darkness … I think that’s the reason it’s getting bigger, actually.
Things are like…” She made a slow movement with her hands, bringing them together and then sort of expanding them outward, stretching an invisible tear in the sky.
“Oh, well, I don’t like that at all.”
“This coldness, it’s sort of localized to the house. Once we get another block or so away, you’ll see what I mean.”
“Things are coming out of it?”
“Look,” she said, pointing. We were only two blocks away from the brownstone.
The sky was a dark gray, and the black tear stood out among the clouds as a dark, smeary shadow.
I watched as something—a darker shadow—emerged from the tear, pushing its way through, into our world.
It dissipated almost instantly, blending in with the clouds around the tear, becoming mist.
“Well I really don’t like that…”
“I know,” Clara said. “Come on; we have a walk signal.”
I let Clara drag me across the street, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the tear in the sky.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “I’m not an expert on interuniverse travel.”
“You don’t think it’s, like…”
“Zombies? I don’t know, Winnie. I really don’t know.”
“Is that why it’s so gray? Is that why it’s so cold?”
“Again, I don’t know, but I think yes and yes.”
“Fuck.”
“Also yes.”
“Are we all going to die?”
“Ideally, no. And you really need to calm down. Take some deep breaths. People are looking. We’re going to figure everything out.
We’re going to get Henry back up here, and he’s going to convince Evelyn not to be such a dramatic idiot and he’s going to know what to do about the tear in the sky. Okay?”
“Wait—is this like when you know something? Do you know this? Do you know it’s going to be all right? Do you know it, Clara? Clara? Do you know it?”
We had reached Dark Magic and we paused outside it, Clara’s hand on the doorknob, her face expressionless, her tone light.
“Yes,” she said.
A lie so transparent you could call it glass.
I followed her into the store.
Maybe looked somewhat happy to see me (wishful thinking?) and even happier to see Clara.
“One of the infamous three sisters?” she asked.
“Hi,” Clara said, nodding. “I’m Clara.”
“Maybe. Although I’m sure you already know that; Jon is an oversharer.”
“Will you do it, then?” I asked. “Will you be our medium?”
“We were thinking tomorrow night,” Clara added.
“I can do tomorrow night. You live around here?”
“Yes!” Clara grabbed a pen and sticky note and wrote down our address.
Maybe took it and nodded. “Not far from my grandma. I’ll be there at eleven.”
“At night?” I said.
“That’s perfect,” Clara said.
“It’s kinda late,” I mumbled.
“As close to the witching hour as possible,” Maybe said. “Do you have candles? Salt? Olive oil? A Swiffer WetJet?”
“A Swiffer—what?”
“Yes,” Clara said. “All of the above.”
“Perfect. Less for me to carry,” Maybe said.
“Do you want, like, money?” I asked.
“The reward of helping a bunch of neighborhood kids summon their first demon is enough,” Maybe said. “And also, two hundred dollars.”
“Done,” Clara said.
“We aren’t summoning a demon,” I said.
“Hopefully not,” Maybe said, flashing a smile so bright I felt exposed by it.
“She is cute,” Clara said when we’d left, back out into the unnatural cold, scarves wrapped around our necks and half-covering our mouths, so we had to lean in close to hear each other. “Did you see her boots? Original nineties Flower Floral Sienna Miller Docs.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
“Bernie will,” Clara said, spirits undampened.
“Why do you think she needs salt and olive oil?”
“Maybe séances make her hungry.”
“Are we sure this is the right thing?”
“You’re always so concerned with that, you know. The right thing, the wrong thing. It’s impossible to make that declaration in the moment. You can only do the best thing. Make the best decision.”
“And this is…”
“This is the best decision. This is us, trying.”
“Trying to bring Henry back.”
“Trying to save the world,” Clara said, her eyes darting upward, to where the black tear sliced through the gray sky, a tangible portent of doom.
“I’m not feeling great,” Mom said later, after dinner. I was helping her clean dishes, rinsing them and slotting them into the dishwasher.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just feel this … Like a weight, almost.”
“A weight…”
“Is it strange outside? The cold? I know it’s winter. It just feels a little strange.”
“Strange…”
“I’m sounding silly, I know,” she said, taking a sip from her glass of red wine. “I just have the oddest feeling. The oddest sense of … déjà vu, I guess you could call it.” She turned to face me, setting her wineglass back on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I don’t know why I keep thinking about this,” she said, shaking her head, looking past me. “I keep thinking about the day Clara was born. I know you were too young to remember…”
I didn’t remember, but also, I did remember, almost. I shared the memory with Evelyn, with Bernadette.
The lollipops, the books, my mother’s low, plaintive moans drifting down the staircase.
Aunt Bea reading to us, singing to us, braiding our hair, telling us stories about Persephone.
Our mother seeing the ghost. Our mother seeing Henry.
“You all had … an imaginary friend,” Mom said.
“Do you remember that? You must have told me about it at some point. I was delirious from the pain, from the water, from the whole experience, and I … I guess I would call it a hallucination. But I swear I saw a boy. I swear I talked to him. I swear he told me his name…”
Why was she bringing this up now? Was the tear in the sky triggering old memories for her, memories of Henry?
“Henry,” Evelyn said from the doorway, standing as still as a statue, her eyes wide and unblinking. “His name is Henry.”
“Whatever happened to him? You stopped talking about him,” Mom said.
“He was an imaginary friend, right? He must have been. And one of you told me about him and I just … But he seemed so real.” She laughed softly, took another sip of her wine and pointed her glass at me.
“Childbirth is a trip. When I was pregnant with you, I kept hearing music. Frank Sinatra. As clear as if someone had put a radio on. But nothing was on, there was no music, your father checked everywhere…”
“He wasn’t imaginary,” Evelyn said softly. “And he wasn’t a friend.”
“Right,” Mom said. “That’s right. He was a ghost.”
Another sip of wine, emptying the glass, then a rinse and the dishwasher and a kiss on my temple as she slipped past me, leaving Evelyn and me alone together.
“Is she acting weirder than usual lately?” Evelyn asked, and it took everything in my power not to reply, Pretty rich, coming from you, captain of the weird.
“She said she’s not feeling great. That things seem strange.”
“The tear…”
“I think so.”
“Well maybe tomorrow night we’ll figure everything out,” Evie said after a moment.
“Yup.”
She leaned her head against the doorway and closed her eyes. I watched her chest rise and fall with her breathing.
“I hope we do,” she said.
Then, forgetting whatever it was she had come into the kitchen for, she turned around and left.
Maybe was prompt, ringing the doorbell at eleven the next night, dressed in all black, with a long wool coat, a hood pulled down low over her face.
“It’s me,” she said when I opened the door. “Your friendly neighborhood ghost whisperer.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost before?” I asked her in the entranceway, as she unlaced her floral something something boots and shrugged out of her coat.
“I’ve had unexplainable experiences,” she said.
I thought about Henry helping me with my seventh-grade history project, Henry patiently showing me how to fold a paper airplane, Henry making goofy faces when I’d woken up from a nightmare once, our parents hosting a dinner party downstairs, feeling all alone until he’d materialized at the end of my bed.
“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve had a couple unexplainable experiences, as well.”
“This is a cool house,” Maybe said. “Have you lived here your whole life?”
“My whole life,” I repeated. “My ancestors built it, actually. A long time ago.”