Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
THE HOUSE BETTER NOT BE HAUNTED
The door creaks open with the long, tired sound of old wood stretching after too many quiet years. A slow, deliberate groan that seems to acknowledge my presence while simultaneously questioning whether I truly belong here.
I step inside, one squelchy step at a time, my boots making soft protests against the uneven foyer tiles.
The air is still but not foul, just closed up in that way houses get when they’ve been unoccupied for a long period of time.
It carries the weight of silence, thick and expectant, like the moment before someone speaks after a long pause.
The scent that greets me is layered and complex.
Aged wood with its deep, earthy richness, and beneath that, nag champa that lingers stubbornly in the background like a memory refusing to fade.
The incense smell is familiar in a way that reaches past my conscious mind and settles somewhere deeper.
It triggers an urge to pick up my phone and call my mother.
It seems she carried a piece of home with her when she left Ruby Springs all those years ago, and somehow managed to weave that same essence into our little home in New York.
The foyer is grand, even under its layers of neglect.
A sweeping staircase curves upward with quiet dignity, its banister carved with intricate flourishes and worn smooth by generations of Thorne hands.
The wood is dull beneath years of dust, but the quality is obvious.
The kind of craftsmanship that doesn’t exist anymore, where someone took the time to carve delicate leaves and vines into every spindle.
Every piece of furniture is draped carefully in white sheets, sofas and side tables and even the framed photographs along the walls veiled beneath soft coverings as though someone prepped the house for a long sleep and expected to return shortly.
The sheets are arranged with deliberate care, corners tucked and edges smoothed, creating ghostly silhouettes that somehow manage to be more comforting than eerie.
“Well,” I murmur, easing the door shut behind me with a soft click.
My voice echoes deeper into the house than I expect, rolling through the hallway and up the staircase in a low, resonant hum that makes me pause mid-step. It’s as if the house is testing the sound of my voice, learning the timbre and weight of it.
“That’s not ominous at all,” I add quickly, because if I don’t narrate my own bravery, who will? My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is something.
The house answers with a soft settling creak from somewhere above. A sharp but non-threatening sound that seems almost conversational, as if in response to my words. Yep, definitely not ominous, just old, like my knees and hips in the morning when I first roll out of bed.
“Same,” I tell it, patting the nearest wall like I’m consoling a friend. “It seems we are both aging with dignity and making commentary about it.”
I scan the foyer walls for what I’m really after.
The realization hits me that my phone is still clutched in my hand like a lifeline and is in desperate need of life-affirming electricity.
I locate the nearest light switch, an old brass plate that looks like it’s been here since electricity was first run to the house, and flip it upward, bracing myself for flickers, sparks, or tragic symbolism about the state of my inheritance.
Light spills across the foyer in a warm, steady glow, and relief rushes through me so fast I actually laugh out loud. “Yes. We love modern utilities. Thank God for competent electrical work. Okay, this is a strong start.”
I plug my phone into the nearest outlet immediately, watching the charging symbol appear like it’s a personal blessing from the universe.
Survival priorities in full effect: shelter, power, hydration, and emotional stability.
Two out of four ain’t bad, Ki-Ki. I’m basically crushing this whole ‘inheriting a mysterious house’ thing.
With a huff of determination, I turn and step back outside to retrieve my luggage from where it sits accusingly on the front porch.
I’m genuinely grateful for my three saviors from earlier.
Well, Wolfie did most of the heavy lifting with those ridiculous muscles of his, but it was definitely a team effort.
The man made carrying my overpacked bags look effortless, which was both helpful and slightly irritating to my independent sensibilities.
Ha, Wolfie. I wonder if Maceo will take offense to me calling him that, or if he’ll get that little grin that crinkles the corners of those green eyes. Okay, so I noticed.
Dragging the first suitcase across the threshold takes more effort than I’d like to admit, especially after watching Maceo handle it like it was filled with feathers instead of every pair of shoes I own.
The wheels protest against the uneven tile with sharp little clicks and scrapes, and my duffel bag slides off my shoulder halfway through, landing with a dramatic thud that echoes through the foyer like an accusation.
“Oh, this is going to be a journey,” I mutter, hauling the second suitcase in with considerably less elegance and significantly more grunting.
By the time I’ve wrestled every last bag into the foyer.
Three large suitcases, one medium one, a duffel bag, and my laptop case.
I am legitimately winded, mildly resentful of my own packing choices, and acutely aware that I own entirely too many pairs of shoes for someone who claims to be practical.
My mother’s voice echoes in my mind, Keisha, baby, you can’t take your whole closet everywhere you go.
Turns out, Mama, I absolutely can and I will.
I line the suitcases up deliberately against the wall, arranging them with the kind of precision that comes from years of living in small spaces where everything has its place.
All six pieces of luggage sit there in a neat row, looking at me accusingly like they know they don’t belong in this exact location and are judging my life choices.
“Don’t pass judgment,” I inform them firmly, gesturing toward the looming staircase like it personally offended me.
“I am not carrying you upstairs. Well, not tonight at least. Preferably not in this lifetime unless someone invents anti-gravity or I suddenly develop superhuman strength. You will live here in this foyer until I emotionally prepare myself for that particular form of torture.”
The staircase looms in silent judgment, and for a brief moment I consider the logistics. Fifteen steps, probably, maybe twenty if you count the curve at the top. Six bags. My back, which already protests when I sleep wrong. The math isn’t in my favor, and I make peace with my decision immediately.
Satisfied that the boundary has been established and my luggage understands its temporary exile, I turn my attention back to the house itself.
It isn’t empty like I assumed it would be, but then again, if Aunt Lenora decided to leave everything untouched, all of this makes perfect sense.
The furniture is exactly where it belongs, or where I assume my grandmother left it two years ago, simply covered in anticipation of a return that never came.
Beneath the sheets are the faint outlines of table lamps with what look like Tiffany-style shades, picture frames in various sizes, small decorative pieces that were left in place instead of packed away into storage.
Even the grandfather clock in the hallway stands tall and patient, its mahogany case unmistakable despite the covering, its face hidden but somehow still dignified.
It feels less like abandonment and more like a deliberate pause, as if someone pressed a gentle hold button on life itself.
Was this my grandmother’s intention? Did she request that my aunt close the curtains, cover everything carefully, with the assumption that I’d be here to resume things shortly?
The thought makes me sad and angry at the same time, because my aunt did not honor her wishes.
The floorboards groan softly beneath my feet as I move into the sitting room, each step announcing my presence to the sleeping house.
I lift a corner of one sheet with careful fingers and peer beneath it, revealing burgundy velvet upholstery that is worn with age but clearly well-maintained, dark wood that only needs polish to revive it.
“This is elbow grease work,” I say thoughtfully, letting the sheet fall back into place. “Not demolition. Not a complete overhaul.”
The sight is genuinely comforting. The thought of having to tear anything down, of gutting rooms and erasing history, makes my chest tight with something that feels suspiciously like grief.
This is history, my history, my family’s story written in wood and fabric and careful arrangement.
What was once an easy notion of fixing and selling doesn’t sit right with me now that I’m here, breathing the same air my grandmother breathed.
The dining room holds a long mahogany table beneath its dust cloth, easily large enough to seat eight people, with chairs tucked neatly around it as though waiting for a dinner party that was delayed but not canceled.
I can picture it set for holidays, my mother as a little girl probably sitting in one of these very chairs, fidgeting through long Sunday dinners.
The kitchen, when I push through the swinging door, smells faintly of dried herbs and old spices.
Copper pots hang above a well-maintained stove, their surfaces dulled with age.
Mason jars line open shelves, their contents long since used up but the glass still catches the faint light filtering through the covered windows.
The house is not falling apart like I’d feared. Instead, it seems to simply be caught in stasis, waiting patiently for someone to wake it.