Chapter 14
I awake to the sun streaming through the bedroom window, warming my cheeks.
I can hear the soft cooing of a mourning dove.
The sound reminds me of my grandmother. A mourning dove lived in a tree behind my grandmother’s small house.
When I stayed with her as a child, I’d hear that familiar cooing every morning in the summer.
It makes me think of the smell of fresh-cut grass, of the old lace curtains in the bedroom I’d sleep in that would flutter in the morning breeze, and of the sounds of my grandmother puttering around in the kitchen below.
I open my eyes slowly. In the warmth of the sun and the precious memories of my grandmother in her younger years, the nightmare from last night immediately loses its power, recoiling back to the shadows like a rat.
I stand and slowly walk around the perimeter of the room.
The mural is primarily trees, of varying size and type.
Deciduous trees with thin, lanky trunks that look like they could topple over.
There are evergreens, standing together, huddled in clusters.
In some places, I realize for the first time, the painter had added other details.
On a tree by the window, a raccoon peers out from a hole.
Birds take flight among the trees, wings spread in looping V’s.
On the wall opposite the bed, where the wardrobe is, a deer is grazing, and another small flock of black birds appear to dart behind the furniture.
It all has the potential to be beautiful and relaxing.
If the colors were more vibrant, perhaps.
But everything, whether from age or intent, seems to be covered in a wash of muddy gray.
And the animals look sinister, claws visible, eyes blank.
But still, maybe I’m being overly dramatic, thinking we need to paint over it already. I can get used to it.
It was a stress dream, I tell myself, no different from the dreams I still have about discovering it’s the last day of school and realizing I never turned in a single assignment, or the disturbing and recurring dream I have that all my teeth have fallen out.
I hear a creak in the doorway. Topher is standing there, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Thank you,” I say, walking over to him. I take a sip, savoring the nutty, slightly bitter taste, the comfort of the ritual.
“How was the rest of your sleep?”
“Fine,” I say, which I think is true. At least I have no memory of dreams from the latter part of the night.
“Today I’m going to try fiddling around with the old lawn mower your uncle had in the barn out back. See if I can get it running.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. Since moving he’s been throwing himself into projects in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “Look at you, old man Topher.”
“Getting it in while I can,” he says. “Work starts Saturday and it’s going to be grueling. Let’s hope it’s short-lived.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair.
I’m not looking forward to it either. I’m not scared, I just don’t love the thought of nights spent alone, days essentially alone while he sleeps. I’ll probably start talking to myself.
Downstairs, I make myself a piece of toast with raspberry jam for breakfast and eat it standing up, looking out the kitchen window and out over the meadow.
Hugo whines at my side, hoping for scraps.
At least I’ll have him with me. I give him a piece of crust. It’s another beautiful day. We should go outside.
As I walk through the parlor toward the mudroom to get my shoes, I catch my toe on something hard and sharp. A hot, throbbing pain shoots through my foot. I curse under my breath, knowing what it is.
Sinking down on the floor, I lean over to inspect my foot.
My big toe looks a little red but it’s not bleeding.
Hugo gives me a look that is a combination of concern and impatience.
I sweep my hand carefully across the floorboards until I find that, indeed, one of the old nails is rising up, just as Mr. Warnick had warned.
“You bastard,” I say to the nail and push myself up.
I put on some shoes and go down into the basement.
The basement is, unsurprisingly, my least favorite place in this house.
It has a dirt floor and old stone walls that give off a dank, musty smell.
The ceiling is a mess of ancient-looking wiring and ductwork.
There are support beams that I suppose have been holding up this house for two hundred years, and while to some that might be a sign of strong craftsmanship, to me feels like tempting fate.
Hugo doesn’t even come down here, but he stands guard at the top of the steps.
I walk quickly over to the tool counter to the right of the landing and rummage around for a hammer, trying to avert my eyes from the shadowy corners off the basement, where I’m suddenly afraid I’ll see something horrifying.
Damn you, Madeline. I find a large, metal hammer and scurry back up the steps.
I hammer down the nail and then place the tool on a shelf in the mudroom, so I don’t have to go to the basement every time I need it. After all, you never know when you’ll need a hammer in an old house like this.