The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft (30 page)

I went out to the foyer, dark, though a light shone out from the top of the staircase, where my apartment door stood open. I took the stairs two at a time.

The door at the end of the hall—the door into my employer’s study—stood open also and I moved toward it as in a dream. Flossie was there, standing in the middle of the room, her arms at her sides, looking vaguely disappointed.

She turned to me as I came in behind her. I looked around, but there was no one else. My employer was gone.

Forgive me
, Flossie said, looking genuinely sorry.
I thought you’d been hiding something.

I left her in her apartment. She did not try to stop me, try to make me stay. She thought I was angry; I could see that. I wasn’t.

All I could think: Where had he gone?

On the landing I was met again by that oppressive cloud, as if it had been waiting for me. And I wondered if it had been there all along, that presence, what I had come to think of as the child, that it had never left at all. I felt it move with me up the stairs. It is amazing what we can allow ourselves to become used to, if necessary. It makes me think we must be able to withstand anything, if we only set our minds to it.

No, I do not mean that. I do not mean anything.

2

We went out together, heavily, late the next afternoon, Flossie and I. I could not be angry with her, was not. She did not want to be alone. Neither did I. I had spent the night awake, wondering. Twice, I had begun wording a telegram to Jane, warning her not to come, and twice I had thrown it away. There was something inevitable in her arrival, as there was something inevitable in my employer’s absence. I could not make sense of it, and yet there was something fitting. Something right.

And then, if I were to rein my imagination in, it was not impossible he was simply feeling better, had gone out. Not impossible at all.

I caught Flossie looking at me sadly. She noticed and slipped an arm through mine as we walked. I was at once defensive against the gesture and grateful. It is ever thus in matters of intimacy.

We stopped in a little café on Prospect, where Flossie puzzled over the menu a long while, then picked at an egg salad, claiming she wasn’t all that hungry after all. I looked out the café window. It was the magic hour, when shadows began to lengthen and the light took on a gilded, antique quality. The edges of buildings, trees, pedestrians sharpened, colors saturated, as if the ordinary and real had intensified into the extraordinary through a simple angle of light.

We stepped out into it, back on the street, where, coming toward us from the direction of Sixty-Six, was the man Baxter. He had his boy with him, James.

Good evening
, I said.

The man looked up. He seemed surprised to see us there.

Evening
, he agreed.

Good evening, James
, I said.

The boy looked pleased that I’d remembered him. He wore no scarf but shouldered the heavy old overcoat nevertheless, unbuttoned a little at the neck. An odd look crossed the man Baxter’s face and I recalled our last meeting. What the boy had said.

Bit of a hurry,
Baxter said.
Good evening to you.

And he propelled the boy along down the street. But the child looked back at me over his shoulder, with that pale, disconcerting gaze.

Well, that was rude
, Flossie said.

He isn’t the friendliest sort
.

Still, a little common courtesy.

Country people
, I said, by way of explanation.

I am country people
, Flossie said, rather heatedly,
and I can tell you we aren’t like that.

Hard times, then. It tends to take the shine out of people.

I suppose. Still.

You pretty women are all the same
, I said.
You don’t like to be ignored
.
You needn’t take it so personally.

You think I’m pretty?

You know you are.

Is that so wrong? To know you’re pretty?

But I was no longer listening. We had stopped in the shadow of the Van Wickle Gates, closed and locked, and I pulled away from Flossie and stepped up to the gleaming brass plate there, astonished at my reflection, warped and gilded. I would not have known myself. I was aware, of course, that I’d lost a good deal of weight, but I had not imagined my face so drawn and gaunt. My beard had grown in and there was a strained look about the mouth I did not recognize. I rubbed a sleeve against the brass to sharpen my reflection, but it merely wavered there, liquid, shimmering.

Well, Arthor?
Flossie said softly, coming up behind me. She laid a hand on my shoulder.
Where are we going?

The elms in the evening light had taken on a fuzzy, ghostly look.

Angell Street
, I said abruptly. I said it without thinking. I did not turn around, and only after I had said it did I realize that was exactly where I did not want to go, and where I had been meaning to go all along.

We walked the long, wearying length of Angell Street as if in a dream, without speaking, without touching, the narrow street leading us farther out, until the city began to creep into farmland. I clenched the chunk of gravestone in my overcoat pocket, turning and turning it in my hand. At last we came in sight of the house. I knew it at once, without having to check the address. It could have been none other, looming up over the street, mythical and grand. Something in me lurched painfully and turned over.

Goodness
, Flossie breathed.

It was a gray, impassive clapboard, set just back from the street on a high green terrace, handsomely shuttered, three stories, with dormers and cupolas just beginning to sag with the weight of its history. I did not like the look of it, though I could not say why. Something about it was unsettling, though it was not extraordinary in any other way. The gabled front veranda was flanked by witch hazel, bare and spidering upward, where a handful of last autumn’s leaves still clung, withered and rattling drily. From the low rise where we stood, I could see, behind the house, a sprawling carriage house or horse barn, and sheds and a garden, a marble fountain dead at the yard’s heart. There was a lonely quality to the place, surrounded by willows and lawns and, away off to the edge, thick woods darkened already by the coming evening. It seemed the sort of place stumbled upon in a dream; there was a stillness about it, as if long abandoned. It occurred to me, then, I could hear no birds. Angell Street itself was silent. No automobile passed. Dogs did not bark.

It’s so quiet
, Flossie said.

I turned back to the house. The windows were all dark, as if they held already the coming night. The curtains were pulled open to the evening, and I thought I saw, just for an instant, someone stir there at an upper window.

Flossie said,
There’s something kind of … lost about it, isn’t there
. Her voice sounded strange, too, in the empty street, as if she were speaking from far away.

I imagine these lots used to be much bigger. You can see those newer houses now between the old mansions. I bet they were all parceled off some time ago.

A breeze stirred in the witch hazel; a rasping sound, as of a voice long out of use.

Finally Flossie said,
Aren’t we going inside?

Just then, we heard the slow creak of a screen door opening, and a teenage boy in a neat collared shirt stepped out onto the verandah. He paused there, back under the eaves, watching us.

Wait here
, I said. And before Flossie could object, I approached the wrought iron gate and laid my hands upon the cold metal. It creaked under my hands and I steadied it.

We’ve got no work
, the boy called.

Forgive me
, I called back, and looked down the empty street.
I wonder if I might have a word?

The boy looked uncomfortable. He came forward a bit, out of the shadows.

I take it you live here
, I said,
that your family does
.

The boy looked back at the house over his shoulder, then came reluctantly down off the verandah. He hesitated on the cracked sidewalk, as if he would go back.

I’m awfully sorry to trouble you. It’s a matter of some importance.

He came forward, down the walk, and met me at the gate. His Adam’s apple bobbed above his shirt collar.

Honestly, I wish you folks wouldn’t keep coming around here. My father’s about fed up, I don’t mind telling you, and it makes Mother awfully nervous.

I’m not begging for work
, I said.
I’m here—

Oh, I know what you’re here for, then. Same as all the rest. It’s only ever one of two reasons. Like I said, my folks are about fed up with all of you.

There’ve been others?

Gosh, all the time.

But what do they want?

Same as you, I guess. One gal even took pictures.

Of what?

Why, the house, I suppose. I don’t understand it. I’ve never even heard of the fellow.

The fellow?

The one who used to live here, or his mother did, or his family, or I don’t even know. Some writer. I don’t go in for any of that stuff.

What stuff ?

He shrugged.
Ghost stories, or whatever. My sister’s crazy for it. She gets this magazine, with these terrible stories. She’s read some of them to me. I don’t much care for them myself. Covers are all right. But if Mother catches her with them, I tell you
.

He stopped, then, straightened and lifted his chin.

Anyhow, you’re lucky they aren’t home right now, my folks, or you’d get an earful. I’m supposed to tell you to move on and not come around here anymore. You’d best do it.

Forgive me
, I said.
But you misunderstand. I’m not a fan.

No?

In fact, I’m a relative. A distant relation.

The boy stuck his hands in his pockets.

And I’m sorry to trouble you, but my aunt is quite ill. She grew up here, you know, and she was hoping I’d come have a look around for her, give her word of the old place.

Your aunt?

That’s right.

What’s her name?

Phillips. Annie Phillips.

The boy shrugged.

She’s very unwell. Dying, actually. I’d like to bring her some word.

You can’t come in the house,
the boy said, frowning.

No, no, of course not.

I’d get a hiding, sure enough.

No doubt
, I agreed,
no doubt. But I wonder, would you mind if I just have a quick walk about the place?

The boy looked doubtful.
I don’t think you ought, I’m just on my way out.

My aunt would be ever so grateful
, I said.
I don’t know how long she has and, well, she may never have the chance to come back and see the place.

The boy bit his lip.
I don’t think so. My folks are up in Philadelphia.

I wouldn’t dream of asking to come inside the house. Just wanted a stroll about the grounds.

I don’t know.

You say you’re alone here?

The boy looked at me sharply, suspiciously.
I didn’t say that.

Your folks are in Philadelphia, you mentioned. I’m from near Philadelphia myself.

If you say so.

I shook my head sadly.
Well,
I said,
thanks. I’ll, well, I’ll tell my aunt the old place is still here, anyway. I guess that’ll have to be enough.

The boy chewed his lip. Then, in a quick movement, he unlatched the gate and, for a moment, I thought he’d changed his mind. But then he just stepped through and latched it behind him.