The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft (31 page)

I’m awfully sorry
, he said.
Maybe you could come back next week, when my folks are home.

But—

I’ve got to go.

One thing more,
I said, and the boy turned.
There wasn’t an older man here today? Sickly, gaunt?

The boy just frowned at me. It occurred to me, then, that Flossie might hold more sway with him.

Might I just introduce my friend
, and I turned to indicate Flossie waiting on the street behind me.

The boy looked over my shoulder at the empty street.

What friend?
he said.

I found Flossie on the other side of a glossy hedge, seated on a low rock wall covered in moss. The shadows fell all around her. She’d slipped off her shoes and was massaging her stockinged feet.

What on earth
, I said.

Well, you left me standing there so long
, she accused.

It was not five minutes.

Well, I’m very tired
, she said petulantly.
And these shoes are brand new and pinch my feet something terrible.

Well, why did you wear them?

She shot me an irritated glance.
Honestly, Arthor, do you know nothing?

I gave her my hand.
Come on, then
.

She slipped back into her shoes, making terrible grimaces.
Are we going back now?

Not yet
, I said. I peered out into the street to make sure the boy had gone. Then I opened the wrought iron gate with a slow, rusted creak that seemed to float out into the silent street.

Arthor P. Crandle
, Flossie said in mock surprise.
Breaking the rules?

I sighed.

How fun
, she said.

I held the gate open for her, then latched it again behind us.

The sun was setting just beyond the woods which lay in a long line blackly at the edge of the lawn. I recalled my employer’s story, his grandfather’s story, the grave there. The shadow of the house was long and dark and we stepped into it. Flossie shivered and rubbed her arms as we passed in front of the verandah.

It is something
, she said.
Imagine living in a house like that. It makes me just want to put on a long gown, you know, with a scandalously low back, like Ginger Rogers, and stand on the verandah sipping a pink gin. Oh, look, a fountain. Honestly, Arthor, won’t you slow down?

She had stopped beside the stone fountain just off the verandah. It was cracked and covered in bird droppings, its basin filled with black leaves. I thought I saw something scurry there.

Flossie laid a hand on the cold stone.

What a shame
, she said.
Imagine this in its day. Has your aunt ever spoken about it? I bet it was something. That’s where I would have been as a girl, anyway, sitting in the sun here on a summer’s day, imagining all the possibilities.

Which is exactly
, I said,
what you should do.

What?

Sit here and rest. Look, here’s a lovely spot.

But it’s dirty
, she said.
And cold.

I stripped off my overcoat and draped it over the fountain’s edge.

There you are
, I said.
It’s a shabby old thing anyway. Rest your feet and daydream all you like, and I won’t be a moment.

Where are you going?

Just to poke around a bit, out back.

What for?

I shrugged.
Just curious.

She bit her lip.

What is it?
I said, growing impatient.

Is it true what you said?

What did I say?

About your aunt? That she is dying?

I laughed irritably.
Of course not.

She looked at me reproachfully.

What else was I to do, for heaven’s sake?

She lifted her shoulders.

Listen
, I said,
just wait here a minute. I won’t be long.

I began to cross the lawn. The shadows had spread out fully across the ground, almost touching.

It’ll be dark soon,
she called after me.

I’m quite aware,
I called back without turning.

Arthor?
she called.

I stopped, exasperated, and half turned. The lawn was vast between us. She looked small, pale there in the shadow of the big house.

What time does the streetcar stop running? I don’t want to walk all that way back.

I’ll be just a moment.
I turned away from her.

It’s an awfully long way. Arthor?

But I was hardly listening. My blood had turned cold. That presence, that feeling from Sixty-Six, was there with me. My skin crawled. I lifted my eyes toward the dark line of woods beyond the horse barn. A glimpse of something, maybe, there between the branches, a quick shifting, and then it was gone.

I came around the side of the carriage house in dread, past rusting rakes and shovels and burlap sacking and old buckets, toward the woods. I almost expected to see the child there, waiting.

But there was only the overgrown grass and the darkening woods beyond, the black tangle of branches. I could feel the cold damp air spreading out toward me, could smell the marshy, black rot stench of it. The sun was down now, the sky tinged barely pink above the black trees knifing upward. The grasses hushed and parted before me as I passed through. The marshy earth, sucking beneath my feet, seeped up water like cold steeped tea into my shoes.

Another quick movement: it could have been the black wings of a crow, so faint was the stirring in the gathered darkness there, or a conjuring of my own imagination. But I knew it was the child, leading me. I ran, stumbling through the tangled grasses.

And then it happened. I recalled the feel of those small hands on my back, and all at once, again, I was falling. I hit the earth, the wind knocked out of me, the sky gilded pink above and already fading, too beautiful to last.

There it was.

Not two feet from my upturned hand. Overgrown with moss, long grasses, brambles. I would not have found it had it not, yes, found me. Had the child not led me. I pulled myself to my knees. I could feel the pulse in my head, throbbing. There was a gash in my ankle, the blood welling up sticky and bright, and I pressed a muddy palm against it as I clawed the weeds away. I rubbed the top of the stone with my shirt sleeve. The moss was slippery, wet, and came away easily, like a skin on milk.
Sarah Susan Phillips
. Etched rudely into the stone.

There, where I knew it would be, was the chip in the corner. I pulled the chunk of stone from my pocket. It fit. Exactly where it was supposed to. I almost wept.

Arthor?

I turned to see Flossie standing a few feet away at the edge of the grass. She held my overcoat before her, as if to hand it to me or fend me off. She had an odd look on her face.

What are you doing?
she said.

Go back
, I said, waving at her, lightly I hoped.
Go back; I won’t be a moment.

You’ve blood on your sleeve.

Blood?

She glanced behind her at the great house there on the rise, looking, darkened, down upon us.

Arthor
, she said, hugging herself,
you’re scaring me.

Don’t be silly. I’ve only cut myself on this stone.

I saw you go down.

That’s right. I’ve just scraped my ankle a little. It’s nothing. Go on. I’ll be right there.

But she did not budge. As I knew she would not.

I don’t want to go back there.

Don’t be silly.

I have a bad feeling.

Flossie—

I’m not stupid, Arthor, in spite of what you may think. I can see quite clearly you’re up to something, and if you don’t tell me right now what it is, I’m going back to the street and calling for that boy. I’m scared.

He’s not hom
e, I said. I may even have laughed.

You’re acting crazy
, she said.

I shook my head. The darkness fell all around us. It fell and fell.

Flossie
, I said.
Listen. All right? I’ll tell you. It’s probably nonsense, but there’s this, this family lore, you know, in his—my aunt’s family, about this silver mirror, or a pier glass, he said—

Pier glass? Who said?

Buried here on the property. It’s probably nothing. I thought myself it was nonsense. But I’ve only just now found the spot.

She stepped a few paces into the long grasses, then stopped.

Arthor
, she said,
it looks like … a grave. Sarah Susan Phillips?

It isn’t
, I said.
It isn’t. She isn’t buried here.

How do you know that?

Because she’s in Swan Point Cemetery, in the Phillips family plot, with the rest of them.

Them?

Us, I mean. The Phillipses. Lovecrafts.

Great god.

Flossie bit her lip, shivered.

She’s the one who buried it. She’s been dead fifteen years. But this
, I said, running a hand across the stone,
is much older. It looks to be some fifty years at least. Doesn’t it? Which would be right. That’s when she was supposed to have done it.

Flossie came closer, the long grasses shushing as she passed through. She knelt down beside me in the marshy earth.

Do you really think something’s buried here?

There’s a whole story about it. I can’t tell you now.
I leaned toward her.
Flossie, I know it seems crazy.

She frowned but was curious too, I could tell.

Finding a flat, sharp stone, I dug a little hollow beneath one corner.

If I can get my fingers under
, I said, digging my fingers into the soil,
and pry it up, and then if you can get your hands in, we’ll just turn it over. There
, I said, lifting the corner up.

It wasn’t as deep, or as heavy, as I’d thought. Flossie hoisted the stone over and we flipped it onto the grass. It broke into three pieces.

I ran my fingers over a black mulched hollow where the stone had been. It was latticed with the white roots of weeds, ghostly and beautiful in the dusklight.

It’s getting dark
, Flossie said.

I know.

All at once she was on her feet, her dress clinging muddily to her knees.

I know where there’s a spade
, she said. And she was off across the field toward the horse barn before I could stop her.