The bathrooms were autopsies. Pipes and wires and bones splayed out. The woman sucked in a breath at the sight of bubble bath songs and the patter of tiny naked feet torn out and thrown into the dumpster in the back. A filthy rubber duck had been found and set on a horizontal wood block in the wall cavity. Sewer gases seeped out through the rags stuffed in the waste stacks, hanging a sharp, acrid stench in the air. The smell of the dead. She waved the burning sage into each hollow until the sting had gone.
“It will be alright,” the woman whispered. “They will make you whole again.”
The long hallway split into two, one leading to the last three bedrooms on the right and the other leading to the suite over the garage. As she turned the corner, the door to the attic stood open. A welcome or a warning.
The woman stopped at the foot of the narrow staircase, transfixed. This is the place. The set of her face seemed certain. “Revertere ad somnum, te volui et non es huc,” she whispered.
She repeated the phrase as she climbed the stairs one at a time, waving the burning herbs before her now as more of a cloak than an offering. As her head emerged above the floorboards, her whispering grew softer.
The old woman felt a slight shift in the air as if the memory of a boy flitted past her on the steps. The bulb burning in the bathroom at the far end of the attic cast a yellow coffin onto the dusty floor. Behind the bathroom door, something moved.
Outside on the driveway, the aimless sports chatter of the men stopped abruptly as the light in the third floor window flickered, then went out. Two minutes later, the old witch staggered out the front door, her face blank as the sky.
“I have done all I can do,” she muttered to Max, not bothering to stop or look him in the eye.
Yanni the plumber trotted behind her until he caught her on the front walk. “Mi a baj?”
“Mulo!” She shook her head and fixed him with a hard stare. “Do not linger here.”
7
The Martin Family
March 1, 2009
“What are you doing in here?” Papa Martin stood in the doorway, gaping at the young girl standing sentry in the middle of the room. “Ava! Honey! What the heck is wrong with you? How many times have I told you to stay out of there?”
The room was dusty and freezing. Strange writing covered the walls.
DeAD GiRL!
HeLP! RuN!
It was one of four bedrooms that the Martins had never used in the oversize house. They kept the door shut and the radiators off to save on the heating bill.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I just . . . I find it interesting.” Even though she was only ten years old, it was clear Ava wasn’t quite like other little girls. There were no giggles or tea parties or dolls. The games that interested her were of a different sort. “Did you know Benny?”
“Who?” Clyde Martin hated the girl’s games. Always asking questions. Always prying. Always snooping. Always acting so strange. Her little brother, Toby, was so quiet and well behaved it was hard to believe they had the same parents. He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to stare at her.
“You know. Benny.” She motioned to the red and black crayon etched all over the room.
BAD BeNNy! BAD!
“Isn’t he the one that wrote all of that on the walls?”
“No. I do not know Benny. There probably is no Benny. This house sat vacant a few years back before we bought it. ‘Benny’ is probably just some silly kids trying to trick little girls like you.” He led her out into the hall and closed the door. He produced a skeleton key from his pocket and locked it. “Now stay out of there, okay? When are you gonna learn to mind your own business?”
“I’m sorry.” Ava shrank from him and the damning judgment in his voice. Papa didn’t approve of her games, and he sometimes looked at her as though she were possessed by some demon. As much as she wanted him to love her, she just couldn’t seem to help herself.
Even as his gigantic frame lumbered down the back stairwell to the kitchen, she eyed the locked door. She’d been practicing picking her own door lock for weeks using a small awl and screwdriver she’d managed to sneak out of a toolbox in the basement. Clyde was a contractor with so many tools and toolboxes that she hoped and prayed he wouldn’t notice.
Left alone in the hallway, Ava proceeded to play one of her favorite games. She crept to a different closed door and tried the handle. It was also locked, so she knelt down and squinted through the keyhole into the room on the other side. Pink walls. Butterflies. Flowered curtains muted the light glowing in the windows. Kneeling there, she imagined the girl who had once lived inside the pink room. A girl with yellow hair like hers and ribbons, she imagined. A girl still trapped inside.
“What’s your name?” she whispered into the keyhole. Then she pressed her ear to the door and listened for an answer.
For fifteen solid minutes, Ava sat and whispered to her new imaginary friend through the keyhole. Her name was Claudia, she’d decided, and Claudia had a terrible secret. “What did he do?” she hissed into the wood.
“What the heck are you doing now?” Papa Martin demanded from the top of the servants’ stairs. He was holding a bucket and a can of paint. He slapped both down onto the floorboard, exasperated. Why aren’t you normal? his expression seemed to ask. He often found her in the oddest places—standing in closets, crouching in cupboards, hiding in the cellar storage rooms.
“Nothing.” Ava stood back up and forced a sweet smile. “Just playing.”
“Mm-hmm,” he grunted. “Playtime’s over, Ava. I figure it is high time we get that room you like so well painted. Mama’s been bugging me to do it for years, and now I finally found a reason.”
He unlocked the door and set the bucket of supplies and the paint can down on the floor. In short order, he got a paint roller started and emptied half the can into a tray. “Here.” He motioned her inside and gave her a quick tutorial on using the roller. “I’ll do the edging. Now. You have to be careful, okay? You drip any paint on the floor, you’ll have to help me sand it out by hand. Got it?”
She held the paint roller in her hand, a bit uncertain, but nodded. Yes, sir. The color was a terrible shade of institutional blue left over from some job he’d done around town. She looked from the tray to the secret messages on the walls, trying not to cry. Poor Benny! He had wanted so badly to tell her something.
RuN! RuN!
For an hour, Clyde edged the windows, floorboards, and ceiling while Ava smeared ugly blue over the words. Roll by roll the DeAD GiRL began to vanish from sight. She worked slowly, determined to memorize every message before it was gone.
“Jesus, Ava, you’re slower than molasses in January!” Clyde dropped his paintbrush back into the bucket. “Focus, honey. We have to get this done before dinner. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, keeping her eyes on the paint and the words. BeNNy disappeared over and over with each swipe of her roller. Who were you, Benny? What happened to you?
“Good. I’ll be back in a little while.” Papa Martin left her with the paint fumes and the half-finished walls.
The moment he was out of sight, she set the paint roller down. She poked her head out into the hallway before taking another slow tour of the room. The fireplace held a half-burnt log and several sheets of blackened paper. She crouched down to pick one up, but it fell apart in her hand. Illegible.