One
Time flies over us but leaves its shadow behind.
-Sign in The House of the Seven Gables,
Salem, MA
Again with the knocking.
A persistent pounding forced me out of a fitful slumber. I tried to pry open my lids, but my bed was far too comfy. Or I was sleeping on air.
I couldn’t seem to separate my lashes, as though they were superglued together. I swore the last time my BFF did that to me, she would rue the day. Clearly, Annette didn’t rue it enough.
After an eternity of struggles, I finally managed to create a narrow slit in one eye. I looked around despite the lack of depth perception only to find I really was sleeping on air. Hovering, actually, about a foot off a beautiful ebony four-poster bed. A soft white gown floated around me along with a silky mass of long black hair. Thankfully, it was mine.
Either Earth’s gravity had called it quits and moved to Mars or I’d met my maker via a watery grave. I drew in a breath, testing my surroundings. Definitely not in water. Then it hit me. No wonder I couldn’t open my eyes. I was still asleep.
Asleep or not, however, the knocking continued. Seemed even in my dream world, I’d have to answer the door if I wanted any peace. I gritted my teeth and fought with the other lid, rehearsing in my head the firm talking to I was going to give the transgressor. I might even throw in a stern glare for good measure.
After managing to coax it open, I had to figure out how to get down. I was working through that conundrum when I noticed the vines. They cloaked the entire room, as black as velvet at night with roses to match. Only a slight blush of crimson colored the base of each blossom, the edges so dark they looked burned.
Best. Dream. Ever.
Much better than the dreams I’d been having. The dark ones that slithered through me and left me coldly unsettled. I shuddered, glad to shove those puppies into the recycle bin so I could get back to enjoying the nice, floaty one.
And . . . cue the knock again.
For the love of the Sanderson Sisters. I could either wait for my prince—and who knew how long that would take—or I could answer the dang door and get back to sleep. Still, if I was dreaming, wasn’t I already asleep? I must’ve been exhausted to crave sleep while asleep. This was like a fairy tale gone horridly wrong.
I floated—like, literally—down to the bed, my landing pillow soft. As far as dreams went, this one rocked. When I swung my legs over the side and stood, the vines there parted for my bare feet. A good thing since they boasted thorns the size of my palm, as though Mother Nature had decorated the room with her own version of razor wire.
The moment I flattened my feet onto the wood floor, a soft vibration hummed through me. I took a few seconds to gain my bearings, then stepped forward, trusting the dream not to shred my feet.
Sure enough, the vines parted with every step I took. I scanned the room again. The vines had crawled up the walls and over the ceiling, but I could still tell I was in my grandmother’s bedroom. The grandmother, who preferred to be called Gigi, I’d very recently inherited.
The vibration must’ve been Percival, the house for all intents and purposes, that came with the grandmother who preferred to be called Gigi. Only now that I knew what she’d done, now that I knew her deep dark secret, I didn’t know if I could call her that anymore.
I opened the bedroom door, amazed as the vines parted with the billowing grace of a fine mist, soundless and fluid. When I looked out onto the mezzanine, I realized they’d covered the entire house.
Every floor.
Every wall.
Every stair.
I placed my hand on the banister and started down one set of those stairs. The matching set of stairs rose along the wall on the other side of the immense foyer. Together, they led up to the mezzanine lined with rooms and down to a marble-floored entryway.
Again, the vines did its red sea thing as I slid my hand down the polished dark wood, each strand curling into itself and moving aside. One would think black on black—the black foliage covering the black walls of the mansion—would’ve made the house lifeless and bleak.
One would be wrong.
Natural light streamed in from the huge plate glass window in the parlor and the bay windows on either side of the front door, reflecting the deep touch of red on each rose. The effect was nothing short of magical.
Then again, the house was named after the witch who haunted it, my grandfather, Percival Goode. It was a very magical place.
I made it to the door just as the interloper intruding into my lush dream knocked for the umpteenth time. As I turned the knob and pulled, the vines withdrew from the door. I cracked open the heavy wooden portal. Light spilled in.
A man stood on the other side of the threshold aiming a broom at me. Surprise registered on his face to a comical degree as he watched the vines retreat to the border of the doorframe. Stumbling back, he held the broom like an assault rifle.
“Mr. Shoemaker?” I remembered him, just barely, from when I’d arrived in the infamous town of Salem, Massachusetts, only a few days ago.
My fair-haired neighbor lived down the street and was part of several beautification committees with more letters in their acronyms than should be legal. Committees that wanted Percy torn down. Or, at the very least, vastly renovated.
“Ms. . . . Ms. Dayne?” Mr. Shoemaker seemed shocked that I’d answered my own door.
Had he been expecting a butler? ’Cause we didn’t have one of those. And though I hadn’t been in town long, I’d made it clear the last time he’d knocked on my door that I wasn’t going anywhere. “Call me Defiance.”
He straightened his shoulders, repositioned the broom at his side like an infantryman standing at attention with his rifle, and thrust out an envelope.
I deflated. This again? For realzies?
“Defiance.” He had to clear his throat like my name got stuck in it. “This is a petition for you to vacate the premises immediately.”
On second thought . . . “Call me Ms. Dayne.” I took the envelope but didn’t bother opening it.
I’d always had a sixth sense about people, and I didn’t feel hatred from Mr. Shoemaker. I didn’t feel dislike from him either. I felt concern? And definitely fear. The vines were a lot to take in. But at the moment, I liked them. And I finally understood the broom. He’d been using it to get past the razor-tipped foliage so he could knock on the front door. Dreams were cray-cray.
He pushed up his square-framed glasses with an index finger. “Please, Ms. Dayne, go back to Arizona.”
“How did you know I was from Arizona?” I’d only been here a few days, and it wasn’t like we’d had tea and biscuits.
“What?” he asked, stumped. “I just . . . that’s not the point.”
“It may not be the point, but it’s definitely a point.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” He glanced around, his gaze landing on my vintage mint green Volkswagen Beetle.
My pride and joy. I looked at it like a loving parent.
“Your license plate.” A proud grin widened across Mr. Shoemaker’s boyish face. “Yes. That’s how. Arizona tags.”
“Ah.”
He pointed to the papers in my hands. “This is your final warning, Ms. Dayne. Leave, or else.”
“Okay then.” I saluted with the envelope. “Thanks for the heads up. No one wants else. It’s so vague and open-ended.”