Manhattan—the center of my known universe—for a job in a second-tier college in a podunk town where I knew no one. I’d bought a hundred-year-old house which, despite its sterling inspection report, was likely to require maintenance that I, a lifetime apartment dweller, couldn’t even begin to imagine. Although I’d planned to keep the Inwood apartment I’d sublet it at the last minute when my TA admitted she didn’t have anywhere to live, so now if I decided to go back to the city I’d have no place to stay. Worst of all, I’d put stress on an eight-year relationship with a decent man whom I believed I was in love with. And all because of a dream that reminded me of the fairytale prince of my teenaged dreams.
I should turn around right now, get in my car, drive back to New York City, tell Dory Browne to put the house on the market, and take adjunct teaching jobs until I could reapply for next year at a college within commuting distance of Manhattan. Yes, that’s what I should do, only …
Something clicked. Something metal.
I looked down at my hand and saw that the key was now in the lock. How had that happened? I pulled the key out and held it half an inch in front of the lock. It quivered in the air. Was my hand shaking? Or … I touched the key to the keyhole, which I noticed now was surrounded by an iron plate shaped like a rooster. I felt a tug at my hand as the key leapt forward and slid smoothly into the lock.
Damn! I stared at it for a full minute until the idea clicked in my head with the same resolute sound the key had made when it slid into the lock. The lock must be magnetic. It seemed like pretty sophisticated technology for a nineteenth-century house, but then I remembered what Dory Browne had said about Silas LaMotte: he liked everything shipshape, he’d built this house to last, and, according to the inspector I’d hired, it was in pristine condition. “A little paint and some caulking and you’re good to go,” he’d told me, recommending his cousin Brock Olsen for the repairs. Dory had let Brock in last week and offered to oversee the work. I had nothing to worry about. It hadn’t been crazy to buy the house, but it would be crazy to walk away from it now.
I turned the key. The tumblers turned smoothly in the lock and the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, not at all like the creaking doors of Gothic romance. Nor was I greeted with cobwebs and dank miasmas. The house smelled like fresh paint and varnish. A clean, practical smell that vanquished the ridiculous notion that I’d bought the house because of a dream.
It was, after all, a beautiful house. As I stood on the threshold a bit of moonlight struggled through the clouds and skidded across the newly varnished floors like a stone skipping across a pond. I stepped inside with the wind coming in on my heels, ruffling the lace curtains in the parlor and trembling the glass in the windows. The house creaked like a ship in a storm—maybe that’s how Silas LaMotte had built it. I even thought I could smell a whiff of sea air beneath the paint and varnish, but when I closed the door the house seemed to settle. The storm was clearing, letting in enough moonlight to make the new white paint glow like polished marble and casting a distorted reflection of the fanlight onto the foyer floor—the face of the pagan god elongated and distorted so that he seemed to be smirking.
I shivered at the thought … but also because I was damp and tired from the long drive. I needed a hot bath (assuming the hot water heater worked without electrity) and bed (assuming the bed I’d ordered had come and been set up). The movers were coming early in the morning. Once I’d had a good night’s sleep and filled the house with my books and furniture it wouldn’t feel so strange … or echo so hollowly.
I climbed the stairs, my footsteps sounding loud as firecrackers in the empty house. I recalled what I’d said to Dory Browne about not
I should turn around right now, get in my car, drive back to New York City, tell Dory Browne to put the house on the market, and take adjunct teaching jobs until I could reapply for next year at a college within commuting distance of Manhattan. Yes, that’s what I should do, only …
Something clicked. Something metal.
I looked down at my hand and saw that the key was now in the lock. How had that happened? I pulled the key out and held it half an inch in front of the lock. It quivered in the air. Was my hand shaking? Or … I touched the key to the keyhole, which I noticed now was surrounded by an iron plate shaped like a rooster. I felt a tug at my hand as the key leapt forward and slid smoothly into the lock.
Damn! I stared at it for a full minute until the idea clicked in my head with the same resolute sound the key had made when it slid into the lock. The lock must be magnetic. It seemed like pretty sophisticated technology for a nineteenth-century house, but then I remembered what Dory Browne had said about Silas LaMotte: he liked everything shipshape, he’d built this house to last, and, according to the inspector I’d hired, it was in pristine condition. “A little paint and some caulking and you’re good to go,” he’d told me, recommending his cousin Brock Olsen for the repairs. Dory had let Brock in last week and offered to oversee the work. I had nothing to worry about. It hadn’t been crazy to buy the house, but it would be crazy to walk away from it now.
I turned the key. The tumblers turned smoothly in the lock and the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, not at all like the creaking doors of Gothic romance. Nor was I greeted with cobwebs and dank miasmas. The house smelled like fresh paint and varnish. A clean, practical smell that vanquished the ridiculous notion that I’d bought the house because of a dream.
It was, after all, a beautiful house. As I stood on the threshold a bit of moonlight struggled through the clouds and skidded across the newly varnished floors like a stone skipping across a pond. I stepped inside with the wind coming in on my heels, ruffling the lace curtains in the parlor and trembling the glass in the windows. The house creaked like a ship in a storm—maybe that’s how Silas LaMotte had built it. I even thought I could smell a whiff of sea air beneath the paint and varnish, but when I closed the door the house seemed to settle. The storm was clearing, letting in enough moonlight to make the new white paint glow like polished marble and casting a distorted reflection of the fanlight onto the foyer floor—the face of the pagan god elongated and distorted so that he seemed to be smirking.
I shivered at the thought … but also because I was damp and tired from the long drive. I needed a hot bath (assuming the hot water heater worked without electrity) and bed (assuming the bed I’d ordered had come and been set up). The movers were coming early in the morning. Once I’d had a good night’s sleep and filled the house with my books and furniture it wouldn’t feel so strange … or echo so hollowly.
I climbed the stairs, my footsteps sounding loud as firecrackers in the empty house. I recalled what I’d said to Dory Browne about not
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