House of Cry Read online

  I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. Dave was just the latest in a series of broken relationships. Like me, Cassie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—commit to anything permanent. Maybe she didn’t trust people to stay, so she broke things off before they could break her. We all wear our wounds differently. I should know. I was so well protected that even my walls had walls.

  “Are we destined to be alone?” I asked.

  She smiled. “We’re not alone. We always have each other, right?”

  “Always. I love you, Cass.”

  She reached out, then stopped, her hand hovering inches above my wrist. I saw the question in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. That’s not goodbye.”

  “I didn’t think …” She tried to deny it, but the truth was there in her eyes. She’d been searching for signs that I was following too closely in our mother’s footsteps. She knew my weakness, and that knowledge was a knife to her heart.

  “Yes. You did.”

  She let out a breath, short and clipped. I wondered how much of my sister’s life was spent watching me, searching for signs that I’d leave her, too.

  I ran a fingertip along the curved face of our mother’s headstone. “Do you ever wonder if we’ll end up the same way?”

  Cassie looked away. “No, never,” she said emphatically.

  The tone of her voice stopped me from admitting the truth. I did. All the time, convinced that my mother’s mental illness was twisted in the strands of my own DNA. I changed the subject rather than worry her more.

  “So, a house, huh? You know a birthday card would have been enough.”

  “I looked, but I couldn’t find one that said, Happy birthday, sorry your mother’s suicide spoiled it for you.”

  With Cassie it was always “your” mother rather than ours. She took my arm and turned us away from the grave without a second glance.

  “So, I know how much you enjoy being melancholy on your birthday, but this couldn’t wait. There’s another person interested in the house, and I promised to bring you by before making an offer. You’ll love it.” I still hadn’t wrapped my head around the idea of the two of us living together. Did that make us old maids now? Were there cats in my future?

  “And the best part,” she continued, “is that the mortgage would be less than each of us pays for rent. It’s a perfect solution.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a problem needing a solution.”

  “Well, I need a place to live and you …”

  “Need a chaperone?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I just thought it would be fun, you know?” She nudged my shoulder. “Come on. It’ll be a fresh start for both of us.”

  A fresh start. Why not? It made sense. I’d thought about buying a house before, but it always seemed too permanent somehow. Cassie wasn’t the only one with commitment issues.

  “So where’s this house?”

  “About fifteen minutes outside of town. I have my car.” Her voice bubbled with excitement. “You’ll come look at it?”

  I nodded, caught up in her enthusiasm. Hadn’t I just said that I felt as if my life were at a crossroads? Maybe this was the new beginning I’d been searching for.

  *

  So I went along with Cassie, because she was my first concern. Hadn’t it always been that way? Just the two of us against the world.

  Our father, distant to begin with, had become nearly invisible after our mother died. He worked long shifts, leaving the two of us to fend for ourselves during the day and most of the evening. Maybe he was dealing with his own grief—or guilt. Maybe he couldn’t bear to see his wife’s ghost peering out from his daughters’ faces. I never asked, and we never spoke her name again.

  But my baby sister had always had me. I’d brushed the knots from her hair in the morning, made sloppy peanut butter sandwiches for her lunch, and lulled her to sleep at night with stories of magical kingdoms and fairy queens. I’d walked her to school and wrapped my arms around her when she cried. I could still see the fear in her eyes when she’d begged me not to leave her “all alonely.”

  Remembering her pet phrase brought a smile to my face. How could I correct her when it seemed so appropriate?

  “Never, Cassieboo,” I’d promised. “I’ll never leave you all alonely.”

  It was a promise I’d managed to keep … so far.

  I cast a sideways glance at my sister. She had one hand on the wheel, while the other unconsciously twisted a curl of butter-blond hair around her index finger. It was an endearing habit left over from childhood that always made me smile. I felt unreasonably proud of the woman she’d become. I may not have given birth to Cassie, but I’d practically raised her single-handedly even though I was little more than a child myself.

  As if sensing my scrutiny, she glanced over. “You know, I hate your hair dyed black. You’re too old for the goth look.”

  “I’m not going for the goth look.” I glanced down at my black pants and black leather jacket. “Well, the tips are better if I blend in with the music crowd at the bar.”

  Cassie sniffed. “You call that music? It’s just a lot of loud noise and head banging if you ask me.”

  Maybe so, but the truth was it helped me forget. I could get lost in the noise and excitement and energy of the crowd.

  “So, about this house …”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Cassie said, her mouth turned down in that defensive pout I recognized so well.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, you’re thinking this is another harebrained scheme you’ll have to talk me out of.”

  “Not quite. But if the shoe fits …”

  “You wait and see. You’ll love this place.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll just buy it myself,” she said, her face set in a stubborn pout. “It’s about time I started doing grown-up things like buying a house and tending a garden and … stuff.”

  “Cassie, you realize that gardening will get your hands dirty.”

  “I’ll wear gloves,” she shot back, undeterred. “And I’ll take a course in home repair and make a budget. I can do it all if I have to.”

  “I have no doubt you can.”

  “But I’d rather do it with you.” She shot me a mischievous grin. “You don’t want me to be all alonely there, do you?”

  Her use of the childhood phrase startled me, especially coming right on the heels of that long-ago memory. I don’t think either one of us had thought of it in years. Coincidence? It didn’t feel like it, any more than it felt like a coincidence that she should drag me to inspect a house only moments after I had read my mother’s poem “House of Cry.”

  They say there’s no such thing as coincidence, and a part of me believed that. A strange sense of foreboding washed over me, intensifying as Cassie pulled onto a gravel road. I felt something powerful looming.

  Today is a day of great import.

  The remembered phrase sent shivers down my spine.

  When the house came into view, a rush of recognition washed over me. The unexpected emotion made me even more suspicious, as if I were stepping into a trap.

  The house was as charming as Cassie claimed, with a gabled roof, gingerbread trim, and a wraparound porch shaded by an old, old oak. I recognized lilacs that would bloom in a few months and perennial beds circling the grounds. The paint was fresh and the hedges trimmed, all prettied up like a teenage girl on her first date. Sweet and innocent and harmless—which is exactly what Hansel and Gretel must have thought just before the witch tossed them into a hot oven.

  Cassie parked behind a car with a real estate logo that matched the for-sale sign posted in the front yard. “This is it,” she said.

  A breath of air escaped my lips. “Yes. This is it.”

  The House of Cry.

  Cassie shot a questioning glance my way. My cheeks warmed, even though I was sure I hadn’t said the words aloud. Maybe she’d heard something in my voice. Or maybe she felt the same st
range sense of expectancy as well.

  I wanted to tell her to turn around. Something big was going to happen, something that might be terrible or wonderful or both. It didn’t make sense, yet the feeling persisted. This was the House of Cry, and I’d been sent here for a reason.

  Cassie stepped out of the car. “You coming?”

  I shook off my apprehension and joined her on the cobbled path leading to the front door. I reached for her hand, and she gave mine a squeeze.

  “Ready?” she asked. At my nod, she let go of my hand, then knocked on the door. Whatever we were in for, we’d do it together.

  Her knock was answered by a man whose smile immediately put me at ease. “I’m glad you came back,” he said to Cassie, then turned to me and held out his hand. “Bob Hartwood, Mourningkill Real Estate.”

  “Jenna,” I replied. “Jenna Hall.”

  Something about him seemed familiar. His handshake was warm and brief enough to be professional, but his welcome felt genuine. A lock of dark, wavy hair curled casually against his forehead. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses, and the transformation from Clark Kent to Superman was complete. I found myself feeling ridiculously grateful that I’d splurged on a manicure last week.

  “Do we … ?” We laughed as we echoed each other’s words.

  He snapped his fingers. “I know. You tend bar at the Flying Monkey, right?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I was there last week,” he said. “The band was …”

  “Magical Muse,” I replied. “They’re a local indie band.”

  He nodded, then put his glasses back on, transforming from hot, sexy guy back into hot, nerdy guy. I couldn’t decide which was more attractive.

  “There’s another couple looking at the house,” he said. “That’s why I told Cassie it was important to get you here as soon as possible.”

  Was there really another couple interested, or was this just a selling tactic? We stepped inside, and the moment I walked into the house, invisible arms wrapped around me in a warm embrace. It was love at first sight.

  Maybe a tiny bit of attraction had rubbed off on the realtor, because when I finally turned to ask him how soon we could move in, I noticed his eyes. They were soft and warm and incredibly appealing. When his gaze caught mine, I was overcome with a sense of recognition. I stumbled, and he reached for my arm. Normally I didn’t like being touched and avoided physical contact. Normally.

  Cassie pulled me away, pointing out one detail after another. I tuned out her voice and let the house’s personality speak to me. It was cozy and warm. A fieldstone fireplace with a solid oak mantle dominated the living room. I immediately envisioned long evenings curled up in front of the fire watching the seasons go by, from the spring lilacs blooming outside the window to Christmas stockings hung from the mantel.

  We walked through the rooms, marveling at the personal touches—crown molding, granite counters, and hand-smoothed honey walnut banisters. Each room felt familiar. I knew exactly where the pots would be stored, how many planters to hang between the porch columns, and the angle the morning sun would take as it crept across my bed. Already this house felt like home to me.

  More than that, it felt like my home.

  “Okay, give it to me,” Cassie said.

  “What?”

  “All the reasons why you think this couldn’t possibly work. The house is too big, too small, too isolated? Built over a sinkhole? Under power lines? Go ahead, tell me everything that’s wrong with the house.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.” And it was the truth. I couldn’t find a single flaw. The house was warm and welcoming. Every room was exactly as it should be, every window opened to reveal the perfect view. I sensed more than excitement at the prospect of living here. I was hopeful, an emotion almost foreign to me.

  For the first time in a long time I had something to focus on, something other than my own misery. “It’s perfect,” I said, giggling at the look of stunned surprise on Cassie’s face. I took my sister’s hands and twirled in circles like we had when we were little. “Just perfect!”

  3

  I asked all the important questions a prospective home buyer was supposed to ask. Like a smitten woman, I wanted to know everything there was to know about my new love, so while Cassie ironed out some details with the agent, I wandered, admiring wood-grained panels and leaded glass windows. Turning a corner in the hallway, I came across a door I hadn’t noticed before.

  The Doorway to Everwhen.

  Huh? Where had that thought come from?

  I reached for the doorknob. It was vintage Victorian glass, the old-fashioned kind of doorknob that felt both substantial and elegant. My hand hovered there for a moment while I resisted the impulse to pull away. I felt like I was standing at the crossroads again, torn between the need to step forward and the urge to run away. I grasped the knob and felt a jolt radiating from the center of my chest outward, rippling in waves all the way to my fingertips. The door opened inward to a windowless womb. Empty like the others, yet different somehow.

  There was something about the room that drew me. I couldn’t remember seeing this room on our walk-through with the real estate agent, and yet I was overcome by an intense familiarity. The first thing that rushed through my mind was How could I have forgotten it was here?

  It went deeper, as if I’d buried the memory a long, long time ago. There was a sense of rediscovering something I’d lost. My skin tingled and my chest seemed to expand. “Mine,” I whispered. I slid my hand into my pocket and touched the poem I’d found at my mother’s grave. It was almost as if she had led me here.

  The room was filled with an expectant hush. It seemed to be waiting, ripe with possibilities. I took a hesitant step inside. The air felt thick and fluid at the same time. I reached out to steady myself, fingertips trailing along cool blistered paint as I circled the room, becoming more light headed with each step.

  I walked the circumference of the room, feeling a growing sense of ownership with each step, only mildly curious about the incongruity of a round room in the middle of a square house. I spun around in the empty space. My fingertips tingled, and I felt a humming vibration in my ears. Even the air smelled different somehow, as if charged with the electrical currents preceding a thunderstorm. The room seemed to breathe with its own distinctive personality, like a long-forgotten friend.

  Inward now, drawn toward the deepest center, I left the safety of the wall and spiraled slowly toward the core. Darkness swirled at the edges of my vision, giving me a curious, unblinking tunnel vision. The darkness pulsed in rhythmic waves. The shadows whispered, but I couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but finding my way to the center and unlocking the room’s secrets.

  Each step filled me with an increasing sense of serenity, as if I were walking an invisible meditation labyrinth. I couldn’t have stopped if I had wanted to; the pull was too strong. I knew, deep down in my soul, that every step I’d taken from my very first breath had led me to this spot in this moment in time.

  I found myself moving faster now, rushing to beat the shrinking tunnel of darkness to the center. My thoughts were jumbled, a thousand voices competing for my attention, all of them my own.

  Darkness encroached on all sides as I made my way to the heart of the room, where I glimpsed a distant pinpoint of white light. It beckoned and filled me with a desperate yearning. I took one final step into the room’s center as darkness obliterated everything, and I tumbled down, down, down into a vast, airless chamber of emptiness.

  *

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious. When I awoke, dizzy and disoriented, I wasn’t afraid. I had only a sense of wonder, as if standing still at the threshold of discovery.

  I tried to blink the film from my eyes, but my vision was shrouded by a misty white fog. My eyes felt dry, as if I’d forgotten to blink for the last few hours. Hours? Had it been that long? It might have been. It could have been days for all I knew.<
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  The room came into focus one detail at a time, as if being sketched by an artist as I watched. First the walls, complete with dimpled paint and dappled brush strokes, then corners formed with snug baseboards and whitewashed trim. Once the outline was complete, objects appeared. An amber-shaded lamp perched atop a three-legged corner table, an open roll-top desk took shape on the far wall. As I watched, a leather appointment book appeared on the desktop, followed by a porcelain mug from which a dainty plume of steam escaped, almost like an artist’s afterthought. Books marched along a sagging shelf, taking shape one after another. I could almost see the titles penned in one letter at a time along the spines.

  A woven tapestry took shape on the wall above a moss-green love seat. On another wall hung a framed needlepoint picture with the block-lettered quote There’s No Place Like Home. An assortment of pillows sprouted like plump blossoms among the grassy cushions. This was unquestionably a woman’s study taking shape. But what woman lived here?

  I closed my eyes and tried to blink the fantasy away. The room had been empty when I stepped inside. Not just empty, but round. I remembered wondering at the architectural design. Now it was all right angles and sharp corners.

  Suddenly I didn’t trust my own memory.

  I stood up gingerly, half expecting the floor beneath me to dissolve and send me spinning down the rabbit hole. The floor stayed solid beneath my feet, however. Even more surprising than the mysteriously morphing room was the fact that I was wearing a dress. I never wore dresses, preferring the casual comfort of sweatpants or jeans. Even formal occasions simply meant an upscale pantsuit rather than leg-baring skirts or dresses.

  Yet here I was in a strange room dressed in a pale-blue wraparound dress like a 1950s sitcom mom. I felt naked and vulnerable. If this was a subconscious fantasy, why would I paint myself in a setting so foreign? Perhaps that was even more disconcerting in a world already gone mad.

  Mad. There was the explanation I’d been trying to avoid. Had I finally lost my fragile grip on sanity? It was a destiny I’d been expecting most of my life, like a genetic hand grenade set to explode the moment I released my trembling grip on the pin. Had the time finally arrived? Or had it happened long ago? Maybe none of this was real, and I was sitting somewhere slack jawed and restrained while my tranquilized mind took fantastic journeys into places of my own design.