The Face in the House

13

The more she worked to clear the hoarded belongings, the easier it was for Teddy to see why Rose had insisted on hoarding in the first place. As the days passed, the "keep" pile far outgrew the "toss" pile, and she realized that all the work she'd done to declutter had simply resulted in slightly shifted stacks that stood just as high and as dense as before. While she had managed to clear much of the living room, she had hardly gotten rid of anything.

It wasn't a house full of junk, Teddy discovered, it was a house full of treasure.

Books, newspapers, paintings, clothes, vinyl records . . . all varying levels of ancient and all in pristine condition. It was like the largest time capsule ever uncovered, with items from countless decades past. The house was a small, chaotic museum, with no one there to tell you not to touch.

Eventually, Teddy gave up on the futile mission and instead spent her wakeful hours enjoying the novels, the clothes, and the music the house provided. Those days were an escape, an exquisite distraction from reality. Dressed in her new wardrobe of silk or lace or velvet, she lounged, read novels by candlelight, and sipped sherry while music crackled on the record player. It was a picture of pure leisure, pure indulgence, if not for the constant, nagging feeling of darkness prickling at her skin.

Time seemed to flow differently, fast and slow at the same time. Every moment was slow, exquisitely savored, but the days passed quickly, carelessly. The gash on her hand healed over, but the strange black goo stuck around. It showed through her healed skin like a thin, black vein.

On one of those blissfully slow evenings, Teddy sat on the velvet sofa, reading in silence. The fat black cat was curled up a safe distance beside her.

The comfortable bliss was tainted by a subtle but growing sense of dread at the pit of her stomach. Shadow surrounded her bubble of gold lamplight. The light flickered, as if struggling to keep the darkness at bay, to keep the shadow from swallowing her whole. Teddy looked up from her book and peered around the room.

It was there, Teddy could feel it, lurking in no dark corner in particular, but seemingly everywhere. When the sweet scent of honey hit her nose, she stood, her forgotten book falling to the floor with a soft thump.

Resisting the urge to shiver, she strode to the record player, the skirt of her satin dress flipping at her ankles, turned the large disk and set the needle. Music whirred, bringing the room to life. She had listened to a lot of her grandmother's records, but this was her favorite. Ella Fitzgerald's powerful voice boomed with elegance before a boisterous, jazzy instrumental.

Maybe it was in her head, but she felt the darkness recede, the fear in her chest lightened. Snickers watched from the sofa, head cocked to one side, as Teddy danced on the orange carpet, arms stretched around an imaginary partner, bare feet stepping to the rhythm. It was her move against the darkness, against the fear, and it was working.

Snickers hopped off the sofa, as if to join her on the dance floor. Teddy laughed and scooped him up into her arms. By some miracle, the cat didn't hiss or scratch, just looked around the room with wide eyes as Teddy spun around and around. As the rhythm slowed and the song came to a close, she stopped to catch her breath. As she bent over to release Snickers to the floor, she spotted something beneath the sofa. I thought I'd gone through everything, Teddy thought.

She dropped to her knees and pulled out a small, wooden box. The inside was lined in red velvet, and a thick bundle of herbs sat at the center, bound together by a thin string. Beneath the bundle was a book of matches. This was an odd find, even for Grandma Rose's house, Teddy thought. It looked like sage, which she recognized vaguely from movies and TV shows. Maybe Rose had planned to cleanse the house of dark spirits?