Chapter Text
I blinked at the message Mr. Ancunín had left me, picking up the open notebook to better scrutinize the writing. It was a remarkably mature response to my absence (I was willing to overlook his solitary locking of my bedroom door).
My eyes shifted to my chair and side table sitting by the window at the far side of my room. The latter had my aforementioned stack of books atop it, moved to my room as he said. Given our last conversation before my hasty exit, I felt oddly touched by his actions; it was only a minor act of labor, and yet, an important gesture of concord.
The books’ spines faced the room, but peculiarly, there seemed to be sheaves of paper sticking out from the edges. I clutched the notebook to my chest as I approached cautiously, flipping open the top book to the paper in question to find the same neat handwriting.
Incredibly long preface, do not bother yourself with reading.
Page 47: start of beginner section, introductory theory and spells. Macabre, but not horrifically so. Describes introductory symbology and inscription of sigils, though it does require an understanding of basic runeology. I remember Lord Szarr using only a drop of blood for such acts, though on occasion, he did require a donation. Lord Szarr wrote many notes in the margins on the combination of enchantment with blood magic.
Page 105: Intermediate section, mind the pages, they are covered with many spatters of blood. Greater description of drawing ritual circles, from hand-sized to blanket-sized. The floor in Lord Szarr’s never quite recovered.
Page 180: Adept section. From my memory, Lord Szarr didn’t get too far into this section. There were a few spells he attempted, but was unsuccessful. The details here are considerably more gruesome, albeit fascinating.
He had taken time to do a literature review for me?
“This is very kind of you to do, Mr. Ancunín.” I said in a hushed voice, closing the cover of the top book to peer at the second one in the stack. “I appreciate this more than you know.”
On the surface, this behavior confused me: Looking back at the average, our conversations leaned towards discord, and he really had no reason to be kind to me under these circumstances. From his perspective, I just left without any additional word, leaving him to float in his neverending limbo. The average man would be angered at that, but of course, Mr. Ancunín was not average. Pathetically, small bubbles of excitement simmered at the bottom of my stomach, with the entirely human sentiment of that someone might have missed me echoing through my brain.
I went through the stack, peering over Mr. Ancunín’s notes on the other books. All but one were tucked into their respective texts, the last sheet of torn out paper sitting on the tabletop next to the tower of books.
I returned the Tharchiate Codex to the library. You are welcome.
Much of its pages are indecipherable, but the images still draw one in. It is a book of necromancy, something I have a particular interest in given my current condition.
One page describes a long-lost book called the ‘Necromancy of Thay,’ a book that Lord Szarr was obsessed with finding but never succeeded. Esoteric knowledge of the machinations of life and death, hocus-pocus and balderdash, not my cup of tea, honestly.
It also mentions the great potential for withering curses, both in this text and the latter, which perhaps explains Lord Szarr’s accelerated decline after acquiring this tome. As a ghost, of course, I believe I am immune to such hexes, though I suppose one cannot die a second time?
I almost snickered at his words. He must fancy himself quite a comedian. But part of the information made my fingers go cold, his note that the book in question, the ‘Tharchiate Codex’ was cursed, possibly leading to Lord Szarr’s ‘accelerated decline.’ It was a sobering thought, cursed books with necromantic energy, something I was nearly exposed to. Was reading such a book even worth it?
A new book replaced the old one in the stack. It was nondescript in appearance, bound in a dusty blue linen, the same color as the sky in the early hours of the morning. It was inert like the rest of the books, and Mr. Ancunín had left another note in the front cover.
I found this book upon restocking the other. I believe that of all the books present, this one may be of greatest use to you at this given moment. It discusses the various schools of thought those ‘wizards’ subscribe to. I recommend the sections starting at pages 107 and 214. Once again, you are welcome.
The term ‘wizard’ was familiar, but I couldn’t quite remember where I had heard it from. While the cover had no unique inscription or design, upon opening it to the title page, it was typeset with the following words: “The Mage’s Cauldron of Everything, written by the Dream Witch, Tasha.” I flipped to the first section that Mr. Ancunín recommended, each page sending a waft of something resiny and earthy into my nostrils, entitled “the divinatory domain.”
“The diviner is able to peer through time, at her most powerful, she may sculpt the future like temporal clay, contorting and molding it into a more favorable form. Those touched by fate or predilected for prophecies should look no further than these pages.
On occasion, an individual can have a sorcerous inclination for divination, presenting itself at varying moments in one’s existence, though more frequently, it is a skill practiced and trained by weave-connected individuals over a lifetime. For those fortunate to be born under such a lucky star, it may represent itself as an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, portentious dreams and visions, and even a knack for visualization.”
The words gave me pause. Some were completely unknown to me, such as “weave,” and “portentious,” but they filled me with an odd feeling I couldn’t quite label. I traced the typeset letters with my fingertips and oddly, the taste of something sweet and floral flickered on my tongue. Despite the strange sensation I felt, I didn’t feel any fear or anxiety towards the words, only intrigue. I flipped the pages to the second section he had recommended, and only had time to read the title “Ancestral links to the Weave ,” before being interrupted.
“Nina?” My mom’s voice jolted me from my perusing. I turned over my shoulder to see her standing in my doorway. “Is this your room?”
I spun to face her, hiding the books with my body. “Oh! Yeah, this is my room.” I plastered a neutral smile on my face. “Did you finish clearing out the fridge?”
“Yes, you need to learn how to cook for one, you’re wasting so much food.” She said critically, leaning a hip onto the door frame as she scanned the room. “This is a sweet little room, but why wouldn’t you take one of the suites? It’s nice to have an adjoining bathroom.”
“I, uh, felt uncomfortable sleeping in someone’s old bed,” I answered awkwardly, leaving out the detail that Peter had presumably passed away in the bed just across the hallway from her chosen room. “Besides, I like smaller rooms. Feels cozier.”
She snorted at my reply, bringing a hand up to re-secure her nasal cannula. “I’m sure this was someone’s bed decades ago; it looks like a bedroom set from the 30’s. You’re getting all their bad ju-ju.”
I waved a hand at her dismissively. “Whatever, I like old things.”
“Well, you got a house full of them. Did you see all the china in your cabinets? It’s probably worth a small fortune.”
“There’s actually more downstairs, I found a butler’s pantry weeks ago.” I spun the ring on my left pinkie behind my back in a nervous movement. “A gun room too.”
A wry smile spread on her lips. “You finally have your own museum. Do you mind giving me a tour? I want to stretch my legs.”
There wasn’t too much I could show my mother without sending her lungs into a frenzy, but anything was better than letting her see the stack of esoteric texts in my room. The other side of the house was a death trap for her and the basement wasn’t much better. As such, we spent quite a while inspecting the rooms on the main floor, slowly making our way space by space with her portable oxygen concentrator slung on her shoulder.
“And this is the gallery.” I said as we walked into the final room before the Great Hall. I still hadn’t done much with this room, simply cleaning and pushing some of the couches to rest along the wall in preparation for doing something else with this space.
“Such a long room, what does someone do with this kind of space?” My mother’s tone was slightly disapproving, though her footsteps slowed as we neared the first piece of art.
“Well, I imagine you could fit a very long dining table in here…” I started, my eyes sweeping across the room and falling on the one familiar piece I had stared upon so long ago, the image of Amanita.
Just then, I was flooded with the memory of that one dream, a flash of golden yellow silk smoothed underneath my hands, the experience of strolling beside my mother, her mother, with her gown rustling and whispering like a marsh of cattails flicking in the fall breeze.
“Ugh, imagine cooking all that food and setting it up in a place like this.” She shook her head at the idea. “The butler must have been a master of logistics.”
“Ladies would sometimes use rooms like these for their daily exercises, when the weather was bad, y’know?” I interjected. “Look up to the ceiling. It’s another false sky.” I pointed a finger up to the top of the room, finding cyan blue paint and cotton light clouds.
My mother followed my finger, a small smile stretching on her cheeks. “Well, now,” She chuckled, looking back at me. “You are the resident expert.”
We began to walk about the room, stopping in front of portraits and landscapes every five steps or so. That annoying feeling of déjà vu wriggled beneath my skin, continually reminding me that I had walked this very path in that same dream.
While the previous times I had perused this room had been neutral experiences, appreciating the pieces as art rather than history, this time, the names of Tumbledown ancestors were now familiar to me. We passed by a more modern portrait of Gustave and Viola, the most recent portrait in the room being a portrait of the first Peter Tumbledown as a child, and a wedding portrait of Ambrose and Cecily, the latter forever preserved in her youth. Ambrose’s face was burned into my mind, as I could never forget the horrifying vision of that hysterical man clawing at the grave of his beloved, taken quickly in their marriage. A few renditions of the house painted as a landscape were also present, showing the rather static appearance of the grounds over the past two hundred years, though almost all presented the western wing in the foreground with the east wing hidden in vague brushstrokes.
Another thing that didn’t escape my notice this time was the utter lack of images of Lord Szarr. Elmira’s absence was understandable to me, given the circumstances of the last message shared between her and her daughter, but with Lord Szarr, it felt that he had been scrubbed from this place, only present in the manor’s secondary name. A man like my cousin Peter didn’t seem like the sort to deliberately remove someone from a house’s historical memory, so which one of his ancestors was the perpetrator? Either way, it was a line of questions to which I was sure Mr. Ancunín would refuse to give a clear answer.
As we rounded the room, we neared Amanita’s portrait. Just below it, pushed up against the wall, was a settee, carved of finely lacquered rosewood and upholstered in a striped cream and blue fabric, vaguely recognizable for some reason. My mother must have noticed my lagging steps, looking back to me and following my line of sight.
“Who’s that?” She asked. “Is she a relative of ours?”
I blinked suddenly, looking back at her. She had a curious look on her face. “This is Amanita, the first lady of this house. She was the cousin of our ancestor.”
My mother tilted her head as she assessed the portrait, Amanita’s dark eyes continuing to stare us down in mute disdain. “She’s lovely.” My mother commented, stepping closer to scrutinize the brushstrokes. “I’m sure people were fighting over her when she was a debutante. That’s what aristocrats do, right?”
I huffed humorlessly. “She was married when she was thirteen, actually.”
My mother’s head spun to look at me, her mouth hanging open. “What?”
I shrugged, looking back to the picture of Amanita. Her eyes were impenetrable, dark and fathomless like a still sea at night, reminding me that this place was currently an unsolvable puzzle. “I don’t know why, but I think it was an inheritance crisis or something.”
My mother shook her head in confusion. “Inheritance crisis?”
“The lord of the house was murdered and had no heirs. She was next in line, but maybe, as a girl, she couldn’t hold the title.”
“Huh.” My mother stepped into my line of sight, leaning close to the painting with her hands folded behind her back. “She has sad eyes.”
“I don’t think it was a good situation.” I responded, wrapping my arms around my middle. The room had gone cold all of a sudden. “I assume her mother set the whole thing up. Afterwards they were estranged.”
A few beats passed between us in melancholic contemplation, bracketed by the constant fizzing and grumbling of my mother’s oxygen concentrator. She reached a thin finger out to trace the curve of Amanita’s cheek, delicate and fleeting.
“How awful.” My mother exhaled, leaning back slightly to peer at me over her right shoulder. Positioned as they were, essentially cheek to cheek, the resemblance between my mother’s face and Amanita’s was uncanny. My eyes flickered back and forth between them, and perhaps it was the espresso brown scarf my mother had chosen to wear today, but it highlighted their almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and the dispirited purse of their mouths. In another life, they could have been sisters.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, opting to avert my gaze to the next portrait in our path. It was much smaller, only about a foot by a foot-and-a-half in dimension, absolutely dwarfed by Amanita’s portrait next door. I couldn’t make out the details of the individual in the frame, only catching a glimpse of lily white skin and dark hair.
My mother sighed deeply, settling onto the settee beneath the portrait with a huff, the old frame creaking with protest. I exhaled my own breath silently. We had been up and walking for perhaps thirty or so minutes, and usually at this time we’d be having some sort of lunch on the couch.
“Tired?” I offered gently, stepping in front of the couch with an outstretched hand. My mother slipped the concentrator from her shoulder, falling onto the couch with a thump, and let her head loll back, knocking Amanita’s ornate gilt frame slightly with the curve of her skull.
“I’m always tired.” She responded bleakly with a twist of her mouth, pinching her lips just like Amanita’s a few feet above her. “I feel like I could go to bed now.”
I let my hand fall, clasping it with the other. The air felt heavy with something indescribable. I rubbed my hands together, attempting to twist some warmth back into my fingers.
“Why don’t you take a nap?” I suggested. “In the gold room next door? I can start dinner and you can come up when you’re ready.”
She shrugged indifferently, a sullen look flashing on her features. I made my way to the other portrait, the features of the individual coming into focus as I stepped into proximity.
It was of a young girl, perhaps on the precipice of her teenage years. She was posed sitting in profile, wearing a wide-yoked dress in a green and gold tartan fabric. Her head was tilted in three-quarters, peering over her bare left shoulder at the viewer. She had that same milk-white complexion that many individuals in this room had, albeit with a peachy warm undertone. Her eyes were slightly narrow and foxlike, with large mahogany brown irises and heavy lashes giving her an impetuous look. The round cheeks of her face were framed by glossy black sausage curls which fell to her upper back, twisted from her face with a strict center part. At the bottom of the frame was a silver plate engraved “Esther Greeley, 1859.”
How did I not see this before?
Once again, the face of someone who was stuck in history was revealed to me, and with little fanfare. The positioning of this image in the room was particularly odd to me as well, being left directly next to Amanita, closer than her own son, who sat far removed near the opposite corner. Esther couldn’t have been too old in this image either, just a teenager starting her life. I wracked my brain for the details of those letters I read so long ago, and like my fascination with her cousin, Amanita, I found myself filled with questions of her life: What did she like to do? Was she an artist, a dancer? Who did she end up marrying? Did my great-to-the-third-grandfather treat her well?
“Another important face?” My mother’s voice broke me from my thoughts.
I glanced back at her, still leaned back on the settee with her cheek propped up on her fist. I forced a smile for her, and turned back to the image with a nod. “This is Esther, one of our grandmothers.” Saying that aloud replaced some of the melancholy in my stomach, kinship and sentimentality quickly taking its place.
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes flickering to the image. “She looks like my mother when she was young.” A sad smile spread on her lips.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Another breath of silence passed between us, before she spoke up again. “It’s nice to see her again.”
I left mom to rest in the Gold Room, shutting the door behind me softly. The house was lonely once more, with my soft footfall and the cool sensation of being watched. I set about making myself useful, walking up to the kitchen to start dinner. Mom said she had been craving something old fashioned and comforting, and the only thing we could agree upon was roast chicken and vegetables.
As I cleaned the chicken pieces and chopped up my carrots and potatoes, I had the chance to analyze all that had happened here up to this point.
I got a house, the house was haunted by a vengeful ghost. There was something compelling about the house’s history, and so I kept to it. My pipe-dream of turning this place into an AirBNB seemed so far away now, in hindsight. I was plagued with nightmares and odd dreams in the early nights staying here, but for some reason, they began to reveal a story. Insanely, as the weeks passed, the ghost began to reveal himself to me. Of course, this prompted the universe to send me tumbling down a well of reason-defying experiences, of which I hadn’t had any time to process after fleeing back to my old life. But he was an interesting creature. He was incredibly irritable, no doubt influenced by nearly two centuries of being ignored and carrying a definite history of trauma from his time, but in between bits of rudeness and plain aggression, his humanity slowly revealed itself.
Imagine his predictable dismay when that came to an end? When I absconded? I wondered what expression was on his invisible face when I showed up with a random woman over a month later. Perhaps I was overthinking it all though, as in the grand scheme of things, Mr. Ancunín and I had only had a handful of complete conversations, but why had he responded to my lack of presence with assistance, with…kindness?
The oven went off, notifying me that it was preheated, and after oiling my baking pans and sprinkling a spice mix atop, I chucked the food into the oven and set a timer on my phone. With only a background track of the floors creaking and the occasional shudder of the window against the evening breeze, it was hard not to get stuck in my musing.
I stifled a yawn, the late afternoon sluggishness hitting me like a train, so I leaned over the counter to flick the kettle on. A bracing cup of black tea felt fitting for a chilly fall day.
As I poured steaming hot water over my tea bag, the floral scent of tea leaves mixed with piquant bergamot, the water quickly being stained with swirling eddies of umber brown. I set the kettle back onto its stand with a beep, and I reached into the fridge to grab the milk, as I always preferred my cup with just a splash of color. But as my cup steeped, as the air was filled with the wonderfully robust scent, I was reminded that I was not the only person in this house who was in need of a good cuppa.
I made up another cup, leaving it black, and after splashing enough milk into mine to bring the color to a warm mocha tone, I carefully walked both cups over to my room.
After setting my own cup on the side table loaded up with books, I put the other mug atop the tea towel spread across the top of my dresser, leaving it on my altar for Mr. Ancunín. Steam curled up from the dark liquid, coiling and dissipating in the cool quiet of my room like incense sticks at a shrine. When I saw him next, I’d have to ask how he preferred his tea.
My altar still had the cards that I pulled last time: the Five and Two of Wands, the Four of Swords, and the card that slipped out, the Five of Pentacles. Détente, stagnation, introspection, and being welcomed into the fray. It was like a screenshot of the issues I had faced and the answers that I had sought so long ago. Did such an interpretation come to fruition? I still hadn’t received a verbal ‘thank you’ for cleaning Mr. Ancunín’s photograph, though perhaps the only message I’d get was the stack of books. Maybe it was an act for an act, not kindness. Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
Whatever it was, I had felt stuck and I had given a great deal of thought to our relationship, though recently I had had nothing but time to think about what I wanted in life. That was the issue with tarot, interpretations were slippery and vague, and in retrospect, everything had meaning. Still something itched inside my skull, complaining that I should pull another set of three.
I started shuffling the cards once more, cutting and riffling mechanically as I sought whatever spiritual energy I was searching for in a situation like this. Cut, shuffle, stack, cut, shuffle, stack, I repeated the motion at least three or four times, but my mind fell flat. There were no questions to ask, nothing that I wanted an answer to, at least.
With a heavy sigh, I set the stack of cards down, flipping the top card just to see what the fates gave me. To my surprise, I was greeted with the sight of the Hermit, a stooped old man in a drab old cloak, holding out a lantern and clutching his staff as he went forward on his own journey. As the title suggested, the Hermit was a solitary creature, seeking introspection and the inner truth, ultimately his spiritual betterment.
It made me roll my eyes. I had no need for further introspection. Still, I set the drawn card on top of the deck next to Mr. Ancunín’s cup of tea, got cozy in my own chair, and picked up The Mage’s Cauldron of Everything to continue my reading.
“Divination can be practiced as a school of magic, but as previously stated, some may have a natural ability for clairvoyance. They are found throughout our society, often as fortune tellers and wise women, but some find their luck in financial and commercial spheres as well. While this tome is merely meant to be introductory in nature, Baenre’s Augurical Studies and Alaundro’s chapbooks are highly recommended for the interested diviner…"
As I flipped page by page, I would have been lying to myself if it made sense. Reading of magic systems of thought, beginners’ sets of spells, even offering other sources to consider, it all felt like an elaborate prank, that I would get to a particular page and a fake spider would jump out at me. It reminded me of the metaphysical store in the city that I used to go to, with its sign on the inside of the door warning “all items are cursed until properly paid for.” That was all a belief system, not necessarily founded in scientific fact, on the same level as praying for forgiveness from one’s god. Such nonsense had to be founded on earlier philosophical texts right? I glanced at the towering stack of antique books that Mr. Ancunín had brought me.
Whatever the truth was, it would have been an incredibly long con to play. My own experiences pointed towards accepting these words as truth.
For some, portents are uncontrollable and indecipherable, and may represent a version of the future, or some individual’s future, that they may or may not experience. Some do not see the future at all, capturing glimpses of the past, though often, it is their past. Others receive parts of a vision or message at varying times, chopped up into chronological or non-chronological bits. Many experience involuntary episodes, though a handful of individuals retain an ability to meditate towards answers of the future.
In these situations, of course, careful recording or archiving of such visions and prophecies is necessary.
The information began to repeat itself. I scanned down the excerpt, looking for something useful, something relevant to my situation.
Dream magic often walks hand in hand with divination, given their frequent residence in the same domain. Dreams can be the stage upon which a wizard can practice their craft, unfettered by the laws of reality to become one with the weave, diving deeper into outer planes of existence.
Visualization is a tool that some can utilize in tandem with such magic. One diviner described it as such: upon receiving a portent, particularly in the form of a vision or dream, he developed a sense of awareness within such events, learning to recognize physiological and psychogenic signs that he was experiencing. Once he was entirely aware of the sensation of dreaming and being caught within a vision, he would imagine his preferred outcome, grasping at gossamer strands of the weave to enact his preferred changes. Such techniques can also be used to explore one’s dreamworld, but of course, further reading can be found within the publications of…
I took a sip of my tea. That sounded just like lucid dreaming, albeit with a few extra steps and some flowery language. The author’s words pointed at the evidence that I had unintentionally been doing something magical this entire time, searching for answers in objective reality for inexplicable metaphysicality, when, perhaps, both had been linked from the start.
I flipped forward to the other section Mr. Ancunín recommended: Ancestral Magic.
“While some draw their power from the gods, demons, or simply claim luck, others were born into a rich legacy of power and familial knowledge. Being inducted into an arcane tradition, donning a family heirloom, or having a drop of sorcerous blood can be all one needs to call upon the power of one's predecessors, of course, to varying outcomes. That being said, direct veneration of such ghosts is likely to grow such an ability, but one must be careful that said ghosts are worthy of such treatment…
My brow knit together in confusion, rereading the excerpt to be sure. Having a drop of sorcerous blood, direct veneration? Just what was Mr. Ancunín trying to say? That I had inherited such abilities? From whom? I tried reading ahead, but the words made no sense. My eyes tracked across the printed type, but at the bottom of the page, there was a note scribbled in pencil, Mr. Ancunín’s handwriting:
Do you know where you come from?
My mother’s room was dark aside from the black and white flickering of the TV. I had hefted the unit from the living room into her suite and set it on top of a spare desk that we dragged in front of the footboard. We were laying beneath the bed covers watching Casablanca, though multiple times during the movie I’d heard light snoring, peeping over to find my mom’s eyes shut gently.
Dinner had gone well, and she had even given her “compliments to the chef.” Afterwards, we went through the stack of photos she had brought up, haphazardly stored in an old plastic baggie.
The ones that brought a grin to her face were primarily the ones of me, especially as a young child. In most of them, my dark hair was cut severely, bangs straight across my forehead and a clenched grimace on my lips, with my mom laughing that I “hadn’t learned how to smile yet.”
“Here’s one of you, Halloween 2003.”
“What was I dressed up as? Tarzan?”
“If I remember correctly, you were a ‘Jungle Girl.’”
“Oof, that’s not politically correct.”
“Oh! Here’s another one of you, I took you to your museum. You put all my coins into the donation funnel.”
“Wow, that thing is still there, you know?”
Others gave her pause, or her lips would twist into a sad smile.
“‘Kozakura, 1996.’ Is this from that trip right before you had me?”
“Yes. Gosh, I’m so skinny there.”
“You look the same to me.”
“Flatterer. I forgot I ever wore shorts that short. They wouldn’t let me into some of the temples over there because I was too exposed.”
“Here’s a young one of you. Who are you sitting next to on that couch?”
“Hmm? Oh, that’s my grandmother, I think she died a few years after this. I was ten when she passed.”
“And smoking indoors?”
“Hey, it was the early eighties. My father used to drink a beer on the drive home from work.”
A few brought a tear to her eye. While I tried to flit through the stack and find something less painful, something sweeter to look like, she still wouldn’t look away.
“This is Grandma, right?”
“Her in the 60s, before she had me.”
“For some reason, I never knew people actually wore their hair in beehives.”
“She wore it in that style for a few years. She was the kind of woman who’d go to the salon every week. I don’t think she washed her hair at home for thirty years.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That was what they did back then.”
“...You okay, mom?”
“...Just thinking of what she smelled like.”
“Yeah?”
“Like hairspray and Jovan’s Lily of the Valley.”
As such, she was tired once more as I was cleaning up dinner, and while she didn’t want the evening to end, she was limited to watching a movie in bed. She swore up and down that she wouldn’t fall asleep, but even in my youth, she always had a habit of just “closing her eyes” for a little bit.
I couldn’t blame her for falling asleep. The air in here had a soporific quality, warm and downy like the inside of a pillow. I was biting back my own yawns, remaining quiet beside my mother’s snoozing form.
It was a view I never quite got used to, the absolute vulnerability of her lax face, the fluttering lids bald of any lash or brow. I found myself looking for the beauty spots and freckles she had, the ones I was enamored with as a child. I used to sneak into the bathroom to draw them onto my face with her black eyeliner pencil, topping off the whole look with a messy sweep of her preferred lip color in warm raisin brown. She had a dark spot on the side of the bridge of her nose, a smattering of freckles on the high-points of her cheeks, and like me, and a handful of small moles around the edges of her face.
Looking at her now, they had faded slightly with age, or perhaps because of her illness, but were still present. Even in my sentimentality though, I couldn’t ignore the dark circles beneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks. The dry skin of her neck stretched in a way completely different to my mind’s memory of her, alien even.
I peered back at the television, watching the final scene of the movie. Major Strasser stalked over to the phone, being warned by Blaine not to make another move. I watched as the man grabbed the phone, attempting to stop the plane from leaving, but upon drawing his gun, Blaine shot him dead in a pop of light and smoke and a loud bang.
“Hrm?” My mom grumbled, roused by the sharp sound. “Did I fall asleep again?”
“It’s fine, it's basically over.”
“I’m sorry,” She yawned, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm. “It's just so hard to stay awake.”
I slid out from the covers, taking care not to let in any cool air. “I’m gonna get ready for bed too. Need anything?”
She shook her head sleepily. “Feels like I’m sleeping in a hotel,” She mumbled, letting her hands fall atop the pink and white comforter. Her feet wiggled beneath the covers. “Clean and cozy.”
I moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “I know, I’m looking forward to sleeping in my old bed.” I said as I smoothed the blanket, pressing all the warm air back towards her body.
She smiled at me tiredly, which for some reason sent a prickle of unease across my skin. The air felt thick with unsaid words and unshared sentiments, and as the movie’s credits played, I distracted myself by reaching for the remote and turning the TV off with an electronic hiss. I set the remote back onto the side table, and as I made to get up, my mother’s hand stopped me, falling on top of mine.
I twisted back, finding a sad smile on her face. “You’re so good to me.” She murmured, smoothing her thumb across my knuckles.
Something squeezed tight in my throat. “You’re my mom.” I responded softly with a weak shrug, averting my eyes to watch our clasped hands. There was nothing else I could say without getting more emotional, but the words were all I needed to convey the complex feelings that I’d been struggling with for all these weeks.
“You’re my daughter.” She replied similarly, and I heard her sniff. “So young and beautiful.”
My eyes smarted, and I had to look away. All I could do was re-grip our hands and squeeze hers in mine tight.
“I wanted to see you get married.”
“No need to jump the gun, mom, I need a fiancé for that.”
She chuckled wetly, bringing a hand up to wipe her face. “Details, details.” She huffed, letting her hand fall back to the blanket. “Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never shared, something naughty you did when you were younger.”
“What?”
“C'mon, humor me, it's one of my dying wishes.”
I bit my lips into a tight smile. “I didn't get up to much, I was mostly following Jen around.”
“No clubbing? No underage drinking?”
“Well, one time when we were twenty, we were at a house party, and when people said the cops were there, we sprinted down the street and hid in the bushes.”
“Ha! Really?”
“We left our backpack full of booze there too, so it was a big loss for the night.”
“Nice,” Her laugh devolved into a coughing fit, but the smile remained on her lips. “I always wondered what college was like for you. Sometimes I worried that Grandma made you a little square.”
“I mean, I do get some of my more elderly mannerisms from her.”
“Some of her better ones, I’d say.” With that statement, the pleasant look on her face fell, and she glanced away, as if she were remembering something bitter.
The light atmosphere fizzled away, replaced swiftly with that tension once more. My throat felt tight with hesitation and worry. I swallowed hard, willing up the courage to ask a question which had bothered me for years.
“Can I ask you something, mom?”
“You may.”
“Why was it just us, growing up? Grandma was there for a little bit, but what about cousins? Why are we so separate from the rest of the family?”
My question hung in the air for a few uncomfortable moments. My mother stared up at the ceiling, her head shifting slightly on the pillow to get comfortable. A furrow appeared on her brow, as if she were considering the right way to word her thoughts.
“We were separate because I felt separate, I suppose.” She answered after a few breaths. “Grandma loved you, but our relationship…it was strained. She was my connection with everybody else, so…things naturally withered.”
“Why was your relationship strained?”
“I think she just didn’t understand me.” She tilted her head away from me. “Maybe it was because of my personality, or perhaps she wasn’t a very maternal individual.” She coughed slightly, raising a fist to cover her mouth before she continued. “She was a good grandmother, so I suppose that's all I can ask for.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, looking down at my spare hand instead. My fingernails were all bitten down to the quicks, and the skin around my thumbs had seen better days. I squeezed my hands into fists to prevent myself from picking a new finger to chew at.
“I think the nail in the coffin was having you, actually.”
My head spun at her answer. “What do you mean?”
“She never approved of my independent lifestyle. She wanted me to settle down, but I enjoyed my life.” I let her continue, her eyes falling to clasped hands. “After the holidays, I found out that I was pregnant with you, and for some reason, something just clicked in my head. I wanted you, and I didn’t need anyone to help with that.”
I blinked uncomfortably at the implication of her words, but I didn't say anything, lest it discourage her from revealing more. My eyes fell to our connected hands.
“Your grandma was… of her era, so of course, she was not at all pleased that I was pregnant and unmarried, and she told me…well, to get it ‘taken care of.’”
My mouth was dry. A question left my lips before I could stop it. “Do you regret not following her advice?”
She shook her head, squeezing my hand. “Never.”
My heart felt heavy, and once again I didn’t know how to respond. “Thank you for telling me.” I managed, biting my lips into a line as I bravely met her gaze. Whatever barriers had been constructed between us had fallen now, tumbling to the earth in a mass of crumbling masonry and dust. Her dark brown eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, and as one threatened to fall, I gripped the material of my long sleeve and twisted it around my thumb, bringing my hand up to gently wipe it away.
“My mother and I, we didn’t speak for a couple years after that, not until you were turning three and she realized that she shouldn’t punish her grandchild for what her daughter did.”
“But then we stopped seeing her as much.”
“Yes, we disagreed on how you should be raised. She didn’t think I was giving you a good home environment.”
“You did a good job.”
“Yeah, I think I did,” She lifted her spare hand to wipe away her own tears, letting it fall back atop our joined fingers. She let out a sad laugh. “Heh, I didn’t plan on this being such a gloomy trip. I’m sorry.”
After getting her a washcloth to clean away her tears and refilling her water, I left her with a ‘good night’ and shut the door behind me softly. As I walked through the dark hallway towards my room, I felt raw, washed and rubbed over like an age-old stone laying at the bottom of a river bed. I also hadn’t planned for such a weekend, but the manor always seemed to pull such emotional and vulnerable experiences out of me.
Once I scrubbed my own face clean and brushed my teeth, I fell into my bed. The sheets were still familiar after all this time, the quilt comfortingly heavy across my body. Despite my exhaustion, despite the tiredness I felt, I knew that sleep would bring me no respite, as someone was waiting to speak with me.
I let my eyes fall shut and imagined a giant pink eraser was slowly rubbing my body away, toes first, then my ankles and calves, blowing away all the pinkish-gray smut when everything beneath my thighs dissolved away.
Slowly, surely, I faded into the mattress, falling, floating into the deep, and then I was there.
My eyes blinked open and I was staring into the black void, featureless against swirling vortices of shadows and clouds of darkness. My feet were firm on something, and yet, I was completely alone.
The air was thick with the resinous scent of incense, curling into my nostrils and filling my lungs like prayer smoke.
I looked down at my hands, watching my fingers bend and press against my palms. My pinkie ring was still present, but it lacked its usual unnatural chill. I felt no pain, no discomfort. I was dreaming.
But I was alone? Why was it so dark here? Why was there nothing as far as my eyes could see?
Prickles of anxiety bubbled within me. Was something wrong? I closed my eyes once more, not trusting myself not to fall or see something heinous in the deep.
I was dreaming, I was dreaming, I was in control.
A random thought flitted into my mind. Perhaps if I squeezed my eyes hard enough, fisted my hands tight, breathed deeply to fill my entire chest cavity, something would appear, willed into existence within this dream-like state.
Maybe…?
A beat passed, and the smoke was exhaled from my lungs.
I blinked my eyes open again, to find Mr. Ancunín standing five or so feet before me, a hand perched jauntily on his hip. He was of a normal skin tone, pale and pink in comparison to his usual translucent bluish green.
It worked! It seemed Mr. Ancunín could see the surprise on my face, as a smirk twisted his features. I felt my heart thump in my chest, some unknown emotion that I didn’t have the headspace to interpret, so I forced a neutral look onto my face.
“Mr. Ancunín.” I greeted him cautiously, keeping my eyes trained on him. “You’re here.”
He tilted his head at me, a single eyebrow raised. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
He looked different. Different usually meant bad in my dreams. But I brought him here? Had he ever looked like a specter here? I couldn’t remember, my thoughts were too slow. I forced a wary look on my face.
“Are you real? Or are you just a part of my dream?” I asked slowly, narrowing my eyes at him as I took in his features.
He cocked his head the other way, eyes flashing in displeasure despite the smile still stretched on his lips. “Do you ever spend a single moment not burdened with anxiety and paranoia?” He asked drily, clasping his hand behind his back. “I wrote that I’d see you in your dreams, isn’t that sufficient proof?”
“Perhaps.” I answered simply. “You look different.”
“You look different.” He retorted, eyes flickering up to my hair, though he graciously didn’t make a comment. “And you came in an entourage. I didn’t know we were hosting.” He peered at me down the tip of his nose. This was definitely my Mr. Ancunín.
“That’s my mom, I’ve been taking care of her.”
“Ah.” He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips at me. “How noble of you.” He sneered at me, though the mean tone of his voice didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I chose not to rise to his jab. “I’m sorry I was gone.” I offered, holding up a hand. His eyes tracked the movement before glancing back to mine. “I am glad to see you.”
He huffed lightly, crossing his arms on his chest defensively. “Six weeks gone without a single visit. Pardon me for not getting onto my knees and kissing your feet." He clicked his tongue at me. "I wanted to give you a piece of my mind, but I was too tired to come up with a script."
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave." I twisted my lips into a frown, hoping he would realize my genuineness.
He waved a hand dismissively. "I can read between the lines. Besides, being trapped in undeath for one hundred and four score years teaches one patience." His eyes flickered to the formless abyss which swirled around us, a displeased look flashing onto his features. "Though couldn’t you pick better environs for this discussion? I much prefer silk cushions and oiled leather.”
“Couldn’t I get a ‘job well done,’ or something?”
“From my perspective, I was floating on my lonesome, attempting to gather enough energy once more to, again, give you a piece of my mind, and with a snap, I was instantaneously here. How am I supposed to know what a ‘job well done’ is?"
I groaned loudly at his response, pressing my cold hands into my cheeks. So much for kindness. “Mr. Ancunín, I have had an emotionally intense day. Please remember that I barely have any idea what I’m doing.”
“Did you not read that book I found for you?”
I shrugged awkwardly. “Well, I skimmed it.”
“Really? After all my hard work taking notes for you?”
“Excuse me, I just got back today!”
He threw a hand up to his forehead. “Alright, how did you get me here?”
“I, um…” My indignation fizzled out, quickly replaced with embarrassment. “I just thought of you.” I admitted.
He gave me a pointed look. “As sweet as that was, try thinking of a room in the manor, preferably with alcohol.” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I exhaled sharply at him, feeling slightly deflated, but I did as he said. I set my mouth in a line and squeezed my eyes shut, picturing Peter’s office in my mind’s eye with his rich wood and gleaming leather, the scent of his books and the weave of antique carpet beneath my feet. The warmth of the fire, crackling in the hearth, the drum of rain against the window sill, it formed in my mind’s eye. I could nearly smell the lemon oil used to polish the furniture, the pungent resin of the logs smoldering on the fire. It was warm, the breath of something against the exposed skin of my legs.
“Ah, much better.”
I opened my eyes and gasped.
We were in Peter’s office, all the details I imagined now real. It was dark in the room, only the light from the fire and the green banker’s lamp on the desk illuminating the space with a glow of dancing orange and cool yellow light. Mr. Ancunín stood before Peter’s grand desk, looking about the room with a pleased expression on his face.
“How did—?”
“It was just as I thought.” He said, settling back with his hands on the edge of the desk. “Though this place needs dusting terribly, couldn't you imagine a clean office?” He added, leaning over to drag a finger across the green lampshade.
I ignored his snippy words. The wool of Peter’s rug was rough against the soles of my feet as I made my way towards the fire, holding my hands out to its warmth. It all felt so real, and yet even as the logs popped and crackled, spitting sparks out to bite at my bare skin, I felt no pain.
“So these dreams, they’ve all been my doing?” I made no effort to keep the awe out of my words. I had been lucid in dreams before, and a small skeptical part of me still had doubts whether or not this was simply an elaborate nightmare, but so far, this was on a completely different level. If anything, I felt a bit silly that I had been drugging myself to sleep for so long, avoiding the concept of dreams here at the detriment of my own personal growth.
“If I had any say, there would be far more wine and cheese.” Mr. Ancunín huffed in response. I twisted back to find him pushing himself off the desk to walk over to Peter’s sideboard, where an old-fashioned crystal decanter and a set of glasses sat. He removed the glass stopper and brought the neck of the vessel to his nose, an appreciative smile spreading on his lips. “Although, I do appreciate a fine brandy.”
I watched him inspect a matching glass tumbler for dust, blowing out any particles before pouring himself a finger of liquor. “You seem comfortable.” I said as he took a small sip, closing his eyes in silent regard.
“You’re quick to forget that I’ve been without bodily pleasures for nearly two centuries.” He raised a cool eyebrow at me over the rim of his glass. “Pardon me for taking advantage.”
I wrapped my arms on my chest tightly. “I didn't forget, I'm just making an observation.” I commented, watching him take another pull of the liquid with a deep sigh of appreciation. “Though perhaps I always envisioned you as a wine man.”
He chuckled. “‘Envisioning’ me, are you?” He purred at me over the rim of his cup. “Tea, coffee, wine, brandy, I’m easy to please.”
I rolled my eyes, turning back over my shoulder to face popping fire, soaking in the dry heat. As nice as it was to see Mr. Ancunín, his appearance in my dreams was another tinder of evidence thrown into the roaring fire of my reality being flipped upon its head. A log split in the fire, sending a burst of flames and sparks up into the flue.
“Ah! Where are my manners…” I heard Mr. Ancunín exclaim behind me, the sound of crystal clattering behind me. At the sound of footsteps, I looked over my shoulder to see a glass held out to me with a matching finger of brandy, a debonair grin on his lips.
I raised a dubious eyebrow at him, but I lifted a hand to take the glass from him. In exchange, his fingers brushed against mine, warm in contrast to the cool molded glass. The brandy gleamed like liquid amber in the warm light of the flames, dancing along the round sides of the glass.
He raised an eyebrow at my delay. “You drink, right?”
“I've never just had brandy on its own.” I mused, holding the tumbler up to my nose. It smelled slightly sweet, like white grapes and caramel, the faint breath of oak on the edges.
“Drinking dark liquor isn't considered ladylike.” He responded dryly. “But one can break the rules every once in a while.”
I scoffed at his remark, meeting his gaze once more. He really did look different in the firelight, the flames casting red and orange across his pale skin. For the first time, I noticed his eyes weren't a true gray, not cold and hard like gunmetal or swirling like turbulent storm clouds. They really were like black pearls, wet from the wash of the sea, a deep bluish-gray which refracted an organic purple and pink in the light. I was instantly reminded of the eye color that albino individuals sometimes had, a “colorless” iris tinged pinkish-red around the edges from the lack of melanin. With the only apparent color on his skin coming from the flush of blood just beneath the surface, I felt absolutely stupid for not realizing it in the first place.
He raised his glass to mine in silent invitation, his eyes twinkling in a way which communicated that he noticed my assessment of his features. I blinked quickly, collecting myself and clinking the rim of my glass against his in an embarrassed toast, hurriedly taking a sip.
The ambery liquid was sweet and golden, sparking hot like the rays of the sun as the flavors of aged wood and fruit danced on my tongue. It went down in a river of fire, collecting warm and heavy in my gut.
“What do you think?” Mr. Ancunín lilted, a slight tone of challenge in his words.
I managed to swallow the liquor without a single cough, but my voice betrayed me. “I prefer cocktails.” I rasped out.
He chuckled, lifting his glass up to catch the firelight in the crystal’s facets. “Having it straight is a simple pleasure in life.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
A comfortable silence descended between us. I hazarded another sip of my drink, burning hot past my lips and gums. This was all so incredibly odd, magic and dreams and visions hounding me every time I slipped inside this old mansion. Not to mention my ghostly friend, or at least housemate. He seemed very comfortable with this whole set up, falling into the role of a begrudging advisor with relative ease. Perhaps it was training from his previous life, not that he’d admit any information about that, or possibly just the earned right to selfishness in passing on to the next realm. Either way, the concept of him once being alive, standing before me as his full-blooded self, was somewhat fascinating to me.
“I can hear the cogs turning in your head.”
I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He had that same smarmy look on his face, a smirk and his eyebrows raised, and I wanted to tape them down into a respectable expression. I took another sip, seeking some sort of liquid courage for my thoughts.
“I’ve just never seen you in such a…human light.” I started, looking down at my half-drained finger of liquor.
He chuckled in response, holding his spare hand out to admire. “Hm, yes, I do look decidedly different in these circumstances.” He stretched his palm and fingers out to the light, my eyes following the movement. Shadows contoured the tendons of his wrist and forearms and highlighted the deep blue veins set beneath his skin. “Just another benefit of this arrangement, I suppose.”
I took another sip of my drink, suddenly feeling quite warm. “Arrangement?” I asked, stepping back from the fire to press a cool hand on my hot cheeks.
“Partnership, association? How about cooperation?” He offered, turning to continue facing me. “Which would you prefer?”
“I was under the impression that we were barely acquaintances.”
He exhaled a low laugh. “Well then,” He held out his glass in another toast. “To acquaintances?”
The light of the fire illuminated him from the right, casting a warm orange glow on the high points of his face and giving a gingery tinge to his pale curls. He was filled with life and vitality, confidence and power oozing from his pores.
But the other half of his body was obscured from the light, stark shadows stretching across his features. It gave me pause, reminding me of his ever-confusing mercurial nature: irascible, yet good-humored, untrustworthy, yet yielding, impertinent, yet urbane, opening the door for me just a crack, only to slam it shut once my nose was peeked through.
Dangerous, yet also my only hope for knowing more.
I met his eyes, shimmering blood-red like cinnabar in the firelight, and held up my glass to his. “To acquaintances.” I responded, deciding to take the gamble.
“This has been such a nice trip.” My mother mused, bringing her mug of coffee up for a sip. I was drinking tea, as I surreptitiously left another cup for Mr. Ancunín in my room. We were sitting on my settee in my office, enjoying a slow morning while listening to a jazz record on low volume. “Are you sure we can’t stay another night? I’d love to see the other side of the house.”
I shook my head at her. “I only packed enough things for an evening. Besides, I think your lungs would shrivel up even more if you went to that side.”
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Honestly, I can’t believe Lucille and Peter let that side decay like that. Such a waste.”
“Ah, well, it's hard to get things approved, to move funds or get grants to do things.” I pressed my lips into a line. “Things over there are bad enough that it was far easier to seal up that side and focus on the part of the house that’s not falling apart.”
“I suppose that’s why your projects are also taking so long.” She raised her bare eyebrows over the rim of her mug at me.
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been busy, and I was only living here on the weekends.”
“Well, fall’s nearly over, it’s a good time of year to hunker down and get some things done.”
“Excuse me, winter is the worst time of year for home improvement.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Things descended into a comfortable silence. My mother stifled a yawn, despite still working on her coffee for the morning.
“My goodness, I am just so tired today. You don’t have any more coffee, do you?”
“No, I just brought enough for one brew this morning. I could make you tea?”
“Maybe, though I’d rather have that for lunch. Why don’t we stay a little later, leave in the afternoon?”
“We could swing that, if you’re okay with what I can scrounge from the cabinets. I can pack while you sleep too.”
“I’m easy to please.”
It wasn’t a hard sell for me either. After our conversation the previous evening, a deep tiredness had also seeped into my bones. I left her to listen to music in my office, and went for a small walk through the manor. I should have taken the time to settle down with another of Mr. Ancunín‘s books, but my eyes felt strained, the muscles in my face pulled taut.
After making my way down the cedar stairs and ambling through the main lobby, I found myself stepping through the side door to the east wing, passing through the hallway which connected the conservatory to the closed off stairwell. In the murky shadows, I had never noticed that the landing twisted around the rising steps, another set opening just behind them and descending down into the basement. For some reason, I was impelled to explore.
The stairs groaned with age and disuse. I gripped the railing, making my way down carefully into the depths of the house, as a tumble down these stairs would surely bruise my tailbone and ego. The air thickened with the stench of dust and mildew as I came to the base landing, no light trickling down from upstairs. I slipped my phone out of my pocket to turn on my flashlight, illuminating nothing but piles of accumulated debris and nasty strands of smut-caked cobwebs. Something skittered in the distance, and I held my breath as I took hesitant steps through the hazy gray dark.
I knew that this staircase connected both wings of the house, and upon making my way towards the right, I was soon greeted with the sight of the now-clean hallway leading to Mr. Ancunín’s room. Earlier, I had simply focused on my side, cleaning what areas Lucille had merely labeled as “storage” as a practical means of keeping the house tidy. But now that I was down here, I was filled with the overwhelming curiosity to see the other half of the basement.
I passed the base of the stairs once more, slipping through an archway to the left to find a similarly designed hallway, though its doors and their frames were absolutely obscured by the facts of neglect. The hallway continued on to the left, a few shoebox-sized grimy windows set along the top of the wall, so I followed the foggy light. Old crates, splintered wood, piles of crumbled masonry and masses of indescribable filth lined these walls, and rather than this side of the basement mirroring the west, the floor plan revealed another set of closed rooms and a winding walk.
Aside from my flashlight, the only sources of light were those occasional small windows set along the top of the front and back walls, my only hint of geography as I went deeper into the shadows. Assumably, this was all the old servants’ quarters and workspaces, keeping the dirty and necessary work of running a house hidden from its upstairs inhabitants, but the zigzagging floor plan seemed at odds with an efficiently-run household. The conditions down here were further proof that parts of this house had been left to rot away.
The cold moist air crept through the material of my shirt, the stagnant damp settling on the exposed skin of my hands, neck and face. Despite the tendrils of fear I got walking alone in the dark, I had to see the end of this tunnel. I had followed the right-hand side of the wall, passing doors and cobweb-blanketed sconces, and given my mental map of the house, I had to be somewhere beneath the east ballroom. I turned another corner towards the left, and the light from my flashlight stretched down the long walk, falling upon a final wall with its small dirt-encrusted window, with the glimpse of a stair tread hidden in the shadows in the corner.
I huffed lightly, taking care not to breathe too deeply whatever allergens and molds were floating around in the air. How many stairs did Lucille say this place had? I thought back to her tour all those months ago and how she had briefly shown me a secret maid’s entrance to the dining room in the west wing. While the east wing’s layout wasn’t necessarily flipped, it retained some symmetricalities. Perhaps this was one of those aspects? And if Lord Szarr's room was the one at the end of that deep dark hallway, then presumably, this stairwell led all the way up to it.
It was a sobering thought. Maybe the stairs also opened into the library, or even went all the way to the attic? It was like a visual representation of temptation, a backdoor or secret hatch into the rooms Mr. Ancunín had forbidden me from exploring. Though of course, he was most certainly aware of this entrance as a previous employee of this house, and it was only a secret from me, the foreign cousin who was merely lucky to receive said property.
My steps slowed at the base of the stairwell, and I pointed my flashlight up into the stairwell. Just like upstairs, the shadows here seemed to have a physical quality to them, tactile and thick as they washed over each filthy narrow tread. This particular entrance appeared forgotten by time, the wood splitting and rotting and nails poking out of the structure. Ascending them would be a poor idea, both for my physical health and relationship with my ghost.
Still, I reached my left hand out for the railing, recognizable as a simple piece of curved metal beneath a thick layer of rust and dirt. Something twanged behind my eyes, droning between my ears as rough metal and filth flaked away under my grip, ice settling into the thin bones of my fingers.
“What are you doing?”
I spun back, my hand clamped onto the cold iron, to find an unknown man standing before me. He was dressed similarly to Mr. Ancunín, in a white long-sleeved shirt with its throat tied loosely shut, tucked haphazardly into the waistband of a pair of dark colored trousers. His long flaxen hair fell past his shoulders, slightly damp as if it were freshly washed, glimmering in the candlelight he held in his left hand. His light eyes peered past me, through me. Who was–?
“Why are you up?” A familiar voice said behind me, and as I twisted back into the railing, Mr. Ancunín entered my sight, solid and tall as he descended the stairs, now clean and painted a creamy white. He was dressed similarly to the other man and carried his own light, though he still had a cravat tied tightly around his neck and had a dark waistcoat buttoned up his torso.
“I was waiting up for you, but Yousen complained about the candlelight.” The other man answered. I shrunk back into the wall, utterly invisible as the scene played out in front of me. Was this a vision of the past? Yousen? What was going on?
“His Lordship required me.” Mr. Ancunín replied smoothly, leaning onto the opposite wall to me. His expression was terse, guarded somehow. “He needed assistance with one of his personal projects.”
My eyes flickered back to the other man's, whose face was far more open with its emotions. “What sort of ‘personal projects’ does one of the richest men on the Sword Coast work on in the middle of the night?” He replied bitterly, though he kept his complaints to a low volume. This was obviously Mr. Ancunín’s past, but who was this man? One of Mr. Ancunín’s fellow coworkers? Why was I seeing this?
“Nothing you should concern yourself with, my dear.” Mr. Ancunín’s hand went up to his throat, fiddling with the knot of his cravat in a sort of nervous movement. A thick bowstring of tension thrummed between these two, obviously pointing to a previous disagreement, or an unsaid event.
The other man shook his head in angered disbelief. “Did I do something wrong, Astarion? You’ve been utterly cruel recently.”
“His Lordship is simply a very driven man, and requires a great deal of me to help him conduct his research.” The answer felt rehearsed, and by the look on the other man's face, I wasn't the only one who had noticed that.
“What does he work on which requires his valet to assist with?”
“Again, nothing you should concern yourself with.” His tone was cold, eyes narrowed against the bright candlelight. “Now, did you need something from me? I’ve had a tiring night.”
The other man scoffed, hurt plainly written on his features as he recoiled back from Mr. Ancunín’s, Astarion’s, words. “I see what’s happened, you give a brat from Brampton a bit of power, a bit of responsibility, and it turns you into a holier-than-thou nob.” He bit back, the candlelight shuddering in his shaking grip.
Mr. Ancunín inhaled sharply, raising a hand and moving to close the physical distance between the two. “Sebastian–” He started, but the other man took a step back. The name was familiar for some reason, as if I had read it somewhere before.
“No, do not bother, I see how it is.” He hissed through gritted teeth, walking backwards through the long hallway. “Enjoy your work, don’t expect me to rattle your lock anytime soon.” And with that, the man stalked away, disappearing around the corner and leaving nothing but the shadows in this wake.
What did that mean? Who was this “Sebastian” to Mr. Ancunín?
Something thudded heavily beside me, and I turned to find Mr. Ancunín had taken a seat on the step above mine. Here, alone, I could see the discontent and exhaustion on his face. He set the light down onto the tread he was sitting on, its light eerily catching the lower planes of his face, highlighting the bags beneath his eyes and the dry wrinkles of his skin. He brought a hand up to rub at his eyes, stretching the skin taut beneath the heel of his palm, and a droplet of sympathy fell into my stomach.
Was this related to how he had said he had “no choice?” Stuck here working for an abusive master? From my position looking down on him, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, it was the most human I had ever seen him. He was simply a man, one who obviously had many problems propelling him forward in life.
Not just “Mr. Ancunín,” Astarion.
His hand began tugging at the knot in his cravat roughly, pulling the loops of fabric out. Wrinkled white linen rustled through his fingers, but in the flickering candlelight, I caught the sight of something out of place.
I crouched down, leaning in to inspect the mass of fabric as he pulled it completely loose, peeling it from his skin hurriedly. And there it was: dark red droplets stained the inside of the fabric, leaching through the fibers in rusty smears. I slunk back in horror, my eyes pinned on the pale expanse of his throat. Just as he turned to reach for his candle, I spotted a fresh droplet of blood welling up from a small wound, surrounded by the splotchy dye of old blood discoloring his pristine skin.
He reached for his candle and blew it out, pulling us both into the impenetrable darkness.
I stumbled back, falling hard onto my behind as the iron slipped out of my grip. My eyes squeezed shut of their own accord, the thick scent of decay filling my nostrils as I took a shuddering gasp.
Instinctively, I brought a hand up to my mouth to stifle my coughs, unintentionally smacking myself with the hot rectangle of my phone and blinding myself through my closed eyelids. It shocked me into opening my eyes, revealing the previously filthy hallway, now filled only with the gleam of my flashlight.
I pressed my chilled fingers to my chest and tried to take even breaths. Just when I thought I was beginning to answer questions, more were thrust into my lap. That Sebastian, his name was familiar for some reason, did I see that on an employee roll? Did I have those notes here or at my apartment in the city?
I pushed myself off the ground, and the face of my ring bit into the wrinkled skin of my knuckle, suddenly quite tight on my little finger. I risked a glance down as I dusted myself off with my other hand. The ruby on the front was deep wine tone in the low light, like deoxygenated blood, but despite my tumble into the dirt and the dust which had smeared onto my skin, the gem sparkled unnaturally in the dank conditions. A small bead of my own blood had welled up where the pointed crown-like face had once again cut my finger.
The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I hurriedly wiped my hand clean, allowing my feet to carry me out of the basement and back to the safety of the well-lit upstairs. I felt content to let sleeping ghosts lie, but as much as I’d like to ruminate over the vision that I experienced, I had a responsibility to continue with my day and take my mother home.
I trudged back up the stairs, expecting to hear music, but was being greeted with silence as I came to the top landing.
I peeked back into my office, which was empty. Turning back to the hallway, the door to the neighboring double suite was closed. My mother must have returned to her room to lay down, shutting the door for quiet. I pushed myself off the door frame and tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen.
The digital display on the stove said 11:32 A.M.. I exhaled a long sigh. Traffic wouldn’t be the worst on a weekend, but I still wanted to get home before late afternoon. I pulled open my pantry cupboards, which pitifully only contained a solitary can of tomato soup, a bag of chips, an already opened container of uncooked spaghetti, and a dusty bag of brown lentils. Kicking open the fridge, there was a single serving of chicken leftover from dinner last night. Chicken and tomato wasn’t my favorite combination, but it would be sufficient fuel.
I dumped the tomato soup into a saucepan and cranked the heat on the stovetop, and chucked the leftovers into the microwave. While everything was warming up, I scrubbed my hands clean under the tap, leaning under the faucet to rinse the taste of dust out of my mouth.
While my body was going through the motions of setting up lunch, grabbing my mother’s meds from my room and filling a glass of water for her, I found myself wondering if I should I mention that vision to Mr. Ancunín. He was so touchy when it came to intimate details of his life, he’d probably blow up at me for even mentioning it, but at the same time, I didn’t choose to see that argument, to see such a moment of vulnerability. That being said, he got to see my vulnerability this weekend, the reason I had been gone for so long? Perhaps he would consider that tit-for-tat.
The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I made my way down the long hall, food steaming up into my nostrils and replacing the scent of dust with rich tomato and herbaceous basil. The air was remarkably light, and I found myself looking over the railing, appreciating the warm tones of the central staircase as it wound around the edge of the room to the rich green carpets below. It would look remarkable dressed up for the holidays, the balusters woven with boughs of fir and velvet ribbons in crimson and gold. A great tree would stand in the middle of the room, dressed with gleaming blown glass ornaments, streamers of tinsel and strung cranberries wrapped round the branches. It was an incredibly dreamy thought, one which put a small smile on my lips.
I opened the door to the double suite. The air was still and quiet as I padded in with my loaded tray, taking a left immediately to enter Lucille’s old suite. The window was cracked open, the chilled breeze sending the gauzy white curtains fluttering in the overcast light. My mother was laying on top of the covers, her eyes closed serenely with her with her hands clasped on her belly. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were looking out the window just before she closed her eyes. She had taken off her nasal cannula for her nap, having tossed the oxygen concentrator onto the other side of the bed and turned off its ever present humming rumble.
I clicked my tongue at her, setting the tray of food on a small side table before walking over to the side of the bed and taking a seat beside her legs. “Mom? I have lunch.” I murmured, laying a hand on hers and shaking it slightly. Her skin was cool to the touch like it normally was, but she didn’t stir.
She often was a heavy sleeper. I bit back an irritated sigh. “Mom, wake up please, we gotta start packing up here.” I picked up her hand and patted it. Her fingers were remarkably limp, her arm dead weight.
My eyes flickered to her belly, where her other hand laid. It was still, unmoving.
My fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing firmly, seeking any flickering sensation of her weak pulse.
“Mom, mom, please .” I pressed the edge of my thumbnail hard into the base of one of her fingernails.
She didn’t respond.
I slapped the back of her hand repeatedly. “Please, please, please,” I reached up and rubbed my knuckles against her sternum.
She didn’t respond.
My breath caught in my throat. The room was silent except for the rippling hush of the curtains dancing in the air and the pounding of my heart in my ears. I found myself just staring at her body. Looking for any signs of life. Her chest was still, no pulse jumping in her throat or thrumming against my hand.
Nothing.
End of Part 1