Page 45 of Beneath the Poet's House

“Saoirse,” he croaks, “it’s me. Stop kicking, and help me out of here.”

For the second time that night, Saoirse, too weak to stand, drops to her knees on the ground. Emmit looks at her strangely, eyes glinting, a smirk at one corner of his mouth, as if he knows a delicious, terrible secret. “Jesus Christ, Emmit,” she exclaims, catching her breath. “Was that the crash I heard? Did youfalldown there? Are you okay?”

“I ... I think so,” he replies, and the smirk disappears. Likely, she’d imagined it in the first place. “There are boxes or something down here. I fell onto one of them. It blocked my fall, but I shouldn’t stand on it too much longer. It’s pretty unsteady.”

Saoirse grips his hands, and Emmit worms his way up. “Why the hell did you come down here in the first place?” she asks.

“I had to see where Lovecraft’s story was set,” he says and brushes dust and chips of wood from the collar of his jacket. “Where it wasactuallyset. Dumb, I know. But once I was down here”—he pauses and gestures around them—“I had to see how far it goes. I’m not high anymore. Well, notthathigh. But it’s not my imagination, right? This basement, it goes way beyond the foundation of the house.”

As Emmit continues talking about the inexplicable construction, Saoirse leads him back in the direction of the basement stairs. “It’s not your imagination. The roomsdoextend too far to make sense within the framework of the house. But I don’t need any more raccoons, and I don’t need you falling into any more holes in the floor. If you want to investigate, why don’t you contact that friend of yours with the historical society? Find out about the Shunned House from the safety of street level?”

They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, and Saoirse brushes more dust from Emmit’s jacket. Emmit blinks and flexes his fingers, as if returning to himself.

“For now,” Saoirse continues, “how about we get out of here? Maybe get some dinner?”

“That’s a great idea,” he says. “And, Saoirse? I’m sorry for dragging you down here. It’s just, once I started walking into the, well, abyss, for lack of a better word, I couldn’t help myself. We were there! In the very place that inspired Lovecraft! I started thinking”—he stops and smiles at Saoirse a little sheepishly—“that it might inspire me too.” He moves closer to her, his expression earnest. Then, in a tone of reverent disbelief, he says, “I think itdidinspire me.”

Saoirse takes his hand. “That’s great,” she says, leading him up the stairs. At the top, she closes the trapdoor, then shepherds him across the walkout basement and into the hallway. She’s desperate to be outside, away from the heavy stench of mold that makes it hard to breathe, that makes her heart thud painfully in her chest. She’s desperate to suck in lungfuls of fresh, cold air. “And I want to hear all about it. Just as soon as we walk out the back door, prop that big rock in front of it to keep it closed, and get the hell out of this creepy old house.”

Chapter 26

The next morning, Saoirse lingers in bed, staring out the balcony slider at the brilliant swath of leaves in shades from dandelion to cider. Emmit left earlier than she expected, citing the need to head into his office to work on story critiques for several mentees. But Saoirse doubts this. His urgency, she thinks, has more to do with the inspiration he claims visited him the previous evening than with returning papers while he’s out, recovering from his fictitious bout of COVID.

Emmit didn’t say much over dinner regarding the nature of this inspiration, only that—while far from the fully formed idea he received prior to embarking uponVulture Eyes—it was the beginning of something special. Saoirse didn’t question whether his excitement was misplaced, though she can’t see how anything from that damp, disgusting basement could translate to something of literary merit.

Still, he seemed hopeful to the point where she chose to ignore the two bottles of wine he drank with dinner, invigorated so that his eyes remained bright and alert even after Saoirse grew tired. He was energetic on the walk home, and after they fell into the front door of 88 Benefit, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, his thirst for her was endless, his need for her touch and attention exhausting her, his demand for her reciprocation and synchronicity almost sending her over the edge.

Saoirse remains tired even after the full night’s sleep, drained from the drug and alcohol consumption. She still can’t believe the woman lastnight sipping from a flask and swallowing unidentified powder-filled capsules was her.

Easy to fall down the rabbit hole of substances, isn’t it?Jonathan asks.Even with a bum heart.

Saoirse ignores him.

Vowing to get back on track with her health, she goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on and search for her computer. Despite these distractions, despite her attempts to focus on the fun she’s had with Emmit, or the seeds of an idea for a new poem, the only thought that continues to present itself is the one she’s trying to dodge most vehemently:I might not be anything like Jonathan. But might Emmit be a little more like my late husband than I first thought?

No. That isn’t it. They’re just in that early stage of relationships, when everything is new and full of potential. It’s normal to let loose a little more than normal, to rely on a bit of liquid courage to let down one’s inhibitions. Emmit isnotlike Jonathan. He can’t be.

But it’s not just the substance use—abuse?—that reminds you of me, is it?Jonathan asks.That night you were having dinner with your friends ... Emmit didn’t just sound disappointed when you weren’t free, he sounded jealous.Ididn’t even get jealous of you spending time with other people.

“No,” Saoirse says aloud. “You were jealous of my insistence on maintaining a life, on maintaining an identity, separate from you. You wanted to strip me of my autonomy, to control—no, obliterate—my very life. I’ll take Emmit’s disappointment over your abuse any day of the week.”

That’s a little dramatic,Jonathan says.

“It isn’t.”

Really? I mean, I still don’t even buy the little meet-cute as it supposedly happened. Emmit, worryingyouwere stalkinghim? It was an act meant to turn you away from your original suspicions. You and I both know Emmit saw you in the Athenæum that day, followed you home, and has orchestrated every subsequent run-in.

Saoirse opens her laptop angrily. “Will you get out of my head! Why won’t you disappear already, shut up and leave me alone?”

Oh, Saoirse, Saoirse. You know why I won’t leave. It’s simple, really. Poetic. My voice is the disembodied heart beneath the floorboards, and I’m going to keep on beating till I drive you mad.

Any lingering motivation to check job postings dissipates. She pushes her laptop across the table, leaves the kitchen, and wanders into the living room. She will not continue arguing with someone who’s not really there, whether that’s the ghost of her dead husband or a fragment of her own splintered brain. She sits on the settee and opens a notebook on the coffee table. She wants the peace that comes with writing but doesn’t want to be alone to achieve it. She’s considering going for a walk to shake some ideas loose when her cell phone rings.

“How’d you like to engage in a little mysticism for mysticism’s sake?” Roberto asks after Saoirse’s accepted the call.

“Huh?”

“Just a little transcendentalist humor. Writing. How would you like to get together to do some writing?”

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