Page 12 of Beneath the Poet's House

Did the man from the Athenæum follow her, or is his presence here a coincidence? Could Aidan have somehow found her and sent someone to keep an eye on her? Either way, Saoirse doesn’t want to stand here any longer, pondering it.

I’m sure Poe has something to say about the nature of coincidences in at least one of his lurid Gothic tales,Jonathan says from her head. Saoirse shushes him with a hiss and turns away.

Before she can turn completely, however, the man raises one dark eyebrow and nods his head. It’s more than a gesture of acknowledgment:We’re just two people accidentally locking eyes through a coffee-shop window.It’s a declaration. A promise. That this won’t be the last time. That they will meet again. And if the slant of that eyebrow—along with the small smirk that animates one side of his mouth—means anything, she suspects it will be soon.

Saoirse turns away from the window and starts down the sidewalk, using all her self-control not to break into a run.

Chapter 6

On Friday morning, the phone on the kitchen wall rings before Saoirse has finished making breakfast. Frowning, she wipes her hands on a dish towel.

“Hello?” Her tone is wary.

“Saoirse!” The female voice garbles the pronunciation of her name. “It’s Diane Hartnett. Just wanted to check in and see how things were going. Is the house up to your expectations? Do you need anything? Have you had any problems?”

Saoirse’s eyes flick to the hallway leading to the walkout basement and her mind to what lies beneath it.If you know 88 Benefit,Roberto had said,really know it, there are other ways to get in besides the front door.

What would the landlord’s reaction be if she knew about the occultist writers obsessed with the house? This is her chance. If she doesn’t tell Diane everything now, whatever happens going forward will be on Saoirse. Despite her coffee date with Lucretia, she still doesn’t know much about the trio. If she continues letting them in—both metaphorically and physically—she may come to regret it. And what about the floorboards that creak mysteriously, and the unsettling feeling she’s always just missed someone the moment she walks into a room? Should she mention that?

The seconds in which Diane’s questions hang in the air stretch and bloat. Saoirse imagines she hears the ticking of a clock. “Everything’sfine,” she says finally and feels anticipation pop like a bubble. “The house is beautiful. Atmosphere rivaled only by location.”

Diane expels a sigh of relief. Could the landlord know more about her ex-husband’s “deal” with Mia and the others than Saoirse first thought? But then Diane’s going on about how she’s had more than her fair share of renters from outside the city who are unhappy with the more “antiquated” aspects of several of her properties, and Saoirse decides Diane is simply relieved that she won’t be losing the first inhabitant of 88 Benefit in years after only a week. They chat for another minute about the annual boiler cleaning and the temperate weather. When Saoirse hangs up, she has a feeling that she won’t be hearing from Diane again anytime soon.

She finishes her breakfast and washes it down with two large pills and a glass of cranberry juice. A glance at her phone informs her that it’s only nine thirty. What do people do all day when they’re not working, when they’ve gone through something like she has? How do they spend their days? How to reconcile with a clock that goes backward and in circles as much as forward? It’s been nine months, and she still hasn’t figured this out.

The basement beckons with the promise of time filled, luring her toward the trapdoor in the southwest corner. Saoirse still hasn’t examined the paneling Roberto claimed would swing outward when you knew what to look for, granting access to the walkout. She walks to the wall and places her hands flat against it. Pressing out and down, she tries to pop the passage open, but the panels don’t budge. She pushes harder, changes the position of her hands, and pushes again. Still nothing.

“Guess I’m going to have to ask the Whitman squad how to break into my own house,” she mutters. She spies her new broom against the wall, grabs it, lifts the trapdoor, and descends into the gloom.

Saoirse hasn’t been in the basement since the previous Friday, when she led Roberto, Mia, and Lucretia up the stairs with a demand that they explain their presence in her house. She’d forgotten about the dirt floor; her broom—the duster, any of the cleaning products she boughtduring last night’s time-waster trip to the Charles Street Home Depot, really—won’t be of any use here, though she does give each step a good sweep on the way down. Propping the broom up, she trudges across the dim space, around the corner, and toward the site of the séance. Pillar candles stretch up from the table like strange, dark anemones on the floor of a tar-black sea.

Saoirse trails a finger over a depression of wax, picks off a bit of wick. She breathes deeply, but the smell of honey and bergamot has disappeared along with the people who’d wielded matches and tiny vials of essential oils, the absence of their noise and light and vibrancy creating a void that reverberates in their very own residual haunting. She wonders if they’d be pleased with her perception, three individuals mesmerized by the possibility of lingering spirits, of messages from the dead, that their own absence carries such a palpable weight.

Saoirse turns from the black-draped table and hurries for the stairs. Before starting up them, she hears a noise behind her, something like a muffled, guttural growl. Saoirse freezes, then risks a look back across the basement, but there’s nothing there.An old boiler,she tells herself, ignoring the fact that she sees nothing that might conceal a large steel drum.

She takes the stairs two at a time and doesn’t bother lowering the trapdoor behind her. She finds her phone in the living room, tossed onto the coffee table. In the shadow of the Zuber panel landscapes, she opens the text message app, sends a response to a text from her mother asking if she’d heard from “any of Jonathan’s friends,” code for whether Aidan Vesper managed to contact her since leaving New Jersey (All quiet on that front ... and I miss you too), then opens a new thread and adds two recipients.

I’ve made up my mind. No need to change the Friday ritual. I’ll see you at nine for the séance.

The responses rush into her phone like waves. Saoirse reads theoh-my-gosh-YESfollowed by dozens of emojis from Lucretia and thesingleSee you soonfrom Roberto. She navigates to her call app, searches her contacts, presses send. Mia answers on the third ring.

“It’s Saoirse. I texted the others. Come tonight. For the séance.” She hears Mia’s sharp intake of breath, then the clink of glass, as if Mia is setting down a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Mia says. “That’s fantastic. See you then.” The line goes dead.

A part of Saoirse is embarrassed by her boldness. She knows she’s reached out to the trio from a place of depression, boredom, and loneliness. Another, larger part of her doesn’t care. Regardless of the circumstances, the idea of people, friends, coming to take her mind off the past—even as they summon it—excites her. She smiles.

Now all that’s left to do is wait.

Chapter 7

Roberto, Lucretia, and Mia arrive in a flurry of decidedly unspooky fervor, no mention of specters or tarot cards from any one of them. Lucretiaiswearing all black, but by now, Saoirse is inclined to believe this is her usual attire. Mia is in a taupe-colored cashmere sweater, her brown hair parted down the middle and pulled into a low, Dickinsonian bun. She carries the large black drawstring bag she’d had with her a week prior. Roberto’s navy long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans establish him as the least horror-writer-looking member of the group.

“I brought dessert,” Lucretia says and thrusts a platter of large chocolate-frosted cupcakes at Saoirse. “They’re vegan. And gluten-free.”

“Oh. Okay.” Saoirse looks around, unsure what to do with them. “Do you usually ... I mean, do you want to eat them now? Or are we going right downstairs? How does this work?”

Roberto laughs. “Relax. There’s no schedule. But I just had dinner. I couldn’t possibly eat one of Lucretia’s experimental cupcakes now.”

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