Page 5 of Beneath the Poet's House

Lucretia lifts her mug and blows on the steaming liquid, then sets it back on the table and shrugs. “We’re artists,” she says. “And spiritualists.We love Providence because of its history of producing freethinkers, and Sarah Helen Whitman was one of the best. We’ve been coming here once a week for the last five years to, well ...”

“To bring her back from the dead?” Saoirse finishes for her, one eyebrow raised.

Lucretia’s pale face flushes. “Mia may have been a tad dramatic, putting it like that. To commune with her spirit, is probably a better way to phrase it.”

“While leaning hard into performative ritual,” Roberto says.

He grins rather wickedly, and Saoirse is forced to recalibrate her earlier impression of him. Maybe he isn’t as stodgy as she thought. Still, he was making a joke of breaking into Saoirse’s new home and turning her basement into a parlor act. She scrunches her nose. “Performative ritual? Seriously?”

“I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous.” Roberto runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Saoirse thinks her earlier guess at his age was too high; despite the hair, he looks closer to thirty than thirty-five.

“On one hand,” Roberto continues, “it’s become something to do with friends. Every Friday night, more or less, we get together for the séance, and we each play our little roles. Sometimes we go to dinner afterward, or to one of our houses to watch a movie.” He pauses, gauging the others’ reactions to his assessment. When they nod—Mia, once, Lucretia, an enthusiastic bobbing that sends her black hair bouncing—he continues, “But on the other, it’s a manifestation of our beliefs and our hopes for the future.”

“How so?” Saoirse asks.

“We’re transcendentalists,” Mia says, “meaning we believe what Sarah Helen Whitman believed. And Ralph Waldo Emerson. And Henry David Thoreau. And Margaret Fuller and Ellen Sturgis Hooper and Elizabeth Peabody. That the ‘divine’ is here on earth among humans and nature, and that society and its institutions have corrupted the purity not only of the individual but of all of humanity. We also believethe only way to solve the climate crisis is for the world to embrace transcendentalism and give themselves back to nature.”

“Though, the stuff about the climate is noticeably missing from the writings of nineteenth-century transcendentalists,” Roberto adds. “We had to update the philosophy to fit the times.”

Saoirse resists the urge to rub her temples and takes a sip of tea instead. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” she says. “You three attempt to commune with the dead girlfriend of Edgar Allan Poe ... to save the world from global warming?”

“Well, sheesh, when you put it like that,” Lucretia says, twirling a lock of hair and looking embarrassed.

Mia scowls. “Like Roberto said, there’s no single reason for performing the ritual. For example, he didn’t mention that the three of us are writers and use the time during the séance to meditate as much as commune. Ways out of sticky plot points, formulating new ideas, et cetera.”

“Exactly,” Lucretia chimes in. Her dark eyes flash behind the lenses of her glasses. She seems the youngest of the three. Not naive, exactly, but radiating a childlike sense of wonder and fascination. Saoirse has no trouble buying Lucretia’s interest in the otherworldly. “Sarah Whitman is sort of our muse,” Lucretia finishes.

Saoirse scoffs, but a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth. “You’rewriters,” she says, as if this puts everything that’s come before it in perspective. “What do you write?”

“Mia’s a poet,” Lucretia says. “She’s amazing. I write a little poetry, too, but nowhere near as good as Mia. I dabble in science fiction and fantasy, but my true love is horror.” She smirks at Roberto. “Roberto calls what he writesliteraryhorror, but that’s because he’s a snob.”

“No, Lucretia,” Roberto says, “Publishers Weeklycalls what I write literary horror. In that starred review I got for my debut novel, remember?”

Lucretia snorts. “Where’s the second novel? That’ll help us figure out your genre. Oh, wait, that’s right. You haven’t finished it yet. Betterstart focusing your appeals to Sarah on increasing your daily word count.”

Roberto leans over and gives Lucretia’s arm a little flick. It’s the gesture of an older brother; the affection the two have for each other is obvious. Saoirse can tell Roberto and Lucretia are close with Mia, too, but Mia commands respect, not affection. She wonders how they know one another, but her tea has gone cold, and she feels the stirring of a headache behind one eye. Still, there’s something else she wants to say to them before calling it a night, something she hasn’t said to herself in almost four years, and out loud in even longer.

“I’m a writer too.” Saoirse feels their eyes on her and squirms. “Cozy mysteries. Suspense. I used to write a little poetry, too, but not since college. I had an agent, but she dropped me after ... Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything good enough to be seen by an agent. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything at all.”

“Shutup,” Lucretia squeals. She wraps her tattooed arms around her torso and hugs herself, practically vibrating with excitement. Roberto smiles, but Mia’s expression remains unchanged, unreadable. She drains her tea and looks hard at Saoirse.

“Of course you are,” Mia says. Roberto and Lucretia turn to Mia.

“I’m sorry?”

“No one’s been here for five years,” Mia continues. “Prior to that, everyone who moved in left before the lease was up.”

“Because it’s haunted by the ghost of Sarah Whitman?” Saoirse really needs to go to bed now. Her thoughts feel like crows startled by thunder, exploding out of a skeletal tree in eight different directions.

“Maybe,” Mia says, her expression still deadly serious. “You’re the one who’s going to be living here, so I suppose you’ll find out. But at the very least, it’s because Sarah doesn’t want anyone but another writer living in her house.” Mia’s eyes lock on Saoirse’s. “You know, you look like her too. Sarah Helen Whitman. Same sharp profile, thoughtful eyes, wavy brown hair.”

“Same waifish Victorian figure and pale skin,” Roberto adds jovially, and Mia gives him a look.

Just as Saoirse is about to make another sarcastic comment, the intensity of Mia’s gaze softens. “I’m not trying to weird you out. All I’m saying is, even if your coming here means the end of our séances, it’s nice to have a writer in Sarah’s home.”

Saoirse opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She can feel Lucretia and Roberto studying her, the unasked question hanging over the room. “I guess ...,” Saoirse begins, then stops. She doesn’t trust herself not to make a hasty decision, doesn’t want to commit to inviting these three strangers back next Friday. “I guess,” she repeats, “it might be nice to get together again, maybe.”

“Ooh, for a writing group?” Lucretia asks.

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