Page 13 of The Golden Spoon
“I looked all over the third floor and didn’t see anything,” Pradyumna says. “Odd, isn’t it? Having a floor no one can reach?”
The corners of the library have grown dark and shadowy as the logs in the fireplace crackle. I feel an unpleasant shudder pass through me and try not to think of getting lost earlier. The room grows quiet. Are we all listening for creaks in the floorboards? Pradyumna’s finger traces the top of his empty glass. I see his eyes flutter to the liquor cabinet, trying to gauge if he should pour himself another.
“I renovated a haunted house once,” Peter says.
“Improbable,” Gerald quips. But the others lean forward in their chairs.
“Really? How did you know?” Hannah asks, her voice so soft that it’s nearly a whisper.
I pull my feet in closer on the chair, tucking them under me. The blood rushes in my ears.
“It was the usual stuff at first—things moving, weird scraping sounds. But then there was the shape on the wall.”
My heart lurches, and I suddenly wish he would stop talking. I have this thing, this problem. If I feel afraid, I just black out. One minute I’ll be fine, and then suddenly my heart is pounding out of my chest and my body just shuts down. It nearly happened yesterday, but talking to Lottie helped pull me out of it.
It’s funny because I used to love scaring myself. I considered reading horror novels and watching true crime documentaries about gruesome murders a fun way to pass time. Now I can’t watch a scary movie or get into an elevator alone without it happening. Sometimes I even feel it start when my thoughts turn dark on the way through my apartment to the bathroom at night. I know when it’s coming because I’ll experience a shift. First my eyesight goes fuzzy around the edges and then narrows into a dark tunnel. My body will start to feel very heavy and then like it is floating away from me. The next thing I know, I’m waking up on a floor somewhere, with no memory of what happened.
I breathe in deeply, trying to fight it. I would be so embarrassed if I just passed out in front of these people I barely know.
“What kind of shadow? Where did you see it?” Hannah asks, her voice sounding far away.
Peter leans in. “I was redoing a stairwell of a very old house. I’d removed an old chandelier to clean it. It was a heavy one, loaded with crystals. The shadow was on the landing wall near the bottom set of stairs. It looked like a figure. At first, I thought it was a breeze blowing through the drapes from the window on the landing. But then one completely cloudy day, I saw it. The shadow of a figure swaying back and forth. It looked like it was floating. I jerked around looking for a curtain or something moving that would’ve been blocking or affecting the light, but nothing.”
The edges of my vision start to blur.
“That’s too creepy!” Hannah’s voice slices through the air next to me.
“Did you find out where it was coming from?” Pradyumna asks.
“Not exactly, but I did do some digging. Turned out a past owner had hung himself in the stairwell.From the chandelier. I put the chandelier back up and never saw the shadow again.”
“That is wild!” Pradyumna slaps his knee, the ice cubes rattling in his glass.
“Well, I should go to bed,” I say as brightly as possible, attempting to hide my strange reaction, but I stand up quickly, too quickly. My head spins, and I grab the back of the chair to keep from falling over.
“Are you okay?” Peter jumps to his feet, reaching out to me.
“Fine, fine! I just probably shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.” I wave his concern away with a sweaty palm, a smile plastered on my face. At least I hope it looks like a smile. I suddenly want nothing more than to get into bed. I try to keep my voice light. “Today was a lot. You all are going to crush me tomorrow if I don’t get some rest.”
“You okay getting to your room?” Peter asks.
“I’m great. Thanks, good night, everyone!” But I’m not okay, not really. I leave the library and stagger down the hallway, trying not to look into the eyes of the creepy portraits staring down at me, lining the brocade-covered wall.One foot in front of the other, Stella, step by step.I watch each foot make contact with the polished wood floor. As I walk, I count backward in my head:Ten, nine, eight, seven, six.Very slowly my vision begins to return to normal. I go upstairs and walk down the narrow hallway to my room.Five, four, three, two, one.
“A reaction to a trauma,” a therapist called my blackouts. “Until we address what’s happened to you,” she’d said gently to me at one of our few sessions, “these spells will continue to occur.” I’d stopped seeing her soon after. Counting was the only idea of hers I took with me when I left, and it is the only thing that helps take my body out of panic mode. When I focus on the numbers, it transports me straight into the present moment, jerking me out of whatever fear state I’ve entered. It is the only thing that works. Well, the only thing besides baking.
I didn’t need therapy if I had baking, I reasoned. I avoided applying for new jobs and instead spent my time learning how to frost cakes, pipe filling into cream puffs, and knead perfect bread loaves. With baking you are forced to exist only in the moment or whatever you are making won’t turn out. There was no fear in baking, I told myself. A lie, probably.
I get to my room, flinging the door open. I half expect to see some sort of ghost, perhaps a man dangling from the ceiling, but the room is quiet and still except for a curtain moving slightly in the breeze. I rush to the window and shut it, closing the latch, and turn back to the bed with its garden green canopy. I fall into it, leaving the bedside light switched on and tucking the covers up to my chin, counting backward until I fall asleep.
HANNAH
Halfway through my second glass of wine, I realize that every alcohol I’ve ever tried before was actual swill—the beers that Ben drinks, the flavored vodka that Mom loves mixed with diet Sprite, the hard seltzer my friend Emma keeps in the backseat of her car, and drinks warm from the can.
I always told them how much I hate drinking, but I see now that I only hated drinking crap. I like this wine. I can feel it hitting my bloodstream, mellowing me out. The inside of my head is pleasant fizzy. I never understood the point of alcohol, never felt drunk like this before. But now I have a rising sense of euphoria, a feeling like I’m floating.
I walk back toward my room slowly, swinging myself around on the banister as I climb up the stairs. I allow myself to pretend I live here at Grafton. In my imagination I’m friends with Betsy Martin. On the landing I look to the double doors of the East Wing longingly. Would it be so bad just to have a little peek? I stroll up to the door and peer through the glass at the long wood-paneled hallway. I put my hand on the shiny gold handle. It is cool to the touch. Nothing like the chintzy doorknobs in my apartment.No, I scold myself.Just go back before you get into trouble.As I spin around to go back to the West Wing, I run full force into Archie Morris.
“Whoop! Where you heading there, champ?” He chuckles kindly as I stumble backward, taking me by the shoulder to keep me from falling. I feel his warm hand on my collarbone. It’s broad and steadying. I laugh, the vague realization that I might be embarrassed about this tomorrow sloshes around in my head, but I smile and ignore it.
