The Witch House of Persimmon Point (6 page)

Eleanor held her breath. Maj had a fine-tuned, dry, adult sense of humor. But only with those she trusted and loved. She tended to get all balled up inside and defensive when anyone else criticized her about anything.

“No offense to the pawpaw,” said Maj.

Eleanor exhaled.

“So, are you ready to explain all this mystery, Miss Byrd? What are we running out of time for?”

“That man, Johnny Colder, is coming here on Sunday. That leaves us two days, not counting the rest of today, to find whatever he might find … first.”

“I'll admit, I could have waited to move here until after that ‘circus' was gone,” Eleanor said. “But every bone in my body ached to get here before he did. And I've learned it's futile to fight against the Amore instincts. Still, you've been here since May. With your strong Amore ways, and all your cleaning up and gardening, you haven't found anything. Have you considered maybe there's nothing to find? Maybe our mutual need to get here was more about what's going on right now between you and me and Maj. Maybe all this is a simple case of blood calling blood.”

“
NO
. It's much more than that. I
SWEAR
, why do all my people have to flirt with ignorance before they accept who they are. Look here, there is some goddamn truth, some dark secret that is simply taunting me. I just haven't found it out yet. Anyway, that's why
I NEED YOU
. I figure if I tell you all the stories of the women who lived here, maybe you can help me put it all together. I'm convinced their lives are like a treasure map or something. Clues hidden inside their journals and documents and stories. And I'm so close to all of it I can't see the forest for the damn trees.”

“Please help out your poor Yankee cousin. Why is it important that we find anything? It's going to be a pain in the ass to deal with those fools, but at the end of the day, they'll wrap up and we will know everything (or the nothing) that they find. Byrd, what am I missing here? You have to tell me everything.”

Byrd sat down and started speaking slowly.

“There were rumors about this house and this land. Rumors that women were held captive and murdered in the wine cellar. Which isn't that interesting
AT ALL
if you ask me. It's been done before. And then there were rumors of dark magical curses. Stories about toxic plants and two-headed cats. None of that bothers me. It's humdrum yawn material. What bothers me is being
EXPOSED
without knowing how to control it. Like having your clothes yanked off when you never even got a good look at your own naked body. What if you had three boobies and a half a tail? See? Interesting if you got a chance to hint at the freak show before they exposed it, but if not … Elly, if we don't control the secrets Johnny might find, then we got to live all up inside
someone else's idea of who we are.

“I ain't havin' that.

“It's one thing to announce we are the surviving members of the most terrifying family in these parts. It's another thing entirely to be told you come from a long line of psychotic women who deserved everything their sorry asses got. One notion is strong, the other is weak. And I can't abide weakness. I just can't.”

Eleanor looked at Maj and then back at Byrd. “So … you want to make sure we have a say in our own narrative, is that right?”

“Exactly. It could be the difference between Maj and me growing up as the badasses of the Eastern Shore … or just two more women in a long line of forgettable sick-in-the-head nothings. It's the difference between ‘the Witch House—I can't believe you're one of them! Tell me, can you really make it rain?' and ‘Inbreeding. They say they have power, but all they have is sick, thin blood!'”

Eleanor was immediately reminded of the reasons she'd hightailed it to the Witch House in the first place. She wanted Maj to be able to define her own reality. To be able to breathe inside who she was, versus who the world expected and wanted her to be. To find meaning in her differences instead of covering them up.

“Okay, okay, I get it, and I agree,” she said. “You can stop now. Where do we start? We really need a historical society. Is there one in downtown Haven Port?”

“Haven Port has a thriving historical society. It's one of the only things this ghost town does right. Only it's not downtown.”

“Where is it?”

“It's your lucky day.
I'm
the historical society.”

Byrd walked over to the oven and pulled out a basket full of papers. “Me, and these. Man, do we have a night in front of us.”

“You don't cook much, do you, Byrd?” asked Maj, with a giggle.

7:00 P.M.

Notes and photos and magazine clippings littered almost every surface in the kitchen.

“So this one is about how the house here now is built from the rubble of the house that was here first,” Eleanor said, examining another
Virginia Is for Lovers
brochure.

Byrd read it aloud. “The original Haven House was thought to be charmed in some way. Everyone who went there said it was the most beautiful piece of land. One notable occasion was when Thomas Jefferson was said to have visited shortly before he died, where he exclaimed: ‘If only I'd designed Monticello this way!'” Byrd and Eleanor both took a moment to question the verity of that statement.

“And Nan Amore, my great-great-aunt, who was also your great-great- …
great
-grandmother, she's the one who built this house, the Witch House,” Eleanor said.

“A: that's a lot of ‘greats,' and 2: you catch on quick. Maybe your sight isn't so backwards after all.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I've been thinkin', and I guess there's all kinds of levels to these gifts we seem to share. You know, like in school when they take a kid out of regular classes and put 'em in special ones because they're not readin' on the same level or what have you.”

“You mean special education classes?”

“Exactly. And just like those kids aren't upset about that reality, you don't have to be upset that you got a little gypped in the psychic department. Hell, if we were all like me … or Maj, we'd figure out all the secrets of the universe and life as we know it would end. Or be plain boring. So, yeah. See? You saved the world!” teased Byrd.

“Shut it. You
need
me. Remember? Now, what else do we have about the house? I'm not finding anything that proves or disproves or even speaks to those rumors.” Then she mumbled under her breath, “She just called me a learning disabled psychic.
”

“Well, there are spectacular reviews about the land. I've been thinking we should spend tomorrow digging beyond the gardens I already searched. But I don't know where to start.”

“The deed says it's only five acres.”

“The original acreage was over forty. Took up the whole peninsula, probably stretched into Maryland. That's a whole lot of digging.”

“Can we dig now?” asked Maj. “I'd like to go outside and see the moo, moo, moo, moo, mooon. And Crazy Anne said I have to see the ponies.” Maj had been patiently listening, eating too much pie (even the lemon pawpaw), and coloring, and she was plain old bored.

“Tomorrow. It's too dark anyhow,” said Byrd.

“You see Crazy Anne, too,” said Eleanor, with a deep sigh. “It feels a little strange. I don't remember deciding to be the older, wiser, silly, slow-on-the-uptake grown-up.”

Byrd rolled her eyes. “She's my great-grandmother. And though it irks me to
no end
, I haven't seen her. And she won't talk to me. Or can't. You know, I gotta admit, it feels nice to have conversations about these things with people who understand. It's fun to see others react to things like ghost spotting, but even shock and awe can get boring after a spell.”

“I think that's a good way to describe family. The ability to simply … be. And to know. And to not have to pretend,” Eleanor said, giving a little half smile.

“Sounds great. Call me when you find one of those,” said Byrd.

“But they're all here, Byrd,” whispered Maj. “Nan and Anne and Lucy. Others, too. Like Ava. Anne's the loudest, but they're all here, and they are your family. They are
our
family.”

“Well, they haven't haunted
ME
yet,” said Byrd. “And trust me, I never met a spirit who didn't love to haunt me. And these are the ones I NEED TO TALK TO. Figures. And yes, sarcasm runs in this supposed family of ours. And a love of pie.”

“They already told you all their stories. They're right up here,” said Maj, tapping at her forehead. “Now you just got to tell Mama.”

“I guess we could start with Nan. If you get a notebook from the library, we could start to draw up a chart or something,” suggested Eleanor.

“We got a family tree right here,” Byrd said, pouting.

“I know. And it's lovely. But if we write down dates and facts as you tell me her story, maybe we can make a connection you haven't made yet.”

Byrd's face lit up. “Finally. You are useful! You are! No, I mean it. That's perfect. I'll grab a pad. Sometimes it's the simplest things, I
SWEAR
.” Byrd practically skipped out of the room.

“Maj, it looks like me and Byrd will be burning a little midnight oil. How about we get you all set up on the couch in the conservatory? We'll leave the doors open. That way you can hear us talking and you won't be scared.”

“All right. But not because I'm scared. This house doesn't scare me one bit. But it can scare. It likes to scare. Sometimes it feels bad that it makes people sad. Sometimes it feels good to watch them run.”

Byrd caught the last part of Maj's words as she reentered the kitchen, and she stopped short.

For the first time all day, it was Byrd and Eleanor who shared a look. One part worry, one part understanding, and one part alarm.

And the clock went
tic tock tic tock tic tock. Tic.

9:00 P.M.

Maj burrowed deeply into a pillow nest on the couch in the conservatory as Delores curled up at her feet.

“Are you cozy, Maj?” Eleanor asked, covering her with a heavy crocheted blanket.

“Yes, very much. I like it here with this lamp, and I can see and hear you both at the table, like I'm watching a play, or TV. Don't worry, Mama. I won't stay up. Tomorrow I get to play outside. Thank you for bringing me here. Byrd, will you tell me a bedtime story?”

Byrd was lighting a candle. “A scary sort of bedtime story? Or a romantic one, because I don't like romantic stories. Not one bit.” Byrd walked up, looking as though the word
romantic
had given off an awful smell.

“I don't like kissing stories. Aren't you going to tell Nan's story to Mama? The one with the girl covered in melted glass? Tell me that one.”

“It's sad.”

“I know.”

“It's scary.”

“I know.”

“If it's sad and scary, I might just have to be a big party pooper, girls,” Eleanor broke in. “I am the grown-up. This can't become some kind of free-for-all. Pie for dinner, sleeping on sofas, ghost playmates.”

“I already know the story, Mama. I just want to hear it again.”

Eleanor sat on the couch, and Maj rested her head on her mother's lap.

“I think I'm too tired to argue. But you promise to try and go to sleep. When we're done for the night, I'll bring you upstairs. I'll even carry you. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, Byrd. Tell us about Nan.”

“Okay, I guess here is just as good as the kitchen table. This story starts with a doorknob.”

“That's not a very good start to a bedtime story,” said Maj.

*   *   *

“You aren't even in a bed,” Byrd retorted. “Oh, FINE. Once upon a time … does that work?” she asked. She had lit all the candles in the room. They flickered warmly. The one on the small side table reminded Eleanor of the doorknob.

“Yes.”

“Once upon a time, at the very tip of the very coast of this very large nation (in an even vaster world) … there was a house. The people who lived there were rich, and those who saw the house thought there was no finer place in all the world. But even then, it had a sad history. Built on sour land, it soured the people who lived there. When Nan came across the ocean, she brought light into a dark place. Only, see, darkness always has a way of seeping in. A closet is left unclosed. A bed unmade. An argument. A lie. A secret. And when the dark came back, it came with a fury.

“Nan built this house knowing there had to be a place for both dark and light to live together.

“That's why it's blue and white. She painted the house as a warning. ‘Can't be a good day without clouds. Can't trust a cloudless sky.'”

“Is that the same kind of thing that the words on the gate mean?” asked Maj.

“Yes. Kind of. Hold on … who's telling this story? Didn't you tell us you'd be going to sleep?”

“Carry on,” said Maj in a fake grown-up voice.

Byrd cleared her throat. “Well, our Nan knew a little bit about life being untrustworthy. The world had taken too much from her. So much, that at one point, all she had left in the whole wide world was a pretty doorknob. But before that, she'd had so much love. Because the story …
our
story … yours, mine, and your mama's, all starts in Italy. Once upon a time in Italy.…”

 

The Book of Nan

1900–1910

 

5

Nan Amore

HAVEN PORT, 1910

As the sun rose over the rubble of the heaven she'd sought for so long, Nan Amore stood in the center of the destroyed foundation of Haven House, willing it all back. Something glistened from under a blackened piece of wood, and reaching down, and under, her fingers brushing against the sticking of dewy green grass (
fairies, Mama, that's fairy water, right?
), she picked the familiar object up without being able to identify it, so out of its context, yet so familiar it made her head spin. It made the sorrow and shock bloom into a nest of memories. It was the doorknob to Haven House. The one she'd touched with trepidation at the beginning, the one that grew into a symbol of comfort and safety as the years went by. She ran her fingers along its flower-etched surface until the heavy brass pulled her to the ground. It was all gone. “Give them back,” she cried into the unforgiving morning. Her yelling didn't make it rain, didn't do anything but beat against the buzzing newly born sorrow nest, letting loose millions of stinging memories instead.