it will never dry out. Foreboding runs down my spine, as if someone just walked over my grave.
“Here we are!”
She pulls me up a short walk to a gray stone Georgian building that rises four stories from the street. Black wrought iron decorative bars cover the lower windows, giving it the look of a prison. The black paint on the front door is chipped and the stone steps are pitted. The house itself is flanked by two other row homes done in the same style, but better cared for, giving this one the look of a poor and bitter relation.
Suddenly a feeling of apprehension rushes over me and I stop at the threshold, my limbs sluggish and heavy.
Calypso turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
My tension eases at the sound of her voice. Silly. I’m being silly.
I follow her into the house, chiding myself. I just need to get used to the ancient atmosphere of London, I tell myself. Of course, it seems creepy considering how old everything is. And the fog and the wet aren’t helping.
The foyer leads to a wide hallway, with arched doors on either side. “There’s the dining room in there, but most of us don’t eat here much.” She lowers her voice. “The cook is horrible. That’s the lounge.”
Calypso pauses and I poke my head in. Deep leather couches, rows of bookcases, and a large fireplace give the room a cozy feel except for the chill that permeates the entire house. “It would be nice with a fire,” I tell her, and she nods.
“The landlady refuses to pay for either a good cook or any heat that she doesn’t have to. Jared once left a glass of water on the window ledge as an experiment and it was frozen solid the next morning.”
I shiver. It’s hard to imagine what her father’s house is like if this place is better.
“My room is upstairs but let’s go get the umbrella first before I forget it. It’s down in the cellar . . .”
Just then a faint scream comes from deeper within the house. Both Calypso and I freeze.
“Did you hear that?” she asks.
My stomach churns and my legs twitch as if they are going to run me out of the house on their own. Before I can answer, another scream sounds and this time it doesn’t stop.
Calypso whirls around and runs toward the source of the sound, and in spite of legs that want to collapse underneath me, I follow. At the end of the hall she turns in to the kitchen, where an older woman in a long apron stares transfixed at an open door across the room. When she sees Calypso, she points at the door.
We approach cautiously. The screams take on an eerie, keening quality, and my whole body trembles at the sound. It takes every bit of self-control I have to follow Calypso down those rickety steps. As we descend, the dank smell of an ancient basement assaults my nostrils. Fear and a strange sense of suppressed excitement ripple through the air, though I can’t tell if the emotions belong to Calypso or the terrified woman we find still screaming at the bottom. It’s a young woman with dark blond hair. Her face is dead white and her blue eyes are wide with horror. An upturned basket of laundry lies at her feet. I follow her terrified gaze and my stomach lurches at the sight that greets me.
Pratik.
Calypso skids to a stop and her hand goes over her mouth. The woman jumps when she sees us and then, as if released, turns and races up the stairs. I stand frozen, staring.
Pratik is sitting up against an old-fashioned washing machine with his hands lying in his lap, palms upward. Something round and dark like a beetle gleams against one palm, but I can’t tell what it is. His vacant eyes are staring at something horrifying that only he can see and his dark skin is sallow and sunken, as if his essence has been drained. Even from a distance I can tell that his clothes are mussed, as if they had been thrown on hastily. His white turban is nowhere in evidence.
“Is he dead?” Calypso whispers.
I try to speak but no sound comes out. I swallow hard and try again. “Yes.” I
“Here we are!”
She pulls me up a short walk to a gray stone Georgian building that rises four stories from the street. Black wrought iron decorative bars cover the lower windows, giving it the look of a prison. The black paint on the front door is chipped and the stone steps are pitted. The house itself is flanked by two other row homes done in the same style, but better cared for, giving this one the look of a poor and bitter relation.
Suddenly a feeling of apprehension rushes over me and I stop at the threshold, my limbs sluggish and heavy.
Calypso turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
My tension eases at the sound of her voice. Silly. I’m being silly.
I follow her into the house, chiding myself. I just need to get used to the ancient atmosphere of London, I tell myself. Of course, it seems creepy considering how old everything is. And the fog and the wet aren’t helping.
The foyer leads to a wide hallway, with arched doors on either side. “There’s the dining room in there, but most of us don’t eat here much.” She lowers her voice. “The cook is horrible. That’s the lounge.”
Calypso pauses and I poke my head in. Deep leather couches, rows of bookcases, and a large fireplace give the room a cozy feel except for the chill that permeates the entire house. “It would be nice with a fire,” I tell her, and she nods.
“The landlady refuses to pay for either a good cook or any heat that she doesn’t have to. Jared once left a glass of water on the window ledge as an experiment and it was frozen solid the next morning.”
I shiver. It’s hard to imagine what her father’s house is like if this place is better.
“My room is upstairs but let’s go get the umbrella first before I forget it. It’s down in the cellar . . .”
Just then a faint scream comes from deeper within the house. Both Calypso and I freeze.
“Did you hear that?” she asks.
My stomach churns and my legs twitch as if they are going to run me out of the house on their own. Before I can answer, another scream sounds and this time it doesn’t stop.
Calypso whirls around and runs toward the source of the sound, and in spite of legs that want to collapse underneath me, I follow. At the end of the hall she turns in to the kitchen, where an older woman in a long apron stares transfixed at an open door across the room. When she sees Calypso, she points at the door.
We approach cautiously. The screams take on an eerie, keening quality, and my whole body trembles at the sound. It takes every bit of self-control I have to follow Calypso down those rickety steps. As we descend, the dank smell of an ancient basement assaults my nostrils. Fear and a strange sense of suppressed excitement ripple through the air, though I can’t tell if the emotions belong to Calypso or the terrified woman we find still screaming at the bottom. It’s a young woman with dark blond hair. Her face is dead white and her blue eyes are wide with horror. An upturned basket of laundry lies at her feet. I follow her terrified gaze and my stomach lurches at the sight that greets me.
Pratik.
Calypso skids to a stop and her hand goes over her mouth. The woman jumps when she sees us and then, as if released, turns and races up the stairs. I stand frozen, staring.
Pratik is sitting up against an old-fashioned washing machine with his hands lying in his lap, palms upward. Something round and dark like a beetle gleams against one palm, but I can’t tell what it is. His vacant eyes are staring at something horrifying that only he can see and his dark skin is sallow and sunken, as if his essence has been drained. Even from a distance I can tell that his clothes are mussed, as if they had been thrown on hastily. His white turban is nowhere in evidence.
“Is he dead?” Calypso whispers.
I try to speak but no sound comes out. I swallow hard and try again. “Yes.” I
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