the nape of my neck. Itâs a harsh sound, like something frightened, something in pain. I step gingerly back into the room, running my hands over the wall. The scratching from within is only growing louder. I hurry back to the hallway and enter the next room, thinking perhaps someone is on the other side of the wall, playing some trick on me.
It is empty. But the scratching and snuffling and crying from within the wall is getting more insistent.
I pick up the poker that lies before the fireplace, and hold it, balancing the weight of it across my hands. Another cry. I prod the wall with the poker. It is paneled, but like most of the wood in the house, it is rotting. I punch a hole in the wall, and then another. There is a sharp yelp.
Pulling at the paneling, Iâm careful not to put my hand completely inside. If the sounds are coming from a mouse or a rat, I donât want to inadvertently touch it. But a rat would not make those sounds, ones that make my heart contract with fear that an animal might be in pain.
I pull the wood away, wincing as a sliver slides under my fingernail. The house doesnât appreciate being attacked with a brass poker. But whatever is behind the wall, the house must have sent it.
The air from inside the wall feels heavier than the air of the room, and it pushes against me like something solid. I fall back, the poker, my only weapon, clattering to the floor as something big leaps out of the wall and pins me to the floor.
I let out a little squawk, though I donât have the air to scream. My heart stops. Everything goes still and so silent that I can hear the pulse pounding in my throat. Then the animal whimpers, and everything comes back into focus.
Iâm lying on the floor all tangled in my skirts. A puppy licks my face.
Her tongue is wet, and her fur is incredibly soft. Despite my surprise, my fear evaporates. When I lift my hand, she lets out a piteous whine. Sheâs a large puppy. One that will grow into a big dog. Iâve never held a pup before, and Iâm not quite sure what to do, so I just sit for a long time and hold her, until she starts to wiggle. Then I take her back to the sitting room.
I offer her a helping of roast beef from the plate one of the servants delivered an hour ago. She takes the food gently, careful of my fingers, but then gulps it down. Her ribs are showing. There is a sprig of holly on the plate, some servantâs acknowledgment of the season. I set it aside, and as the puppy still looks hungry, I give her the pudding that was supposed to be my dessert. She eats it in one gulp.
She wags her tail and puts her enormous paws on my knees. I sit and look at her.
I expected to spend this Christmas alone. The dog curls up, right on top of my feet, and goes to sleep, and I sit, as content as I have been in a long time.
52
M ADELINE I S S IXTEEN
I stop in front of a rather dismal oil painting and raise my candle to scrutinize the shadowy image, hoping absently that Dr. Winston will join me in the hallway again. In the weeks since heâs been here, heâs shown a great interest in the portrait gallery. What Usher commissioned an artist to paint this tiny, dark portrait of the house? I stare at it, squinting. I recognize the front of the house, but it seems unfamiliar. Has it changed, or have I? I lift my fingers to touch the painting but quickly pull them back. The texture makes me imagine that my fingertips might sink through the canvas.
Here is the turret of the tower where the doctors live, and there are the windows. I suppose those are the ones I look through every day. Are they really so sinister? My eyes burn, and I feel mildly ill.
I step away and consider the next painting. Equally dreary, it is a rear view of the house. I study it. The fissure, the great crack that originates above the kitchen door, is in the painting, but smaller. Did the earthquake lengthen the crack? I should check. Perhaps Dr. Winston will join me in the
It is empty. But the scratching and snuffling and crying from within the wall is getting more insistent.
I pick up the poker that lies before the fireplace, and hold it, balancing the weight of it across my hands. Another cry. I prod the wall with the poker. It is paneled, but like most of the wood in the house, it is rotting. I punch a hole in the wall, and then another. There is a sharp yelp.
Pulling at the paneling, Iâm careful not to put my hand completely inside. If the sounds are coming from a mouse or a rat, I donât want to inadvertently touch it. But a rat would not make those sounds, ones that make my heart contract with fear that an animal might be in pain.
I pull the wood away, wincing as a sliver slides under my fingernail. The house doesnât appreciate being attacked with a brass poker. But whatever is behind the wall, the house must have sent it.
The air from inside the wall feels heavier than the air of the room, and it pushes against me like something solid. I fall back, the poker, my only weapon, clattering to the floor as something big leaps out of the wall and pins me to the floor.
I let out a little squawk, though I donât have the air to scream. My heart stops. Everything goes still and so silent that I can hear the pulse pounding in my throat. Then the animal whimpers, and everything comes back into focus.
Iâm lying on the floor all tangled in my skirts. A puppy licks my face.
Her tongue is wet, and her fur is incredibly soft. Despite my surprise, my fear evaporates. When I lift my hand, she lets out a piteous whine. Sheâs a large puppy. One that will grow into a big dog. Iâve never held a pup before, and Iâm not quite sure what to do, so I just sit for a long time and hold her, until she starts to wiggle. Then I take her back to the sitting room.
I offer her a helping of roast beef from the plate one of the servants delivered an hour ago. She takes the food gently, careful of my fingers, but then gulps it down. Her ribs are showing. There is a sprig of holly on the plate, some servantâs acknowledgment of the season. I set it aside, and as the puppy still looks hungry, I give her the pudding that was supposed to be my dessert. She eats it in one gulp.
She wags her tail and puts her enormous paws on my knees. I sit and look at her.
I expected to spend this Christmas alone. The dog curls up, right on top of my feet, and goes to sleep, and I sit, as content as I have been in a long time.
52
M ADELINE I S S IXTEEN
I stop in front of a rather dismal oil painting and raise my candle to scrutinize the shadowy image, hoping absently that Dr. Winston will join me in the hallway again. In the weeks since heâs been here, heâs shown a great interest in the portrait gallery. What Usher commissioned an artist to paint this tiny, dark portrait of the house? I stare at it, squinting. I recognize the front of the house, but it seems unfamiliar. Has it changed, or have I? I lift my fingers to touch the painting but quickly pull them back. The texture makes me imagine that my fingertips might sink through the canvas.
Here is the turret of the tower where the doctors live, and there are the windows. I suppose those are the ones I look through every day. Are they really so sinister? My eyes burn, and I feel mildly ill.
I step away and consider the next painting. Equally dreary, it is a rear view of the house. I study it. The fissure, the great crack that originates above the kitchen door, is in the painting, but smaller. Did the earthquake lengthen the crack? I should check. Perhaps Dr. Winston will join me in the
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