George Martin - Rogues

No one knows exactly what went on in that house the night of January 7, 1897, but the bloody results are indisputable. Patrick Carterhook was discovered stabbed to death in his bed; his body was pocked with 117 knife wounds. Patrick’s wife, Margaret, was found struck down by an ax—still in her back—as she was fleeing up the stairs to the attic, and young Chester, age ten, was found drowned in a bathtub. Robert hanged himself from a beam in his room. He had apparently dressed up for the occasion: he wore a blue Sunday suit, covered in his parents’ blood. It was still wet from drowning his little brother.

Beneath the story was a blurry ancient photo of the Carterhooks. Four formal unsmiling faces peering out from layers of Victorian ruffles. A slender man in his forties with an artfully pointed beard; a blond, petite woman with sad, piercing eyes so light they looked white. Two boys, the younger blond like his mother; the elder dark-haired, black-eyed with a slight smirk and his head tilted at a knowing angle. Miles. The elder boy looked like Miles. Not a perfect match, but the essence was exact: the smugness, the superiority, the threat.

Miles.

If you remove the bloody floorboards and water-stained tiles; if you destroy the beams that held Robert Carterhook’s body, and you tear down the walls that absorbed the screams, do you take down the house? Can it be haunted if the actual guts—its internal organs—have been removed? Or does the nastiness linger in the air? That night I dreamt of a small figure opening the door to Susan’s room, creeping across the floor as she slept, and standing calmly over her with a gleaming butcher knife borrowed from her million-dollar kitchen. The room smelled of sage and lavender.

I slept into the afternoon and woke in the darkness, in the middle of a thunderstorm. I stared at the ceiling until the sun set, then got dressed and drove over to Carterhook Manor. I left my useless herbs behind.

Susan opened the door with wet eyes. Her pale faced glowed from the gloom of the house.

“You are psychic,” she whispered. “I was going to call you. It’s gotten worse, it’s not stopping,” she said. She collapsed onto a sofa.

“Are Miles and Jack here?”

She nodded and pointed a finger up. “Miles told me last night, quite calmly, that he was going to kill us,” she said. “And I actually worry … because … Wilkie …” She was crying again. “Oh, God.”

A cat padded slowly into the room. Ribby and worn, an old tomcat. Susan pointed to it.

“Look what he did … to poor Wilkie!”

I looked again. At the cat’s back haunches was only a frayed tuft of fur. Miles had cut off the cat’s tail.

“Susan, do you have a laptop? I need to show you something.”

She led me up to the library, and over to the Victorian desk that was clearly her husband’s. She clicked a switch and the fireplace wooshed on. She hit a key and the laptop glowed. I showed Susan the Web site and the story of the Carterhooks. I could feel her warm breath on my neck as she read.

I pointed at the photo: “Does Robert Carterhook remind you of anyone?”

Susan nodded as if in a trance. “What does it mean?”

The rain spattered at the black windowpanes. I longed for a bright blue day. The heaviness of the house was unbearable.

“Susan, I like you. I don’t like many people. I want the best for your family. And I don’t think it’s me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you need someone to help you. I can’t help. There is something wrong with this house. I think you should leave. I don’t care what your husband says.”

“But if we leave … Miles is still with us.”

“Yes.”

“Then … he’ll be cured? If he leaves this house?”

“Susan, I don’t know.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need more than me to fix this. I’m not qualified. I can’t fix it. I think you need to leave tonight. Go to a hotel. Two rooms. Lock the adjoining door. And then … we’ll figure it out. But all I can really do for you is be your friend.”

Susan stood dizzily, holding her throat. She pushed back from me, murmured excuse me, and disappeared out the door. I waited. My wrist was throbbing again. I glanced around the book-filled room. No parties here for me. No referrals to rich, nervous friends. I was ruining my big chance; I gave her an answer she didn’t want. But I felt, for once, decent. Not telling-myself-I-am decent, but just decent.

I saw Susan flicker past the door heading down the stairs. Then Miles swooped immediately after her.

“Susan!” I yelled. I stood up but I couldn’t will myself to go outside the room. I heard murmuring. Urgent or angry. Then nothing. Silence. And still nothing. Go out there. But I was too afraid to go alone into that dark hallway.

“Susan!”

A child who terrorized his little brother and threatened his stepmom. Who told me calmly that I would die. A kid who cut the tail off the family pet. A house that attacked and manipulated its own inhabitants. A house that had already seen four deaths and wanted more. Stay calm. The hallway was still dark. No sign of Susan. I stood. I began walking to the door.

Mills suddenly appeared in the doorway, stiff and upright, in his school uniform, as always. He was blocking my exit.

“I told you not to ever come back here, and you came back—you came back again and again,” he said. Reasonable. Like he was talking to a child being punished. “You know you’re going to die, right?”

“Where’s your stepmom, Miles?” I backed away. He walked toward me. He was a small kid, but he scared me. “What did you do with Susan?”

“You’re still not understanding, are you?” he said. “Tonight is when we die.”

“I’m sorry, Miles, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He laughed then, his eyes crinkling up. Complete mirth.

“No, you misunderstand me. She’s going to kill you. Susan is going to kill you and me. Look around this room. Do you think you’re here by accident? Look closely. Look at the books closely.”

I had looked at the books closely. Every time I cleansed in here, I looked at all the books, I coveted them. I pictured stealing one or two for my little book club with …

With Mike. My favorite client. Every book I ever read with Mike over the past few years was here. The Woman in White, The Turn of the Screw, The Haunting of Hill House. I’d congratulated myself when I’d seen them—how clever I was to have read so many of these fancy-people library books. But I wasn’t a well-read bookworm; I was just a dumb whore in the right library. Miles pulled out a photo from the desk drawer, a wedding photo. The summer sunset behind the bride and groom left them backlit, shrouded. Susan was gorgeous, a luscious, lively version of the woman I knew. The groom? I barely recognized the face, but I definitely knew the dick. I had been giving hand jobs to Susan’s husband for two years.

Miles was watching me, his eyes squinting, a comedian waiting for he audience to get the joke.

“She’s going to kill you, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to kill me too,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s calling 911 downstairs right now. She told me to stall you. When she comes up, she’s going to shoot you, and she’s going to tell the cops one of two things. One: You are a con artist who claims she has psychic powers in order to pray on the emotionally vulnerable. You told Susan you could help her mentally unstable son—and she trusted you—but instead, all you’ve been doing is coming into the house and stealing from her. When she confronted you, you became violent, she shot you in self-defense.”

“I don’t like that one. What’s the other option?”