Burn

“What am I supposed to do with a junky old house? This has to be a mistake!” You cry into the telephone, nearly ripping it from the wall. The lawyer on the other end does not hesitate in sympathy when he says:

“It is unmistakably yours. As is the $20,000 inheritance. Please come to the address in the letter sent to you by Saturday at the latest. Thank you very much. Good day.”

“But-!” Before you can finish the sentence a dull buzz comes from the other line. “Ugh!”

You march into the dimly lit kitchen and fetch yourself another cup of coffee. Outside, a soft snow has started. Wisps of white pass along into the gray afternoon. “What am I going to do?” You ask your prickly hedgehog, Linus. “I don’t have time to fix a house or move or sell it or whatever is going to be involved in this. I don’t even have time to do laundry!” Linus snorts and stuffs his head inside an empty paper towel tube. You mimic his input and stir hazelnut cream into your steaming mug before trudging up the creaky stairs to your bedroom.

~

The early November air forces you back inside to grab a scarf. You hate the cold - the way it makes your cheeks sting just by walking outside. These prolonged winter months feel like a slow death, only to be brought back by the sharp shot of CPR.

You turn the final corner according to your outdated GPS and find yourself parked in front of what can only be described as a mansion. “What the-?” You get out of your beat up hatchback and immediately wonder if you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life. Before you can make the decision to turn back, a man comes out of the front door.

“Hello! Welcome!” He spreads his arms and smiles like this is a perfectly normal day.

“Hi? Are you Mr. Rooney?” You ask, desperately hoping the answer is ‘no.’

“I am! Welcome to your new home!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still don’t understand how this is possible.”

“Let us adjourn to the seating room in the house and discuss this further.”

He points you toward the entryway and with a lingering look behind, you follow. The house is colder than it is outside. Your breath floats above your head and dissipates into the chandelier. “Cozy.”

Mr. Rooney clears his throat in what must be his version of a chuckle and leads you to a room off of the main lobby. Thanks to the powers that be, a fire is crackling away in the hearth, heating the room significantly. Despite the physical warmth, the room is forgotten and raw. Teal wallpaper curling at the corners with ornately framed portraits barely hanging on. You begin to sit on the sofa before realizing the cushion is covered in a thick, grimy layer of dust. You lean on the arm as lightly as you can instead.

“This house was left to you by your grandfather, William Brownly. As you know, he passed away several months ago, but according to his will, I couldn’t release you this information until now.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know about the information?”

“No, I didn’t know that my grandfather had died,” you say emotionless.

“Oh,” Mr. Rooney could not look more uncomfortable if he tried. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I never even met him. We’d get birthday presents every year, but they were always weird.”

“Yes, your grandfather was a bit eccentric. He traveled all over the world. Always meeting new people. He used this house more as a museum for keeping all of his…treasures.”

“More like a glorified storage closet. What am I supposed to do with all of this?” You ask, echoing your original statement.

“Whatever you wish, although I must warn you…” Before Mr. Rooney could finish his sentence there was a harsh ring throughout the house. The doorbell, apparently. “Ah, erm, excuse me.” While he goes to answer the door, you can’t help but let your eyes wander around the old room. Above the mantel is a portrait of a young woman, beautiful and curious. She holds in her hand a small book, but it looks as if someone had tried to blotch it out of the painting. You hear footsteps in the hall and go back to your couch perch. You can faintly hear the sound of Mr. Rooney protesting something.

“Hello, there.” A man in a perfectly tailored gray suit walks into the sitting room, his hand already extended to shake.

“Hi?”

“Please, excuse this intrusion. Let me introduce myself. My name is Marshall Goodwin. I heard of your grandfather’s passing. So tragic. I would like to offer my services to help you clean up, and restore this house. I am willing to make a generous offer to take it off of your hands.” He finishes his sales pitch and you merely look to Mr. Rooney who appears as if he’s eaten some bad shrimp.

“Um,” is the most articulate thing you can think to say at the present moment.

“Excellent!” Marshall Goodwin exclaims. “Let’s talk numbers then. Assuming we get all the paperwork done by the end of the week, I’m prepared to offer you-“

“Whoa! End of the week? I only just learned about this house a week ago. I haven’t even seen all of it yet.”

“Ah, yes! Let’s go look at it, shall we?” He straightens up, his blue-gray eyes catching the fire’s embers.

“Sure…” You briefly check with Mr. Rooney who still does not look well.

“Eh, yes, you go first why don’t you. I’d like a word with Mr. Goodwin.”

“No problem, take your time.” You stand up straight after leaning against the couch and hear several of your vertebra crack. Mr. Rooney and Marshall stand at opposite sides of the room, the latter’s congenial smile fading into something sinister.

You walk out and immediately hide behind a column in the lobby to listen.

“You have no right to be here,” Mr. Rooney growls.

“I have just as much right as that…miscreant does! Now where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be stupid, Rooney, where is the book?” Marshall takes a step forward and Mr. Rooney sighs.

“I don’t know. It’s here. Somewhere in the house.”

“Well then let’s go find it, you old fool!”

“The book isn’t the only factor.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you notice the painting?” You peer around the column to see Mr. Rooney motioning toward the portrait of the sad woman. “Or the rug as you came in? Wait until you see the Degas in the dining room.”

“From the Paris heist?” Mr. Rooney nods. “And the portrait…Scarlet?” He nods again. An unfamiliar look stretches across Marshall’s face: panic. “Well let’s get rid of it then! Why are we standing here?”

“They’re attached to the house. Literally. They won’t budge. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What does he have on you?”

“The coordinates.”

“To her body?” Marshall asks. Mr. Rooney’s lack of answer is answer enough.

“Hidden in a map in the cellar.” Marshall puts his hand to his eyes and crouches low to the ground, away from your view.

“What’s the deal with the grandchild?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t think anything. Which I believe was his point.”

“He’s dead. He’s gone. Let me buy the place and our worries go away.”

“And let you be in control of our whole group’s secrets? I think not. It’s safer with the grandchild. Unbiased. Uninformed.”

“What do you know? You’re not an actual lawyer, Rooney. You’re a crook. And this is going to end badly for all of us.”

You can’t take it anymore. You run from the lobby into the apparent kitchen, dry-heaving on the cold tile. What have you stumbled into? What is this place? Why did your crazy grandfather choose you? And what in God’s name is that noise?

From the floor above you there comes a low-toned moan - distant and pained. You run up the dilapidated wooden staircase, but by the landing the noise is gone. There is a slight draft coming from somewhere around you - a window is open at the end of the hall. As you go to close it, little droplets fly in and land and dissipate on your skin. It smells like wet leaves and must.

You can hear Mr. Rooney and Marshall walking up the stairs, so you duck into the first open door you see. At first, this appears to be a typical - albeit creepy, gothic - bedroom. But the closer you look, there is nothing typical about it. You gasp, your voice filling up space that hasn’t heard sound in years. This room is an exact replica of your childhood bedroom, complete with your blue and white twin bed, your mother’s reading chair in the corner, the dresser that your brother had carved “loser” into when you were eight, everything. And sitting on top of it, strangest of all, was your mother’s wedding ring - the ring you yourself buried her in. You try to pry it off of the dresser but it is secured down like everything else in this mausoleum of a house.

It occurs to you suddenly. If this room is, in fact, an exact recreation, there should be a loose floorboard by the head of the bed. It’s where you used to store your Halloween candy all year long. You crouch, your nose inches from the dusty hardwood. The old board shifts slightly as you slip your fingers underneath the splintery wood. It comes off with no hesitation and hidden inside is tiny, dirty, crinkled, black book. Miraculously, it is not secured. You pick it up with ease, wiping the grime from the cover. You don’t need to, but you flip through anyway, to see for yourself the incriminating, horrid log of your grandfather.

“What is this place?” You scream at Mr. Rooney and Marshall, who have begun searching the kitchen for the exact thing in your pocket.

“There you are! What do you think of the house?” Mr. Rooney asks with a pleasant smile that only makes you want to scream louder.

“What do I think? I think my grandfather was a demon and this house should be condemned!”

“At least we agree on something…” Marshall says under his breath.

“And you! You helped my grandfather steal precious art and smuggle people in and out of countries and stole my mother’s ring!” Marshall looks at you as if you’ve hit him over the back of the head with a frying pan.

“How do you…?”

“Because of this!” You whip out the notebook and hold it out in front of them like bait. The two men stare ravenously at the book.

“Okay, let’s all calm down,” Mr. Rooney coos. “Why don’t you just give me that and we’ll…”

“What, so you can murder me like you did your wife?” A clock above the stove ticks steadily. The expressions of the men in front of you change from alarm to malice. You know what’s about to happen before it does. Marshall lunges at you, but not before you reach the light on the gas stove and set the book ablaze.

“NO!” They cry. You switch all burners on and run outside with the flaming book in hand, ripping pages and throwing them into various rooms and corners as you go.

“This is over. I don’t care about the money, I don’t care about the inheritance, I don’t care about the power. This is over.” You bellow at them as you fling the notebook into that open hallway window on the second floor.

You, Marshall, and Mr. Rooney stand and watch the secrets burn up into the November sky. You turn to them and smile, clutching one last page that reads: Burn.