Claire joined her on the walk. “I have to admit, it does have charm. Victorians are beautiful, but I dread even thinking about living in one as drafty as they are. Not to mention all the expensive repairs it could take, like dry rot and termite damage.”
“Old houses are one of my soft spots. Nothing that is built now can touch the quality of craftsmanship.”
“Nobody can argue with that,” Claire responded, thinking that arguing with Becca was always a waste of time.
“Well! Let’s take a look at the rest of it.”
Claire gave Becca a wilting look. “The grass is hip high.”
“So?”
“Tics and things. You know?”
Claire caught a glimpse of Becca’s azure eyes sparkling beneath her errant bangs as Becca grinned with ornery enthusiasm. Claire felt her heart drop, feeling the old tug of anxiety about what Becca might be planning next. It took her back to a thousand similar moments when the two were best friends in grade school. Then Becca said the same old thing she always said at times like this, taunting Clair with her old challenge, “Where is your sense of adventure?” Briskly turning away, Becca added, “You don’t suppose we can find a door or a window we can get in through, do you?” She started off down the walk to the front door, swiftly.
“You don’t mean to break in here, do you? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Sure, I’ll break in if I find a way. The porch is amazing. Look at all those spindles in the railing–each one had to be hand turned!”
As Becca stepped onto the porch, Claire could hear the heavy creak of the unused porch boards. “Are you sure they didn’t have mass production by then?” Claire asked as she tried to avoid the touch of the heads of tall clumps of grass that leaned across the narrow walk.
The tall grass was still retained a tint green from the end of the summer. A wind ruffled through the branches of the line of cedars along the driveway and the slight whistling sound gave her goose bumps and reminded her of the ghosts that were said to be here.
The first thing Becca did was to try the door nob, but the door was firmly locked. She bent over to peer into the interior through beveled glass panes in the double front doors. When she’d found a clear spot to look through, she cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light so she could look in. “The foyer is lovely! How perfect! ... How typically Victorian!”
Claire stood patiently behind her at the top of the first step, not even sure of putting her weight on the old boards, as she waited for Becca’s next move. Becca didn’t pause long before she’d turned back toward the steps and practically bounced off the front porch, brushing past Claire in her enthusiasm.
Becca stepped farther out into the yard to view the front one more time, and said, “Too bad they’ve drawn all the shades. It gives the house a blank stare look.”
Claire, standing on the walk, said, “I think it makes it look even more creepy. What could be more creepy than a house on the top of a windswept hill, taller than it is wide–as though it belongs in a city like New Orleans–with all the windows black in broad daylight. It looks so . . . so lifeless.”
Becca stepped off to the side of the house, ignoring the tall weeds that brushed her elbows and not even looking where she was going as she gazed up at the house. Claire made her way carefully, picking through the tall grass and examining the ground in front of her before taking each step, blaming her slowness on her own short legs as compared to the long strides that Becca could take due to her own long skinny ones.
“Look at this massive old oak!” Becca exclaimed as she approached the back corner of the house. “What a beautiful shade tree.”
Claire muttered, “Uh huh,” inaudibly, she could care less about old shade trees, but Becca didn’t seem to notice as she vanished around the corner of the house, her shuffling in the deep pile of leaves making a whooshing sound as she walked.
Claire rounded the corner just in time to see Becca try the back door. It didn’t budge, but Becca stooped as though examining the lock, then tried again. When it didn’t open, she paused, looked up at the house with a determined expression, then tried again with both hands, shaking the door hard.
“You aren’t really going to break in, are you?”
“I don’t think it is locked. I don’t see the bolt.”
“What if you break something. That old wooden door might just give if you ...”
Just then Becca threw her weight against it and Claire gasped. The door gave way, the windows rattled and the rusty old hinges squealed as Becca pushed it the rest of the way open. As soon as Becca was through, she vanished into the black interior of the enclosed porch.
“We’re in!” she shouted victoriously. Are you coming?”
Shaking her head at her friend’s temerity, Claire shuffled through the remaining leaves and mounted the stairs to the door grasping the old iron rail next to the steps as though she could pull her unwilling feet toward that gaping black doorway.
On the threshold, peering into the darkness she could hear Becca’s steps echo back hollowly, the floor creaking and popping ominously beneath her weight. Claire paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ahead she heard Becca exclaim, “Oh, what a perfect old cast iron stove! This whole kitchen is original ...”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit gushing. Who would want original.” She tried to follow, waving at unseen cobwebs as she walked gingerly into the kitchen. “I thought you hated dirty houses. This place is so filthy that I can smell the dust. And who knows what else ... mold? Rodents?” The chill that crept down her spine stuck and caused her to shiver. “It’s cold in here.” She barely caught sight of the vague form of her friend in the faint green light that filtered through the shades as Becca passed through into the next room.
“I dunno. The house isn’t filthy. Its just dusty. The air isn’t foul, it is just stale from being locked up.
“Wow! Look at that chandelier. Crystal, even.”
Claire grimaced when she heard even more of Becca’s enthusiastic praise for the old house and wished something truly awful would turn up to discourage Becca and end her own misery.
Rubbing her upper arms briskly as she followed Becca into the dining room, she scanned the room suspiciously and said, “I think it would be too much work. Every room would have to be fixed up before you could even begin to move in.” She saw Becca go through another doorway, and added, “Would you wait up?”
“What is taking you so long?”
“I’m just being careful. How do you know these old floorboards aren’t rotten.”
“Oh, they are as solid as the day the house was built!”
“I suppose that is why they pop and creak with every step?”
A few slivers of light filtered in through the old green pull shades that hung on the three narrow windows, side by side, on one side of the room. Old wallpaper hung in strips, the print so browned with age that the pattern was almost indiscernible. Heavy mahogony woodwork dominated the room. The doors through which Becca had gone, were a pair of French doors with beveled glass panes that shattered the narrow streaks of light from the windows into tiny rainbows. Claire admired the fine old leaded crystal chandelier–not a broken or missing prism evident–even if she wouldn’t dare let Becca know that she did.
Becca had vanished completely, although she could hear her footsteps and an occasional creak of floorboards from somewhere to her left.
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