The Face in the House

9

The following day, as I went about my business updating the household books with the week's expenses, a horrible, ear-splitting scream came from the master bedroom. I rushed to the bedroom, my nerves greatly upset, truly expecting to witness a murder behind the door. When I entered the room, however, I saw only my new friend, Mrs. White, standing by the bed, pale as a corpse.

"What's happened?" I asked, searching the bedroom for a ghost or a devil.

"A spider!" she responded, half-hysterical.

I wanted to shout at her, to scold her for her egregious reaction, but then I spotted the creature that incited it. To her credit, it was larger than any spider I've ever seen before. Monstrous in size, and covered in fur so black is shined green like oil in sunlight. I admit it sent a chill up my spine. Soon, Isabelle, the maid, had joined us in the bedroom.

"What's happened?" she said in the doorway, looking more excited than anxious. The maid really is quite insufferable.

Some courage pressed me forward, closer to the hellish creature, perhaps pressured by my small audience. I shushed the chattering women, hoping to sneak up on it. I stepped closer to where it stood on its many legs, frightfully still, either unaware of my presence or pretending to be. I lifted my foot, aimed my boot right over its ghastly body, and stomped down on it with the force of my weight. I braced to feel the impact, to feel the meaty arachnid smash and ooze beneath my foot.

To my utter shock (and to the Mistress and the maid's utter horror!) my foot failed to obliterate the bug, and instead released hundreds of infant spiders, which, unbeknownst to me, had been clustered on the mother's back! Smaller spiders scattered about the room, seeking any crack or crevice or shadow in which to hide. The large spider, the Queen, lay crumpled where I stomped her. Outnumbered, the ladies and I rushed out of the room and closed the door.

Later, when the excitement died down, I snuck into the bedroom to tidy up. You'll call me a liar, William, but there was not a single spider to be found! Not even the Queen, who was obviously injured, if not killed, by my boot could be found anywhere in the room, and we haven't seen any sign of them since.

I suppose these strange incidents are justification of sorts for my companionship with the insufferable, emotional, spoiled, and desperate Arabella White.

Did you enjoy these tales of 24 Thornewood Road, William? It is my way of assuring you that I am quite all right here, despite what my last letter may have claimed. It is also my way of bringing you here, not physically, but in spirit. To share such trivialities with you is as close as I come to sharing a drink, a meal, a home, with you. Do you feel the same, reading these tales? Is it like we're back in London, whispering secrets in the old dormitory?

Yours, always,
Edward Poole
24 Thornewood Road
June 13th 1789

Malcolm finished his reading of the letter and looked at his brother for a reaction, but Owen was quiet. He opened his mouth to speak, but furrowed his brow and closed it again. An expression of confusion warped his features. For once, Owen Allan was speechless.

They lounged in Owen's room, where the brothers spent much of their lazy summer afternoons. Owen was gaining strength by the day—he even had the shadow of a beard growing in—but he still couldn't spend much time on his feet. Owen's days consisted of morning walks with Serena (her idea, "Before it gets too hot out!"), video games, and the Edward Poole letters.

"Do you have something to say?" Malcolm said, laughing as he watched his brother struggle to put his thoughts into words.

Owen laughed.

"He had me for a second," Owen said. "Oh he really had me going for a second."

"What? Do you think Edward has a thing for his boss's wife?" Malcolm said.

"What? No, dude, did we read the same letter?" Owen said, snatching the pages out of Malcolm's hands.

"...To share such trivialities with you is as close as I come to sharing a drink, a meal, a home, with you." Owen read in an exaggerated British accent. "Do you feel the same, reading these tales? Is it like we're back in London, whispering secrets in the old dormitory?"

Malcolm felt his face burn hot. He reached out to snatch the letters back, but Owen pulled them away, out of reach.

"What, man? It's obvious!" Owen said. "Maybe Arabella White was into Poole, but Poole's too into William to even notice."

Droplets of sweat appeared at Malcolm's temples. Something about this conversation was getting under his skin, but he couldn't place what it was. All he knew was that he desperately wanted to change the subject.

"But it's like, 1790!" Malcolm said, feeling stupid for thinking it would make a good retort.

Owen gestured to the pages with a look of wonder in his eyes. "It's a forbidden romance, Malcolm! A Victorian forbidden romance!"

Malcolm considered the theory. He had to admit, Edward did seem to have incredibly strong feelings for William. The letters were intimate, but also frustratingly restrained. Aside from his bizarre, dark, drunken letter, Poole's writing was more akin to how someone might speak to a friend (or lover) in a crowded room: vague, coded, over-formal, and with an air of mystery.

"Earth to Malcolm," Owen said, waving a hand in front of Malcolm's face.

Malcolm faced his older brother, whose eyebrows creased together in concern. Malcolm quickly neutralized his expression, but failed to hide his discomfort from Owen.

"What's the matter? You still down about Ashley?" Owen asked.

Malcolm sighed in relief, which Owen further misinterpreted as a confirmation.

"I know how it feels, trust me," Owen said.

Though Ashley Torres wasn't the original source of Malcolm's discomfort, a hot burst of hurt shot through his chest at the sound of her name. Ashley had been his lab partner for his fall semester bio class, and quickly became the biggest crush of his life. He wouldn't have passed the class if she hadn't been his lab partner, not because he wasn't good at biology, but because he would've been too distracted watching her from across the lab to focus on the assignments. Standing beside her in the lab, though, he didn't have to daydream. They became good partners, and often studied together in the library outside of class. After the semester ended and there was no longer an academic excuse to see her, Malcolm asked her out. They went on a few dates, but they were few and far between. Before she left to travel abroad in Paris, Ashley told him she wasn't interested in pursuing anything more serious.

Malcolm was devastated—he had a habit of feeling too much, too soon—and his feelings for Ashley far exceeded any he'd felt before. Even in the short time they spent together, she had become a source of comfort to him. His feelings for her meant more to him than romance or even love. In his mind, she represented a safe, normal life—a life uncomplicated by a nagging, inner desire that he had always felt, but never fully allowed himself to understand.

That night, Malcolm lay in his own bedroom, tossing and turning. Before the Edward Poole letters, Ashley was what had kept him up at night. Now, the letters totally absorbed his thoughts. Like Ashley, they meant more to him than he would ever admit to Owen, to anyone. As he finally felt his body relax, start to drift blissfully to sleep, his mind wandered back, as it always did, to Edward Poole's words. My William, he always called him. He wished he could read the other half of the correspondence. Did William ever say My Edward? Malcolm wondered, before finally succumbing to sleep.