The Face in the House

25

He shook his head. He didn't have the mental capacity right then to process the possibility that the magic was larger, more powerful and less isolated than it originally seemed. He set his jaw and turned away from the window.

"Alright, let's work. We've got customers coming," he said in such a determined voice it reminded him instantly of Teddy.

Night fell and a cool drizzle dampened the windows of Thornewood House. At least, Malcolm assumed the drizzle with cool — he hadn't stepped foot outside for days, and had no plan to. Hearing the rain pitter-patter on the roof, seeing the droplets dance on the windows, only made the house feel even warmer. If it wasn't for the seance, Malcolm would probably be under a blanket, sipping on his second cup of cocoa.

Everything was in order. The living room was once again transformed: heavy velvet curtains enclosed the space, candles burned and dripped, and eyes peered out of portraits that lined the papered walls. Malcolm marveled at the scene. Being inside the house was like traveling back in time, but being inside the seance room was like living in a film noir.

Even at this hour, a steady stream of cars drove by the house. Now that Owen had mentioned it, Malcolm couldn't help but tense up every time headlights flashed across the window. He checked the grandfather clock that stood behind the seance table. The guests should be arriving any minute.

Malcolm sat alone in the room, memorizing his lines for the seance as if it were a play. In almost every way, this was a play. The stage was set. The lights set the mood. He even wore a costume — one of Poole's old suits, which was just tight enough to be uncomfortable. It was a performance in every way, except one: The ghosts were real. They were just waiting backstage.

Headlights flared behind the curtain once again, but this time they did not pass by. Cars were stopping at the curb outside, drivers probably wondering if they had the right address . . . probably wondering if they were about to get murdered.

The guests had arrived.

Malcolm stood by the front door, waiting for the tentative knock the strike. When it came, he opened the door with a gloved hand.

Two damp humans stood before him on the porch and three more were still scurrying behind them from their cars. Malcolm stood aside and gestured them inside. As instructed, Malcolm said nothing, just nodded as the guests entered the house and took each of their coats. He tried to be stoic, to mimic Poole's stiff movements and unaffected air, but the sudden frenzy of movement, of voices, of life, nearly took his breath away. He felt dizzy.

"Hello," a bespectacled man said as he looked around the room. He was probably in his late 40s, early 50s. Malcolm guessed he was a professor at the university the next town over. "I'm a professor at the university the next town over."

The man gestured with his thumb toward the small college town, then continued, "One of my students showed me your ad. I'm not sure I'm a believer, but maybe you can change my mind—"

"Dude, look at this place," another guest said, and Malcolm whirled around to find a young man, probably around his age, walking into the seance room. "I told you guys this was legit. I wasn't sure what to expect, but—"

Two more college-aged guests squeezed past Malcolm to follow their friend.

"You scared?" the shorter friend asked who Malcolm guessed was his girlfriend.

"Fuck off, Steven," the girl said lightly, eyes wide as she took in the room. It was as if she hadn't even heard what he said, she just wanted him to stop talking.

Definitely not his girlfriend then, Malcolm corrected. A smile threatened his composure, so he turned to hang up the coats. It was time to begin.

Before he could start his opening speech, a crash sounded behind him. He jumped and turned to find the source and came face-to-face with a small old woman, short and so thin she seemed to shake all over. She had white hair, slightly dampened by the rain, and enormous glasses that magnified her bright blue eyes. He nearly shouted in fright before he realized this little old lady had been one of the first to enter the house. She held out a shaky hand and pointed to the floor, where a wooden cane lay out of her reach.

Malcolm retrieved the cane and secured it in the woman's hand. "Thank you," she said, then took his arm. He nodded and the two of them entered the seance room together, where the rest of the group had already gathered. The feather-like weight on her hand on his arm warmed him, and he stood a little straighter.

"Good evening," he said in a voice so unlike his own. It wasn't loud, but it projected, and it carried no trace of its usual anxious hesitation. The guests responded by silencing their chatter. "Welcome to Thornewood House. My name is Malcolm Allan, and two hundred years ago, my great-great-great-great grandfather visited this very house. Some believe he never left . . ."

Malcolm watched the crowd as he told his tale, some parts true, others fabricated to suit the storyline.

". . . It is by chance that I have come to call Thornewood House my home, for my ancestor was merely a guest all those years ago. But! While I do have a connection to this home, this is not my story to tell. Fortunately for us, we are in the unique position to hear the story from the characters themselves, if they choose to tell it. Come, gather around the table. Theodora White will be with you shortly."

And with a flourish, Malcolm disappeared behind the curtain, leaving the guests to squirm in their seats.

***

Teddy stood behind the curtain, swelling with pride at her new friend's performance. His voice, movements, mannerisms... they were so like Edward Poole she was sure Malcolm had been studying the man and practicing in the mirror. She didn't know he had it in him.

Now it was her turn to get into character. She was no actress, but the role of "Theodora White, Medium" fit her like a second skin. When Malcolm joined, she waited behind the curtain for a moment. In that time — which she hoped felt like a long, agonizing wait to the guests — she gestured for Poole and Owen to enter the room. As practiced, the pair passed straight through the curtain as if nothing more than a cool gust of air.