The trip was planned before either of them really knew it. That's the tricky thing about making decisions in a dive bar in the middle of the night, Malcolm thought, by morning, it feels like someone else made the decision for you.
Serena hadn't been pleased with the plan, obviously. Malcolm knew his mom had been counting on having him home for another week or so before the fall semester started, and to have Owen home even longer. She still worried about him, as any loving mother would, but Malcolm knew it was that same love that made her say, "Okay, just promise you'll drive safe," which was her way of granting them permission to take the trip.
With their mother's hesitant blessing, they'd made arrangements at a hotel in the nearest town, which was about a forty minute drive from 24 Thornewood Road. They had packed light, some pajamas and a change of clothes. How do you pack for a seance? Malcolm had wondered before tossing a tie into his bag with a shrug.
He had no idea what he was getting himself into.
They would set out early Friday morning. If the GPS was to be believed, it would take them just under five hours to get to their hotel. And by the look of it, it wasn't a straight shot on the interstate. It would be five hours of backroads and small towns.
The night before the trip, Malcolm laid in bed, trying not to feel like a character in a bad horror movie. He couldn't even begin to wonder what would meet them at 24 Thornewood Road. Despite the evidence — the letters, the spider, the phone call — he didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what he wanted to believe.
What did he want to get out of this trip? Time away from home? Quality time with Owen? Maybe. But there was something more. Answers. That was it, he wanted answers. An explanation for everything they had learned about Edward Poole and the house on Thornewood Road.
There had to be some logical explanation, he told himself as he tossed and turned in the darkness. The world and reality as he knew it would right itself and prevail in his mind once again. But as he drifted off to sleep, he found that the thought didn't please him. For the first time in his life, comfort wasn't what he wanted.
He awoke with a start, heart-pounding, limbs shaking. The room was still dark, his alarm hadn't gone off yet. An animal-like scream had torn through his dreams, shocking him awake. Owen, he realized, stomach twisting in fear. He leapt out of bed and rushed to his brother's room.
When he entered the room, Owen was a tangle of limbs and blankets. He flailed out of bed, no longer screaming but breathing in sharp, panicked breaths. Malcolm flipped on the light as Owen thrashed. He looked like he was in a fight with his bedsheets, until Malcolm noticed the thin, white threads wrapped loosely around his skin — arms, face, chest.
"There," Owen spurted. His continued to thrash at his skin as he stood, attempting to get the spiderwebs off his skin.
Malcolm saw it emerge from a coil of Owen's bedsheet. In the time it took his brain to register the spider's presence, he was already on top of it, crushing its thick, dark form with his bare foot.
Owen didn't hesitate. He grabbed the wooden container from the box of Poole's letters, and opened it up. With shaking hands, Malcolm took the crushed spider and dropped it inside the box. Owen clasped it shut.
They both collapsed on the ground, breathing deep, shaky breaths.
"I was dreaming there was a spider on my face," Owen said slowly. "Then I woke up, and there was a spider. On my face."
Fear settled into Malcolm's chest. Not for his brother, although he did sympathize. This was an ugly fear, a selfish fear, one that made him feel equal parts guilty and queasy. It was a fear that his brother would back out, that he would call off the trip. That this encounter would be the one that crossed the fine line between fun and fear. I'll go myself, Malcolm told himself. But he knew he didn't have the guts to see this through alone.
Owen tossed the small container into the box of letters.
"Let's get ready," Owen said, and Malcolm's spirits lifted. "If we leave soon, we'll make great time."
They got ready quickly, loaded up Owen's old Toyota with their bags and the Edward Poole letters. Owen would drive the first shift, under the promise that Malcolm would drive the second half. As they left the town in the rear-view mirror, they watched the sun rise over the open road.
Owen was quiet, Malcolm observed. It was unusual for him. He thought about Owen's face that morning, twisted in pure terror as he tumbled out of bed, fighting the near-invisible threads of the spider's silk. Seeing his brother like that — afraid, vulnerable — it made him uneasy, almost nauseas. He had never seen him like that, not even during the worst of his illness. Owen was always calm, collected, brave, even in the face of death. It was what he admired most about his brother. This was different. He shook his head, searching for a distraction.
He reached in the backseat and pulled a stack of letters.
"Wanna see what happens next?" he suggested.
Owen shrugged, his tired eyes never leaving the road. "Sure."
Dear William,
I find your request most unexpected. How long has it been since I saw you last, in the physical plane? Three years, I should estimate. I will not lie and say I do not wish to see you, William, because I certainly do, if not for reasons I may have guessed months ago.
As accomplished as I have been in my alchemical endeavors (as you have witnessed), there is something I could use you talents for. With a few minor adjustments to my formula, I have all but harnessed the power of the immortal soul. It is the body that is beyond me. I will not go into much detail now, but it involves your thesis, your theory in preservation . . . I believe there is a place for it in my laboratory. A possible application for it which your superiors at the university would not have considered. I shall leave it at this: An immortal soul cannot thrive in a rotting cadaver.
My hope is that together, we can accomplish what the greatest minds of science could not.
Of course, I will need to receive my employer's permission to have you as a guest here at Thornewood House. It will not be a simple task, as I am a servant and simply a guest in the house myself. To make matters worse, Mr. White has fallen quite ill as of late, which makes the chances of securing his permission quite slim indeed. Still, I will not deny you your request, for, as I have mentioned, the success of my project depends (in part) on you.
Despite our recent differences, William, I do believe we make a fine team. However, if and when you arrive, do not expect that I will receive you with warmth. This is strictly a matter of business. I shall be in touch with further instruction.
Sincerely,
Edward Poole
July 13, 1790
Owen gave Malcolm a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. He was already looking better, his interest obviously piqued by the letter. Less tired, Malcolm thought, despite the dark circles under his eyes.
"Is he out of his mind?" Owen said, adjusting the beanie he always wore on his head.
"Poole or William?"
"William—er, both of them," Owen said. "But William especially. He's supposed to be the sane one—"
"—You think William's crazy for wanting to go to the house?" Malcolm interjected.
"Yes!" Owen said, his volume rising with passion.
Malcolm pressed his lips together, feeling laughter bubbling. He couldn't help but see the irony, as they themselves made their way closer and closer to Thornewood Road.
Like flies caught in a spider's web, he thought, and the bubble of laughter went flat in his throat.
Owen groaned, finally seeing the irony himself. He shook his head.
"I should turn this car around," Owen said, hands gripping the wheel.
Malcolm said nothing. He watched the green hills fly by, thick with trees. He thought about William, his ancestor. He was a main character in the Edward Poole saga and yet, they knew so little about him. How did he feel when he killed the spider? How did he feel when it failed to die? Disbelief, horror, disgust? Almost certainly.
But he must have felt the other thing, too. A desperate, burning curiosity. A deep yearning, an insidious desire. It was what motivated William to write back, Malcolm knew, to invite himself to the house. It was what drove Malcolm to making this strange journey as well.
And it must've gotten under Owen's skin too, Malcolm thought, because the next exit came and went. And the next. And the next. Owen drove forward, white knuckled, toward the house on Thornewood Road.