He nodded and began to follow her along a path covered in dead and decomposing leaves. JD tried to pay attention to details along the way; he might need to come back here. A left at the craggy oak tree, the one with a disc of fungus growing out its side. Slight right after the huge rock covered in a carpet of deep-green moss.
His heart rate picked up as the house appeared suddenly before them, in a clearing that JD could have sworn he’d passed through on his way to the ice pond where Mr. Landon died. Except the other day, it had been empty. Well, almost empty. There had been three ancient stone markers in the center of it, and dry grasses rustling at the edges. Now, however, he faced a big, old, decaying house with a clapboard roof, a house that had history in every nail, in every brown shingle. It was boxy and big, with a stone chimney and black shutters framing the windows. It stood tall with energy—like it was somehow alive. Granite slabs lined the walkway to the front door, which was adorned with an ornate gold door knocker.
“Here we are,” Ty said. “Home sweet home.” Her voice was a sing-song but had a cutting edge to it, like syrup poured over a knife.
Inside, the whole place smelled of flowers. Cloying, sweet, and overpowering—like one of those girls who poured a bottle of perfume on herself before leaving the house.
Ty showed them into a living room filled with Victorian furniture. The color scheme was oppressive—all reds and maroons and browns. JD stood stiffly, not sure where to look, where to sit, or what to say. There was a feeling that all this stuff was frozen in time—that to sit down would mean getting stuck in another era. This place was sucking the air right out of his lungs.
“I’m not sure if Ali told you, but this place used to be in our family,” Ty explained. “All this stuff isn’t quite our style.”
“It’s incredible,” he said, just to stay something. He had to get her out of here. Had to look around. For what, he wasn’t sure. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“Of course.” Ty laughed. “What a terrible hostess I am. I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll get us something to drink and I’ll dig up those maps I told you about.”
JD watched her walk down the hallway. When she came back he would ask her again how she knew Drea. Why she was at the funeral. Whether she’d ever met Drea’s dad. He was going to force her to show her hand.
He moved over to a large bookcase that stood near the bay window in the front of the house. It was filled with leather-bound tomes and glass-encased knickknacks. A curvy hourglass lay on its side on one of the shelves, its white sand forever suspended. Next to the bookcase, a gargoyle bust. Then a floor-to-ceiling window that looked into a giant backyard garden bursting with those hideous crimson orchids. Against the barely blooming branches of early spring, the flowers looked out of place and foreign. Just like these girls in Ascension. JD thought back to Mr. Feiffer’s words: It must finish where it began.
He moved through the room slowly, feeling as though he were swimming through something thick and dark.
Next to the window, tucked away in a back corner, there was a small display case with several items on a swath of red velvet.
He stooped to get a closer look, trying to understand why these seemingly ordinary items were being showcased. A worn copy of Shakespeare’s Othello with the initials H. L. inscribed on the cover. An earring, simple and silver, sitting on top of a ripped piece of paper, one marked by heavy charcoal smears. Two small pink oyster shells. A tin of Altoids. A stamped envelope. A patch, meant to be sewn to a backpack or a jacket, in the shape of a football. JD was so close that his breath fogged up the glass. He paused for a moment, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing. The house was eerily silent, every room cloaked in soundproof sheets of velvet.
There seemed to be hundreds of items in the case, but the next one on this shelf made his breath catch in his throat. He would have recognized it anywhere. A gold squiggling-snake brooch. Where its eyes should be, two tiny pieces of red stone. He’d seen it hundreds of times—pinned to Drea Feiffer’s clothes.
He shrank back from the case, his mind racing, certain now that he was in a bad place—that this house, and its inhabitants, were evil. It was all starting to make sense. The football—Chase Singer. The charcoal drawing—Sasha Bowlder. The pin—Drea. Now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t be surprised if that copy of Othello was connected to Mr. Landon. JD’s blood went cold. What was he looking at? Prizes? Trophies?
Pieces for some kind of demented scrapbook?