I took a moment to mentally assess. Foot? Still attached. Shin? Felt scratched up a bit but not too bad. I cautiously pulled my leg from the hole in the porch, testing my weight on the surrounding planks. I’d shredded my already ripped jeans, and it looked like I had a nasty scrape, but I was otherwise unharmed.
“Nice work, Viv, you broke the house,” I chided myself. My voice was carried away on the wind blowing in from the ocean. Mmm, salty. Briny. Oceany. I dusted myself off and put my bag back together. Undaunted but with a slight limp, I approached the grand front door, the window just above the doorknob covered in a lacy curtain.
Would it look the same? I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my memory run wild. I recalled the front entryway, deep burnished oak halfway up the walls with a built-in bench just inside for shoes and boots, the space above studded with old-fashioned hooks for jackets and coats. A long mirror, creating the illusion of a space larger than it really was. Wide, shining planked floors leading the eye to a grand staircase of more honeyed wood. The scent of wood soap and lemony oil rubbed into the wood to make it gleam. I could almost see it.
And I would, as soon as I managed to get the old key to work. Twisting it this way and that, I finally got it to turn. I held my breath as I let myself into the house. Preparing myself for the beautiful woodwork, the gentle sun shining through a picture window on the west side, I stepped inside.
I breathed deeply, waiting for the lemon and the pine and the wood soap. But what I got was . . . mildew? It was dark inside, and I let my eyes adjust as I let out a mild cough. Throwing open the yellowed curtain on the door to let some light inside, I turned in a complete circle, taking it all in.
Dull, scratched woodwork. Stacks of old magazines. Clothes in piles along the stairs. Dust bunnies the size of their namesakes. The long mirror, foggy and shadowed. And every single hat that had ever been manufactured on the West Coast gathered on a hat tree that was leaned toward me in an imagined jaunty greeting.
I went further into the house, the formerly elegant but cozy living room now almost buried under piles of old calendars, boxes full of what looked like teacups, and again, stacks and stacks of magazines. And old tin buckets; everywhere with the buckets. The dining room? The old table was still there, covered with dolls of all shapes and sizes and about an inch of dust. Into the kitchen I went, and promptly turned right around and came back out. Covering the counter were industrial-size cans of Beanee Weenees, stacked three high like someone was getting ready to cook for a summer camp.
Beanee Weenees. What the actual fuck?
Terrified of what I would find, but determined to push through, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, wincing at how loose the bannister was and how powdery and almost, well, gnawed looking the spindles leading up the stairs looked. The entire staircase used to be grand and gleaming; now it was held together with a prayer. To say nothing of how creaky the steps were as I made my way up, winding around crates of glasses stamped with cartoon characters and bags of what looked like tube socks.
The upstairs hallway wasn’t any better. An Oriental rug runner that had seen better days led me through canyons of commemorative cheerleading banners, and an actual suit of armor. Well, half a suit. I’d no idea where the torso might be, but the knight’s metal legs were in residence in the hallway. I peeked into one, two, three guest bedrooms and found more of the same: tidy but serious stacks of things. And stuff. It was just more and more things and stuff.
Sighing as I came to the end of the hallway, I opened the door onto what I remembered was the master bedroom. And here was the knight’s torso, holding court on a stand in front of the wide picture window, overlooking the sea. Planning a watery invasion? Not likely, his legs being in the hallway, you see.
The ornate four-poster bed, still majestic and beautiful, was sagging in the middle. Well, bowling balls will do that. Yep, seven to be exact. Pink. Lined up down the center.
I turned in a circle, taking it all in.
Aunt Maude might have been shithouse crazy.
I left the house through the back door, testing each floorboard before putting my full weight on it. That scratch on my leg was throbbing. I’d need to head back into town and find some Bactine.
Ugh. I shuddered to think about sleeping in any of those beds until I could do a good airing out. The couch didn’t look too bad, though. I could sleep there just for tonight until I could—
I was pulled from my thoughts by a soft whinny. The barn! I turned to look: still weathered red, with a pasture surrounded by a weathered wooden fence. Across the long dooryard from the house, I could see the old pump for the well that had been there forever. As I walked through the grass, a few chickens scratched at the ground.