The knob turned, and the door flung open with ease. A rush of cool air hit her in the face. Her mouth fell open, and her naked body recoiled in surprise. It was unlocked?
“What the hell were you doing up there?” Myron looked dumbfounded at her sweat-smeared face and naked body and picked her towel up off the stairs. “Jesus. Are you okay?”
He looked at her as though she’d sprouted another head. Her eyes had gone feral. Her hair was a matted mess. Her hands were blackened with dust and newsprint. Margot snatched the towel from his hand and struggled to recover herself. Utter relief twisted into abject fury.
“No! No, I am not fucking okay! Someone locked this fucking door! I’ve been trapped up there for hours!”
“But . . .” Myron pointed at the doorknob, which had clearly not been locked, and raised his eyebrows at her.
“But what?” she shrieked. “Are you suggesting that I stayed up there for hours for no fucking reason? Are you insane?”
Myron didn’t answer, but his face made clear he doubted her sanity altogether.
Apoplectic, Margot stormed down the hallway back to her room. Myron reluctantly followed. The bathtub was still filled with water that had long gone cold. She pulled the plug and tapped her foot to keep from kicking something.
“Someone was here!” she seethed. “I heard them in the house! Someone locked me in the attic.”
“Whoa. What are you talking about?” Myron held up his hands as though approaching a loaded gun.
“Someone was here!” she barked. “Someone must have found the skeleton key for this fucking place. Did Max say anything about the key?”
He just stared at her as though she were speaking in tongues. “No. He didn’t. We haven’t been able to find the key. You know that.”
“And! That real estate agent lied to us, Myron! She fucking lied. This place isn’t just rumored to be haunted or cursed. The first owner killed her son! She killed him in the attic! There’s still a bloodstain on the goddamn floor! No wonder no one wanted this goddamn place!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You just had to have it. Such a great price. What an investment! Fuck, Myron! A six-year-old boy died up there! Six!”
Her face had gone red, and she was shouting so loudly he could barely follow what she was saying. Murder? Boy? All that was clear was that she blamed him for it somehow. It was all his fault.
He finally gained control of his slackened jaw and managed to speak. “Hey! I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you need to calm down.”
“I need to calm down?” she shouted. “I—fuck you, Myron! Just . . .” She began to shake. Her towel dropped to the floor, and her body followed it, sliding down against the wall.
“Hey, hey.” His voice softened. “Take it easy. Let me look at you.” He tipped her red face up toward his. The doctor in him examined her. Dried, cracked lips. Dilated pupils. Flushed skin. Incoherence. “You’re dehydrated, and probably starving. Here.” He stepped over to the sink and filled a glass of water for her.
She took the glass and spilled tears into it as she held it up to her lips. The feel of his doctor’s eyes watching and making notes as she talked, his ears perked for any sign of lunacy, delusion, or schizophrenia, undid her. The glass tumbled from her hands.
Utterly disarmed and dismayed, he picked it up. He found a place on the bath mat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. She didn’t have the energy to resist. “Okay. Just breathe. Let’s start from the beginning, okay?”
By the time Margot had told him the whole story and had taken a hot shower, Myron was the one coming unhinged.
“Glenda? Hey, this is Myron Spielman. The house on Lee Road? . . . Yeah. Listen, we have a problem.” Myron poured himself a scotch and took a long swig to keep himself from yelling. Margot sat on the sofa behind him, nursing a drink of her own. She’d decided it would be best for him to make the call. I’ll just start screaming. Besides, people prefer to talk to a man.
After a moment’s listening, he continued, “Well, the problem is that you sold us a murder house. Those ‘rumors’ you alluded to? Turns out a kid was killed in our attic . . . When? Does it matter? . . . 1931 . . . Yes, I realize it was a long time ago . . . I don’t give a shit what your company’s policy is, we should have been informed! There’ve been some odd disturbances . . . No, I’m not claiming ghosts, damn it . . . My wife just found a bunch of newspapers about it up in the attic along with a goddamn gun, for Christ’s sake! A gun! . . . No, I don’t suppose you can be held responsible for the contents of the house, but what kind of ‘great investment’ is this if we can’t sell this damn place, huh? . . . We also suspect that there’s been an intruder here. Someone with a key . . . Of course we changed the locks, I mean a skeleton key for the doors inside . . . I want to contact the last owner . . . Well, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”
He hung up the phone, slamming it onto the coffee table.
“What’d she say?” Margot asked numbly.
“What do you think she said? ‘Not my problem! It was almost a hundred years ago!’ Blah, blah, blah.” He pounded the rest of his drink. “She can’t give out any information on the last owner besides what is in the contract . . . Didn’t Max say something? During the reno, didn’t he talk about some issues?”
“I have no idea.” Margot stared into her glass, her face blank. We’re screwed. This is a murder house, and now we’re trapped here.
“It doesn’t hurt to ask, right?” Myron, determined to be a man of action for his distressed wife, picked up the phone again.
“Max? This is Myron. Spielman. The house on Lee Road in Shaker? . . . Yeah . . . No. Everything is working just fine. Thanks again for putting in all of the overtime, we’re really happy with how it turned out . . . Right. Listen, we’ve run into a bit of an issue with the house itself. Nothing to do with you, but do I remember right that there were some problems, rumors among the guys about bad luck or something? . . . Did the guys ever see anyone on site? Like a trespasser? . . . No? Well, we just found out about a murder up in the attic back when it was built. That ring any bells? . . . Really? What was her name? Can you text me her number? I think we’d like to chat with her . . . Okay. Thanks!”
The conversation lifted Margot’s eyebrows. What?
Myron plopped down on the couch next to her and let out a stream of frustrated air. “I was right. Something had spooked the guys. He brought in some sort of psychic to take the curse off the house.” He let out a forced laugh. “Can you believe this shit?”
“No, I can’t . . . So he sent you her number?”
Myron picked up his phone and scrolled through his messages. “Not yet. Says he’ll send it when he gets into the office tomorrow. In the meantime, what about that security system? Did you make some calls?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, shutting her eyes. “They can’t get here until Monday.”
“You call anyone else?”
“No, Myron. I did not call anyone else,” she spat. “If you want to call someone else, be my fucking guest. Okay?”
Her venom made him flinch.