Starling House(18)
She chose a strange site to build: a damp, low hollow so deep in the woods the house itself couldn’t be seen from the road. The townsfolk knew it existed only by the workers that came and went: surveyors and architects, carpenters and masons, roofers and painters. She hired them and fired them within days—because she didn’t want them getting too friendly with the locals, people said, or because she was mad. Why else would she hire four separate locksmiths, and order each of them to melt their molds afterward? The last person she employed was a blacksmith who came all the way from Cincinnati to hang the front gates.
Eleanor moved into the house the day after the gates were hung and was never seen again. For the following twenty years, the only sign of her continued survival was the shine of her windows at night, peering through the trees like the amber eyes of some restless animal.
The town thrived in her absence. They survived the Grant administration and the Freedmen’s Bureau; they made peace with the carpetbaggers and war with the tax collectors. The youngest Gravely boy kept the family business afloat, opening new coalfields and laying railroad tracks across the river. He married well and smiled often, and people began to believe Eleanor Starling would leave him in peace.
But then, on one of those sickly spring nights when the fog comes off the river in great white curls like wood shavings under a knife, bad luck came for the last Gravely brother.
He told his wife he would be out late on company business, and rode off on his favorite horse, a glossy thoroughbred named Stonewall who cost more than most men made in a year. Stonewall was a sure-footed creature, but that night he must have caught a hoof between the railroad ties, or turned an ankle. Or maybe he saw something moving in the mist ahead and refused to take another step. All anybody knew for sure was that Stonewall and his rider were both standing on the tracks when the midnight coal train came through.
There was no proof it was the widow’s work. But after that night, Starling House went dark.
There were several competing theories about this: maybe Eleanor had run away, her grim work finally completed; maybe the spirits of the three brothers had found some revenge of their own; maybe she hanged herself in sudden remorse, or maybe she simply fell down one of her own twisting staircases and lay at the bottom, broke-necked.
Eventually the sheriff took it upon himself to investigate—although whether he was more interested in discovering the state of Eleanor’s body or her fortune, I couldn’t tell you—but the gates were locked and the walls were high. He returned to town briar-bitten and muddy, with an expression of distant confusion, as if he’d walked into a room and couldn’t remember why.
Eden might have forgotten about the widow and her strange house, given time, and returned their minds once again to their own business, but you already know they didn’t. They couldn’t, for three very good reasons.
The first was the unpleasant discovery that Eleanor had, without anyone’s say-so or approval, become slightly famous. That book of hers—a morbid, unsettling thing that everyone did their best to ignore—made her name linger longer than anyone wanted, like an ill-mannered houseguest.
The second reason was the raggedy young man who arrived in Eden the following spring. He called himself a Starling, and maybe he was; all the town knew for sure is that the gates opened for him, and there were lights in the woods again, after that.
The third reason is rarely spoken of, and only slantwise, by suggestion and intimation. It’s something about the way the shadows fell in Eden, after Eleanor died. It’s the way everything soured: the river ran darker and the clouds hung lower; rich coal seams went dry and healthy children sickened; good luck went bad and sweet dreams spoiled. It’s the way Starling House crouches just out of sight, watching us all.
It’s the way the fog still rises, on chill and rotten nights. Some people think it’s just weather, but my granddaddy always said it was her: Eleanor Starling, whittled down to nothing but malice and mist, still thirsty for Gravely blood, haunting the town that still hates her.
SEVEN
I didn’t plan to stay up late again, but here I am: sitting with the laptop screen angled away from Jasper’s bed, typing up a story that shouldn’t matter to me at all.
I couldn’t sleep, not even after reading six chapters of a racy “Beauty and the Beast” retelling I’d had on hold for weeks. Bev’s story seemed to bleed through the pages, so that I saw a house swallowed by honeysuckle instead of a castle covered in roses. I could almost hear her voice: the rhythm of it, the slight slur of the tobacco tucked in her lip.
Eventually I gave up. I opened the file I’d saved as “document 4,” buried in a series of folders with boring names, and typed it all out. I told myself that writing down somebody else’s story wasn’t as bad as making up my own, the way repeating a lie isn’t as bad as telling one; I told myself it was probably all horseshit, anyway.
Before I had gone back to my room, I’d asked Bev if she thought any of it was true. She tilted her chin one way, then the other. “Enough, I’d say.”
“Enough to what?”
“Enough to steer clear of those people. I don’t think this town is cursed by anything but coal, and I don’t know if all the Starlings are as bad as the first one was, but I’ll tell you something: I don’t trust the boy who lives there now.”