The House

The black cats watched her from the window. Every morning, at precisely 7, Luce Freydis walked past the towering, dark Victorian mansion on East Elm Street, and every morning exactly five black cats watched her, heads swiveling slowly on stiff shoulders. Five prim gargoyles framed in velvet green curtains.

Luce couldn’t say why she picked up her pace when the house on East Elm came into view. Something about the weathered charcoal paint, peeled and chipped, or the cats which never blinked, the overgrown hedges, or the pitted stone lions guarding either side of the wrap around porch, or any number of eerie and foreboding things urged her to move along.

If ever there existed a bad omen, the house on East Elm was it.

And yet Luce never changed her route. Never traveled one block over or crossed to the other side of the street.

As much as the house repelled her, it drew her in doubly strong.

For three years she passed the house on the way to her job at the corner grocery and for ten years prior in courageous games of truth or dare. She made it past the vine encrusted wrought iron entrance gate a meager handful of times as a child.

The door on East Elm remained closed. The occupants, except for five black cats, remained an infuriating mystery.

Luce laid awake at night pondering what the haunted house contained. It had to be haunted after all. No house could look like that and not be haunted. The laws of nature said as much.

Ghosts, goblins, and ax murderers aside, Luce walked as close to the fence as she could, trailing her fingers along iron pickets speared into the low brick wall.

It should come as no surprise that on the one day the front door stood ajar, Luce opened the gate, however tentative, and traversed the wobbly brick path. She stopped at the foot of the porch steps to wonder vaguely if the stone lions might jump awake and devour her. The canine tooth of the leftmost lion broke in a pitiful snaggle, but Luce suspected the blunt stone would tear her limb from limb all the same.

She placed one scuffed, black high top on the first step and found herself at the door before she remembered climbing the rest.

It would be rude to barge in.

But the door gaped open now.

She’d not seen it move and yet it invited her in so thoroughly, she couldn’t see the door without sticking her head inside the house.

Luce adjusted the hem of her black sweater and walked into the house, a fly into the pitcher plant.

The door slammed shut and plunged the room into darkness.

“What a stupid way to die,” Luce muttered and squinted. Her eyes adjusted to the dim sunlight peeking through a split in the curtains.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Candles flared in a smattering of tall candelabras and the fireplace burst to life.

Luce scrambled back as the dancing light illuminated a woman tucked in the corner beside a bushy potted plant.

The woman watched Luce with bright, manic eyes. Thick white curls tumbled over her shoulders and chest to trail past robust hips clad in a colorfully embroidered belt.

“I’ve watched you for many years,” the woman crooned. “Chosen you special.”

Luce grappled behind her back for the doorknob. It refused to budge and vanished entirely when Luce’s attempt to escape became frantic.

The woman stroked a broad leaf between her thumb and forefinger and whispered to the potted plant, which seemed to perk at the attention.

Luce abandoned the door and dashed to the nearest window. The lock snapped shut as soon as Luce’s fingers left the cold metal.

“There’s no way out.” The woman left her corner and approached. “You can stop wasting your energy.”

“I’m sorry,” Luce gasped. “I won’t ever come back.” She tried the window again and managed to pry it open. The window ripped itself from her fingers, glass rattling in its panes. Luce turned to face the woman and pressed her back to the loathsome window. “Please don’t kill me.”

The woman halted her slow creep. “Kill you?” She looked around the room, brows furrowed. “I suppose this does appear a smidge unsavory.”

Across the room, a stained-glass lamp flicked on next to a wingback chair and an expansive bookcase.

The shadows across the woman’s face dissipated, both from the new light and the brilliant smile she threw across her mouth.

“Hello.” The woman continued to beam at an incredulous Luce and extended a hand in greeting. “Welcome!”

When Luce refused the handshake, the woman grabbed Luce by the shoulders and ushered her into the plush wingback chair.

A fine china set appeared on the side table. The silver tray dazzled with reflected light. The teapot took it upon itself to pour a piping hot drink, careful not to spill a drop.

“Tea?” The woman offered a delicate blue teacup and saucer to Luce. The porcelain tinkled together, accompanying the roar of the fire and the throaty purr of an unseen cat.

“No,” Luce squeaked. She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

The woman tutted her teeth. “I myself can never turn down tea. Had six cups already this morning.” She guzzled the steaming cup and glared at the dregs. Her face creased like sunbaked mud. “No matter,” she chirped and overturned the teacup on its saucer, which she clattered back to the tray. “Those tea leaves lie all the time, anyway.”

Crone, Luce thought.

The woman leaned closer in the colorful lamplight.

Old witch.

That explained the cats.

“You said you’ve been watching me.” Luce flinched as a silky black cat landed on the small table, nearly overturning the silver tray.

“Well, I had to be sure,” the crone said, matter of fact.

“Sure?”

“That it was you.”

“I’ll need you to clarify.”

The crone poured another cup of tea. Down the hatch.

Luce hoped it was decaf.

“We’ve been waiting for you, my dear,” the crone said softly. She stroked Luce’s cheek with a tender, withered finger. “You’ve finally come in.”

She said it so sweetly, Luce couldn’t bring herself to be afraid. She knew she should, that’s what you do when a stranger says they’ve been watching you, and doors close on their own accord and refuse to let you leave, and fire’s light themselves in fireplaces that have no logs. Yet, Luce felt more welcome and secure, here, with this knobby old woman and the boat load of cats than she ever had in her boring life.

“Why exactly have you been waiting for me?”

The crone laughed. “I can’t very well leave my house to a mortal, now can I?” The crone laughed and said to the cat, “Could you imagine? A mortal in this house.” She cackled.

The cat purred.

Luce chuckled, because what else could she do, really? “You say that like I’m not sitting right here.”

The laugh dried up in the crone’s throat. “You are no more a mortal than Jinkies here is a fish.” She jerked a thumb at the cat, who renewed his purr at the sound of his name.

Luce stared, mouth open.

“You’re a witch, if that wasn’t obvious from your surroundings,” the crone said.

“Is this where my magical training starts?” Luce laughed sarcastically. “Do I have to ride a broom and sign contracts for firstborn babies?”

“Those last two are entirely optional, though I must warn you they are frowned upon, at least the thing about the babies. And I’m quite famished, so I’m afraid your magical training will have to wait at least until after breakfast.”

“Wait, what?”

“You should probably read the rules first though, to avoid any catastrophes.” The crone patted the front of her billowing skirts and muttered, “Where is it, where did I…” She shuffled to the bookcase and pulled a thin, black notebook from between ancient, cracked tomes. “There you are, love. Hiding, are we?” She thrust the notebook at Luce, who scrambled to catch it as the witch let go.

“Be a dear and bring the tea, won’t you?” the crone said as she waltzed through an arched hallway.

Luce wedged the notebook on the teetering tray and scrambled to follow. “What should I call you?” Luce shouted as she jogged after the crone. For a withered, bent woman, she moved remarkably quick.

“Dilaramae Blatherskite Emerson, though Dilara should do.”

“I’m—”

“Luce Cherilyn Freydis. A pleasure.” Dilara disappeared into an adjoining room.

Luce found the crone at a cozy table tucked in the corner of the kitchen. “You still haven’t explained anything.”

“I am old. The house cannot fall into mortal hands, you see.”

“And?”

“Not very bright, this one,” Dilara whispered to Jinkies, who’d made himself comfortable amid the folds of her many skirts. “I need someone to leave the house to.” She gestured triumphantly to Luce. “The house, the money, the knowledge.”

The teapot poured another cup for Dilara.

“You want to just give me your house?”

“And money and knowledge,” Dilara said around her teacup. She took a quiet sip. “But first we have to see if the house even likes you.”

“Naturally.”

“As long as you adhere strictly to the rules, the house shouldn’t maim or kill you, though it might change its mind if you get snippy or snarky, and it has been known to toss occupants out the upstairs window for snoring, so I recommend nose strips if you need them.”

Luce cracked the little black notebook open, half prepared for it to bite her, with how Dilara talked.

Crisp capital letters dominated every ounce of space on the first two pages. Luce fanned through the rest of the book, every page as full as the first, save for the last, which said GOOD LUCK and nothing else.

Luce swallowed. “I really have to get to work.” She set the book gently on the table. “Bills and such.” If she hurried, the front door might not see her coming.

“I’ll pay you, of course,” Dilara said between sips.

Luce stopped in the kitchen doorway, eying the crone suspiciously. “How much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars, to start, but it's free room and board and if your work is good, I’m sure we can work out a better arrangement.”

Luce returned to her seat. “Not bad for a year’s work.”

Dilara laughed until she noticed Luce’s unamused face. “My dear, the twenty thousand is a first month’s bonus, seeing as the house will probably eat you by the end of this week.”

“Can’t be anything more dangerous than customer service,” Luce sniffed and flipped through the notebook with renewed interest, trailing her finger down the old ink. “When can I move in?”

“You’ll find all of your belongings in the suite at the top of the stairs, though you may want to rearrange them. The cats can’t decorate to save their lives.”

A chorus of mewling protests rose up from every corner of the house.

Luce frowned at the first sentence in the rule book. Do not, under any circumstances, leave your room after midnight or before five in the morning unless you particularly wish to be dismembered.

Still better than customer service.

Luce accepted the teacup Dilara offered with a smile.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

Nine lives and all that.

Blue teacup in hand, Luce followed Dilara and Jinkies around the house. Black cats wandered amongst bookshelves, draped over armchairs, wrapped around decadent throw pillows, sunned in patches of light on old Persian rugs.

The front door unlocked itself as they passed.

Dilara bid Luce farewell at the top of the stairs. “We’ll begin after lunch.”

In her new room, Luce sank onto the four-poster bed and opened the notebook. She had a lot to learn before lunch, after all, and the book wasn’t going to read itself.