Excerpt – Beneath the Poet’s House by Christa Carmen
Synopsis
For a grieving writer, the secrets of the past and present converge in a novel of gripping psychological suspense from the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Daughters of Block Island.
Unmoored by her husbandās death and suffering from writerās block, novelist Saoirse White moves to Providence, and into the historic home of Sarah Helen Whitman, the nineteenth-century poet and spiritualist once courted by Edgar Allan Poe. Saoirseās certain sheāll find inspiration in the quiet rooms, as well as in the tucked-away rose garden and forgotten cemetery at the back of the property.
Saoirse is immediately welcomed by an effusive trio of transcendentalists obsessed with Whitman, the house, and Whitmanās mystic beliefs. Saoirse, emerging from grief and loneliness, welcomes the idea of new friends taking her mind off the pastāeven as they hope to summon it. When she meets Emmit Powell, a charismatic and charming prize-winning author, Saoirse thinks sheās finally turned a corner.
Emboldened by new romance, Saoirse begins to write again and, through her writing, rediscover herself. But as old fears return, she finds that nothing about her new life is what it seemsāand a secret sheās tried so hard to bury may not be the only thing that comes back to haunt her.
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Excerpt
Benefit Street
Providence, Rhode Island
October
The house smells strongly of honey-tinged beeswax and bergamot, the warm notes as distinct as a long-steeped cup of Earl Grey. Saoirse stumbles into the shadowy foyer with a sigh and a crinkle of bags. When she closes the door behind her, the lingering warmth of twilight disappears with the finality of a stone slab sliding over a crypt. She inspects the spaceāfeathery fern on a cherrywood stand, peach settee, marble table, gold-framed paintings of an idyllic countrysideāand allows herself a moment of relief as small as it is earned.
The sound of voices comes from somewhere deep within the house. Saoirse freezes, mind stuttering, then lets out a small bark of laughter and shakes her head. Sheās in the city now, not the suburbs. There will be noises beyond the trills of whip-poor-wills and the white-noise hum of a neighborās lawn mower. Her nights will be backdropped by teenagers hooting on street corners, students singing on their way to parties, spouses teasing one another as they hustle to dinner reservations at fancy restaurants.
She drops her computer bag, purse, and shopping totes to the floor and pats her pockets. Empty. Her cell phone must still be in the car. Why did she time the three-hour drive to arrive in Providence so late? She could run out again, find a Starbucks, guzzle a shot ofāor maybe a doubleāespresso. Another perk of the city: things stay open later than 7:00 p.m. But the thought of delaying the inevitable makes her want to collapse to the floor with her bags. And sheās not supposed to have too much caffeine; her doctors tell her this constantly. Saoirse pulls her hair into a ponytail and heads back outside to begin the painful process of unloading her car.
Each trek between her grime-coated Mazda and the garnet-red building that is now her homeāstriking even in this fading lightārecalls another detail from her new landlord, Dianeās, pitch. The woodwork is mesmerizing, sheād said on their second call, treating Saoirseās desire to rent 88 Benefit Street sight unseen as an opportunity to wax poetic. And the front door is white as bone and just as sturdy, reminiscent of the early 1800s during which it was built.
Saoirse had mumbled something like approval but had already decided to sign the lease. She didnāt care about Federal Period architecture or the houseās āstoried history,ā whatever that meant. Still, Diane had insisted on finishing with the declaration that the property sat at the top of Church Street, overlooking Saint Johnās Cathedral and the adjoining cemetery. On foggy nights, she said, sounding more like the tour guide of a haunted house than the owner of numerous high-end properties, the tops of the headstones cut through the fog like rows of teeth.
At the time, Saoirse had been curled miserably into a worn wingback chair, hands wrapped around a mug of tea long-cold, and Dianeās description of the nineteenth-century graveyard had done little more than unnerve her. But standing in the rose garden behind the house, peering down at elaborate stone arches and hydrangeasāmelancholy blue in the haze of the streetlightsāthe marble crosses covering the expanse of grass like forgotten pendants at the bottom of a jewelry box, Saoirse canāt help but admit that the view is thrilling, like the unexpected chords of a violin slicing up from an orchestra pit where before thereād been only silence. She shivers, adjusts her grip on an armload of sheets and blankets, and returns to the house.
She hadnāt taken enough with her from Cedar Grove to warrant a moving truckāand 88 Benefit Street was fully furnishedābut Saoirseās car is full of her most important possessions. Yellowed photo albums. Treasured novels. A tea set inherited from her grandmother. Piles of clothes, including a sweatshirt of her motherās that smells perpetually of jasmine and cardamom, and a Brown University T-shirt so soft, it could double as a babyās blanket. A framed copy of her and Jonathanās wedding invitation. A conch shell from their honeymoon. A photo, refrigerator-worn, of the two of them hiking Rocky Mountain National Park. Everything one might expect a grieving widow to have.
Entering the house with the load of bedding, Saoirse surveys the narrow foyer, clogged with piles from previous trips. Her heart thuds in her chest from the constant lifting, and a voice in her head sounds the alarm: Be careful. Donāt overdo it. When sheās caught her breath, she ventures farther inside to find a place in which to lay her haul.
Beyond the foyer is a living room enlarged by several Zuber panels depicting lush, jungly landscapes. Heavy hunter-green velvet drapes hang from black metal rods, the fabric an exact match to the green velvet settee along the left-hand wall. A candle chandelier casts a shadow over an ornately carved wooden table. The pink roses in the vase at the tableās center are silk but look freshly picked. There are candelabras on the mantel above a tiger bustāadorned marble fireplace. The Zuber panel over the hearth shows a distant mountainscape, the glow of a sunset over an inviting, frothy-green sea.
Saoirse sets everything down on a chair by the fireplace, oscillating between exploring the rest of the house and embarking upon the last trip to the Mazda, when the sound of voices comes again. Muffled but layered, as if several people are speaking in unison. Rising in volume. A little frenzied. This time, itās unmistakable that theyāre coming from inside the house.
Aidan, she thinks, and freezes. But it canāt be. Only her mother knows sheās moved here. It must be the landlord. Though, Diane hadnāt said anything about meeting her here in person. Saoirse received the keys two weeks ago by mail and had texted Diane to confirm receipt. Itās someone else whoās inside the house.
She creeps forward, but her foot catches on a fold of the afghan that had spilled over the seat of the chair. She stumbles, steadies herself on the coffee table, catches the vase of pink roses before it can topple. The voices pause, and Saoirse crosses the room into a hallway. She can go right, to the houseās main staircase; straight, to the kitchen; or left to a short set of steps leading to the walkout basement. The voices start again. Thereās a rhythm to the garble, but the sound comes from above and below her all at once. Swallowing her unease, Saoirse starts for the staircase.
On the second floorāno, third; she decides the walkout basement constitutes a floorāshe turns left, stopping outside a closed room. There is silence again, minus the pounding of her heart in her ears. She steels herself as she throws open the door, but the floral-papered bedroom, while dark, is empty.
Saoirse opens the other doors on the third floorātwo bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office as paradoxically sleek and cozy as every other room in the houseābefore climbing the next set of stairs. There is a kitchenette on the fourth floor, two more bedrooms, and a bathroom, all empty. The house is large, but sheād wanted large. Something tangible to get lost in, as opposed to wandering through her own sinuous thoughts. Diane had said 88 Benefit Street had been converted into a five-unit residence in the eighties before sheād bought it and done a complete renovation. No, that wasnāt the word sheād used .Ā .Ā . a restoration, not renovation. But restored to what?
About the Author
Christa Carmen lives in Rhode Island. She is the author ofĀ The Daughters of Block Island, winner of the Bram Stoker Award and a Shirley Jackson Award nominee, the Indie Horror Book Award-winningĀ Something Borrowed, Something Blood-Soaked, and the Bram Stoker Award-nominated āThrough the Looking Glass and Straight into Hellā (Orphans of Bliss, Wicked Run Press). She has a BA from the University of Pennsylvania, an MA from Boston College, and an MFA from the University of Southern Maine. When sheās not writing, she keeps chickens; uses a Ouija board to ghost-hug her dear, departed beagle; and sets out on adventures with her husband, daughter, and bloodhoundāgolden retriever mix. Most of her work comes from gazing upon the ghosts of the past or else into the dark corners of nature.