Rubicon
Jerry squinted and his nostrils dilated as he pulled in a sharp breath. His lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “This whole thing is ridiculous,” he said.
“But if it’s the house in the photos—” Hannah insisted.
“Lower your voice. Better yet, just stop. You’re acting like a spoiled child.”
Hannah glanced at the nearest table where an elderly woman in a green overcoat huddled over a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich. A shopping bag with a frayed handle leaned against the woman’s ankles.
No one else in the diner was within earshot, but Hannah leaned in and forced herself to speak calmly. Softly. “I think it’s the house, Jerry. The one I dreamed about. The house that’s described in my great aunt’s diary. The one in the photo where she’s standing on the front porch. I’m sure… Well, almost sure.”
“So what? And why live in a rundown hovel when we could get a new condo in a better neighborhood?”
“And anyway, I’m certain there’s something behind the basement stairs.”
He sniffed. “Yeah. Dust and mouse shit.”
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Think about it, Hannah. You had maybe all of two minutes alone in the basement before the agent got worried about personal liability lawsuits and tottered downstairs to make sure you were okay. I was afraid the old fart would have a stroke.”
“There’s no harm in looking again. And the agent seemed like a nice man. Anyway, the house isn’t that bad.”
“Yes, it is that bad. And I don’t get why you’re so obsessed with the place. Just because some loony old bat—”
“Cut it out. It’s not just the house, Jerry. What if it really is my great aunt’s place? Look at the street. It’s just like—”
“I’d rather not. They whole neighborhood’s a disaster.”
“Not a disaster. Just old. Just like the diary said. Anyway, this house has been kept up better than anything else on the street.”
“There are a lot of crappy old houses in a lot of crappy, rundown neighborhoods, Hannah. In this town and a thousand others.”
Why was he so dead-set against this? She bit her lip and glanced at the old woman again before continuing. Focused as she was on her coffee and her own meagre lunch, the woman seemed completely oblivious to their conversation. Even so, Hannah lowered her voice further. “But this house,” she whispered. “It knew we were there. That we were thinking of—”
“Listen to yourself. Do you know how that sounds?”
She clamped her jaw shut on the first words that came to mind. And the second. Her face felt hot. She struggled for control and grabbed hold of it. Mostly. “Maybe we need to let the idea settle a bit. We can think about…” she began.
But Jerry was just getting started. Silverware bounced as he smacked his fist on the table. The dining room went quiet, but he seemed not to notice. “You need to grow up, Hannah,” he snapped. “I’m not setting foot in that house again, let alone putting an offer on it. The place is a dump, so get over whatever fantasy you’ve built in that little pea brain of yours.”
His words felt like a slap, and the expression on his face curdled her stomach. And in that moment she saw, perhaps for the first time, what it would be like to marry this man. To be married to him. Relief vied with disappointment and won.
She slid back, her chair scraping on the shabby linoleum. She stood, fumbled in her purse, pulled out a few dollars, and tossed them at her fiancé. No, check that. Her ex-fiancé.
She took a deep breath and forced steadiness into her voice. “I’m going to call the agent,” she said. “And I’m going back in that house and figure out what’s behind those stairs. Then I’ll go over the whole place, inch-by-inch and see what else I can find. And if it turns out to be what I think it is, I’m buying that house.”
His lip curled. “And if it’s not?”
She pulled the engagement ring off her finger and placed it in the center of the table. “Not your problem, Jerry. Not your problem,” she said.
“I’m warning you, Hanna. You walk out of here and it’s over.”
“Figured that out, did you? Bye.”
The cold hit her as soon as she left the diner, and she hugged her coat closer. She hurried to the corner and ducked into the shelter of a storefront long enough to call the real estate agent, but the call rang into voicemail. “This is Hannah Allaire,” she said, her voice almost steady. “I’d like to look at the Collier Street property again. I’m heading over there now. Please give me a call. Better yet, it’d be great if you could meet me there.”
She put her head down and bulled her way through the chill. Three blocks later, she stood in front of the old house. She shivered with excitement as much as the cold as she stared up at the front porch.
A horn blared, making her jump. “Give it up, Hannah,” Jerry shouted. “Get in the fucking car.”
She waved him off, but instead of leaving, he lunged from the car, dashed over, and grabbed her arm.
“Nobody walks out on me,” he grated.
“It’s over, Jerry. I think I knew it all along, but I denied my own instincts. Or tried to. Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”
But he squeezed harder. “I don’t think so. You’re coming to my place. Now.”
A flash of light and a thunderclap made them both jump. The old woman from the coffee shop appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. She clucked her tongue, stepped up close, and stabbed a hatpin into Jerry’s hand.
Jerry gasped. “What the fuck? Why you crazy old bitch. I’ll…” But his glare collapsed into a look of puzzlement. He dropped Hannah’s arm and staggered back. Bright blue streaks spread from the wound. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. He coughed and flailed his arms and legs. His movements grew more and more feeble until, at last, he curled in on himself.
The wind blew harder. Hannah watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as Jerry crumbled into ashes. A gust of icy wind scattered the remains.
Silence descended. The old woman’s hat pin lay on the sidewalk. She retrieved the pin, blew on it, and threaded it through the lapel of her coat. She rolled up Jerry’s empty clothes and stuffed them into her bag. She tied his shoelaces together and with a smooth, easy sweep of her arm, sent the shoes spinning into the air. They wrapped around a power line and hung there, a mute reminder of what had transpired.
“I’ll get rid of those later,” the woman said. “Did he hurt you, dear?”
Hannah forced her mouth closed. “No. Not really. But what did you do to—”
The woman patted her hair into place. “It’s called a ‘reflection spell’ — it feeds off intent. Amplifies it. Turns it back on the person.”
“Intent? What do you mean?”
The old woman pursed her lips. “That young man intended you grievous harm.”
“Are you sure? I… I mean, I know he was angry and all, but—”
“I’m afraid he was far more than angry, dear. The magic never lies.”
Hannah began to shake. Something cold and quite distinct from the weather took up residence in her belly. “Magic?”
The woman took her hand. Almost immediately, warmth and strength flowed into Hanna. Something uncoiled inside and the shaking went away.
“It will be all right,” the woman whispered. “I promise you.”
“But—”
“When I was young, I studied reflective magic — and many other things — with the woman who lived in that house.”
“Really? Because I think she might have been—”
The old woman’s eyes sparkled. “Part of your family, yes. I’ve had the strongest premonition lately, but I wasn’t 100 percent sure until you stood up to that bully in the diner. Rose Allaire was my teacher, you see.”
Hannah’s heart thudded with excitement. “All I have are her diaries and a few old photos. And… and a feeling about the place. You actually knew her?”
“I knew her very well. She was a fine woman and a powerful sorceress. But now you must compose yourself. We’ve important business to conclude.” She tilted her head at the street as a new Toyota sedan pulled up to the curb.
The real estate agent climbed out. He was a paunchy, middle-aged man with gentle eyes. “I was surprised to hear from you, Ms. Allaire,” he said. “Surprised and pleased.”
She chewed on her lower lip, took a breath, and forged ahead. “If possible, I’d like to spend some time really poking around. I have a feeling about this place.”
“Do you now? A feeling, you say?” The agent’s eyebrows rose. His gaze shifted to the old woman. “So, were you right, Margaret? Is she…?”
“Related to Rose. Yes. Her great niece.”
Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano. All rights reserved.