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The rest of Dane’s sentence, when it finally drops, turns out to be only slightly more egalitarian.
“For just one person, I mean,” he says.
“I can handle it.”
Dane scratches his chin. “There’s lots to do inside. Especially if you really intend to trick it out for resale.”
That’s when I realize he isn’t completely being a sexist jerk. He’s also, in a roundabout way, asking for a job.
“You have experience in home renovation?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Dane says. “A bit.”
Hearing my own answer thrown back at me is more amusing than annoying. Clearly, Dane Hibbets and I have underestimated each other.
“It’s my main gig,” he says. “General contracting. Home repair. Things like that. But business lately hasn’t exactly been booming.”
I take a moment to size him up, wondering if hiring Dane will be more trouble than it’s worth. But Allie was right—despite my knowledge and skill, I will need some help. Dane’s been inside Baneberry Hall. He knows the place better than I do. And if my father thought him good enough to keep paying him, then it might be wise to do the same.
“You’re hired,” I say. “I’ll pay you a fair wage for working on the house. When I sell it, you can claim the lion’s share of the work. Might help get you some new clients. Deal?”
“Deal,” Dane says.
We shake on it.
“Good. We start tomorrow. Eight a.m.”
Dane gives me a clipped salute. “Sure thing, boss.”
—
The drive from the gate to the house itself is a series of expectations either met or subverted. I had assumed the spiral ascent would feel like climbing the lift hill of a roller coaster—all mounting dread and stabs of regret. Instead, it’s just a calm drive through the woods. Uneventful. Peaceful, even, with twilight adding a hazy softness to the surrounding forest.
The only thing that gives me pause is an abundance of spiky-leafed plants along the side of the road. Sprouting from them are tight clusters of red as bright as stage blood in the glare of the truck’s headlights.
Baneberries.
They’re everywhere.
Spreading deep into the woods. Swarming around tree trunks. Running all the way up the hillside. The only place they’re not growing is at the top of the hill, almost as if they’re intimidated by the presence of Baneberry Hall.
Again, I had steeled myself for the moment it rose into view. Since I have no actual memories of it, I expected a heart-in-throat fear of a house I’d known only through my father’s writing. The pictures in the Book make Baneberry Hall look like something out of a Hammer horror film. All dark windows and storm clouds scudding past the peaked roof.
But at first glance, Baneberry Hall doesn’t resemble a place one should fear. It’s a just a big house in need of some work. Even in the thickening twilight, it’s clear the exterior has been neglected. Strips of paint hang off the windowsills, and moss stipples the roof. One of the second-floor windows has a crack slanting from corner to corner. Another has been broken entirely and now sits covered with plywood.
Yet the place isn’t without appeal. It looks solid enough. There don’t seem to be any immediately noticeable structural issues. The porch steps don’t sag, and no cracks appear in the foundation.
Dane was right. It’s got good bones.
Before I left Boston, I made sure to check that the house was still hooked up to the necessary utility lines. It was, which in hindsight should have tipped me off that my father had been doing more than just holding the house for safekeeping. Baneberry Hall has all the utilities of an average home. Running water. Gas. Electricity. The only thing it doesn’t have is a phone line, which is why I remain in the truck and use my cell phone to call my mother. I deliberately waited to come here until she and my stepfather left for Capri. By the time my mother listens to this voicemail, she’ll be half a world away.
“Hey, Mom. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know that, while I really do appreciate your offer to buy Baneberry Hall, I’ve decided to fix it up and sell it on my own.” Hesitation thickens my voice as I tiptoe into the part she’sreallynot going to like. “In fact, I’m here right now. Just wanted to let you know. Enjoy your trip.”
I end the call, shove the phone into my pocket, and retrieve my luggage from behind the pickup’s passenger seat. With two suitcases in my grip and a large duffel bag strapped to my back, I make my way to Baneberry Hall’s front door. After a moment spent fiddling with the keys, the door is unlocked and opened with an agitated creak of the hinges.
I peer inside, seeing an unlit interior painted gray by twilight. A strange smell tickles my nostrils—a combination of stale air, dust, and something else. Something more unpleasant.
Decay.