Chapter 2

Saoirse narrows her eyes at the strange brown-haired woman, a frisson of fear creeping up her back like a clutter of spiders. Just as quickly, she shakes the fear away and holds the photograph out to the first woman. “Cut the crap,” she says, in what Jonathan used to call her take-no-prisoners voice. “You have five seconds to tell me what the hell is going on, or I’m calling the police.”

The man pushes back from the head of the table and approaches her as if the séance worked and Saoirse is, in fact, a ghost. “Did you really sign the lease to this place?”

“Yes,” Saoirse says in exasperation. She looks from one baffled expression to the next. “What am I not understanding here?”

The man reaches out and takes the photograph Saoirse is still extending. He peers down at it, then back at Saoirse. “No one’s lived here for the last five years.”

“So?”

“So, this is the former house of the poet Sarah Helen Whitman, like Mia said. We—Lucretia, Mia, and I—have a little arrangement with Diane’s ex.”

“Diane Hartnett?” Saoirse asks. Her head is spinning. She wishes she’d gone for that espresso when she had the chance, doctor’s orders be damned. But at the mention of her landlord’s name, something passes between the three trespassers, an uneasy acknowledgment that she might actually be 88 Benefit Street’s new tenant, like she says.

“Yes, Diane Hartnett,” the man says. “She’s owned this property—along with two dozen others—for years, but has only been divorced from Larry the last five. Larry’s the one who managed Benefit Street when they were together.”

“And what?” Saoirse asks. “Diane never thought to get the key from him over the last half decade?”

The three exchange another round of looks. “Like I said,” the man explains, his voice apologetic, “he took care of the place. If you know 88 Benefit, really know it, there are other ways to get in besides the front door.”

Saoirse throws her arms out angrily. She should have finished unloading her car by now, taken a shower, and be climbing into bed. Instead, she’s standing here with a bunch of nutjobs, listening to how her new house is not bound by the regular rules of leases and locked doors. Before she can say anything, however, the pale-faced, black-haired woman—Lucretia, the man called her—reaches out and takes her by the hand.

“What’s your name?” Lucretia asks.

“Saoirse,” she surprises herself by replying.

“Ser-shah,” she repeats, drawing out the syllables. “Pretty. Listen, Saoirse, we’re not a bad lot, I promise. And we can explain everything, why we’re here. You’ve just arrived, I imagine. Where from? Do you need help unloading your car?”

Saoirse lets out a huff at Lucretia’s presumptuousness, at the idea that Saoirse would want them to do anything other than get the hell out. But Lucretia continues before she can retort. “Roberto can help get the rest of your stuff inside. Mia will make you a cup of tea. After that, we’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“And then we’ll leave you in peace,” the man adds quickly.

Something inside Saoirse lets go. She is beyond exhausted. Haunted. Hurting. Drained of every ounce of motivation. Though it’s insane, she is less dismayed by the idea of having tea with a trio of occultist interlopers than by the prospect of climbing the stairs and claiming one of the empty bedrooms, of trying to fall asleep while, all across the city, museums and parks and libraries thrum with the echoes of Jonathan’s memory. And by the prospect that Aidan Vesper might still discover the details of her new address going forward.

Saoirse sighs. If either Roberto or Mia had looked even slightly put off by Lucretia’s suggestion, Saoirse would have returned to her original plan of kicking them out. But nothing about the strangers standing timidly on the dirt floor of her basement suggests they mean her harm, or that they won’t leave at the culmination of the impromptu tea party.

“Sure, okay,” Saoirse says, forcing more annoyance into the words than she feels. “But blow those damn candles out. I’m not going to be blamed for the house burning down the first night I’m in it.”

The smile that suffuses Lucretia’s face is wide and guileless. Likely, she’s just relieved to have convinced Saoirse not to call the cops. Lucretia bounds toward the black-draped table, closes her eyes, and bows her head. Her lips move in some sort of closing prayer, an official end to the séance. A moment later, she blows out the candles. Mia unearths a black drawstring bag from under the table and slips the Ouija board inside it. The trio packs up everything with speed and precision.

“I’ll come back down for the candles after tea,” Roberto says to Saoirse. “By then, the wax will have dried.”

“Whatever,” Saoirse says, and starts for the stairs.

They climb to the first floor in silence and go to the kitchen, where Mia retrieves tea and honey from a cupboard with a quickness born of familiarity. Roberto rubs his hands together. “Okay then,” he says. “Show me where you parked.”

Ten minutes later, Roberto, Mia, and Lucretia are seated once again around a circular table. This time, Saoirse sits with them, a cup of steaming rooibos (she declined Earl Grey, wanting to get the bergamot smell of the séance out of her nostrils) before her. “All right,” she says, using the take-no-prisoners tone again. “Start explaining.”

Lucretia lifts her mug and blows on the steaming liquid, then sets it back on the table and shrugs. “We’re artists,” she says. “And spiritualists. We love Providence because of its history of producing freethinkers, and Sarah Helen Whitman was one of the best. We’ve been coming here once a week for the last five years to, well ...”

“To bring her back from the dead?” Saoirse finishes for her, one eyebrow raised.

Lucretia’s pale face flushes. “Mia may have been a tad dramatic, putting it like that. To commune with her spirit, is probably a better way to phrase it.”

“While leaning hard into performative ritual,” Roberto says.

He grins rather wickedly, and Saoirse is forced to recalibrate her earlier impression of him. Maybe he isn’t as stodgy as she thought. Still, he was making a joke of breaking into Saoirse’s new home and turning her basement into a parlor act. She scrunches her nose. “Performative ritual? Seriously?”

“I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous.” Roberto runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Saoirse thinks her earlier guess at his age was too high; despite the hair, he looks closer to thirty than thirty-five.

“On one hand,” Roberto continues, “it’s become something to do with friends. Every Friday night, more or less, we get together for the séance, and we each play our little roles. Sometimes we go to dinner afterward, or to one of our houses to watch a movie.” He pauses, gauging the others’ reactions to his assessment. When they nod—Mia, once, Lucretia, an enthusiastic bobbing that sends her black hair bouncing—he continues, “But on the other, it’s a manifestation of our beliefs and our hopes for the future.”

“How so?” Saoirse asks.

“We’re transcendentalists,” Mia says, “meaning we believe what Sarah Helen Whitman believed. And Ralph Waldo Emerson. And Henry David Thoreau. And Margaret Fuller and Ellen Sturgis Hooper and Elizabeth Peabody. That the ‘divine’ is here on earth among humans and nature, and that society and its institutions have corrupted the purity not only of the individual but of all of humanity. We also believe the only way to solve the climate crisis is for the world to embrace transcendentalism and give themselves back to nature.”

“Though, the stuff about the climate is noticeably missing from the writings of nineteenth-century transcendentalists,” Roberto adds. “We had to update the philosophy to fit the times.”

Saoirse resists the urge to rub her temples and takes a sip of tea instead. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” she says. “You three attempt to commune with the dead girlfriend of Edgar Allan Poe ... to save the world from global warming?”

“Well, sheesh, when you put it like that,” Lucretia says, twirling a lock of hair and looking embarrassed.

Mia scowls. “Like Roberto said, there’s no single reason for performing the ritual. For example, he didn’t mention that the three of us are writers and use the time during the séance to meditate as much as commune. Ways out of sticky plot points, formulating new ideas, et cetera.”

“Exactly,” Lucretia chimes in. Her dark eyes flash behind the lenses of her glasses. She seems the youngest of the three. Not naive, exactly, but radiating a childlike sense of wonder and fascination. Saoirse has no trouble buying Lucretia’s interest in the otherworldly. “Sarah Whitman is sort of our muse,” Lucretia finishes.

Saoirse scoffs, but a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth. “You’re writers ,” she says, as if this puts everything that’s come before it in perspective. “What do you write?”

“Mia’s a poet,” Lucretia says. “She’s amazing. I write a little poetry, too, but nowhere near as good as Mia. I dabble in science fiction and fantasy, but my true love is horror.” She smirks at Roberto. “Roberto calls what he writes literary horror, but that’s because he’s a snob.”

“No, Lucretia,” Roberto says, “ Publishers Weekly calls what I write literary horror. In that starred review I got for my debut novel, remember?”

Lucretia snorts. “Where’s the second novel? That’ll help us figure out your genre. Oh, wait, that’s right. You haven’t finished it yet. Better start focusing your appeals to Sarah on increasing your daily word count.”

Roberto leans over and gives Lucretia’s arm a little flick. It’s the gesture of an older brother; the affection the two have for each other is obvious. Saoirse can tell Roberto and Lucretia are close with Mia, too, but Mia commands respect, not affection. She wonders how they know one another, but her tea has gone cold, and she feels the stirring of a headache behind one eye. Still, there’s something else she wants to say to them before calling it a night, something she hasn’t said to herself in almost four years, and out loud in even longer.

“I’m a writer too.” Saoirse feels their eyes on her and squirms. “Cozy mysteries. Suspense. I used to write a little poetry, too, but not since college. I had an agent, but she dropped me after ... Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything good enough to be seen by an agent. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything at all.”

“Shut up ,” Lucretia squeals. She wraps her tattooed arms around her torso and hugs herself, practically vibrating with excitement. Roberto smiles, but Mia’s expression remains unchanged, unreadable. She drains her tea and looks hard at Saoirse.

“Of course you are,” Mia says. Roberto and Lucretia turn to Mia.

“I’m sorry?”

“No one’s been here for five years,” Mia continues. “Prior to that, everyone who moved in left before the lease was up.”

“Because it’s haunted by the ghost of Sarah Whitman?” Saoirse really needs to go to bed now. Her thoughts feel like crows startled by thunder, exploding out of a skeletal tree in eight different directions.

“Maybe,” Mia says, her expression still deadly serious. “You’re the one who’s going to be living here, so I suppose you’ll find out. But at the very least, it’s because Sarah doesn’t want anyone but another writer living in her house.” Mia’s eyes lock on Saoirse’s. “You know, you look like her too. Sarah Helen Whitman. Same sharp profile, thoughtful eyes, wavy brown hair.”

“Same waifish Victorian figure and pale skin,” Roberto adds jovially, and Mia gives him a look.

Just as Saoirse is about to make another sarcastic comment, the intensity of Mia’s gaze softens. “I’m not trying to weird you out. All I’m saying is, even if your coming here means the end of our séances, it’s nice to have a writer in Sarah’s home.”

Saoirse opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She can feel Lucretia and Roberto studying her, the unasked question hanging over the room. “I guess ...,” Saoirse begins, then stops. She doesn’t trust herself not to make a hasty decision, doesn’t want to commit to inviting these three strangers back next Friday. “I guess,” she repeats, “it might be nice to get together again, maybe.”

“Ooh, for a writing group?” Lucretia asks.

Roberto cheers and pumps a fist into the air.

“Maybe just tea,” Saoirse says quickly. She stands and walks her mug over to the sink. “But for now, you’ve got to leave. I need to sleep for about twelve solid hours.”

“Of course.” Mia stands, and Lucretia and Roberto follow suit. Saoirse leads them to the foyer.

“I’ll give you my number,” Saoirse says. “That way you can call before you come over, rather than sneaking into my basement.” She pauses. “How did you get in?”

“The white paneling on the outside of the house,” Roberto says. “Right where the sidewalk starts to incline. Three of the panels are connected and swing outward—if you know where to hold them—into another, albeit hidden, entrance to the walkout basement.” He smiles sheepishly. “If we’re going to be back, can I leave the candles downstairs?”

“Fine,” Saoirse says, shaking her head at his matter-of-fact admission and ushering them toward the door.

“But we can’t take your number,” Lucretia says.

“Why not?”

“We commune with the earth, remember?”

“Huh?”

“We’re one with nature.”

Saoirse gives her a blank stare.

“We don’t carry cell phones,” Lucretia says finally.

Saoirse looks from one face to the next. “None of you have phones? How do you get in touch with each other?”

“Well, we have phones ,” Lucretia says, placing emphasis on the final two words like a disgruntled teenager. “We’re transcendentalists, not monsters. We just don’t carry them around. Mia has a house phone, and Roberto uses an old-school flip one. I have an iPhone, but I put a bunch of content blockers on it so I can’t waste time scrolling on social media.” She shrugs and smiles. “You’ll have to take our numbers if you want us to come back.”

Saoirse sighs and hands Lucretia her cell phone. Lucretia enters her number and passes it to Roberto, who enters his and passes it to Mia. Mia holds Saoirse’s gaze for a beat before keying in her own number. She thumbs the side button to darken the screen, but when she holds the phone out to Saoirse, the home screen reappears. Mia stares at the photo of Saoirse with Jonathan, the snowcapped mountains behind them, the healthy flush to their cheeks and giddy smiles.

Saoirse waits for Mia to ask who the man is, why he isn’t here with her now, unpacking his things along with her in this house on Benefit Street. But Mia says nothing, thumbs the screen off again, and holds the phone out for Saoirse to take.

“I hope we hear from you,” Mia says.

Saoirse opens the door onto the crisp October night. “Uh-huh” is all she can manage. It’s not even midnight but feels as if it’s three in the morning.

Lucretia squeezes Saoirse’s arm as she walks past. Roberto pulls his sweatshirt hood up when he gets onto the street. “Good night,” he and Lucretia say in unison.

“Night,” Saoirse says. When the door clicks shut, the silence comes to life, rolling toward her from every corner of the house like water unleashed from a dam.

The silence unnerves her far more than the chanting voices of strangers in her basement.