Chapter 33

She tries to relax after they’ve left, bringing a cup of chamomile tea to the living room and collapsing onto the settee, planning to fall asleep there, loath to climb the stairs to her bedroom, to lie on sheets that smell of Emmit, to breathe in air that still holds echoes of their whispered confessions. Pluto curls atop the knit blanket she’s draped over herself, and she tries to lose herself in the softness of his fur, concentrating only on the way his ears fold under the weight of her fingers, how his black nose twitches when she rubs a specific spot on his neck.

But the inexplicable scream from beyond the basement, the plum-colored rivulets dripping—skyward—over the Seven of Cups, the silhouetted torso that extends, not into a head but a mountain, expanding further still into an explosion of frantic birds, these things flip through her mind like a deck of cards.

The truth. That’s what the cards urged me to do. Search for the truth. She looks up and finds her computer balanced on the arm of the settee. Careful not to disturb Pluto, she reaches for it, pulls it into her lap. First, she opens the text from her mother and responds:

Let’s catch up tomorrow. Sorry I’ve been distant but everything’s fine. I love you. No contact from any of J’s friends.

She hates how long it’s been since she’s talked to her, longs to be beneath a blanket in her mother’s cozy living room in Connecticut, encased within the cocoon of her perpetual love and safety. But she also doesn’t want to hear the worry in her mother’s voice, dreads that one day that worry will shift to resentment or disappointment. And there’s no sense adding to that worry with news about Aidan. Her mother can’t protect her should Aidan come. Pushing these thoughts aside, she opens a browser and navigates to Wikipedia. She types Emmit’s name into the search bar and reads the entry while chewing on her lip:

Emmit Albert Powell (born January 30, 1982, in Boston, MA) is an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic who is best known for his Pulitzer Prize–winning novel, Vulture Eyes (2021). He is widely credited as the most commercially successful author since those of the Romanticism period to meld horror fiction with literary themes and structure. His second novel sold for a seven-figure sum, at auction, and was the highest advance paid to a noncelebrity author in the last ten years.

Nothing troubling or out of the ordinary, though she’d forgotten just how lucrative his second-book deal had been. And Saoirse imagines Shirley Jackson would roll over in her grave at the idea of Emmit being the most successful post-Romantic author to write literary horror. Her eyes jump to the second paragraph:

Powell was born in Boston, the second child of lawyer David and homemaker Elizabeth “Bess” Powell. His father abandoned the family in 1983, and when his mother died the following year, Powell was taken in by Sebastian and Linda Parker of Richmond, Virginia. They never formally adopted him, but he was with them well into young adulthood. He attended the University of Virginia and graduated in 2004 despite arguing with his uncle over what Powell has described in interviews as “artistic incongruities”; “he wanted me to leave school with a diploma, and I thought he was condemning my creativity to an early grave,” Powell told a reporter for the New York Times in 2020.

Condemning my creativity to an early grave. Hadn’t Emmit said that exact thing during their first conversation at the coffee shop? Were those the words of a celebrated writer, relaying how he felt about an uncomfortable situation, or the canned response of an actor repeating lines memorized from a script? And if so, a script for what? For being an author? For being a successful author?

Something shifts in Saoirse’s brain, some connection not previously made. She pulls up the Wikipedia bio for Edgar Allan Poe, the same one she read a few days after arriving in Providence, wanting to reacquaint herself with the famous writer. She drags the browser with Emmit’s bio to the right, and when the screen splits, she adds the Poe bio to its left. Her eyes flick to Emmit’s bio as she reads the general and early life facts about Poe, the pit in the center of her stomach growing deeper with every word:

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809–October 7, 1849) was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic who is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States, and of American literature. He is the first well-known American writer to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.

Poe was born in Boston, the second child of actors David and Elizabeth “Eliza” Poe. His father abandoned the family in 1810, and when his mother died the following year, Poe was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia. They never formally adopted him, but he was with them well into young adulthood. He attended the University of Virginia but left after a year due to lack of money. He quarreled with John Allan over the funds for his education, and his gambling debts.

How many coincidences before the similarities between two people became an impossibility? “It’s already an impossibility,” Saoirse whispers out loud to the empty room. “Even some of the wording in the write-ups is the same.”

Residual haunting? Jonathan asks, his voice a little mocking. Or something less supernatural—but far shadier?

Swallowing her dread, she opens a third browser, fingers hovering over the keyboard, then types: Is Emmit Powell really Willem Thomas?

She doesn’t find anything at first, but then she sees the blog Mia mentioned, on a website belonging to a horror writer named Piper Kirby. Saoirse reads the post, but aside from alleging she was in a writing group in the early 2000s with Willem Thomas/Emmit Powell, Kirby’s claims were far from outrageous. Saoirse can find none of the other sites or references Mia talked about, so she returns to Kirby’s blog. She skims the entries over the last several years until she sees one entitled: RIP Matilda: The Death of an Aspiring Poet. Saoirse clicks it and begins to read:

The world lost a shining beacon of light this past Saturday when Matilda Eliza Crabb tragically took her own life in her hometown of Woodstock, Virginia. I knew Matilda for years; the same friends from Massanutten Academy—the only other high school in Woodstock besides my alma mater, Central High School—that had hooked me up with my first writers’ critique group had been close with Matilda. She never joined our group, but I saw her post often on social media of poetry acceptances ... as well as the occasional announcement that she was being admitted to yet another mental health facility. As sad as this is to type, people knew for years that Matilda was unhappy; her trauma and deep-rooted self-esteem issues were sewn into every line of poetry she ever wrote.

I caught up with some other Massanutten alumni on social media, and they told me a horrific story ... that Matilda had been involved in high school with Willem Thomas—the same Willem Thomas whom I believe is actually Em**t P**ell (I have to star out part of his name, otherwise I’ll be contacted by the legal dept. of his publishing house again with another cease and desist!)—and that he’d done something to her over the course of their relationship. Something no one could ever totally get a handle on, for Matilda would never say, but which changed Matilda irrevocably, from a sweet, happy-go-lucky kid to a tragic, dangerously underweight, chronically ill, and ultimately doomed young woman.

I’ve tried to get the former Massanutten writing group members to listen to my theories about Willem/Em**t—he was in our group back in the day for Christ’s sake!—but it’s like none of them care enough to believe me, or even look into it. Same with any newspaper I’ve ever contacted. So, in the interim between now and the day that I pray Matilda will have justice, I will leave this post here. Let it be the toll of a bell for a spirit flown forever!

Saoirse’s stomach roils. First one fat, black fly, then another, dive-bombs past her face. The young woman Josephine had told Mia about. The young woman Emmit—if he really was Willem Thomas—had chewed up and spit out during their relationship. She’d killed herself. But why? And did Emmit really have something to do with it? Had what he’d done to her in high school resulted in Matilda’s decision to end her life?

Saoirse clicks on the “Contact” page of Piper’s website, cursor hovering over the first field of the form. But before she can decide if she wants to do this, if she wants to actually reach out to this woman and hear her crazy theories, there’s a pounding at the front door.

Saoirse freezes. Emmit, at her door, meeting her newfound wariness with an unannounced visit to her house. Suddenly, Saoirse is more than wary. She’s more than annoyed. She’s furious. Emmit is ruining everything, proving Jonathan right, proving he’s too good to be true. She stomps across the living room, through the foyer, and yanks open the front door.

But it’s not Emmit on the stoop, backlit by the streetlights, his shadow spilling across the threshold and into the foyer, as if he’s already entered, already forced himself into her home.

It’s Aidan Vesper. His lips are pinched. He’s wearing the same black trench coat from the graveyard and holding what looks like a burner phone in one hand.

And the look on his face is one of grim satisfaction that they are finally, after all this time, going to have their talk.