The tippling house was just stumbles away and smelled of whiskey and stale tobacco. As we entered, Hare and Burke were welcomed by name by a stout, sweaty bartender with a lazy eye who eyed me top to bottom (with his non-lazy eye) and said, “Who’s this lit’l fella?”

“This here’s Bloom,” said Burke. “And his dad’s a dwarf!” He was very proud to give out that bit of information that he’d just received a few moments before back at the lodging house.

“A dwarf!” The bartender let out a hearty laugh as he poured out three tankards of frothy ale. He pushed the two across the bar to Hare and Burke, then one across to me, but nudged it back toward him and said, “Hmmm, perhaps only half for you? Don’t want you drinking more than your lit’l self can handle, do we?” He let out another hearty laugh and said, “Just taking the piss, mate. Go on then. Drink up.”

The dearly departed Emily Baker would have never stepped foot in a tippling house; she preferred to sip her brandy in private with a book and a cozy fox skin blanket. But Bloom would need to become accustomed to this new venue, stink, ale, drunkards and all. We sat at a wobbly table that immediately gave me a splinter in my finger at first touch.

Burke drank down his first ale straight away and ordered a second before I had even taken my first sip.

“So, Bloom, why’ve you taken up room at our fair lodging house?” asked Hare.

“Left me wife. Or, escaped more like.” I took a sip of the ale. It was warm and bitter.

“Ah, right. She nag at ya all the time then?”

“All the time.” The splinter brushed against my coat and for a second pain shot through down to my toes, my face grimaced.

“I can see the torture in your face, mate. She did you wrong, did she? And you being such a little fella, she probably felt like she could do whatever she wanted.”

“These damned women,” said Burke. He let out a huff and took a long pull of his ale, drips of which left his lips and fell to his lap.

Hare said, “You know my wife, Margaret, she needs a good one to the cheek ev’ry now and then. Sometimes I could just strangle the life out of her.”

“Why don’t you?” I asked.

Hare and Burke both took pause and stared at me for a breath.

“What?” said Burke.

“Why don’t you just do off with her then?” The tiny piece of wood continued to dig at the nerve inside my finger. I could feel Emily speaking from within me now, but in Bloom’s deep voice. These two men talking about how terrible women were wasn’t sitting well for the tortured, cheated Emily. If only they knew what she had done to poor Thomas.

“Well, murder ‘aint somethin you can just do is it?”

“You know something about murder then?” I asked. This was getting interesting and the splinter was making me want more.

Hare furrowed his brow. “Do you?”

Thick, warm blood slid down my thigh as I squat over the chamber pot. I cried silently as I watched my body rid itself of the child. There were no tears shed for the life lost, but rather for the pain. I had felt nothing like it before, at least not physically; heartbreak is the worst pain of all and lasts much longer than this did.

The bleeding finally ceased and the pain and nausea subsided. I cleaned up the mess as best I could, and covered the blood in the pot with the other bodily functions that had come about during the purge. The Hare Lodging House was hardly an establishment high class enough to have chamber maids clearing out the pots, so I knew I could easily discard of the contents myself and all in the house would remain none the wiser that the “man” in the corner room had just miscarried.

Another full day had come and gone. I knew that if I didn’t leave my room daily as a normal man would, it would begin to cause suspicion, especially to my innkeepers who were very closely watching for any sign of imminent death of their lodgers.

The next afternoon I decided I would leave for several hours to take in a much needed stroll in the fresh air, peruse a shop or two on Princes Street, and act in a manner that a normal man who wasn’t a woman that killed her husband would act.

As I stepped out of my room, I came upon Hare and another man, standing at the door where the dead man had been carried away from two nights before.

“Good day, Mr. Bloom,” said Hare. “How are you?”

“Quite fine, thank you. Just heading out for the day,” I said in my deepest voice.

“My mate Burke here and I were just heading downstairs for a tipple. Please join us!”

“You’re a small chap!” said Burke before I could reply to Hare. He was actually quite a handsome man, at least standing next to Hare who had the face of a rodent.

I was a petite woman, which made me an even more petite “man.” I swiftly thought how to explain this. “Ah, yes. Me dad was a dwarf.”

 “A dwarf!” Burke let out a hearty laugh and frothy spittle collected at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he was not so handsome after all. “Well, this is a story I’ve got to hear! Come along with us, Bloom!” He gave my back a hard slap and pulled me along with himself and Hare down the hallway.

“Mr. Bloom?” called out a woman’s voice from the other side of my door later that evening. There was a light knock and then she called again. “Mr. Bloom? Are you there?”

My candle had burned itself down to hardened drips of white wax and the room was now quite dark. I had fallen back to sleep after taking the pennyroyal pills. While the dose I had taken was not enough to kill me along with the baby, it was sure doing a good job of trying. My stomach was in knots for hours, but I held back my vomit so as not to rid myself of the poison that would eventually rid me of the child.

There was another light knock and then the sound of the woman trying to open the door, but I had thankfully engaged the iron latch on my side earlier.

“I don’t hear him moving about, William. He just might be dead in there,” she whispered.

“Another body to sell!” said William Hare.

“Shhh! If he isn’t dead, he’ll hear you!”

I quickly grabbed my late husband’s robe from my portmanteau and covered myself, then cleared my throat, lowered my voice, and unlatched the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Bloom, are you alright?” asked Mrs. Hare as she inspected me. I likely looked pale from the pennyroyal, but I kept my demeanor quite well while speaking.

“I am indeed,” I said and began to close the door.

“Ah, well then, lovely.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Thank you.” I bade them goodnight, then closed and latched the door. I heard the two Hares whispering as they made their way back down the hall.

Another body to sell. So that’s what had been going on in the room next to mine the night before. And from the sound of the struggle, it seemed that the Hares had taken the poor man’s fate into their own hands for profit instead of awaiting his natural death. Murder was far less exhausting then grave robbing these days, apparently. I couldn’t disagree, though I hadn’t yet tried grave robbing.

While this new information was quite piquant, I now had another quandary: Not only was I on the run for murder, but I was now living in a lodging house where the owners themselves were murdering their lodgers for profit. I needed to evade the authorities, yes, but I now had to be even more cautious at every moment of the day and night so as not to be murdered myself.

When I woke upon my first morning at the Hare lodging house, I remembered that a dead body had been removed from the room next to mine just a few hours before. I also remembered that I was now waking up a “man” and that if anyone had entered my room while I slept and seen the undergarments I was in, they’d be in for quite a shock. I needed to be more cautious going forward.

The sun had risen but the space remained dim with just one small, filthy window on the other side of the room. I lit the candle at my bedside, sat up, and noticed a scent of bacon in the air. The contents of my stomach churned at the smell, a smell that would normally be a very pleasant one. But the baby growing inside me did not like bacon.

I leapt from my bed to the chamber pot at the corner of the room and retched into it, then sat on the cold floor for a moment to be sure I was done. I knew that this needed to be taken care of. I could easily hide vomiting each morning, but a growing belly I could not.

I had made the decision days earlier that I was not going to keep the child. Not only because I knew that I would no longer be able to hide as Bloom, but because I did not want the child of a liar and a cheat. And I’m sure the child did not want a mother who murdered its father.

I searched my suitcase for the pennyroyal tablets that I had stolen from the apothecary in Paris. I remembered when I was younger that my father prescribed them to women who were in my same condition and wanted out of it. I poured myself a glass of water, swallowed down six of the pennyroyal tablets, then lie back down on the bed.

Another life lost at my hand.

Thomas and I were married on a warm spring day one year earlier at an elegant affair in the Isle of Wight. We said our vows beneath an arch of flowers, most of which had already wilted. I took brief notice of this at the time, however did not heed the message that this union was already doomed.

We lived at his deceased parent’s estate in Dover, an obnoxiously larger-than-necessary abode overlooking the English Channel. Thomas was often away for days at a time for work in London. I spent my days sitting at the bay window reading and watching seagulls peck at the entrails of dead rats as our housemaid brought me tea with too much milk and too little sugar. After two months, it broke my heart to have to tell the poor girl that she still hadn’t gotten it quite right, so instead, I sewed a hidden pocket inside each of my dresses where I always kept a small flask of brandy at the ready to help the tea.

Thomas’s wealth had never been the appeal to me. I truly did love him; not for his money, but his charm, his wit, and well…things in the boudoir were quite nice.

I had been raised in a modest home with my father who was a physician. As a child, I helped him in his apothecary as a silent apprentice. He taught me how to mix remedies for this ailment and others for that. I became quite the chemist, though never pursued it because I became a wife; a profession in its own right.

The day before my and Thomas’s one-year anniversary, I had discovered I was pregnant. When Thomas arrived home from London the next evening, I thought he’d be overwhelmed with joy at the news and want to celebrate not only our year together, but the new life we were soon to enjoy. He did not. Anger overtook him and I had no idea who this man was; the whites of his eyes were gone, and he bared his teeth as he spoke. He shouted that he did not want children at all, and that I would need to rid myself of the “parasite” immediately. I wept as he stormed into his study and slammed the door.

Early the next morning, Thomas abruptly left and sailed to Calais, saying he was on his way to Paris for business. He was supposed to have been home with me for at least a week, and had never mentioned business in Paris before, so I was very curious as to where he was going in such haste, especially after the discussion we’d had the night before. I knew something wasn’t right, but a woman’s intuition always is.

I secretly followed him, boarding the paddle steamer bound for Calais and then the train for Paris. After pulling into the station, Thomas quickly got into a hansom that had been awaiting him. Inside it sat a blonde woman who peeked her head out and greeted him with a long kiss. My heart sank. I took another hansom that was waiting there and told the driver to follow.

The night grew dark as Thomas and the woman’s hansom finally stopped in front of a pied-á-terre just outside the city. Undraped windows and well-burning lamplights inside showed the two of them enter, and I watched as Thomas warmly embraced two small children, a boy and a girl. He picked up the girl and bounced her around a bit, then kissed her on both cheeks.

Thomas had a wife, another wife. He had a family. Here in Paris. This was where he was going each time he told me he was in London for business. My heartbreak quickly turned to anger.

I instructed the driver to take me to the nearest hotel where I spent the next day plotting my revenge. I waited until the city was fast asleep that night, then snuck away to an apothecary just around the corner. I was lucky to find the back door unlocked, saving me from making the noise of breaking the shopfront’s glass. Once inside, I lit a candle to view the inventory, then nicked several small vials of strychnine, as well as a bit of rue, tansy, and pennyroyal tablets that I would later use for myself. I quietly closed the shop’s door and made my way to Thomas’s home.

It must have been around half-past two in the morning when I crawled through a small window at the kitchen, removing my shoes so as not to make any noise and waken Thomas and his family upstairs. If the Thomas of Paris was anything like the Thomas of Dover, I knew he would take a large nip of whisky to start his morning. I found a half-empty bottle of Glenochil in the pantry, Thomas’s favourite. I pulled the cork from the bottle, poured in two vials of strychnine, then swirled it around and placed it back. I took in a deep breath, then exhaled and smiled, knowing that in just a few short hours I would get my revenge.

As the sun rose, I waited outside the kitchen window to hear stirrings of the morning inside. I watched as Thomas came down to the kitchen still in his bathrobe and served himself a heavy pour of the Glenochil, then took it back in one quick shot, just like I had seen him do every morning at our house.

He immediately knew something wasn’t right. He licked his lips and his tongue moved about his mouth, trying to figure out what the odd taste was. His eyes then widened and he dropped the glass which shattered into a hundred little pieces. He gripped his abdomen, then fell to the ground and began convulsing. Frothy yellow-brown foam seeped from his mouth, likely his stomach lining dissolving and bubbling up his esophagus. Just before he died, I swear he spotted me at the window, looking at me with eyes that were quickly draining of life. Then he went still.

“Goodbye, Thomas,” I said in a voice so low that I hardly recognized it myself. Bloom had been born.

Death of one man, birth of another.

In the autumn of 1827, I hired a room for twenty-one nights at a lodging house in Edinburgh’s Tanner’s Close. It was a dodgy place with six rooms for hire, each of which was occupied by an odd character, myself included.

I had recently fled Paris in haste and was in search of a discrete lodging space in order to evade the authorities after murdering my husband, Thomas. Now please, continue reading before placing judgement on my desperate need for him to be dead.

I abandoned my name, Emily Baker, cut my hair short, wrapped my bosom tight, lowered my voice when speaking, and took on a new identity as Edward Bloom. While Emily Baker was a sheepish woman with no future, Edward Bloom was nothing of the sort. Edward was confident, powerful, and took what he wanted when he wanted it. Edward Bloom murdered Thomas Baker, and then he killed off Emily in order to hide.

The Hare lodging house was extremely filthy and had gone to rack and ruin. From the quick glances I took in the hall whilst being shown to my room, I saw of my fellow lodgers that each one was just as skint as the next, and even the owner of the establishment himself looked beggarly in a tatty coat and hat. The house was not pleasant at all, but it was perfect. It was the last place that anyone would have thought that the extremely wealthy Emily Baker would willingly stay. Edward Bloom on the other hand gave not a care in the world to a bit of dust or rat.

On the first night of my stay, around half past three, I was quietly sorting through the small number of possessions I still had when I heard a faint whimpering on the other side of the wall. I pressed my ear to listen more closely and heard what sounded like a bit of a struggle, a stifled plea, and then a thud on the floor. Then there were two voices whispering, a dragging sound, and then the click of the door’s latch being opened.

I quickly blew out my lamplight and then ever so slightly opened my door to peer out at the hall. The moonlight shone through the small glass window at the end of the hall, illuminating just enough to see the silhouettes of two men carrying a third man out of the room. Even in the darkness, it was obvious the third man in tow was not drunk, he was dead.

The men fumbled down the hall with the body, accidentally lightly bumping its foot on this wall and its head on that one. As they finally made their way down the stairs, I rolled my eyes and closed the door.

They’re doing it all wrong, I thought.

(A poem based on the true love story of Oswald Laurence & Margaret McCollum. Read more about them here.)

Beneath the streets of London
an old woman waits,
to hear the lost voice
of her departed soul mate.

At Embankment station
she takes a snug seat,
for she’ll be here for hours
to hear what’s left of her sweet.

Businessmen and tourists
gather around
to travel the tunnels
that were dug underground.

But the old woman won’t
be traveling at all.
She’ll just sit here and wait
to hear her love’s call.

As the tube train approaches
at first there’s the roar
then the headlights, the breeze
and finally, the doors.

And as the doors open
she closes her eyes
and pretends he’s still there,
sat right by her side.

“Mind the gap,” he announces
in a deep phantom tone
and the old woman smiles
for right now she’s not alone.

Her heart’s filled with memories
that cannot be compared,
of the man she called husband
and the life that they shared.

The passengers board
and the train pulls away,
but the smiling old woman
chooses to stay.

She’ll wait for the next train
and the one after that,
and watch as the passengers
indeed mind the gap.

For all that she wants
is to hear her man’s call,
because losing true love
leaves the biggest gap of all.

The numbers one, three, and seven followed Barrow Briggs like a shadow from the start. He was born on the thirteenth day of the seventh month and weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces. He was brought home from Edinburgh City Hospital to 31 Havlock Lane by his parents, Edmond and Bernice Briggs, who were 37 and 31 years old respectively. (Dr. Edmond Briggs always added the 10-month gestational period onto his own age, so he was technically 38, though only to himself.)

Barrow barely survived his first and third birthdays, though he had no memory of this at all and knew only what his mother had told him.

“You swelled up like a fat sausage,” she said as she told the story of his brief encounter with the fatal disease, infans farciminis, on his first birthday. “And then on your third birthday, you nearly choked to death on an actual fat sausage.” She sipped at her champagne. “Your father gave you a right good smack on the back, sending that piece of pork clear across the kitchen. And then the dog gobbled it up.”

Though Barrow could not recall either of these near-death incidents, he definitely remembered his seventh birthday, which again he just barely survived.

There was chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, and his mother had arranged for pony rides in the front yard. At 3:17pm, after thirteen presents had been unwrapped, Barrow climbed onto the white pony named Felix with the intent of enjoying a leisurely stroll past the vegetable patch, through the west hedges, and back to the front yard. Felix, however, had a different journey in mind. As soon as Barrow’s left foot slipped into the stirrup, Felix took off like a shot and the party guests gasped at the sight of the birthday boy being kidnapped by the equine.

Barrow held on as tightly as he could while his young body flopped side to side atop Felix who tromped through the neighbor’s prize-winning roses, into the wood, and over the narrow bridge that crossed Benny Brook.

Warm summer wind flowed through Felix’s cloud-white mane as he galloped until the sight of an apple tree’s fallen bounty caused him to come to a sudden stop, launching little Barrow over the pony’s head and onto the hard earth below. Barrow cried out in pain for his mum and dad as Felix settled beside him, munching on a fat worm’s shiny red abode. He was found an hour later.  

Back at Edinburgh City Hospital that eve, x-rays showed one broken rib and three broken fingers that took exactly seven weeks to heal, ruining the rest of Barrow’s summer break. And that was his seventh birthday.

It wasn’t until after his thirteenth (pneumonia) and seventeenth (brown recluse bite) birthdays that Barrow realized the connection between his birthday tragedies and the numbers one, three, and seven. And then he began to notice that the numbers were everywhere.

There weren’t just the obvious ones like his birthdate (13^th July), or the Briggs’s home address (31 Havlock), or the home phone number (IVY 1703), or the car’s plate number (GCA 137). There was also the total at the market (£3.71), the football score (7-1), the number of students in his class (31), the road sign that showed the number of miles to nearby towns (Squatney – 1, Blackford – 3, Pickridge – 7), the year on the label of his father’s favourite whisky (Est. 1731), the number of paintings that hung in the Briggs family home (17), and even the balls that had remained on the billiards table after his father had halted playing to take an afternoon nap (1, 3, 7). The numbers lurked around every corner, but they alone did not bring the dark cloud of ill fate upon Barrow’s head. It was only when they coincided with those birthdays that included them.

A short time after receiving an even shorter rejection letter from University, Barrow moved out of his parents’ home and into a flat that did not include any of the numbers (48 Doughty Street). He took a job at the Crow & Bean where he poured pints for old codgers who smoked heavily and complained about their wives. And during slow times he would pop into the kitchen to try his hand at recipes alongside the pub’s very large cook, Hugo.

Though the numbers still often appeared, Barrow hoped to have a nice long reprieve between his seventeenth and thirty-first birthdays, which he did. Thirteen birthdays went by without so much as a paper cut. He matured, he dated women, he dated men, he baked, he cooked, and the years passed by without a whisper of tragedy. But 31 still loomed, like a pickpocket waiting to pluck yet another year’s happy birthday from him.

***

A tear away calendar atop Barrow’s desk showed that just one day remained before the start of his 31^st year. Its past days’ pages had not been thrown away, but instead were bundled with a string and tucked into the bureau drawer, each one with a happy memory from its day scribbled onto it.

5^th February: Perfected rocket salad recipe – added sherry vinegar & more beets.

29^th April: Took the train to London to visit Paul. Had quite a night…

3^rd May: Baked heavenly carrot cake for Mum’s birthday. She and dad loved it.

16^th June: Lovely evening stroll along Portobello Beach with Lucille.

12^th July: Baked myself an early birthday cake and ate half of it, just in case.

            That evening at work, Barrow informed them that he would not be in the next day, taking the day off for his birthday. He had become head chef at Winch, a posh restaurant in Stockbridge that served poached quail eggs with wasabi caviar, and garlicky bone marrow bruschetta; leaps and bounds from his days of making mushy peas and chips at the pub.

Once home from work, Barrow sat in front of the fireplace and sipped a peppery Malbec as he looked through his stack of happy memories from the previous year. He smiled as he read about the beach with Lucille, the wild night with Paul, the tryst with Véra, and the rugby player in the bathroom stall at the restaurant. He had indeed grown into his skin quite nicely over the years and was a handsome gent. He was lucky to have taken after his father’s height and dark features. (God bless his wonderful mum, but the poor thing had the face of an ostrich.)

Barrow had become quite a ladies’ man…and men’s man as well when the craving struck him. He had certainly had a lot of fun over the last thirteen years, but as he sat there alone the evening before his 31^st birthday, an evening that could possibly be his last, an emptiness gnawed within him. He wanted someone. Someone to make eggs á la Française for in the mornings, someone to talk about Khrushchev and Kennedy with, someone to see Portugal with, someone to eat dark chocolate torte off of whilst lying naked in bed.

Someone.

Barrow finished off the bottle of wine, tied his happy memories back up with their string, then changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. His plan for the next day was to just stay in bed all day. He was going to finish the book he had started months ago (The Old Curiosity Shop) and enjoy a leisurely day of no work and no tragedy if possible. If he didn’t leave his bed, nothing bad could happen to him, or so he had hoped.

As he climbed into his cozy four-poster, the grandfather clock to the right of the doorway (a gift from his grandfather) chimed that it was midnight. The 13^th of July had arrived. He closed his eyes, said a short prayer, and let the wine lead him into slumber.

A knock at the front door woke Barrow with a start. The sun was now up, and as he looked at the clock, he saw that half the day was almost already gone. This gave him some relief knowing that he had already made it this far and was still okay, however he was not expecting anyone to come over, and as the visitor knocked again, his heart began to race.

“Daaaaahling,” he heard his mum call from below his window. “Are you home? I see your car is here.” She knocked again.

He had told his parents that he didn’t want any birthday activities this year, and that he was going to be staying in and resting all day, but his mother obviously did not listen. Barrow let out a huff as he got out of bed and then carefully, holding onto the railing, slowly went step-by-step downstairs. He opened the door and there was his mum holding a birthday cake, her ostrich face smiling wide.

“Hello, Button.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Now I know that you said not to bother you today, but I was on my way to your Aunt Liza’s for lunch and thought I’d just pop in to say ‘Happy Birthday’ and bring you this.” She handed him a small chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting. “I know that you can bake a delicious cake yourself these days, but you’ll always love your mum’s baking, right?”

“Of course, thank you,” he said and smiled, taking the cake from her.

“Have you not gotten out of bed yet?” she tugged at his striped nightshirt.

“No, not yet. I’m just resting today, mum. Trying to avoid any…incidents.”

“You’re not still on about those ridiculous numbers are you, darling? Those things that happened to you had nothing to do with numbers, you know that. All children go through good and bad things growing up. That’s just the sprout’s plight. But you’ve made it now. You’re a man. And nothing has happened in years.”

Barrow could have argued that nothing had happened in years because of the large leap between the numbers 17 and 31, but he wasn’t going to plead his case again. He had already talked to her about it and she didn’t believe in any cursed numbers nonsense. Nor did his father.

“You’re right, I know. I’m just really tired. Work has been very busy with the summer holiday season. I just want to get some rest and reading done today.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you so much for the birthday cake. I love it.”

“Alright, dear. I’ll tell your Aunt Liza you said hello.” She turned and headed for her car. “I love you, Button!”

“Love you, too, Mum.”

Barrow shut the door, then headed straight for the kitchen and tossed the cake into the bin. He felt guilty, but he knew that he couldn’t risk eating it. He couldn’t allow any outside elements into his house today, not even a cake baked by his own mum. He wiped specks of peanut butter from his hands onto the tea towel, then carefully made his way back upstairs and got into bed.

The hours passed by uneventfully as Barrow read his book and snacked on biscuits, crisps, and dried figs, thoroughly chewing each bite before swallowing it down with a sip of water. As the sun began to make its descent and a gentle rain tapped at his bedroom window, he stretched across the bed to turn on the nightstand lamp. The day was winding down and would soon be over.

Barrow had just finished the last word of the last page of his book when there came another knock at his front door. He closed his book, sat up, and listened for it again.

“Hello?” came a faint woman’s voice from below that he did not recognize. “Anyone home?” Barrow sat straight up.

The rain grew heavier as she knocked again, and then…the front door creaked open. She had let herself in! Had he not locked the door after his mum left? How could he have missed such a thing on today of all days?

He leapt from his bed and swiftly, yet still carefully, made his way downstairs to find a petite young lady with soaking red hair and a drenched green frock standing at his foyer side table.

“Excuse me,” he said, gripping the railing and making sure not to get too close to her.

 She turned around, revealing cat-like green eyes and pursed pink lips. “Oh! Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you like this, but the door was unlocked, and, the rain is really coming down, and, well my car has just broken down. Do you think I may use your telephone?” she asked, pointing to the phone’s receiver which was already in her hand.

She was really quite striking, even soaked to the bone. Not a smidge of her makeup had smudged, which made Barrow think that maybe she wasn’t wearing any at all and was a true beauty. He was all at once taken with her and absolutely terrified of her.

“Who are you?” he asked, still remaining frozen on the bottom step.

“I’m sorry.” She hung up the phone. “I’m Ana Gates. I live just over in Juniper Green, and I was on my way back home from my uncle’s house when my car gave up the ghost outside your door.”

Barrow walked down the last step, then over to the window. “Which car is it?”

She came up behind him, slightly grazing his right arm and he jerked away. “It’s the blue one there. With the smoke coming out of its hood,” she said, pointing out the window.

He checked the plate number (BLS 498), and then looked at the clock on the opposite wall, which read half past nine; 7:31pm had already well passed.

“How old are you? When’s your birthday?”

“What? Why? What does that have to do with me using your phone? Is there an age limit?”

“Sorry, I just…I mean, you’ve let yourself into my house. I think I’m allowed to ask some questions before I let you just use my telephone.”

“Well, you should never ask a woman her age, but, I’m twenty-eight.” She walked into the living room. “And my birthday is April 22^nd if you really must know,” she said as she took a seat on the sofa.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, if we have to get to know each other before you allow me to use your phone, I’m going to sit down. I’ve had a very long day.” She gathered her hair in her fist and squeezed rainwater from it into her lap. “Do you have any ale?”

As two hours and four Guinness passed, Barrow sat at the edge of the armchair on the opposite side of the room from her, watching the clock, waiting for the axe to fall. At times he caught himself paying such close attention to the clock that he wasn’t paying attention to what Ana was saying, and at other times paying such close attention to what she was saying that twenty minutes had gone by without him watching the clock and worrying about the curse.

Though he was leery of her, Barrow was pleased to find that Ana was as charming as she was attractive. She was her uncle’s caretaker and had been since he fell ill with lung cancer two years before. She cleaned for him, took him to his doctor appointments, played chess with him, cooked for him.

“Do you like to cook?” Barrow asked sitting back in his chair.

“I do, but unfortunately I’m not really able to spread my wings much in the kitchen. Uncle Alfie greatly mistrusts foreign food. So I’m stuck in a culinary mire of steak pies, steak and mash, over and over again. And the occasional sausage roll.”

“I’ll teach you how to make a fantastic curry tomorrow if I live through the night.”

 “If you live through the night? What does that mean?” she said through a yawn, not seeming to take him seriously at all.

“Erm, nothing.” Barrow looked at the clock again. It was eleven thirty-six.

He watched the second hand tick, tick, tick its way towards 11:37, a time that was sure to bring at least some bit of misfortune in the last minutes of this seemingly non-cursed day. But 11:37 came and moved right into 11:38, and then 11:39.

In those last moments of the day, Barrow wondered how something as odd as a stranger walking right into his house could happen on this day, his 31^st birthday, and for nothing bad to have happened. Maybe the curse had taken a turn, he thought. Maybe the bad luck had somehow turned into good luck. He had indeed been through enough and deserved some good luck and a truly happy birthday for once.

He closed his eyes and held his breath as the second hand began to approach midnight. He looked back over to Ana who was talking about some new band in Liverpool as she pulled the blue knit blanket from the back of the couch and laid it over her legs.

“My friend Jane who lives down there says they’re pretty cute. Especially the one who plays bass. Probably not as cute as Barrow Briggs, head chef, though, huh?” she said smiling at him, her cheeks rosy from the ale.

Barrow’s heart fluttered as the clock chimed the new day, and he released a long exhale that seemed to have been lingering inside him for years.

Ana took down the final sip of her tipple, and with a smack of her lips released a satisfied, “Ahhhh.”

“How about one more?” she said.

Barrow smiled at her.

His birthday was over. The curse had ended. And Ana Gates of Juniper Green was someone.

***

Within weeks Barrow uttered ‘I love you’ and Ana said it right back without pause. He was enamored with her; her casual coolness, her wit, her charm, her care for her uncle, and her whole-hearted interest in all of the things that he was interested in, especially cooking. For the first time in his life, Barrow truly felt loved. And there wasn’t another birthday to worry about for a while.

The affair moved along blissfully as the months passed by. Sunny summer days were spent fishing off the pier in Hastings, then heading back to Barrow’s place to fry up their catch. Rainy fall days were spent sleeping in and reading chapters out loud to each other from novels like The Jungle, Turn of the Screw, and Brave New World. When Christmastime came ‘round they strolled the outdoor market sipping mulled wine with mittened hands and kissed under the mistletoe with cold red noses. All the wonderful things that Barrow had seen other couples have, he now had.

But as the year turned its page and Auld Lange Syne was sung and done, Ana got sick. At first, they thought it was just the flu that had been going around, but it quickly turned into something else. An extremely rare blood disease, the doctors said. Three months left, they said. But she only lasted two.

Barrow was completely devastated. Not only was Ana gone and his heart aching in a way he had never felt before, but he began to doubt that he was ever going to have anything good in his life. He didn’t understand why something so good could have come to him on his birthday without any type of sign; something telling him to walk away from it because it was just going to end in pain. The curse had been more obvious during all of his previous birthdays that involved the numbers. But this time it had been veiled by the one thing that Barrow desperately yearned for: love. And he fell for it.

As he stood at Ana’s grave, her Uncle Alfie next to him in his wheelchair, he stared through tear-filled eyes down at the headstone, and it suddenly all became clear. Ana’s initials and the position of them in the alphabet: A(1)na  C(3)aitlin  G(7)ates.

***

Barrow had heard of a fortuneteller in Old Town by the name of Bixby Scrap who had correctly predicted several events over the years. (They hadn’t been major historical events, but when Churchill switched from Upham to Fontaine cigars, and Chaplin shaved his handlebar mustache down to his now famous toothbrush one, Bixby predicted it before it happened.) Barrow hoped that the soothsayer could help him with avoiding any more bad luck on future birthdays, so he headed to Old Town the night before his 37^th birthday.  

Bixby Scrap was nearly 100 years old and a tiny waif, barely pushing seven stone. He lived in a cupboard-sized dwelling deeply hidden in Mary King’s Close where many spirits were rumored to also reside.

As Barrow stepped inside the abode, cozy smells of orange peel, cloves and cinnamon filled the candlelit room, and fond memories of sipping mulled wine with Ana at the Christmas Market passed through Barrow’s mind.

Along the far wall of the room was a tall, thin bookcase that housed no books, but instead held several taxidermied small animals; rats, guinea pigs, hares, and a teacup chihuahua, which was the only one mounted on a stand with an engraved plaque below that read: Nunu: The Greatest.

The room’s largest wall was covered in dozens of bells from floor to ceiling, spaced out very precisely. There were tiny ones the size of Christmas ornaments (several even read Baby’s First Christmas), medium ones that could have been used by a member of the Royal Family to summon her butler whilst in bed, and large ones that could have been seen hanging ‘round an old cow’s neck.

Bixby sat down in a red velvet chair and offered Barrow the wooden stool in front of him. “Eighteen pounds before we begin,” he said extending a deeply creased palm.

“Eighteen pou—” Barrow said, shocked at the price. But he reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Keep the change.”

“Many thank yous, chap.”

Bixby struck a match’s orange head off of his long yellowed fingernail, then leaned over and held it to a pipe stove’s single burner, bringing it to life. A rusty kettle was set atop its flame and soon it began to scream.

Barrow sipped the black sludge that Bixby said was Turkish coffee, then tipped the teacup upside down onto the saucer as instructed and handed his empty cup over to the old clairvoyant.

“So, I’ve had some really bad luck on my birthdays that involve the num—”

“Shhhh,” Bixby held up his finger to Barrow. “Ahhh, yes,” he said, tilting the cup this way and that. “You should not fear these birthdays. You should not fear death. For according to the cup’s tributaries, you are going live longer than any man ever has. You are not cursed. You are a survivor. You have lived through more near-death than most. And you will continue to live through more and more.”

“But…I don’t want to live through more. It hasn’t been good. In fact, it’s been terrible. I just want a normal life. And to not be cursed. It’s those numbers.”

“Ah, but you are looking at it in the wrong light, young man.” Bixby continued to stare into the cup.

“Umm, no, I don’t think so. Are you sure you’re seeing everything in there? The horse when I was seven. The pneumonia when I was thirteen. The spider bite. Ana…”

“Yes, I see it all. But if you think of all of the trials and tribulations you have been through as more of a test than a burden, you shall see that the end result will be of the utmost worthiness.”

“Does that mean that I’m going to have something really great happen in the end? But what end? The end of my life?”

“I see many more birthdays to come.”

“Yes, exactly. Do you see anything on my 71^st birthday? Do I even live that long?”

“Ahhh…” he looked closer into the cup. “I foresee…one hundred and thirty-seven.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven, what? Years?!”

“Correct. At one hundred thirty-seven you shall pass into the next life and all of this will have made sense. But first you must trudge through.”

“You’re saying I have to wait until I’m one hundred thirty-seven and then I’ll feel good? Don’t most people die well before then?”

Bixby took a deep breath, then took one last glance into the empty teacup and closed his eyes. “That is all the cup says.” He set the cup back onto the table, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes.

“Well, that’s…um…what about tomorrow though? It’s my 37^th birthday. Did you see anything in there about that?”

Bixby didn’t answer. Tiny snores began to flutter from his bulbous, red nose.

“Okay then. I’ll just, um, show myself out.” Barrow picked up the tea cup and looked into it one last time, then set it down and quietly shuffled his way out of the dwelling and into the Edingburgh night.

On his walk back home, Barrow stopped at Mulligan’s Pub and bellied up to the bar. He took down a gulp of scotch, then asked for another. Even though he knew that it was probably ridiculous to believe in fortune tellers, the reading he’d just received from Bixby was utterly disappointing. He had hoped that Bixby would give him some guidance on avoiding tragedy during his upcoming birthday, perhaps tell him what was about to happen and what to avoid, but that didn’t happen. And Barrow couldn’t help but think that the fact that Bixby told him he was going to live to be 137 years old was completely absurd (as even the oldest man who had ever lived only made it to 112), but he also couldn’t help but thinking about the fact that Bixby said the numbers (1-3-7) without Barrow having mentioned them at all. Could he really live that long? If he was going to have to live through many more cursed birthdays, he certainly didn’t want to.

***

Barrow’s 37^th birthday didn’t go by without incident, but it was far less gut-wrenching then losing Ana Caitlin Gates.

The stomach bug came out of nowhere. One moment Barrow was lying in bed with a good book, avoiding anyone and anything for the twenty-four hours of the first day of his 37^th year, and the next moment he was sitting on his toilet, clutching a trash can and emptying himself from both ends. It was violent, but it was quick.

***

Safe from any more cursed birthdays for some time, Barrow married Holly Troy from Birmingham in the winter of his 39^th year. They had met at a cooking class and fell in love quite quickly over a final bite of escargot; two tiny forks clinking in the butter as they both went for the same piece. A year later they had twins, a boy named Gwilym and a daughter named Monroe, both with jet black hair like their mother. Family life suited Barrow. He loved being a husband and a dad. He loved cooking dinners, playing hide and seek, and he never complained once whilst cleaning up the children’s room for the millionth time. Barrow and Holly were happy for many, many years.

But then Barrow’s 70’s came along, and then…

71^st Birthday – Holly passed away from thyroid cancer.

73^rd Birthday – Circus elephant escaped and trampled the car.

103^rd Birthday – Gwilym passed away in London (Case still under investigation by MI6).

107^th Birthday – House was struck by a small aircraft and burned to the ground.

113^th Birthday – Flat that Barrow now lived in overrun with rats after fierce rainstorm.

117^th Birthday – Monroe passed away. “Just old age,” said the doctors to the old father.

131^st Birthday – With no family members or friends left, Barrow made his first attempt at suicide (pills) and failed. They pumped his stomach and he woke to find himself not only alive, but 131 years old.

***

His bones fragile and his mind weary in his 136^th year, it was quite apparent that Bixby Scrap was right, and that Barrow was indeed going to live to be 137 years old. Older than any other human in the universe.

Barrow sat in his worn, broken armchair, alone, waiting for death to finally come take him. He was ready. There was nothing left for him in this life. There hadn’t been for some time. 

The clock struck midnight, ringing in July 13^th and Barrow waited. He waited all day and all night. And then, the clock again struck midnight. His 137^th birthday had gone by and he was still here.

“Fucking Bixby Scrap.”

***

Over the next several months, Barrow tried every manner of suicide. Gun, more pills, bridge, oncoming bus, knife, elevator shaft. But something always went “wrong” and nothing did him in. HE COULD NOT DIE.

After yet another attempt (jug of gasoline and a match this time), Barrow lie in a hospital bed for weeks, slightly crispy, yet very much still alive.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Briggs,” said a nurse in dark green scrubs.

“How? Who?”

“Hui Yin Woo. Said she’s a fortune teller from Hong Kong.”

Hui Yin Woo, a short woman with even shorter hair entered the room with a large knit sack over her shoulder.

“Mr. Briggs, hello. I am Hui Yin Woo. I come from Hong Kong.”

“Why are you here?”

“I had heard about you on the news. ‘The Man Who Couldn’t Die.’ I knew I had to come to you.” She sat on the chair beside the hospital bed and set down her bag, then removed a large crystal ball from it and set it on the table. “You see, I am a fortune teller. I can help you.”

“Wait, no, no no. A hundred years ago I went and saw a fortuneteller in Edinburgh who told me that I would live to be one hundred and thirty-seven. That my life would make sense and have meaning, and then I would die. And I believed him. But here I am. And no matter what I do, I can’t die. I’ve tried everything. Jumping off a bridge. Taking pills….”

“Wait, Edinburgh? Was this Bixby Scrap? From Mary King’s Close?”

“Yes! That’s him,” Barrow said, excited that this woman from halfway around the world knew of Bixby.

“Oh my. Well, Bixby Scrap was an extraordinary seer, better than most indeed, but…he was dyslexic. I would assume this to be why you are still alive. The numbers themselves are indeed correct, but the order is not. I see,” she looked into the crystal ball, “…three hundred and seventy one.”

Mary the moth lived in the attic of the Hoffstein house; the tall white one on Hayes Street with the round window at the top. When Mary wasn’t staring out of that window at the row of rainbow-colored houses across the park, she was nibbling at a sweater that had been put away for summer, or chatting with her friend Sage, a black widow spider who loved to nap.

“They’re so pretty,” Mary said as her small brown wings fluttered at the attic window. “Come up here and look at them.”

“I’ve seen ‘em a million times, Mary,” said Sage as he crawled past some old paint cans, then settled down onto a cozy tuft of curly hair next to a rusty toolbox.

The attic was a dimly lit space, save for the late morning hours when the sun shone directly in, revealing dust particles that floated gently through the air before falling onto the forgotten items below.

“I think the red one’s my favorite. No, the blue one. No, no the red one. I wonder who lives there.” Mary noticed tiny snores coming from below and realized she was talking to herself.

She flew over to a full-length mirror in the corner that was covered in several of Sage’s webs. Her brown wings softly fluttered as she stared at her reflection and let out a long and heavy sigh. She wished she was colorful like the houses she adored from afar, like the other beautiful things out there in the world beyond the attic. The green park. The blue sky. But instead she matched the color of the dirty old boxes that sat on the dirty old floor.

She headed back over to the window and looked out again, craving to go out and see the world. She had once ventured beyond the attic to the third floor, but quickly retreated after being swatted at by Elizabeth, the eldest Hoffstein daughter.

Mary took another look outside and a sudden feeling of courage came over her. “Sage, wake up! I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna go see the houses!”

Sage barely opened his eyes and said, “Okay,” then continued on with his slumber. Mary had mentioned many times before that she was going to do it, but she never actually did.

She flapped her way over to the large keyhole in the attic door and peeked through to the dimly lit narrow staircase that led to the fourth floor. Her heart raced at the fear of heading into the dark unknown, yet also at the excitement of finally going to see the beautiful houses she adored.

She took a few deep breaths and shut her eyes. “Okay.”

Sage woke just then and looked up at her. “Wait, Mary. You’re actually gonna do it this ti—”

But she had already flown her way through the keyhole.

She zoomed down to the fourth floor with her eyes tightly closed, opening them just a second before smacking into a brightly colored painting that hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. (The boy in the painting was the youngest Hoffstein child, David, being kissed on each cheek by his aunt and mother at his bar mitzvah two years before.) She regained her composure, then headed down the remaining three flights.

At the ground floor Mary perched herself upon the lip of an empty cobalt vase that sat on a small table next to the front door, then patiently waited for one of the family members to go outside. Though it was a late-summer day, not a window in the house was cracked open to offer escape. The house was always kept toasty warm throughout the year-round San Francisco chill because of the elder Mrs. Hoffstein’s condition (ossium morbus frigidus). She had to be kept warm like an incubated baby chick, for if her body felt even the slightest bit of cold, her frail bones would crack and crumble on the spot.

“Mom, I’m gonna go meet Jenn for lunch! I’ll be back in a couple hours!” shouted Elizabeth as she came down the stairs shuffling through her purse.

“Okay, hon,” Mrs. Hoffstein answered back.

As Elizabeth opened the front door Mary leapt from the vase, took a deep breath and made a break for it.

The crisp air instantly crippled Mary’s wings, causing her to float down toward the concrete steps, narrowly missing Elizabeth’s booted feet. She flapped as hard and fast as she could to warm herself back up and then flew upward. She made her way to the round attic window above where a friendly face awaited her, staring through the dirty glass.

“You did it!” Sage said in a muffled shout, his eyes wide.

“I know! I’m finally gonna go see the houses! I’ll be back in a bit! Bye, Sage!” she turned back to face the park.

The houses were so close now, just a quick flight across Hayes Street and then across the corner of the park. She made a beeline (or a mothline, rather) for the red house, her favorite. She stayed up high, sailing above the cars and the people picnicking on the green grass of Alamo Square. There were children playing catch while couples on blankets kissed and tourists posed in front of the houses taking pictures.

“Wow,” she whispered to herself as she finally floated down to the front stairs of the red house and landed on the last one. Each step had tiny pieces of colored glass embedded in its concrete that glistened in the sunlight. At the top of the stairs sat two orange pots that held what looked like little Christmas trees, one on each side, and there was a cute yellow sign next to the front door that read “The Randalls.”

Mary glided back and forth with joy. “Wowwwww! It’s soooooo pretty.” Her smile spanned her entire head. She barely even felt the cold air anymore. She was warmed with utter joy. She had finally made it.

“Admiring the Painted Ladies are we?” asked a voice from behind her. Mary turned around to find a gorgeous butterfly with bright red and orange flecked across its large wingspan.

“Oh, um…Painted Ladies?”

“That’s what these houses are called. The Painted Ladies. Just like me.” The butterfly twirled around and flapped her wings delicately, as though she knew just how beautiful she was and was glad to share it with the world. “I’m Isabella.”

“Hi, Isabella. I’m…I’m Mary.” Not only did Mary feel insecure about her boring brown wings now, but she also felt badly about her name. “Do you live here?”

“Here? Oh goodness, no. I live in the square.” She twirled around delicately and motioned toward the park. “And sometimes when it gets too cold I live in the conservatory at Golden Gate Park among the beautiful flowers and plants there. It’s so lovely.” She twirled around again, brushing the arm of a blonde woman who was walking by.

“Mark, look!” said the woman as she stopped and extended her arm.

The man who was with the woman stopped as well and looked at Isabella who was now perched on the woman’s finger, gently opening and closing her wide wings. And though Mary wasn’t close enough, she swore that she could see Isabella batting her eyelashes at them.

“Wow, it’s gorgeous,” said the man. “It’s a Painted Lady butterfly, right? How apropos for this locale.”

Mary stared at the humans as they stared at Isabella. She wanted to be held by the woman, too. She wanted to be beautiful like Isabella with her colorful wings. She wanted to be a Painted Lady like her, like the houses.

Wanting to be admired so badly Mary fluttered over toward the woman’s wrist, but before she could even land the woman swatted at her. “Ew, a moth!” the woman shouted.

Isabella fled from the woman’s hand and flew up above them as the man and woman walked away.

“I’m sorry, I just…I wanted to be held, too.” Mary said and began to tear up.

“Oh, don’t cry, darling,” Isabella said as she gracefully floated back down. “We can’t all be butterflies now can we?”

Mary sobbed, her tears falling to the sidewalk below.

“I must go now, darling. Ta!” said Isabella jovially, as though one of the most tragic events of Mary’s life hadn’t just occurred.

Mary watched as Isabella flew off to a bush in the park where other butterflies greeted her and fluttered about; butterflies made of blues, reds and even purples, their colors so bright that they were visible even from across the street.

Mary’s heart felt empty and she suddenly wanted to retreat, to be far away from everyone so they couldn’t see just how plain and boring she was. She wept as she flapped her way back to the stoop of the Hoffstein house, then waited for Elizabeth to return and open the front door.

Once back on the fifth floor, Mary made her way through the keyhole and into the warm attic. Sage was of course napping, but woke when he heard her come in weeping.

“What’s wrong, Mary?” he asked yawning and stretching his eight legs. “How were the houses?”

“The houses were beautiful,” she said, still crying. “And I met a pretty butterfly named Isabella.”

“Then why are you so sad?”

“Because I’m not beautiful. Not like the houses. Not like Isabella.” Mary landed onto the lip of the paint can that stood next to Sage.

“Sure, you are,” Sage said as he crawled up the can to sit next to her.

“Thank you,” Mary smiled back and sniffled, “but I’m not. You’ve never been outside. You haven’t seen the beauty that’s out there.”

“But I’ve seen it from the window and I think you’re just as beautiful as anything out there, Mary. Really I do.”

“But I have no color. I’m just plain brown through and through. Boring. Even you have color on you, Sage. That red mark there on your belly.”

“But that red mark actually makes people scared of me, Mary. Like when I tried to explore the house and went down to the second floor bathroom that time, and Mrs. Hoffstein screamed and tried to squish me with her shoe. She shouted, ‘Alan, it’s a black widow! I saw its red mark!’ She was scared of me because of my red.”

“But it’s still a pretty mark. And not boring. And I wish I had one.” Mary looked down at the tips of her tiny legs which grazed bits of dried paint on the lip of the paint can.

“I’m sorry, Mary. But you are beautiful. Chin up, little one,” said Sage as he began to make his descent back down the paint can.

Mary looked again at the paint on her toes. “Wait! Sage, I have an idea!”

“What’s that?”

“Look!” Mary held up her foot, showing Sage the tiny smudge of red paint on it. “I’ve got red on me!”

“That’s just paint, Mary.”

“I know, but I can make myself beautiful with this paint! Just a dab or two on my wings should do it and I’ll look like Isabella. Or…at least, somewhat like Isabella. I need you to help me, though. I can get this lid off, but…” She let out a few grunts and a big huff as she used her legs to shove the lid from the paint can, which made a ‘ting’ as it hit the wood floor. She was tiny, but strong.

“If you can just add a little bit of paint to my wings…”

“I don’t know, Mary. Do you think it’ll be okay?”

“Yes! Look, it’s on my legs and its okay. Please, Sage. It’ll make me feel so much better.”

“I really don’t think that you need it. But, if that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I can’t hardly lift a paintbrush, though. How will we –”

“Here, use this!” Mary floated down to the floor next to a tiny grey feather that had escaped either an old pillow or a pigeon’s rump.

Sage sighed, “Okay.”

He crawled up the side of the paint can with the feather in his grip, then carefully ventured the two inches down where he dipped it into the fresh red paint.

He quickly ran back down the outside of the can to Mary who was waiting below.

“Now, just add little drops to each wing,” she said.

“Okay,” said Sage lifting the red-drenched feather. “Here we go.”

He touched Mary’s left wing with a tiny drop of the paint, then another. Then moved to her right wing.

“Ooh, it tingles a little bit. It’s okay. Keep going, keep going,” she said.

But the paint slowly gathered at the tip of the feather, and a giant blob dripped onto Mary’s left wing. Then another.

“Wait!” she shouted.

“Sorry!” Sage dropped the feather to the floor.

“It’s…ow, it’s burning…Sage, take it off. Rub it off!”

Sage looked around for anything he could use to wipe the paint from Mary’s wings, but there was nothing he could do.

“It burns, Sage! It burns! Take it off! Take it off!” she screamed as she writhed around in pain.

Sage stood there helplessly watching as his best friend’s wings quickly dissolved before his eyes.

“Saaaage….Saaggee…help meeeeeeeee…”

Mary’s screams and movements grew softer and softer as Sage watched helplessly and cried. “Mary, I…I don’t know what to do! I’m sorry, Mary!”

“Saaaaaaaaaaaage….”

Mary lay there in silence. Only the frame of her wings now remained and her shriveled body curled into itself like the potato bugs she was once friends with in the attic.

     Logan, Liam, and Lenox had lived in the big green house on Archer Avenue for twelve, ten, and four years, respectively before they found the secret passageway.

     In fact, it was the very night of little Lenox’s fourth birthday that it happened. Dinner had been quickly devoured (steak and jacket potatoes with real butter, Lenox’s favorite), and four candles had been blown out atop a three-layered chocolate cake. The winter sun had set, and a glow of red and green shone from the decorated spruce that stood in front of the large picture window.

     Father had retired to the sitting room in front of a roaring fire with a heavy, boring-looking book lying open across his rising and falling belly. His argyle-socked feet sat crossed atop the coffee table, and a soft snore fluttered from his lips. He rarely got more than nine words into reading before falling asleep in his favorite armchair after a large supper.

     Mother hummed a Christmas carol – Good King Wenceslas – as she washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen. In between each dish, she dried her hands on her apron and plucked up a nibble of leftover chocolate cake. Chocolate anything was her favourite.

     The children gathered on the floor by the tree; Lenox lay on his stomach pushing a toy train back and forth along the ridges of the rug, Liam lie on his back staring up at the ceiling in deep thought, and Logan sat against the sofa with her fingers tied up in a cat’s cradle, her tongue sticking out, trying to figure out her next move.

     “What do you think is in that big green one?” Lenox asked as he pointed to a long, thin, wrapped present under the tree. One of his springy red curls fell into his face and he blew it away with the side of his mouth. Of all three children, Lenox was the only one with curls, and the only one with red hair, which Liam loved to tease him about, but Mother said that it made him special.

     “Why do you even care? You already got your presents,” Liam said with a sneer.

     Liam wasn’t happy that Lenox had been allowed to open his presents earlier that night, even though it was his little brother’s birthday. An agreement had been made the year before that Lenox would be allowed to unwrap all of his presents on his birthday (the 24^th) save for one, and he would unwrap the remaining one on Christmas morning when the rest of the children opened theirs. Liam didn’t think it was fair that Lenox was allowed to open his presents early while he and Logan were tormented standing by with their presents still under the tree. It wasn’t Liam’s fault that the doctor pulled a baby Lenox out of the door in his Mother’s stomach so close to Christmas.

     Like a soldier in the trenches, Lenox shimmied himself along the floor on his stomach over to the present to take a closer look. “I haven’t opened all of my presents. I still get one more. Maybe this one’s mine,” he said.

     “Don’t be a dummy. That one can’t be yours. Santa has to bring your last present later tonight, along with the rest of ours. That one has to be mine,” said Liam with a smile.

     Logan bent forward over her tangled fingers and whispered to Lenox, “I bet you that my present is hidden in the study, because it would make too much noise being wrapped up under the tree.”

     “How could a present make noise?” asked Lenox.

     Logan stuck out her tongue flat and panted, then gave a soft, “Ruff ruff!”

     Lenox’s eyes lit up as he shouted, “A puppy?!”

     “Shhh!” Logan released her right hand from the string and covered Lenox’s mouth. All three of them sat in silence for a moment as they listened to see if Mother had heard. She hadn’t, and Father continued to snore.

     “I heard rustling coming from the study just before dinner.” Logan whispered with a smile. “It’s got to be a puppy. I’ve been asking for one for almost a year.”

     “Let’s go look!” Lenox said softly as he motioned toward the study with his thumb.

     “How will we get in? Father always locks it behind him when he comes out,” said Liam.

     “The key is there,” Logan pointed across the room to an blue ceramic dish that held pennies, lint, and Father’s keys.

     The children had always been told to never enter the study. Father said that it was a place where adults can have peace and quiet, and that there was nothing at all that could possibly spark a child’s interest in there anyway; which, of course, sparked the children’s interest even more.

     The sink faucet stopped running, the kitchen light turned out, and Mother emerged with a glass of red wine in her hand and a satisfied smile upon her face. She always felt euphoric after getting everything clean and in order, though with three children it usually wasn’t long before the mess slowly crept its way back.

     “Off to bed now, little ones,” she said petting Logan’s long brown hair.

     “But we want to stay up to see Santa, Mother. Can’t we just sleep out here by the fire?” Logan looked up at her and lied.

     Mother and Father didn’t know yet, but Logan had found out two years before that Santa wasn’t real. She had silently watched Father placing presents beneath the tree and eating the milk and cookies they had left out two Christmases ago. But she wasn’t going to spoil it for her brothers, and she certainly wasn’t going to miss out on presents from both her parents and “Santa Claus.”

     “Afraid not, my loves. Santa works alone. Now, go on to bed.”

     The children made their way down the hall, each one pausing at their bedroom doorway to look back at each other. Logan gave Liam and Lenox a quick wink, and the boys knew just what their sister’s signal meant as they each shut their door.

     Thirty-three extra-long minutes later, the click of their parents’ bedroom door shutting for the night echoed from down the hall, and they each leapt from their beds. Quietly as can be, they emerged from their rooms.

     Logan slowly and softly removed Father’s keys from the blue ceramic dish, while Lenox grabbed a flashlight, and Liam kept an eye on his parents’ bedroom door. The light shining from the slit underneath finally went out, and he joined his brother and sister in the sitting room.

     “They’re asleep,” Liam said as he tiptoed into the room.

     “Good. Now, let’s go find that puppy!” said Logan.

     The study was on the opposite side of the house, in between the linen closet and the blue bathroom that no one ever used because the flusher on the toilet was perpetually broken. Logan slid the long, silver key into the study keyhole and turned clockwise until it clicked.

     Inside was a dreary place, much smaller than they had expected, with just one small window up high. A solid oak desk stood underneath it, with papers, a lamp, and a well-worn red velvet sitting chair. Dark wood bookshelves were built into the walls from floor to ceiling holding books with dried, crusty spines. Logan turned on the lamp and the children began to look around.

     “I don’t see a puppy,” Lenox whispered as he scooched across the hardwood floor on his hands and knees.

     “But I heard something in here earlier. I know I did,” Logan said as she looked under the chair. But there was indeed no sign of a puppy.

     “There’s nothing here,” Liam said through a yawn.

     Logan bent down and looked under the desk again, but all she found was Lenox shining the flashlight into her eyes.

     “I’m tired. Can we just go back to bed?” Liam yawned again and leaned back against one of the bookshelves, which slightly gave way to his weight and made a clicking noise. As he stepped away from it, it pushed out away from the wall and stood a few inches ajar.

     “What the heck?” Liam said, pulling the heavy bookcase open.

     Logan and Lenox walked over, and there the three children stood in the newly found doorway.

     “What is it?” Logan asked, popping her head just inside, but all she could see was a partial black metal floor that was being shined on by the desk lamp. The smell coming from inside the dark space was old and musty in the warm air that came up from below.

     “It’s a secret passage!” Liam shout-whispered.

     Lenox stuck his head in between Logan and Liam’s torsos and said, “Maybe the puppy is in there!”

     Lenox nudged Logan forward.

     “I’m not going first!” she said.

     Liam rolled his eyes and grabbed the flashlight from Lenox’s hand, then pushed forward and shined it down into the darkness. A black metal spiral staircase with no railing wound downwards.

     “Come on,” Liam said, leading the way.

     The three children slowly crept down the staircase into the darkness, lit only by the yellow glow of Liam’s flashlight and what small amount of light shined from the desk lamp in the study above.

     Just before they reached the bottom stair, they heard a soft shuffle and then a loud thud, which made Logan grab Liam’s arm, halting him from moving forward.

     “What was that?” she asked.

     “Maybe it’s your puppy,” said Liam.

     “No. That sounded bigger than a puppy.”

     At the bottom of the staircase was a narrow hall with yellow walls. The musty smell grew stronger and the air grew warmer and thicker the further they walked. Logan’s heart was thumping in her chest, and little Lenox grabbed at himself so as not to wet his pajamas.

     At the end of the hall was a small raised platform area about five feet by eight, and a foot and a half off the ground.

     “Wait, Liam. I’m scared,” Logan said and tugged at Liam’s nightshirt. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

     “No. I wanna see what’s down here.” He continued down the hall, then stopped and shined the light directly into the crawl space. “What the –”

     A white duvet and pillow were laid out like a makeshift bed in the small space, and candy wrappers, a freshly eaten banana’s peel, and two small dolls lay scattered over it.

     “Somebody’s been down here!” Liam said taking a step back. “Look.” He shined the flashlight onto the candy wrappers. “Those are my Halloween candies that I thought you took from my stash, Lenox!”

     “I told you I didn’t take it, dummy,” Lenox whispered, still gripping at his crotch.

     “Shhh, the both of you!” Logan shushed them both. She grabbed the flashlight from Liam and scanned the entire area with the light, looking for any sign of whoever had been down there. She began to creep forward, seeing that there was a small crawl space just off to the right of the platform.

     Logan pointed the flashlight back to shine on Liam and Lenox. “This is creepy. I’m going back upsta-” She screamed mid-sentence and dropped the flashlight to the ground. Something had moved right next to her, as though someone unseen was trying to pass by them down the short, narrow hallway.

     “What was that?!” Liam shouted as he scrambled for the light. Finally grasping it, he shined it towards the bottom of the spiral staircase.

     Lenox screamed and pulled at the back of Logan’s nightshirt. All three of them froze as the light revealed what was cowering in the light at the base of the stairs. It was…a little girl.

     She was very tiny, with curly red hair, like Lenox’s, but it sprouted from a head that was missing half its face. A large, pale, skin-covered indentation replaced a left ear, left eye, and nose, and drool dripped from the small hole that was her three-toothed mouth. Skinny, stumpy arms with only three fingers on each hand emerged just slightly out of the holes of a torn green frock. Her thin legs were bowed in and the skin of her kneecaps looked as though at any moment it could give way, and her bony knee would come piercing through.

     Logan’s heart thumped in her ears as she took a step closer. “Who are you?” she asked in a shaky voice, trying not to fall over with fright.

     The little deformed girl crouched down onto the bottom stair, clutching at the metal rungs as she stared at the children with her one eye, then she looked up the staircase at the light shining from the study above.

     “Mutheh…Fathah…,” she brokenly uttered and then pointed up the staircase to the lit study above. Her fingernails were long, curled and yellow.

     “Mother and Father?” said Liam.

     The girl hobbled over to Logan who shuffled back and grabbed Liam by the arm. “Stay away!” Logan said.

     Logan took a closer look at the girl, while still keeping her distance. “Wait,” she said looking at what the girl was wearing. “That used to be my dress. Who are you?” she asked.

     The girl tugged at her tangled hair and said, “Luh-noh.”

     “What’d she say?” asked Lenox.

     “Luh-noh, Luh-noh, Luh-noh,” the little creature said, tapping herself on the chest.

     “Lenore? Wasn’t that-” Liam began.

     “The baby that died. The one that was supposed to come home with Lenox,” said Logan.

     “What?” Lenox asked.

     “When…” she took a deep breath, keeping her stare on the girl. “When Mother brought you home from the hospital, she was supposed to bring home two babies, a boy and a girl. But she and Father told us that the girl baby died after you both came out. They had named her Lenore.”

     “Luh-nor,” the deformed girl said again, this time pronouncing the “R”. She smiled and let out a terrifying sound that seemed to be gleeful, and then hopped up and down and continued making the loud noise.          

     “Shhhhhhh!” Logan said.

     Liam grabbed Lenore’s frail arm and whispered, “Be quiet! You’re going to wake Mother and Father!”

     But it was too late.

     “Charles! They’ve found her!” Mother shouted from above.

     Liam shined the flashlight up the spiral staircase to see her in a red robe standing at its top, looking down at the children with a head full of pink rollers and rage-filled eyes.

     “Mother?” Logan whimpered from below. “What’s going on?”

     Lenox was now clutching so tightly at his sister’s shirt that he was pinching her skin. “Ow!” She shoved his hand off.

     Father’s heavy footsteps came down the hall above and he joined Mother at the top of the stairs. The flashlight, dying now, flickered on his angry face.

     “Father, who is this?” Liam asked pointing to Lenore.

     “Luh-noh! Luh-noh!!!” she said poking at her chest again, another big gob of drool escaping her half-mouth.

     “Goddamn it!” Father shouted, looking down at them. He punched the wall hard and disappeared again. His footsteps, more quickly now, headed back down the hall and loud thumping came from above, as though he was tossing things onto the floor.

     Liam’s dying flashlight flickered on Mother’s face. She was quickly removing her curlers, two at a time, and tossing them to the floor. “Oh, children. You have made a big mistake. We told you never to enter the study. Such awful, horrible little children.”

     “We’re sorry, Mother! We were just looking for our Christmas presents. But then we…we found…her,” said Liam. “Why is she down here, Mother?” The flashlight gave one last flicker, then gave up the ghost, making Mother just a dark silhouette above.

     Father shouted from down the hall, “Fiona, just shut the door! You knew what we would have to do if they ever found out. We need to go! Now!”

     Mother gritted her teeth and began closing the bookcase. “Father is right. We can’t let you leave now. Now that you’ve seen her. You will all have to stay down there now. You never should have gone into the study.”

     “What?! Mother, please!” Logan cried as she ran to the bottom of the staircase.

     The light above narrowed as Mother slowly began to close the secret bookcase door. “Goodbye, children.”

     “Nooooo!” Logan shouted as everything went black.

     Lenox began crying loudly. “Why did Mother do that? What’s happening?”

     “I don’t know,” Liam said and knocked at the flashlight hoping to revive it, but to no avail. “Logan, where are you? I can’t see a thing.”

     “Me either,” said Logan who had her arms straight out in front of her, trying to find her way back to her brothers as she slowly scooted foot by foot to the other side of the room. But then suddenly, everything became illuminated with a warm orange glow.

     The children looked over to the crawl space to see Lenore holding a small gas lamp and smiling proudly.  

     “Thank you,” Logan said walking over to her new sister. “Can I use this?” She reached out her hand for the gas lamp and Lenore handed it off to her.

     Logan began to climb the spiral staircase. “Maybe this is just a joke. You know, like a prank that Mother and Father are playing on us?”

     “Some prank,” said Liam and sat on the floor.

     Logan reached the top of the stairs and pushed on the flat surface of the secret door, but it didn’t budge. She pushed again, then kicked at it. Nothing. She pounded and screamed, “Mother! Father!” She put her ear to the door, but not a sound came from the other side.

     Logan came back down and sat on the bottom stair, setting the gas lamp on the floor. “What do we do now?”

     “Plehy! Plehy!” Lenore said excitedly as she pushed several marbles across the floor.

     A bright blue one reached Liam’s bare foot, and he looked over to his sister with an expression of utter despair. “We have to get out of here.”

     Hours passed as the children searched every nook and cranny of the hidden space for some way out. Lenox played marbles with Lenore for a while until he started to get sleepy and she laid out a second blanket for him next to her own.

     “I’m so tired. There’s no way out,” said Liam as he huffed and laid down on the floor himself.

     “We’ll keep looking a little later. Or, maybe they’ll come back.” Logan said. She lay down right beside him, trying to keep warm against him on the cold concrete floor. The gas lamp’s flame began to shrink and Logan’s eyes became heavy until she could fight off slumber no more.

     Sometime later, a loud thump came from above, and then heavy shuffling and the sound of someone dragging something across the floor. Logan sat straight up and shook Liam awake. “Liam, wake up! They came back! I told you!”

     She felt her way through the darkness back to the spiral staircase. “Mother? Father?” She climbed the stairs and began pounding on the door when she reached the top. “Please let us out!”

     From the other side of the door came footsteps and then a man’s deep voice. “Hello? Who’s there?”

     “Help! Help us! Please! We’re trapped in here!” Liam shouted from below as he felt his way over to the staircase.

     “Liam? Where? Where are you?”

     “We’re on the other side of the bookcase. It’s a secret door! You have to push on it and then it’ll open! Please!” shouted Logan. “Here!” She pounded again three times as loudly as she could. “We’re here!”

     “Who is that?” asked Liam as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Lenore was still sound asleep next to him, snoring loudly through her half-nose.

     “I don’t know,” said Liam. “But he knows who I am.”

     “Here?” asked the man as he pounded from the other side.  

     “Yes! Right here!” Logan and Liam both pounded again.

     “Okay,” the man said.

     From the other side of the wall came two heavy thumps, then a creaking sound, and light from the study began to fill the hidden room as the secret bookcase slowly opened.

     Logan squinted and adjusted her eyes to the light. “Thank y-” she stopped.

     There stood Santa Claus, holding a golden puppy with a red bow tied around its neck.