Audrey’s Door by Sarah Langan Read Free Book Online

the freshly glazed pine planks in the children’s room. She didn’t like to court these morbid thoughts, but unanswered questions tended to nag her into insomnia. So she imagined the room’s many possible configurations. Then she nodded and pictured the one that fit best. The baby hadn’t lived here, but in a crib with Clara in the master bedroom. In this room, there had been a bunk bed against the wall for the boys and a single bed by the window for the girl. Trunks for clothes, a shared closet, and an aisle of walking space between beds. She even thought she could guess the color. Jarring red, because the children would have argued between pink and blue, and Clara, by then, had gone mad.
    She walked to the center of the room, then lowered her head in prayer because a tragedy this size demanded acknowledgment. “You poor kids. I’m so sorry,” she said. The apartment did not answer her, and nothing creaked in the stagnant bedroom air, so she continued. “I’ll change this place and make it warm, but I’ll remember you.” Her words didn’t echo, even though the room was empty. Instead, they seemed to gather inside the walls, as if something there had received them. She bowed her head and left.
    Across the hall was the renovated bath. The copper fixtures remained, but the antique yellow wall tiles had been ripped in places to make room for the new Jacuzzi, Home Depot vanity, and pressed-wood cabinets. She closed her eyes, and imagined a claw-foot tub. Deep enough to stack all five of them. After a few hours, the tops of their bodies would have turned pale, and their bottoms would have purpled with jellied blood.
    Audrey blinked. When that didn’t work, she held the cactus steady and tapped her ballet flats four times each (left-right-left-right: a slow-motion Fred Astaire). The sound was soft, and soothing. The hole in her mind from which the image had sprouted closed. She moved on.
    The next room was the kitchen. Old built-in cupboards and oak floors. To her relief, the walls smelled like grain and decades of home cooking. The happy opposite of hunger. Finally, the master bedroom. She took a deepbreath and opened the door. The chandelier threw rainbow shards of light along the walls. Small details like Guilloche molding and the handblown Mercury glass doorknob made her heart pitter-patter. She imagined green, Scarlett O’Hara velvet curtains, and knew exactly where she’d get the four-poster bed. That antique shop on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn that delivered. She laughed out loud, just thinking about it: she’d sleep until noon on Sunday mornings, and speak in the royal “We!”
    She let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d chosen right after all. This place was a dream come true. And, well, if it needed paint and a few wall sconces to brighten the mood and erase the bad history, she was up to the task.
    At last, she marched to the end of the hall and pushed open the final door. The den. A rush of ancient dust, some remnants of the former tenants, sprayed her face. She swallowed fast, and it got inside of her. She felt it land in the pit of her stomach.
    Murder! A man’s voice whispered.
    The hairs on the back of her neck pointed skyward. Instinct took over. She raced like something was chasing her and inspected every corner of the den. The turret, the rotted support beam, the double-doored closet. She looked high and low, felt the plaster with her fingers, ran her hands along wood and glass. Sniffed the stagnant, dusty air. Nothing spoke or leaped out from a hiding space. She was, quite clearly, alone.
    Murder! —Had someone really said such a thing, or was she just nervous about this move? Perhaps this was one of her bad thoughts, like the black hole, that wasn’t real? She hoped so. Good God, she didn’t want to move again!
    Just then, someone called to her from the front door: “Hey!”
    She jumped. Down the fifty-foot hall leaned a skinny, potbellied young man