Chapter Text
May 1989
Seth did not consider himself a procrastinator. He wrote to-do lists into the notebook in his pocket each day and delighted in crossing off every task with ruler-straightened lines. This house, however, enlightened him as to how the frustratingly inconsistent students in his thesis group may have felt looking at the tasks they’d all finished hours before they were due. Every few minutes, Seth remembered a new chore he’d need to finish before he would feel comfortable living at the house. He’d write them down and close the cover of his notebook quickly, assuming he’d section everything off when he arrived. But when the day came . . .
Seth slumped against the hood of his impeccably kept station wagon, jolts of pain lancing up and down his neck while he looked over the soaring, A-frame roofs, the arched windows, and the mahogany double doors. His house. His house, sold to him for a fifth of last year’s price on account of its . . . well . . .
Seth looked over his shoulder at the newspaper on the dashboard. He’d kept it open to the picture of the house while he drove, feeling like his goal was an arm’s length away no matter how far he was from it. Still, opposite the picture, the paper’s headline glared through the windshield: “FATAL KITCHEN FIRE STARTS IN HERITAGE HOME, ARSONIST SHOT AT SCENE”
No one in the area seemed to have missed out on reading the issue, not judging by Seth’s realtor’s unbridled relief at his interest in the home. Their negotiations had lasted a week on account of a lack of competitors and the lack of a seller. That, and Seth’s parents had helped him get through the paperwork quickly. Though Seth had only been at home for summers during his time as an undergraduate student, he knew his parents were anxious to get him out of their house for good. As it had been with his initial acceptance into the university, his graduation, his acceptance into graduate school, and his teaching assistant job offer, they hadn’t exactly congratulated Seth on his first home, but Seth didn’t care if they never visited. It wasn’t theirs.
“The place is completely fireproof, no worries there,” the realtor had reminded him the last time he’d seen her. “They say it was a deliberate spark that ignited the kitchen, and who knows why the last owner stayed put in those flames. All new appliances, and refurbishment in every area, I made sure. Well, not the library. It wasn’t touched by the heat, we think; the books are all fine. I’d suggest you renovate the place anyway, though. You could rent it out as an apartment or demolish it. And I’d bet those books are worth a few thousand dollars should you sell ‘em, rare as the previous owner said they were.”
Seth had a library. A library the size of another apartment. He’d need to organize it and take inventory, but not before he dusted everything and checked for pests. Of course, before that, he’d need to choose his bedroom and take his toiletries out. Oh, and he’d need to cook something too.
No one had invited him to any sleepovers as a boy, and his parents and grandparents had kept their houses all his life. He and his parents shared a hotel room on the rare occasions they traveled with him, and his college life had consisted of working for the campus for a free dorm. Before today, Seth had never had a ‘first night’ in a strange house.
He sighed and lowered his chin, looking straight ahead to give his neck a break. It would take serious grit to shape the house as he wanted it before the next school year, when his new job would begin. But as long as he had that library, Seth knew he could push through anything. Rare books, old books—the house had been built in 1826 for a wealthy family and, as far as Seth knew, hadn’t been fully investigated yet. Its next two owners—one who’d moved in sometime during 1855 and one who had taken over in 1904--had only briefly maintained the house before their own deaths. Seth could hardly imagine the sorts of treasures left behind those doors. While he dragged his bags from his car, he tried to keep his excitement contained, but every so often, he’d find himself hopping from foot to foot or tugging at his hair, giggling at the prospect of so much alone time.
Not even the sticky stain in the foyer could make his happiness waver. He pushed his bags around it, surprised at the lack of a dusty response from the floor. It must have been wood polish that had spilled—Seth whipped out his notebook and made a note to learn how to keep the beautiful doors properly oiled. As he flipped the pages shut, he fumbled with his pen, trying to replace the cap with one hand. He hadn’t quite mastered that trick yet, however, and predictably, the pen tumbled through his fingers and--up?--to the ceiling.
Seth blinked, reigniting the pain in his neck as he watched the cheap ballpoint land above his head. He readjusted his glasses and stepped underneath it, squinting. It was resting next to the chandelier’s chain.
“Hmph,” Seth huffed, moving his bags over the sheet that covered the sofa. He dug through them until he found another pen.
“Investigate ceiling magnets,” he added to his to-do list. As he finished the second curve of the last ‘s’, he heard a clatter and turned to find his captured pen lodged deep in the floor beside his foot. He looked back up toward the chandelier and found an empty ceiling.
“Thank you, ceiling,” he mumbled, wrenching the first pen out of the floor and tucking it beside its replacement in his breast pocket. He should really get dinner started.
…
Seth watched sleepily from the breakfast counter as the pot of pasta stirred itself. The four-hour drive had really hit him following moving his bags inside, and after digging for a half hour through what he thought should be where he'd packed his kitchen supplies, he wasn’t exactly surprised to see his spoon moving in circles through the bubbling water while he sat yards away. Maybe he was becoming Matilda. Maybe he was breathing in ancient fumes. Regardless, he should check it out. He didn’t want to have to add something new to his to-do list.
Seth stumbled over to the stove, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.
“Ow!” he hissed, shaking off a glob of boiling water that had popped onto his arm. On second glance, it wasn’t water, but one of the spaghetti noodles he was softening. And its length spelled out a word over his skin: “LEAVE”.
Or it was just pasta and Seth was seeing omens where there weren’t any. He slurped the noodle off of his arm. It was perfectly al dente. Finally.