The Poe Estate Read Free

investments in railroads and oil on building boudoirs, the gallery, the gun room, the conservatory.
    Things fell apart in the 1930s, though. The building stopped during the Great Depression, and apparently the repairs did too. Upstairs, where I went to finish the tour on my own, everything was cold and dusty, festooned with cobwebs. In some rooms, I left footprints in the dust. Clearly almost nobody climbed the stairs anymore.
    When I opened the casement window in what looked like a sewing room, I saw Mom and Dad in the driveway unloading our truck. “Sukie! Come down and help,” Mom called. I randown the back staircase, the one meant for servants, creaking the treads.
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    We stashed our flea market stuff and some of our heavier furniture in the old carriage house, but most of our boxes went straight up into the main attic. It was hard work hauling our things up all those flights. The long, low attic room with its peaked roof stretched over the nineteenth-century additions. Eight dormer windows lit it dimly. A single lightbulb hung in the middle of the room, but nothing happened when I pulled its chain.
    â€œI’ll have to fix that,” said Dad, putting down his armload of boxes.
    The attic had that winter smell of cold dust. Groups of furniture stood around draped with dirty white drop cloths. I felt as if I’d tiptoed into a Halloween surprise party full of little kids dressed as ghosts, holding their breath while they waited to startle the guest of honor.
    I added my boxes to Dad’s pile and peeked under one of the drop cloths. It covered a collection of wooden chairs with spiky arms and legs. They looked uncomfortable.
    â€œAnything good?” asked Mom.
    â€œEastlake, I think,” I said. “Pretty beat up, though.”
    Mom looked under a drop cloth near her and found an aluminum and Formica table from the 1950s. She let it fall back.
    Something rustled behind me. I spun around. A mouse? A ghost?
    It didn’t feel like a ghost, and for some reason, I didn’tthink one would show up with my parents there. I made myself go look. Standing in that corner was a tall mirror in an elaborate wooden frame. My reflection looked elegant and mysterious.
    â€œNow, that’s more like it,” breathed Mom. “What a beauty!”
    â€œHands off, Mom. It’s all Cousin Hepzibah’s,” I said. “We can’t sell it.”
    â€œI know, honey. Can’t I admire it?”
    â€œQuit slobbering. You’re like a wolf!”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’m still a Thorne,” said Mom. “Let’s cover that.”
    Together we threw a dusty cloth over the mirror. It unsettled a pile of old leaves by the window—the source of the rustling, maybe. I found an old broom and swept them into a newspaper, then opened the window and shook them out. The wind snatched them away, flinging them up and down and sweeping them toward the sea.
    When we were done stowing our boxes in the attic, I took the broom to my tower room. If I got rid of the cobweb trapezes, maybe ghosts wouldn’t find the place so hospitable.
    The broom felt cold in my cold hands, almost tingly. That happened sometimes—I got a cold, tingly feeling when I touched something, usually something old. I wasn’t really surprised to get the tingly feeling in this house, where everything was old.
    My ceiling was so tall that even with the broom, I had to stand on a chair to reach the corners. The chair creaked when I stepped on it, and I could almost hear Kitty scolding me to goget a real ladder before I broke my neck.
    The chair held my weight. Cobwebs dodged away in the air currents as I slashed at them, and a spider dropped down on a long line to inspect me. “I’m not afraid of you,” I told it. “Go find someplace else. This is my room now.”

CHAPTER THREE
    My Sister’s Ghost
    W hen Kitty died, my friends disappeared. Not all at once;