Hothouse

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, 

And Mourners to and fro 

Kept treading – treading – 

–Emily Dickinson 

“Well, doctor, he seems to be having another episode….if you understand–What’s that?–Oh. Yes. Certainly–” 

Arthur could hear the conversation occurring in the hall outside his room as if Mrs. Welch and Doctor Murphy were standing at the foot of his bed. The high undulations of her voice pierced his eardrums. A needle stuck in the canal. He couldn’t make sense of the doctor’s words, only deep rumblings, but they too, were uncomfortably loud somehow. Did they remember he had woken up blind, not deaf? 

But they were the least of his concerns, really. The house was growing bolder. Before this morning, it had settled for making its presence known, only just. It hovered in corners and sent the odd chill down Arthur’s spine at sundown. Now, it had reached across that corporeal boundary–burrowed through skin and muscle and blood–and taken his eyes. 

“–It is difficult to rush these things, you realize.” Ah, there was a coherent sentence. The housekeeper’s shrillness swelled. “Of course. But are you aware of today’s occasion?” 

“I am.” 

Arthur was irritated at being discussed without his input. He wasn’t a child. More pressing, though, was the writhing creature scraping its talons down the sides of his skull. And the weight sitting squarely atop his chest. There must be some beast from the bowels of

Chesterfield House taking up residence there, but Arthur could not see it. He couldn’t see anything. His eyes were open, and it was morning–the birds’ calls told him that, but the room was pitch black. 

The doctor once again: “But nervous types like Mr. Reed–they cannot control their fits. Too much interference could worsen his condition. I suggest rescheduling the festivities.” Mrs. Welch began to sputter about logistics and guests that had traveled great distances, and the food and the florist, but the doctor ignored her and quietly entered the bedroom. Arthur heard his shoes click across the floor and felt the air shift as he approached his bed. He could only imagine what the scene looked like. Sheets tangled at the foot of the mattress, damp with sweat, Arthur flat on his back as if he were tied down. 

“Mr. Reed?” 

“Doctor?” 

“I am going to conduct a brief physical exam. Can you tell me the symptoms you’re currently experiencing?” 

“I can’t see.” 

“Anything else?” 

“My breath is short.” 

“Right. Hold tight.” 

Dr. Murphy poked at his throat, his feet, and pulled back his eyelids. Arthur managed to sit up while he listened to his heart. 

Then he said what he always said, “There’s nothing wrong with you that I can determine. At least externally.”

What would the doctor say if Arthur told him If you leave me now, the walls will swallow me and stretch me to fit inside them? Would he ship Arthur off somewhere to be hidden away? Somewhere his delusions wouldn’t unsettle others? He only asked, “Well, can’t you do something?” 

“I don’t believe so.” 

“It’s my wedding day.” 

“So I’ve been told.” A pause. “May I be frank, Arthur?” 

“…Yes.” 

“You’re not in full control of your body or mind.” The doctor sniffed. “I would think you want to be on such a day. You want to remember everything, enjoy it. What you need now is rest. You shouldn’t be stuffed into a suit and stood in the middle of a crowded room. From what you say, you could not even begin to find your way there, anyhow. If you’ll allow me to state the obvious. ” 

Arthur felt a sick relief. No one ought to be shackled to him in marriage. Especially not Elizabeth, with her kind brown eyes and careful words. Chesterfield would delight in tearing apart such tenderness. 

As Dr. Murphy left, he gave Arthur’s shoulder a gentlemanly pat and murmured something about seeing to other patients. Arthur flinched at the touch, then felt his cheeks flush in shame. Yes–better to stay here in this room for now. Forever, maybe. Everyone else could go 

about their lives in that sturdy, automatic way he’d never fully learned. They wouldn’t have to hold him together anymore. He’d stop looking away from the house and face it  head-on. And if it wanted to devour him after all, he’d let it.

Mrs. Welch came in and fussed about him, fluffed his pillows, and badgered him with tea. It was a pity her best intentions were wasted on Arthur. She deserved more. Arthur dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The pressure blinked some sort of light behind his lids. “What will they say, Mrs. Welch?” 

“To hell with them, Arthur.” She was still rustling around. 

“What about the Cranes?” 

“That’s not important now. We’ll deal with it all later. When you’re well.” Mrs. Welch would deal with it, she meant. 

“We need them.” He needed the money. If Elizabeth’s family called off the marriage, Arthur would lose the house. He hated Chesterfield, but it loved him in its own consumptive way, and Arthur knew he didn’t have the strength to leave, anyway. 

She stopped moving, and Arthur felt the bed dip as she perched on its edge. “I don’t need a reminder. Forgive me, dear, but would that be so horrible? To start again in another place?” No, it wouldn’t be horrible, far from it. The dusty halls sucked him dry with their memories and echoes, their strange pulse. But it was his parents’ home. He’d been born here, and every day, it felt more inevitable that he would die here. 

Mrs. Welch took his clammy hand in hers. “These are problems for another day, Arthur.” She was so solid, so warm. “Rest now.” 

He listened to her leave, and then he was alone in the dark. 

Murmurs and rustling sounded outside his door, but Arthur did not move. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake. Sometimes, he slipped into a dream, but never far enough because he was still inside of his body.

Time had slipped out of Arthur’s grip. It could’ve been the same day or the next or the next week, for all he knew. His eyes sometimes burned because he forgot to blink. He rubbed them every so often to find out if they might magically begin to see again. Arthur thought that maybe this was what being buried alive felt like. He thought of Elizabeth and the sympathy she was surely receiving, the outrage on her behalf, and the well-meaning advice in the face of his utter failure. He thought of a cabin in the countryside that he might build if he was a different sort of man. If he believed there was anything more to himself than the place where he had come from. In truth, all Arthur was and would ever be, had been fabricated by others. He reflected his parents’ hopes back to them. He pretended to understand the tutors who desperately tried to ignite some passion within him. Mrs. Welch deemed him a serious and well-behaved child, so he acted like one. He had always felt hollow, and there wasn’t enough of himself to fill the cracks, so Arthur let them pour into the empty spaces. 

Eventually, the whispers grew too loud to ignore. The curtains swayed in a chill draft, and they spoke his name. What have we done to you? they said. Nothing, nothing. All we have tried to do is love you, but you do not want it. You do not want to join us, though with us is where you belong. 

Arthur wrapped a pillow around his head but the voice was coming from inside him. He could not run from it or drown it out. The house wanted attention, though, and attention it would get. His quilt snaked around his ankles and tightened until he felt his heartbeat pulsing in his feet. Stay, a loose thread stitched into Arthur’s skin. S T A Y, s t a y. He tried to scream for Mrs. Welch, for anyone, but the house swallowed any sound before it could break the air. 

If you do not see us, no one will see us, and we will fade away. See us. Hear us. It must be you. It is only you.

Then his mother’s cool fingers were pressed to his forehead as if he were a boy again, and she was checking for a fever. Arthur couldn’t see her, but he could feel her there. She asked, You fight so hard, darling. But why? Mother, help. I fear I am slipping away never to return. You are my son. I made you, and this house made me, and we will return to it in the end. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to return. I am not finished here. Shhhhhhhhhh, she said. 

Elizabeth came to him later. Arthur? Oh, dear. They are telling me that you must let go. You are good, Arthur. You were good, but not good enough, I’m afraid. I am sorry, I’m sorry–Can you hear me? It was me, it was me, not you. There’s a hole somewhere in me, and I kept trying to fill it and– 

His father. He said I always wanted to see more of myself in you. He pressed a thumb to Arthur’s forehead, and the touch set his head on fire. That blank stare of yours was quite distressing. 

Please, please. But Arthur did not know what he was begging for. The house relished his desperation, his fear. It wanted more and more of it, more of him. The walls curved inward. They wanted to hold him closer. They wanted to spread him between their planks and behind their paint. Chesterfield would become what Arthur had been missing his entire life. 

Arthur’s limbs became bedposts. His bones were carved into the cheery pinecone finials. He had never been more than chipped wood. How had he believed otherwise? Perhaps he was born to become one with Chesterfield House. Arthur had been made with that endless cavity within him because the house knew that, one day, it would replace the void. Yes, the house whispered. 

He was in every room at once. He was every room.

Arthur felt the cold marble of the floors on his back. He could taste the rusted window panes. He was the cobwebs in the corners, the ashes gone cold in the fireplace. The parlor’s chess pieces were lodged in his throat. He shattered into a thousand pieces and became the chandelier. 

I belong here? 

You are perfect. 

Look, you are beautiful. 

It hurts. Why does it hurt? I can’t– 

No. 

It is not meant to hurt. 

“Arthur? Arthur?” 

He could see Mrs. Welch laying a cold cloth on his forehead. Candlelight flickered in her eyes. She smiled when he met her gaze. 

“There you are,” she said. 

“Mrs. Welch.” He tried to sit up. Arthur surveyed himself. Everything seemed to be where it should. “Am I–?” He couldn’t feel the house anymore. Its absence ached. New paragraph for Mrs. Welch’s dialogue

“I think you’re alright. Hmm?” 

“I–Yes, I suppose,” Arthur said. “There’s just something I need to do.” 

The pair of them got him upright, and Mrs. Welch helped him down the stairs. He opened the front door and smelled summer rain. Arthur stepped outside. The house awakened at his leaving, didn’t stop him, but  called to him as he crossed the threshold. He knelt on the ground and felt mud soak into his nightshirt. He shoved his fingers into the grass.

The blades tickling his fingers felt new. Arthur looked to the treeline and the bruised expanse of sky. 

He was untethered, free, floating with the wind. But Chesterfield towered over it all with open arms, waiting to embrace him again.