“Maybe, but she wrote horror stories.”
Minerva smiled. She’d heard such comments before. Peoplewere keen to assign Poe’s “The Raven” or Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” in class, but not so keen to allow the rest of the horror authors a place in academia.
“I would think someone who is part of the Yates Foundation would appreciate all kinds of literature and art,” she said, attempting to be tactful, to moderate her temper.
“Have you been reading the brochures? My name is in them simply to fill up space and to ensure they don’t kick me out of this fucking school before I’m done with my degree.”
Clearly tact was not Noah’s strongest quality. Well, he was wealthy enough to say whatever he wanted, she supposed. Minerva had to mind her words. She was a woman, a Mexican woman at that. A brown girl on a scholarship.
“You don’t care about economics, then,” she said as she took out her battered paperback copy ofThe Vanishingand set it next to Tremblay’s journal.
“No. But Carolyn wanted me to be a law student or study economics like my father. Join the business world.”
“Where does your father work?”
“He doesn’t. My mother and father are dead, but he used to work for the Yates Foundation. Vice president of development. Whatever that meant.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
He shrugged. “It’s fine. It happened a long time ago. I’ve grown up healthy and coddled, as my grandmother can testify. What about it, though?” he said, reaching for the copy ofThe Vanishingand examining the cover. “Why a horror writer?”
“I like horror stories, always did. I think Beatrice Tremblay is a horror pioneer and deserves to be remembered.”
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and watched as he began thumbing through the book.
“What about the witchcraft connection that you mentioned before?”
“I thought you didn’t remember our conversation. You were too drunk.”
“I remember a bit of it. I remember I didn’t think you’d have the balls to come here.”
She wanted to rip the book out of his hands and cradle it like a child, upset at the way he was turning the pages, his fingers careless upon the yellowed paper. It was a cheap paperback, but it was hers.
“Then you shouldn’t have invited me,” she replied dryly, despite her desire to maintain a pleasant façade.
He smiled. “Don’t get angry. I thought it was funny that you would mention witchcraft.”
“Funny how? It seems pertinent. From Rockport to Pepperell, New England’s chock-full of stories about witches. Beatrice Tremblay distilled those folktales into her work. Maybe all you see is pulp fiction when you look at her stuff, but it has deep roots.”
“Carolyn doesn’t like horror stories.” He handed her back the book. “She never liked Betty’s novel, either.”
Minerva threw him a perplexed look. “She arranged for the college to preserve her manuscripts and business correspondence.”
“That was my grandfather. He promised he’d do that. I think he was doing it for Ginny. You know, because Betty and Ginny had been friends. That’s why that painting’s there and those papers are sitting on that table.” He checked his watch. “Carolyn said you can have two hours in here. See you later.”
Once Noah stepped out, she shook her head, put on her headphones, and quickly set to taking notes while she played Robyn Hitchcock’s “Raymond Chandler Evening.” Although she needed to hurry, eventually she found herself staring at the painting Noah had pointed at earlier, her mind wandering. It was funny how certain elements of Beatrice Tremblay’s narrative echoed not only her horror stories—people going missing, a feeling of being watched or followed, unexplained animal deaths or illnesses—but Nana Alba’s tales of witchcraft.
Collective unconscious, like Hideo had said. Well, perhaps, and there was no doubt that stories migrated and were shared by different groups of people. Stories of werewolves in Canada had beenimported by French colonists and mixed with local folklore, creating the rougarou. Such connections were logical.
Yet there was a feeling of déjà vu that almost made her skin itch, uncomfortable.
The black marks on the door—which she’d be able to wash off with soap and water should the handyman be difficult to locate, thank God they were grease and not paint—added to that feeling of unease. She’d told Hideo about it, and they both agreed it was probably the work of Conrad. Vandalism would be well within his skill set. Yet that petty act seemed more sinister considering her recent reading material.
She slid off her headphones and took photos of the painting, then opened the drawer that Noah had showed her last time and placed the charcoal sketches on the table. She photographed the drawings, then stared pensively at them.
“Carolyn wants you to have tea with her,” Noah said.
She hadn’t even heard him walk into the room. She helplessly checked her watch. Two hours and fifteen minutes. She’d accomplished little.
