I, Lucretia: Monologue of Magic House

Once upon a time, I was human.

A female, I think.

Lucretia.

Twin sister of Lawrence Mortimer Chase, born January 10, 1864, died December 1, 1892, the gravestone reads. But the body that lays within, is fake. I would know.

All I remember of my childhood is religion, shoved down my throat, unceremoniously beaten into my arms with wooden rulers, with my...twin brother? How I detest the phrase. Him, aiding and abetting my mother's irrational, evangelical wrath. The hours upon hours of hymnal swaying, vitriol spewing from the cold, dark pulpit of the latest minister-in-training.

Then darkness.

The curtain rises. At age 25, I visit a doctor in secret, a female doctor named Morgana, fresh from the tropics of the Azores Islands no less, despite the oxymoron it was during the era. Her red curls tied back in a dark ribbon, she investigates my reflexes, checks my tonsils, and does all matter of health investigations. Something draws her attention, however, causing her eyes to narrow in a most peculiar manner. Waving a hand over my extremities, she frowns. And tears up.

The diagnosis is too complicated to pronounce more than once. Epidermodysplasia verruciformis (EV). The female magical sort, before there ever was a cure. A blood curse aggravated by the upper northwest environment. The good news? I ask, ever the optimist. You can turn yourself into any inanimate object of your choosing. But you need to decide fast.

Morgana refers me to Florence, currently taking refuge in Tulipe (or is it tulip?) Women's Asylum. I can't blame the woman for her reluctance in treating me, given how my own flesh and blood has put forth a near-daily haranguing as of late, but she cannot deny Morgana's request. During one of his diatribes, thinking of the sanctuary I beheld, and the curse upon me—"could I become a house?"

And the daily enchantments began, as my body grew weary.

I hardly noticed winter approaching that year, nor the rising tension, as Florence continued her potion-making and ensemble chanting—or whatever it was. Efforts were made to prop my head up with pillows, elixirs manufactured and smuggled under the cover of night for my ingesting. And one night, I awoke, moaning in agony, to crackling flames, barely conscious, realizing that I was being secreted away by three women in hooded cloaks.

Rescued, but to what end?

It was, I later learn, the Great Fire of 1889, set by him. I always knew, from the moment he was born, festering alongside me in our mutual bassinet, that he was the epitome of trouble personified.

The years pass slowly as my limbs begin to evolve, lengthening, curling, turning to glass and ember, wooden timbers surrounding my very being. How much of me is left? But I know now my noble destiny, my silent quest, and I vow to stay alive in this broken, brittle body of mine.

December 1892.

The three sisters find a beautiful blueprint of a Queen Anne Revival-style manor, with proposed drawings of multi-pitched rooflines, wraparound verandahs, tall corbelled brick chimneys, and stained-glass windows, the closest approximation to my denatured, and altogether entropic, state. I accept their proposal (it is the best, under the circumstances), and the project is underway through a certain Mr. Grant, who had, to my knowledge, designed such houses aplenty the previous year.

So the building begins.

My limbs evolve, my soul flickers between, beyond, and back, and the sisters decide, with the building project fully underway, for me to live undetected in its front room, casting various enchantments to slowly imbue the architecture with my heart—my very essence.

January 1893

James and Elizabeth move in, leasing the bottom half of the house to the three sisters.

Time passes. A year, several decades.

A pair move in, consummating their new marriage along the bare bedroom walls in a steady percussion of passion and throbbing ecstasy. The woman's belly swells with the promise of new life, and her companion—her husband, I assume—kisses her stomach, besotted with the thought of becoming a father. My insides glow and hum with illuminated happiness, imagining the joy to follow.

Oh, but how wrong I am!

A tiny, limp, doll-like figure is brought to the attic, the circular webbed windows glimmering as the glow of the moonlight pours in. Another figure approaches. The baby is alive. I breathe aloud through my expansive outlined lungs, lined with the velvety pink of fiberglass and other forms of cozy insulation.

A second soul appears some years later after indescribable tears and tension that rattle the bones of my wrist, the sharpness jolting me awake from my stupor. I smile once more. Another child to protect.

Merriment and a birthday.

These are followed by palpable fear of the third child. Her sighs turn into sobs, her breathing escalates rapidly, and all I want—all I could ever want—in those moments—is to reach out to her, my hand to hers, through the foundation, past the pink floss, the newspaper-print, whatever the asbestos there are or aren't—past floral-printed walls, to comfort her, and embrace her. And tell her that I am here. Sometimes, I think she knows.

And one day, I gasp in pain.

Glass, shattered. The mother. Marisol. Gone. I yearn to see her daughters—all three—united once more, and my innermost wish comes to fruition, though I must admit Harry Greenwood certainly employs rather unorthodox tactics.

The little girl who was reawakened, tests her magic—they all do—but she's she only one who's used her mind to close the front door. Clever girl.

Then I see their looks.

It begins slowly, a glance here and there, a covert stare that becomes a rapid head-turn in the opposite direction, petty jealousies coming to a head. A tiny pale woman whose smirk I wish to wipe off her smug visage enters, creating tension. My insides darken almost immediately as she compliments my Victorian nature. I hope she leaves, I think to myself, fervently wishing I had the eldest's power so I could move the tasseled carpet just so to trip the sneering woman. Maybe then she would not return.

But my actions weren't needed in the end.

The lady disappeared nearly as soon as she'd arrived, and is it—I draw a breath, causing the curtains to flutter—them? Dancing under the trellis tealights? Indeed it is, and I beam as I see him twirl her, her dark curls flying about. May this moment last forever, I wish. But after a familiar throttle of the walls, a spine aligned with the mirror touching my scalp, I spot Harry warming himself by the fire, asking the youngest, the one who sees me, to numb his emotions.

No—please! I plead with the girl. Maggie. Don't do it.

Perhaps she heeded my advice. All I know is, I began to hear the words "Azores Islands" uttered once more. Morgana the redheaded woman paid another visit, and another three years later, and more people entered the house. Kind people. The very opposite of Lawrence Mortimer Chase.

And therein lies my legacy.

Welcome to Vera Manor.