Spite House

The even finer print mentioned a reward of ten thousand dollars for “plumbing the mystery,” and as I’d been unemployed a fair stretch of time now, that was even more intriguing. I was not ashamed to admit that my anemic bank account was why I marched right through the front door of a tiny late-Victorian house on Queen Anne Hill without even knocking. A couple of seconds later I was moderately ashamed to admit that I hadn’t kicked on my Sight—the thing that let me judge the spiritual aspect of a situation—before I did so. On the other hand, it wasn’t like whatever I had seen would have stopped me, so at least I looked confident before I swept in.


There was an uncomfortable shift as I passed through the door, like I’d stepped into a place I didn’t quite belong. The Sight slipped on, giving me a double-layer of world to see. The regular world showed me a strangely narrow but beautifully constructed house: dust and cobwebs and century-old furniture suggested it hadn’t been lived in for decades, but neither was it ramshackle beneath the grime. Ordinarily I would expect a building like this one to glow green, showing pride in its ability to safely house its occupants.


Instead it shone so black that it had weight, as if the color itself was trying to drag the house into the very earth below me. Spikes of deep crimson rage held it in place, keeping it from sinking, and I didn’t think I imagined a moan of agony reverberating through the floorboards. The warring colors swam into my skull and spun around there, trying to pull me into the fight. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself, breathed, “Whoo,” and the door opened behind me.