The House on 89th

The House on 89th
Ruthie's POV

The change is a whirlwind. It’s so fast. One day Eliot is griping about our soulless, glass-box-in-the-sky apartment and the next he’s signing papers on a townhouse. "It’s an inheritance, darling," he said, kissing my temple. "Tangled up in probate for years. It just cleared. It’s ours. A real home.”

But standing on the stoop of East 89th Street, I don’t know. The house is a pin, a lingering wisp of the old New York squeezed in between two glass-and-steel monolithic slabs that soar above it. It’s all original brickwork, stained dark from a century of city grime and the windows are tall and narrow, like suspicious eyes. The moving van creaks as our last sleek, modern piece of furniture is devoured by the dark arched doorway.

“What, isn’t it splendid?” Eliot asks, sliding his arm around my waist. He seems... electric. More alive than I even thought he’d seen him.”
“It’s… a lot, El. It is so old.”
The air in here is fat. Still . It smells of old, expensive wood, lemon oil and something else I can’t put my finger on. Something like dried flowers. Or dust. The foyer is dark, paneled in a mahogany so rich it is almost black. A heavy crystal chandelier hangs above us in the pitch dark.

Eliot drops our bags and spreads his arms wide, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. He turns in a complete circle, his eyes roaming over the curved stairway and the large, brocaded curtain.

“This is the beginning of everything,” he says, his voice oddly booming in the thick air.
Shivers I cannot describe run down my spine. I try to laugh it off. “What do you mean by that? Because of your obsession with antique doorknobs?”

He just looks at me. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. All of a sudden those perfect, green eyes go flat. “You’ll see, Ruthie,” he says, his voice fading to a whisper. “You’ll see everything.”
He turns and walks down the hall, his footsteps clicking against the parquetry, and I’m left in darkness in the front hall.
\---
I don’t… I don’t like it here.
I can’t say which one. It’s a really nice house, by anyone’s standards. The details are amazing— the plaster moldings, the marble fireplaces in every room, even the tiny walled-in garden out back. But I feel... exposed. The silence in this house isn’t like the silence in our apartment. It’s not serene; it’s stifling. It’s a listening silence.

I keep thinking I see movement out of the corner of my eye. a shadow stretching in the hallway. A curtain rustles when there’s no wind. I’m just projecting. Moving is stressful. Aiden has been distant and strange, consumed with a new case, and the entire city seems to be holding its breath. I’m just tired.

Eliot, however, is quite another matter.
He tried to be proprietary.

He strides down the hall, not as the new homeowner but as a king who has returned to his castle. He touches everything—the banister, the frames of the disturbing, pitch-black paintings in the upstairs hall, the spines of books in the library that aren’t our own.
“Where did all this furniture come from?” I asked him as I ran my hand over a velvet chaise lounge.

“It came with the house,” he’d said dismissively. “All of that’s part of the set.”
A “set.” What a odd way to say that.
We have been here for less than a day. It’s just past midnight now. I’m unpacking linens in the master bedroom — an enormous space with a cavernous, four-poster bed that would fit right in with in the pages of a gothic tale — when I realize Eliot isn't cradled in the folds of his sleep.

“Eliot?” I call out, as I tug on my silk robe.
No answer. Just the house, creaking and settling around me.
I go into the hallway. His ancestors—or whoever they are—are framed in portraits and they watch me. Their painted eyes seem to follow. I shake my head, snapping myself out of surreality. "You're being ridiculous, Ruthie, "
I track the scent down the center hall to door I have yet to step through. The study. The door is open a crack, a thin beam of warm light intersecting with the dark hallway.
I pushed it open.
Eliot is reclining in a high-backed leather chair, with his back to me. The walls are covered with books from floor to ceiling. The only source of light in the huge desk is a green banker's lamp, which illuminates him in a sickly, cinematic light.
A tiny, glowing joint is between his fingers. He is not merely smoking; he is holding court, gazing at a portrait over the unlit mantelpiece.

My heart hammers. I thought he would leap, to conceal it, to stammer an excuse. The Eliot I’m used to drinking is more all green tea, morning jogs, and obsessive control. This...this isn’t him.
He does not move. He knows I’m here. He must have heard me.
“Eliot?”

He draws slow and purposeful on, the cherry burning bright red. Then he exhales and a grey smoke--a smoke plume--unwraps itself up towards the ceiling. He turns his head, and a slow smile spreads across his face. It’s a terrifying smile. It’s cold. It’s amused. “Darling,” he says in a deep drawl. He doesn’t sound like himself at all.
“Eliot, what... what are you doing? I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I do a lot of things you don’t know about, Ruthie,” he said. He takes another drag. “It helps me relax. Unwind. This place...it’s got a lot of energy. You feel it, don't you?”

I’m stuck in the doorway. It’s not the pot that’s frightening me. It’s him. The thing that shocks me is how utterly shameless he is. His... transformation.

“You’re... you’re scaring me, El.This isn't you .” “Isn't it?” He stubs the joint out in a heavy crystal ashtray and stands up. He doesn’t just stand; he unfurls, rising to his full height, his shadow engulfing me in the doorway. “Maybe this is the real me. You just didn't know the one you haven't met yet.”

he advances on me. I take an involuntary step back, my bare foot landing on the cold floor of the hallway.

“What’s your problem?” he taunts, and there’s a silky purr in his voice. “You’re always so worried, aren’t you? Just like your best friend. Always… probing.” “Stop it. You’re not saying anything that makes sense.”

He’s in front of me now, pressing into me. I can smell the smoke on his breath, sharp and acrid I can smell the smoke on his breath, sharp and acrid. “I’m making perfect sense. You just don’t like the answers.”

He reaches out and I flinch, but he only tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are ice-cold. “I’m sick of the questions, Ruthie. Tired of the worried little looks. Tired of pretending.”
he grabs my wrist. it’s not a touch. It’s a trap. His grip is iron, his fingers carving into my skin. The charm is gone. It’s dissipated, and all that's left is this cold hard thing facing me. His eyes are flat and merciless.

“Let go of me, Eliot! You’re hurting me!” I yell, struggling to pull my arm free.
He pulls tighter, pulling me until my face is only a few inches from his. “You have to learn to relax, darling,” he hisses. "Which you need to learn not to ask so many questions. This is my house. My rules.”

Then he shoves me.
It’s no light push. It’s a fierce, full-force shove. I fly backward, stumbling, my feet getting tangled up. I slam hard into the wall, my head banging against the thick wooden paneling. The world slams into me in a burst of white pain.
I slide down to the floor, stunned, my wrist burning, my eyes swimming.
Eliot looms over me, a shadowy figure framed by the soft light of the study. He just looks at me, chest rising and falling. He doesn't seem angry. He doesn't look panicked.

He looks..
. satisfied.
“This is,” he says, rolling back his shirt sleeves, “just the beginning.”