She thumped into Ruby's stair lift chair, barking her shin against the armrest. Instinct kept her from crying out. She sucked in a winced breath and stood a moment rubbing the spot.

It would bruise tomorrow. She bruised so easily these days.

Least it didn't break the skin. Thank God for small favors.

Placing her footsteps close to the wall, she descended the stairs, holding the railing to steady herself. Less creaky that way. When she reached the bottom she startled, certain for a moment that someone was standing by the door.

Breathe, woman. Don't lose your head.

Her eyes adjusted. It was only Sheila and Marty's heavy winter coats on the rack.

Spring would soon be here, thank the Lord. Winter was filled with back-breaking work: snow shoveling, constantly mopping the foyer floor, repairing windows broken by heavy island storms. Spring was a blessing of gardening, sunshine and warm rain. She smiled at the thought of it, her rabbiting heartbeat slowing.

The closet under the stairs was where she kept many of her cleaning supplies, the mop, the broom and dustpan and sundry household items: spare lightbulbs, batteries, paper towels and the like. It also led to the basement.

Norma knew of only three houses with basements in Barrows Bay. The parish had one, as did the old schoolhouse, which had burned many years ago. And this house, often called the Gingerbread House by folks in town, particularly those on the Historical Society.

The door was locked, just as she knew it would be. She took the skeleton key out of the front pocket of her nightgown. It was finicky—not half as finicky as the night of the fire, she thought—but she finally managed to turn the lock and twist the knob, opening the door on the smell of must and decay, of damp concrete and dirt.

Of ancient history, she thought. Long-forgotten nightmares, at least for Marty. Not me. No, I've had to live with them my whole life. Cursed to hold back the—

smoke, black smoke

—the flood. Too bad so sad and sucks to be me.

Hush, you ninny, came another voice, as familiar as a name on the tip of her tongue. It seemed to come from the house itself rather than inside her head.

You haven't been cursed. You've been chosen.

"Chosen," she said with caustic bitterness.

Her voice in the darkened stairwell made her jump. She flicked the light on hastily, only to assure herself there was no one here with her, listening as she talked to herself like a crazy loon.

She was alone. The furnace in the darkness below ticked but otherwise the basement was quiet as the grave.

Eager to get this over with as quickly as possible, Norma descended the stairs. There was a big canvas drop cloth on the table at the foot of them. She draped it open, raising a cloud of dust. She thought it would just about fit.

The cellar ceiling was too low for her to walk without hunching. Norma had been tall since the eighth grade. The other kids had called her hurtful names. Many were dead now, their names and faces long forgotten. She held no ill will toward them, felt no joy in their passing. But the insults remained, tattooed on her heart.