a quantum inheritance
there was a cat knocking on the door
The first sight I had of the house was of a cat knocking on the door. Or, at least that’s what I saw. Nestled in between the golden, dreadfully long weeds, it seemed to be peeking its head through the windows like a nosy neighbor.
My car sputtered off, fed up with the hours-long journey. Twelve hours ago, I’d checked out of a musty hotel in the middle of Tennessee. Stepping into the miserable afternoon heat felt like a new beginning. It was solemnly quiet in this little town—the only life I could see was the cat, Rody, as I’d begun to think of him. I’d listened to a podcast on the Schrödinger’s cat paradox during my drive. Saying I completely understood it would be a lie, but the visual of a dead-and-alive cat remained in my head.
As I trudged through the weeds towards the house, I cursed my stupid open-toed sandals. I’d bought them in the mall last summer, sweating uncomfortably as the salesperson pronounced my old pair “too 2011.” Smells from the food court had ensnared my good sense, and I’d bought the Birkenstocks she recommended. I hadn’t imagined I would be traversing around rural Texas, though.
Rody the cat seemed apprehensive of me as I approached him, a sentiment I might have shared in his position. I probably looked like I’d survived a natural disaster, which was entirely the fault of my car. Finicky as ever, the AC had given out somewhere 30 miles back. Not wanting to delay my journey, I’d decided to grin and bear it.
Well, mostly just “bear it.” There wasn’t much grinning.
I wiped my sweaty hair off my forehead and tried to reshape it into something like a ponytail. Only then did I actually register the house I’d inherited. I suppose “house” wasn’t the most accurate word for the building I found myself in front of. With towering walls and imposing spires, it looked like it was halfway out of a Jane Austen novel, definitely not a building of the 21st century. If I craned my neck, I could see the tile roofing (original, according to the Zillow posting). Weeds attacked the foundation, and the paint was slowly peeling off. Grass tickled my legs as I stood there awestruck. I turned back to my car to grab my suitcase.
10 hours of driving had really taken its toll. But I had a treat waiting for me. On one of my bathroom stops, I’d bought a pack of Maruchan Ramen. Every college student eats junk food—but I consider ramen an entire food group and definitely not deserving of the bad reputation it has garnered. I would celebrate my new home with my celebratory flavor—beef, which I only reserved for the happiest moments (the end of sophomore year, getting an A in Chem) or the saddest (when my fish, Peter, died).
I fished out the key from my purse—an odd-looking thing, with four spokes. The realtor had left me with all of the keys for the property and the surrounding “land,” which sounded very grand to someone who’d only ever lived in apartments. Apparently, there was a caretaker’s house behind the actual house.
The door creaked open, blasting me with a cloud of dust. Stepping into the entryway, I was disappointed to find that it was only minimally colder. The blinds were drawn, but I could see each particle of dust in the waning light. The realtor had promised me the house had been cleaned, but the inch of dust on the ledges suggested otherwise. Maybe I could hire a cleaner, but only when I figured out what in the world I was doing here. I hadn’t driven to central Texas for the fun of it.
No.
It had all started on a Monday, as most awful things do. I’d arrived home from work, exhausted and ready to binge three episodes of my comfort show and pretend I had no homework to do.
The knock sounded at nine, when I was already nestled into my coziest (but most worn) pajamas. Because I lived on the 20th floor of a gigantic building, I never normally received visitors at my door. At least not visitors that I wasn’t expecting. I jumped before remembering that I was a grown adult who shouldn’t be scared of a knock at the door. I paused my show and stumbled to the door. As a last-minute addition, I held my keys in between my knuckles, you know, just in case.
I’d expected to find some confused neighbor or incredibly persistent census worker, but waiting for me was a small woman with the brightest professional clothes I had ever seen. As soon as I opened the door, she snapped into work mode.
“Elda Hayton. I’m Melissa Haggerty. I work with Henry Henesse Caretakers Firm.” She paused, then said, “So glad to see you,” like it was an unnecessary afterthought.
“What do you want?” I asked her.She straightened her neon pink blazer. “Do you have any connections with Ervina A. Hayton?”
“My grandma?” My grandmother was dead. She’d been dead since I was ten, and I wasn’t so tired that I’d forgotten how to do math.
“Yes. Mrs. Hayton, your paternal grandmother, had an estate in Texas in her possession when she died.” She showed me a photo from her clipboard, and my brain began to overload.
“Why are you coming to talk to me? Shouldn’t my dad and his siblings have the estate? And my grandma has been dead for ten years.” I asked. I didn’t remember much about when Grandma died. I know my dad went to the funeral, but that was it.
I rubbed my eyes. “Just tell me, what, exactly, you need from me. It’s late.”
She flipped her hair. “I’m happy to report that since you are now 21, you have inherited her estate.”
I don’t believe I had a response for several minutes.
As soon as Melissa, the realtor, left, I called up my parents. None of them had any idea that I was to inherit Grandma Ervina’s estate. My mother, however, saw it as the antidote to all of my problems.
“You’ve never liked your apartment in Philly,” she’d said, “And anyways, honey, there are some great universities down in Texas. You could go to grad school like you’ve always wanted.”
My father was just as incredulous as I was. “I didn’t even know Mom had a home in Texas. Though that might explain that one trip. Are you sure this isn’t a scam?” he asked at least three times.
I still wasn’t quite sure myself.
When Melissa Haggerty came to my door at noon the next day and presented me with the official papers, I couldn’t deny it any longer.
I was in possession of an estate. The fact of my newfound wealth was the focal point of my thoughts during those first few days. But as I prepared to make the trip down to Texas, I became increasingly consumed with questions. Why did my grandma leave me the house? Why not give it to my dad or my Aunt Shelly? Why did my grandma even own an estate in Texas? She’d lived most of his life in Maine.
Neither my parents nor my extended family had the answers, and I became increasingly certain that I would find them only in the house itself. Sitting in the dining room now, after dusting my seat, I felt even more confused.
After inhaling my dinner, I consulted the map of the house, and I stumbled up the grand staircase, barely pausing to notice the intricate woodwork. I was beginning to feel the effects of an eight-hour drive. Just before I reached the top of the staircase, I noticed an enormous library to the right.
Towers of shelves peeked out from behind the door, suggesting an extensive collection. I hadn’t known that my grandma was such an avid reader. I hadn’t known that my grandmother owned a mansion in the middle of Texas, either, though, so who was I to question it? I backed down the staircase to get a closer look. There was a mound of black on the carpet that I couldn’t make out. As I got closer, I found myself locking eyes with Rody. I blinked. His body was emaciated and skeletal, like he’d been dead for years. I blinked again, and the vision faded. I crouched down, swiping my hand where Rody had just been. Nothing. I rolled my eyes at myself—I’d probably seen too much roadkill on the drive over. It was messing up my psyche.
Disturbed, I continued my climb up the stairs. I dragged my suitcase behind me, wincing at every bump it made. Every one of my steps moaned with a vengeance like there was a spirit trapped inside the floorboards. A long, narrow hallway with a burgundy, dust-coated carpet greeted me at the landing. It seemed like there were ten doors, though I was too tired to investigate them all. I twisted open the handle of the first. I reached for the light switch, grateful that there was at least electricity. It was a standard-sized room, but with the tiny, beautiful details common in the rest of the house, like the marble fireplace across from the bed. I threw on some pajamas and stared at my reflection aimlessly as I brushed my teeth in the equally extravagant bathroom. Unceremoniously, I threw myself onto the mattress, causing a cloud of dust to envelop me. I sneezed six times before promptly falling asleep.
A couple of hours later, a beeping noise coming from the bottom floor awoke me with a start. I debated waiting for the sound to stop and continuing dreaming, but my curiosity won me over. I rubbed my eyes until I could see clearly. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, fishing for my hairbrush in my suitcase. I didn’t have anything sharp or pointy, but I’d watched enough horror movies, so I didn’t want to be unarmed. I tiptoed out of my room, the element of surprise destroyed by the stupidly loud floorboards. The beeping sound increased as I approached the fourth door.
A green light pulsated from under the door, and I instinctively shivered. I knew it was a bad idea to come here, but what was I supposed to do? Go back to sleep? Run away from the house screaming? I decided to just get it over with. With trembling fingers, I pushed open the door. Unlike every other piece of wood in the house, it did not creak.
The green glow was emanating from a beaker sitting in the middle of a table. I startled, noticing the same cat, Rody, pacing the floor. I backed away, but my foot nudged something furry—Rody was dead by my ankles, but he was alive in front of the table. His body was decaying in front of my eyes, just like I’d seen earlier that night. What was this place? I dropped the hairbrush, my hands sweaty and shaky, but I didn’t leave. I approached the table in the middle of the room to get a closer look at the beakers. The liquid inside was thick, like molasses, a glow-in-the-dark green.
I reached a finger towards it, but as soon as my finger touched the glass, I felt a searing pain up my arm. I wrenched my arm away, only to see burns spreading up my arm. I scanned the room for water or any sort of relief, but there was nothing. With my other hand, I reached for my phone, pressing the emergency button as the burns made their way up my neck. I fell to the ground, the pain spreading through my body with unimaginable speed. It wasn’t long before I completely blacked out.
In the darkness, I could only see myself, lying immobilized on the floor, the burns covering my entire body.
I couldn’t move or scream or feel any part of myself. I don’t know how long I stayed paralyzed, but all of a sudden, I could feel my limbs. Behind my eyelids, I could sense some other light than the freaky green glow of the beaker. I wiggled my toes, then my fingers, before I realized that I had control of my limbs again. I blinked my eyes and found myself staring at the ceiling of the fourth room, lying just where I had fallen. The beaker was still on the table, except the liquid inside was clear, not the radioactive green of before.
I sat up and reached for my phone, finding it by my leg. The room was normal. No dead cats, no beeping noise—just a lab, with a sunny view of the lawn. Rubbing my forehead, I wondered what had just happened. Then, I heard the sounds of footsteps behind me. I reached for my hairbrush, ready for an attack, but it was only an old lady.
I sucked in a breath when I saw her face—a face I had only seen in old photographs. She had my nose, the same wild hair, and the same brown eyes as my dad.
“Grandma?” I whispered, my voice raspy from whatever I had just endured.
“Hello, Elda,” she said. The wrinkles above her eyes crinkled pleasantly.
“Welcome to the future. I’m so glad you made it.”