The Widow of Rose House

by Diana Biller

“Right. So Friday night, after everyone had arrived and gathered downstairs for the opening party, suddenly they discover all the doors of the house have been locked. They’re trapped. They can’t get out.” “There being no windows on the entire floor,” Henry murmured into his glass of water. Sam scowled at him.

“People tend to go a bit strange when you talk to them about invisible alien intelligences,” he confided. “Which is odd, when you think about it, because why are the shades of one’s dead ancestors any less unsettling?”

The papers had even breathlessly reported when she’d begun wearing lavender three months after the murder, a sartorial decision which was apparently very shocking for reasons Sam didn’t quite grasp.

“My knowledge of the latest fashions now rivals my knowledge of medicine.” “Well, it’s always good to have a fallback career,” Sam said, vaguely looking around for his coat before remembering he was already wearing it. “It’s better than ghost hunting,” Benedict said as they walked out of the room. “I don’t hunt ghosts,” Sam protested. “I bear them no ill will at all. I just want to make their acquaintance.” “Ghost social climber, then.” “Much closer.”

It wasn’t that bad, Sam thought, surveying the room. After all, what was furniture for if not to provide surface space? Sure, chairs were supposed to be sat in, but that was a narrow and inefficient view.

“Harnessed lightning, available in every room, to be called whenever you want it.” “It sounds almost blasphemous.” He smiled wider. “Are you worried Zeus will descend Mount Olympus and smite us for our effrontery?” “Something like that.” “Wouldn’t that be a red-letter day for science,” he said. Alva rolled her eyes, the tightness in her stomach easing. “You have a unique and frequently disturbing outlook on life.” “Oh, come now. The discovery Zeus is not a mythical figure but does in fact exist? Think of the questions that could be answered. For example, what does it feel like to have your daughter born from your own skull?” “Is Hera as horrible as the stories make her out to be, or is it classic scandalmongering?” “How, exactly, do you transform heroes into celestial constellations? And does it hurt when you turn them into a series of stars spread over hundreds of light-years?” “Where exactly does one find ambrosia? Is it suitable for dinner parties?”

Some readers will no doubt be inclined to discount this attempt because of its feminine authorship; to them, I can only say, Have you ever met a man with any good memory for gossip at all? And after all, what is local history but local gossip?

Sam had never spent much time ruminating on the nature of heaven and hell before today, either, but it occurred to him there were some people for whom eternal torture was a fitting end.