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cracked. He opened it to find an antique sewing kit, complete with colored thread that hadn’t seen the light of day for over 150 years. He shoved at a container lying sideways on the floor, jumping back, his heart racing, when a rat skittered over his booted foot. “Pussy,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. His face heated, and he wondered where all this unease was coming from. He hadseen things during his four years overseas that would have broken his late mother’s heart, but had hardly rocked him. He couldn’t understand what unnerved him about this house. Reaching up, he pulled down a box, finding housewares, gloves, all kinds of delicate lacework, tablecloths, dishes, tools—it was a treasure trove of junk, the stuff of everyday life dating back to who knew when.
    He pulled out his phone and dialed the trash people, letting them know they had to pick up the filled Dumpster and replace it, and that he needed a larger one for at least another week. He slid out a credit card and read them the number to pay for the additional equipment. Going through this pile was going to add an extra weekhe really couldn’t afford. It meant delaying the repairs, which would result in showing the house later. Brad cursed, knowing that with winter around the corner, they might be stuck with this wreck, paying their contractor loan into the spring. It also meant they couldn’t afford to move on to the next house, so he cursed again. He looked at the four walls of the room. He was on the other side of the subbasement. He knocked on the wall, hearing its hollowness. Punching a hole through the plaster, he realized he was on the other side of the outside of the house. It was a secret room deep in the bowels of the house, sealed with plaster to be hidden away for perhaps a hundred years or so. He considered for what reason the room might have been walled off. There was a good chance they might find somevaluables. Why else would there be a secret room? Perhaps they’d find some things to sell to compensate for the delays. He coughed, his throat clogging from the odor. Something had died in the room. Brad recognized the smell of decay.
Probably a nest of dead rats
, he thought grimly.
    Brad eyed the dusty boxes in the corner with distaste, but he knew he had no choice. Pushing them through the narrow opening and then carting them up the rickety staircase, he made a neat pile in the center of the parlor. Cold, damp air seeped in from outside; the salon echoed with emptiness. In the living room, there was a faint musty smell, and a giant rusty watermark stained the carved plaster of the ceiling. It was a huge area, with a scuffed parquet floor, the wallsa depressing mahogany paneling. It was so big it probably had doubled as a ballroom. A filthy wooden dado spanned all the walls around the room, empty but for mice droppings. He wondered if these boxes contained all the knickknacks that had decorated it, for which the fussy Victorian era was famous. Flowered wallpaper hung in shreds over the high paneling. Hands on hips, Brad surveyed the exotic wood covering the walls almost to the high ceiling. He walked over to rap on the surface with his knuckle.
    Gerald, observing from the doorway, laughed deeply and said, “Knock, knock.”
    Brad cocked his head, as if he had heard something. “Boo,” he whispered to the empty room. They could get a nice few dollars for all thiswood. He knew of a place in Connecticut that could probably sell it on consignment. Getting rid of it would certainly lighten up the room a bit. Victorians weren’t his thing. He preferred the clean lines of midcentury modern, with organic colors. The walls, painted dark gray and with their oppressive gothic woodwork, were overbearing. He and Julie did not see eye to eye on this style. But, now he had a group of boxes to investigate for anything interesting and worth keeping. He pulled over a builder’s paint can to sit on while he sifted through the many boxes.
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