Doppelgänger (8 page)

“Julian?”

“His father was not exactly welcomed in New York society. Tolerated, yes, but not welcomed. It's rather unusual for the grand old families not to give the son a chance, though. I mean, Julian's respectable enough, and handsome enough. I suspect—” Rachael's voice grew even lower. “I suspect something is being said about him. Something that everyone is keen to make sure doesn't reach my mother's ears or mine, probably because they know we received you at Newport.”

Anine absorbed this. She guessed it made sense, but it irked her. “Can you find out what it is?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Anine flashed a look at Rachael that must have disarmed her, for she backtracked immediately. “I'll see what I can find out,” she said. “Wait for my message. In the meantime, don't make the situation worse. Don't come calling on me or anyone else. If you act defiant you'll alienate the rigid old biddies like my mother even more. In the end you'll catch more flies with honey.” She left this idiom—which was incomprehensible to Anine—hanging, and then her face suddenly glazed over with the pedantic society smile. “Well, so wonderful to see you, Mrs. Atherton!” she chirped, louder now. “
Do
have a lovely afternoon, and give my best to your husband.”

When she returned home Anine felt much worse than when she left. She ensconced herself in the Green Parlor with a pot of tea and her cards, and while she mindlessly played solitaire for the umpteenth time she considered her situation.
So, the women of New York are determined to isolate me
.
I can't leave the house and visit a friend without causing scandal. Somebody out there wants me to suffer as penance for something Julian did
.

Strangely Anine did not resent the society women—the “rigid old biddies” at whom Rachael had sneered—for snubbing her. They were as trapped in this bizarre system of customs and rituals as she was. Not long ago she'd been well on the trajectory of becoming one of them, at least in Stockholm society. Anine understood these social movements as a sort of language. New York was expressing its disapproval of Julian Atherton, but for a specific reason. She had to find out what that reason was.

There came a knock at the door of the Green Parlor. “Excuse me, ma'am?” Clea Wicks called reticently.

Anine looked up from her cards. She was grateful to have the interruption. “Yes, come in, Miss Wicks.”

The pocket doors slid open and Wicks entered. There was something in her hand, something small and brown. “I got a strange thing,” she said. “Strange thing to tell you, ma'am.”

“Yes?”

“While you was out this afternoon I cleaned up the maid's quarters. I was noticing some dust last night that hadn't been cleaned away. I pulled the bed away from the wall and something fell out.” She held out the object in her hand. It was a small book, bound in soft leather. “It belonged to the caretaker. The one you say hunged himself.”

As Anine took the small book she knew instantly that Miss Wicks had heard the rumors of the house; when she told Miss Wicks about Bradbury Anine had deliberately not mentioned the manner in which he'd committed suicide. Gingerly she opened the cover. Written inside of it in cheap splotchy ink, already turning brown, was the name
Erskine Bradbury
. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she suddenly wondered whether it might contain a clue as to what happened.

But she remained stoic. “Thank you, Miss Wicks. I'll see to it that it's returned to Mr. Bradbury's family.” Anine closed the little book and set it on the table next to her cards. “Would you refresh the teapot, please? And you should set about lighting the gas. Mr. Atherton will be home soon.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Almost as soon as the pocket doors had closed Anine snatched up the book and opened it. It was a small diary book, the kind used for personal accounts, and indeed the first few pages were innocuous lists of various household items—furniture, rugs, books and the like. The next few pages after that were blank. Then on the tenth leaf in the volume something was written in the same brown splotchy ink. The handwriting was the same as the accounts but it seemed somehow different, more jagged, written perhaps with a quivering hand. The note read:

I CAN NOT TAKE IT ANY MORE

THE THING IN THIS HOUSE

IT WANTS MY SOUL

BUT I WILL NOT GIVE IT.

Anine's eyes grew wide. Her stomach lurched and leaped against her tight corset. Before she could read any further there was a perfunctory knock on the pocket doors and they slid open. Miss Wicks brought in the silver tray and the green porcelain teapot, its spout gently venting steam. Anine again set the book on the side of the table next to her cards.

“Your tea, ma'am,” said Wicks.

“Thank you.” The maid turned to leave. On impulse Anine called after her. “Oh, Miss Wicks?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Thank you for bringing Mr. Bradbury's book to my attention. I would appreciate if you don't mention it to anyone else—Mrs. Hennessey or Mr. Shoop or my husband.”

The poker face again. Miss Wicks merely nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

When Wicks withdrew a second time Anine's eyes rested on the little leather-bound diary on her table. It seemed to have a life of its own, almost pulsing, breathing. There was nothing to be afraid of, but she did not deny that she was suddenly terrified.

Chapter Seven

The Secret Diary

Today is June 2, 1880. This record has been written by me, Erskine Darnell Bradbury, so I can be sure of what's happening. There fore I will write these events down so I know I keep my head. I have seen some things here that do not seem like they should be. I do not think I am “sick in the head” but writing them down will help me separate what is happening from (might be) what I am seeing that may not be real. I do not know that any one will ever read this.

Aside from the warning in block print capital letters these were the first words Anine read in Bradbury's diary, and as soon as she saw them she decided she would read no more until she could do so in an absolutely controlled and closed environment—during the day, in full bright sunlight, and with no possibility of being disturbed. She secreted the diary in a lower drawer in the chest in the Green Parlor where no one (especially Julian) would have any cause to look. In the morning after breakfast and after Julian had departed for the office she ordered tea and scones from Mrs. Hennessey, asked Miss Wicks to bring them to the Green Parlor and then instructed her that she did not wish to be interrupted for any reason.

She made sure the drapes were open. Through the window outside the parlor she could see carriages rattling up 38th Street and well-dressed gentlemen and ladies strolling.
Almost normal
, she thought. She poured herself a cup of tea, then went to the chest, opened the drawer and sat on the settee. She was at once eager to read Bradbury's words but terrified at what they might disclose.

I was hired by Roman Chenowerth as the care taker for the former Quain mansion at 11 W. 38th Street, Manhattan. The new owner is Mr. Chenowerth's employer who I shall not name here ~ lest this account become public I wish not to be accused of starting a scandal. I arrived here Monday eve, the 31st May. My duties were to prepare the house for the new owners, man and wife, and supervise the orders they were to place of furnishings, art, books and such, and to hire domestic staff. I entered this house with the full intention of carrying on these duties.

When I arrived I found that some of the furnishings of the Quains were still in the house. Not as many as you would see in a lived-in house. But there were a few chairs, tables, some wardrobes in the bedrooms, pictures etc. ~ a painting of Mrs. Quain in the southeast parlor which I felt likely had value to the family ~ other items. I sought about to catalogue these items. My intention was to record them in this book and then send it to Mr. Chenowerth so he could communicate to the Quains what remained of their family's property ~ whether to assign each item a price so as to sell them to the new owners, or cause to have me remove them, whichever should be his wish.

After reading this Anine thumbed back through the first few pages of the diary. Indeed the lists were a fairly comprehensive catalogue of what had remained in the house when they arrived in August.
“Portrait of smiling woman ~ above fireplace, southeast parlor”
was the almost prosaic entry for the picture of Mrs. Quain, whose strange cold eyes had so unnerved her.

Although I could not complete the catalogue in one night I sought to visit all the rooms so I could see which ones still contained property and which were empty. When I entered the third floor bedroom on the northwest quarter I felt a terrible chill rush through me although the evening was warm and humid. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and saw the room was empty except for two things.

The first was a child's hobby horse. It was lying on the floor a few feet from the door. The second was a tiny piano or harpsichord ~ a keyboard instrument, very small, like a child's ~ it was gold with blue animals painted upon it. There was a giraffe, a bear and a monkey in a pattern that repeated. You will wonder why I record this detail ~ this horrible detail, the child's piano ~ it shall become evident ~ !

At first I thought nothing of these things and withdrew from the room. You will even see my note on the ledger pages ~ “child's toys” ~ but as I retired to the servant's room I thought this strange. Mrs. Quain is elderly, her son grown, but the son does not have children of his own. The toys were not dusty and looked good as new as if a child had just laid them down. So they were not left over from the Quains' own children ~ why, then, should there be a child's things in the house?

I retired to bed. In the middle of the night I was awakened by the sound of laughter coming from behind the door

Anine, raising the teacup to her lips as she read this, nearly dropped it. She sighed out loud.
Laughter coming from behind the door!
So Bradbury had heard it too. That proved it was real, or at least that there was something causing it; if not the
spöke
, then something else.

I was awakened by the sound of laughter coming from behind the door and, alarmed, I launched out of bed and opened it but there was no one there. It sounded like the laughter of a child. Then from downstairs I began to hear something. It was music but sounded quite different from a normal tune ~ tinny, like hearing it through a cone made of thin metal. The tune was very bright and cheerful but upon hearing it I felt the most dreadful terror I have ever experienced ~ surpassing even the terror of battle.

The source of the music, I knew, was the third floor, northwest quarter bedroom where I saw the toys. The tinny metal sound was the tone of the child's harpsichord. The tune I knew well ~ “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring,” a melody of J.S. Bach ~ played with such utter precision, not a single missed note. But so high ~ the pitch so high, squeaky, irritating ~ the shriek of a child's lungs ~ and yes I began to hear shrieking ~ or thought it was shrieking ~ but it was laughter ~ coming from that accursed room ~ and when I opened the door in the darkness ~

These words were written at the bottom of the page. When Anine turned over to the next page her eyes widened. The words written here were very haphazard, but the letters were very large, a strange silent scream leaping up at her from the diary:

SADNESS

SADNESS

SADNESS

ADNESS

DNESS

NESS

MNESS

MDNESS

MADNESS

SADNESS

MADNESS

MADNESS

MADNESS

ALICE

The next few pages were gibberish. Or at least they appeared to be gibberish; they were solid blocks of letters, filling the entire page, line after line. Amongst them Anine perceived a pattern:

jesujoyofmansdesiringholywisdomlovemostbright drawnbytheeoursoulsaspiringsoar touncreatedlightwordofgodourflesh thatfashionedwiththefireof lifeimpassioned strivingstilltotruthunknownsoaringdyingroundthythrone

Then, a few pages after that, this appeared:

ALICE!

GOD MY DAUGHTER

LOVE MY DAUGHTER

I HURT YOU

DID NOT MEAN TO HURT YOU

GOD CURSE ME FOR HURTING YOU

WANT YOUR HAPPINESS

HAPPINESS IN HEAVEN

DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN

I WANT TO BE IN HEAVEN

WILL SOON BE IN HEAVEN

WITH ALICE

The next page was difficult to look at. It was filled with a crude drawing of an ejaculating penis. Around Bradbury had drawn strange teardrop-like slashes which reminded Anine of the lacerations depicted on the body of Christ in paintings of the Passion. She did not know why but her mind was suddenly filled with the horrifying impression of a naked man flagellating himself while having an orgasm at the same time. She immediately turned the page and the image receded.

She shuddered. Bradbury, she realized, was quite insane, but portions of the diary were written in a lucid state of mind. After the disturbing drawing she found another section that seemed to have been written while he was slightly more rational—but perhaps only slightly.

Thursday, June 3, 1880. The clock in the hall reads 4 o'clock PM but I do not know what time it is ~ and I cannot leave this house. I have tried. After the madness that has overcome me on each of the preceding nights I awakened this morning and knew I must leave or the sadness will destroy my sanity for all time. But I cannot leave. Opening the front door takes me to the accursed corridor. It is a long corridor with golden silk walls. There are patterns on the walls painted in blue ~ patterns that repeat ~ a giraffe and a bear and a monkey marching along the walls ~ like on the child's harpsichord, the dreadful child's toy, the demon child, the child of Satan who giggles behind the door at night ~

I cannot step into the corridor. If I step into the corridor with the patterned walls the sadness will explode my heart. Blood will spurt from my eyes and ears and I will die instantly. But yet I cannot stay.

There is now a trumpet. I hear its music every moment of every day. It is a German silver trumpet tied with a red ribbon. It tweets and toots and squeals every moment ~ this horrible squeaky screeching, right in my ear, right next to me all the time ~ some times I think I have seen it, the German silver trumpet with the red ribbon ~ squeaking tooting screeching tooting squealing ~ and the music.

I AM LOSING MY MIND. These things cannot be real ~ there is a boy here ~ a little boy ~ the spirit of a boy who loves music ~ I believe he is dead ~ must be dead ~ dead like my little girl Alice ~ dead for many years ~ dead here ~ dead in that upstairs room ~ those were his toys I saw ~ the harpsichord ~ the pattern in the corridor ~ bear monkey giraffe bear monkey giraffe bear monkey giraffe ~ a dead boy ~ a dead child ~ and I will soon be a dead man.

The next page:

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY!

The one after that was the most terrifying.

To anyone who may be reading ~ .

Thirteen years ago, on the day after Christmas, 1867 I murdered my daughter Alice. She was six years old. It was not intentional. We were playing. The game we played ~ the awful game we played ~ I cannot set down into words ~ but I hurt her without meaning to ~ the monster inside me, the devil who did this thing, who hurt this child, I can no longer live with. Here in this house I understood this ~ there can be no happiness, must be no happiness for me so long as I live and Alice is dead ~ I loved her ~ I told my wife she fell from a tree ~ and she still believes this to this day ~ she never knew what happened to Alice ~ but she will know through my deed that I reject all happiness, that I can have no happiness, that no one shall have happiness, especially not in this place. I will soon be with Alice. Forgive me.

Erskine Darnell Bradbury

Wednesday 4th of June, 1880

When she closed the book Anine felt physically ill. She lurched out of the settee, reaching for the bell cord, and felt hot acrid vomit propelling itself up her throat. She retched and closed her mouth but a jet of it spurted from her lips, splattering the tea set and the silver tray. She felt woozy. Shocked by the caustic smell she staggered and finally rang the bell cord. It seemed to take forever for Miss Wicks to arrive, and during those awful moments her heart was pounding, her head spinning and her stomach doing cartwheels.

“I'm—I'm sorry,” Anine gasped when Miss Wicks opened the pocket door. “I've been taken ill.”

Wicks said nothing but the way she swung into action impressed Anine. She escorted her upstairs, helped her change into a dressing gown, tucked her into bed and returned less than twenty minutes later with a mysterious fizzing substance in a ceramic carafe.

“Drink this, ma'am,” said Wicks, pouring the froth into a cup. “It'll settle your stomach.” Indeed it did. Wicks next appeared with a bowl of chicken soup and some biscuits, freshly made by Mrs. Hennessey. She then set about tidying up the room. A chamber pot, folded towels and a fresh bowl and pitcher were at the ready but Anine had no need of them. By the end of the day she felt much better—except for the gnawing terror that had clawed its way out of Bradbury's diary and into her head.

“Miss Wicks,” said Anine, as the hour approached for Julian to return home, “I was reading Mr. Bradbury's book when I took ill. I'd appreciate if you tidy up the Green Parlor and put the book somewhere it won't be discovered by accident. And I'd like to rely on your discretion.” She didn't know why, but she had a curious irrational fear of someone else knowing about the diary; now that she knew its contents this fear was even stronger.

“I've already taken care of it, ma'am. And don't worry about me saying nothing. I wouldn't have been serving ladies as long as I have without knowing when to keep my mouth shut.” Wicks stepped over to the wardrobe. “Will you be dressing for dinner, ma'am? Mr. Julian will be home soon and if you're not dressed he may be asking why.”

She's protecting me
. This affected Anine profoundly. Throwing off the covers she said, “You're a very wise lady, Miss Wicks.”

Julian returned and they had dinner. Anine, in a maroon silk dress with matching earrings, looked none the worse for wear. He spoke aimlessly of politics over the table, his usual tirade of disparagement against Garfield and the Republicans. He slept in their bedroom that night but made no attempt to touch her. She was grateful of that.

This time when she heard the woman laughing in the night Anine was prepared. She raised her head off the pillow, staring into the darkness split only with the terrible cymbal-crash of the ticking clock, but she knew she had been awakened by it. Her heart was pounding but her terror was at least constrained by some sense of understanding.
It's not just me
, she knew now.
Bradbury heard it too.
He was insane, but this part of the experience in the house—whatever explained it—must have had some semblance of objective reality.