The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (19 page)

after his discovery. He locked the door behind himself and was

half undressed by the time he reached my bedside. I opened my

mouth to warn him of Sukeena’s presence, but his mouth was on

mine before those words found their way out. My God was he

excited!

I must confess my attention was not fully on my husband,

knowing that my handmaid was basically in the room with us, and

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the electric lights still on! Sukeena had no escape, for there is no

exit from the dressing rooms other than through my chambers.

She could not have escaped our union if she had wanted to (and

I’m sure she did!). As John unleashed more ardor toward me

than perhaps ever before, we had a witness. Was he trying to erase

the thoughts of Douglas Posey’s fascination with boys? Was he

drunk to the point that a naked woman prone on fresh linen was

too much to bear? (Even if it was his wife!) Whatever the case, his

advances . . . the lengths to which he went (which will certainly

not be discussed here!) reminded me that a man and a woman

can still make discoveries about each other well into a marriage. I

bit down on my wrist and ?nally took to stuf?ng a corner of a

pillow into my mouth before I woke half the city. In the midst of

our most excited moment, I glanced over John’s shoulder only to

see Sukeena’s dark face staring out from the doorway to the dressing

rooms. Sukeena, smiling back at me. And though I cannot

explain it, the knowledge of her there looking on drove me to a

heightened passion. Finally, I slumped back to the headboard,

sweating and panting, and ?ushed from my chest to my knees.

Without a word, John redressed, kissed my forehead, and left

my chambers.

A moment later, Sukeena slunk from the shadows of the

dressing room and made for the door.

“Don’t go,” I said.

“Sukeena sorry, Miss Ellen.”

“I’m not, dear friend.”

“I should not have looked.”

“I don’t mind that you did.”

She looked at me timidly. “Sukeena sorry,” she repeated.

“It isn’t always like that.”

“The heat, Miss Ellen. The heat do strange thing to a man.”

She moved toward the bed cautiously, for though she had seen me

fully undressed a hundred times, never quite in the state I was. “A

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pillow, Miss.” She indicated my bottom. “Use the pillow, you

want the child.”

Another child . . . My heart skipped little beats. Use the pillow

you want a child. I used two pillows, though I suspected none

was needed. Never had my husband been quite like that. I imagined

that if ever there was cause for a woman to be with child, I

had just experienced such a moment.

And I know that I am right. I am with child. If true, it will be a

spring baby.

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9 april 1911—rose red

We will call her April, for that is the month of her birth, but the

Devil delivered this child and the Devil’s she is. The childbirth

was unbearable, the doctor working at my bedside for nearly

seven hours to save my life and that of my child. She has been

born with a withered arm, and I’m told that arm would not allow

a proper birth, and so they cut me, and then cut me some more

and ?nally took the baby by a means only ranchers use—but

thankfully my doctor was raised on a sheep ranch. She lives—little

April with bright blue eyes and John’s sturdy looks. She will be

my last child, I’m told, and I’ve been sick with grief over it. They

saved my life, but not my womanhood. Whatever accounts for a

woman having babies, I am now without. Barren. Just the thought

of it prevents me from getting out of bed. I have not left my bed

in a week (April was born on the ?rst day of the month—the second

anniversary of Laura’s disappearance!), not that the doctor

would let me get up, but I wouldn’t have even if he had allowed it.

No more children. No more reason to be in this family with this

man whose seed is so foul as to wither the arms of his young—for

Sukeena explained that my illness in Africa is to blame for April’s

deformity. I hate my husband. I hate my life. I hate this house

that holds us all like prisoners. I shall stop writing now, for I hate

even you, Dear Diary. I hate reading back and seeing a time where

a choice still existed in my life. What have I done? Who is this

creature I have married who would—intentionally or not—poison

our children in conception!? Who are these whores he takes up

with that their venom ends up in the roots of our family tree? I

hate them all. You, them, everything.

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21 may 1911—rose red

My mood has improved in the weeks since my last entry. I could

not even look at these pages for so long. Could not review the

decline of my life and the tragedy of my marriage. Today, in the

blossoms of spring and the music of the songbirds, I sit in the

garden with Adam playing ringtoss with his nanny, with April at

my side, your pages open on my lap, a pen in hand.

I am delighted to say another maid has gone missing. Giddy

even. It is a girl identi?ed by Sukeena as having had intimate

relations with John prior to that hot July night when April was

conceived. It is a girl I wanted ?red, but one whom Sukeena suggested

remain in our employ. And then I understood. It was then

I ?xed my prayers to this girl. Prayers made to the other side. I

begged for her demise. I offered my April’s withered arm as

example of evil. And I waited patiently for a response. Sukeena

made a doll. She covered it in black paper and hid it in a drawer.

To-day, we have our answer. While John and the rest of the

house mill about anxiously searching for the young waif, I sit

proudly quiet in the sunlight of the garden, a wry grin allowed

upon my lips. Let them bring on the police. Let them bring on

the dogs. They will not ?nd her. Let them ask all the questions

they like—they cannot conceive of the truth (ah! there’s that word

“conceive” again, appropriate as ever!). The police have no idea

of the spirit that inhabits this place—if they did, they would burn

her to the ground. Burn her like a witch. Rose Red has claimed

another disloyal subject. And I swear she feeds off it! She looks

bigger to-day. She does! More impressive than ever. Or perhaps

it’s just me.

Such a ?ne, ?ne day is this. I mark it here in your pages for

little April to someday know that her arm has been avenged. At

least partly.

I’m not sure I’m done with my prayers just yet.

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I laugh into the sunshine. Little Adam looks up and laughs

along with me. The nanny looks slightly disturbed at this levity,

given the disappearance. But I laugh just the same. Let them call

me crazy if they want. I’ve connected to Rose Red.

I do believe that I’m beginning to understand her.

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23 june 1912—rose red

With dear little April over a year old, and young Adam growing

like a weed, I re?ect on the year just past and how our lives here at

Rose Red have ?nally settled down. Perhaps this can be attributed

to the fact that John took nearly four months in Europe and the

Far East, opening up new business for the oil company. (His

geologists believe there is oil to be found under the deserts of

Saudi Arabia—of all places!—and John has put this and neighboring

countries under contract to allow Omicron to explore.) With

John gone, the house seemed to take a rest, and once again I

found myself discounting my suspicions that Rose Red could be

thought of as a person.

To-day I have dreamed a horrible thing. Just how it will affect

those of us at Rose Red, I have not the slightest. In my dream, a

bridge collapsed. It was very high, spanning a torrent of water not

unlike Niagara Falls, where John and I visited following our

return to New York from our year abroad. This bridge fell into

that torrent and killed dozens of people, their screams swallowed

by the roar that engulfed them. It is not my ?rst vision. It shall

not be my last.

I admit to you, Dear Diary, that I have not felt terribly stable

since praying that young tart into the clutches of this grand

house. Sukeena, God bless her, has gotten to the truth of the

young vixen, Delora (the Christian name of the girl), and it was

nothing like I thought it was. (I bear the burden of a tremendous

guilt over my prayers now!)

According to one of our Oriental maids, a girl named Kathy,

Delora White had complained to her about her situation with the

carriage master, not knowing what to do. It seems that like young

Laura, one of her assignments took her to the Carriage House at

least once a week, sometimes twice. It was here that Daniel began

to ask questions—often just following a visit (an arrival or depar-

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ture) by my husband, in motorcar or on horseback. The questions

seemed peculiar to Delora—how often she got out, whether

or not she had boyfriends on the staff, where she came from, how

often she spoke to her family. But the real questions that stung

her were about loyalty to “the family,” the Rimbauers. To John

and me. To John. She reportedly replied that she owed the family

everything and would do anything for us.

This is as much as Sukeena knows, but I fear I have done this

child wrong by my prayers to remove her. It sounds to me as if

Daniel, at the very least, and quite possibly John himself, has

been working with the minds of the young housemaids, testing

how far their loyalty will carry them. To what end, I need not

guess. What else could Daniel be asking of girls like Delora, but

to submit to a man’s needs? Theft? This house does not need

money. Deceit? To what end? No, I think it is quite clear what

Daniel asked of her.

What intrigues me now, however, is my mistaken assumption

that my prayers were responsible for Delora’s disappearance.

Perhaps not. Perhaps I do not know this house as well as I

thought. Perhaps Rose Red herself feels sorry for these young

girls, holding them in her arms, as she does, while they are in the

midst of unspeakable acts demanded of them by their employers.

Perhaps these disappearances are missions of mercy, not of condemnation!

What if she is protecting them from within? What if

their blind loyalty to this house later causes guilt on the part of

the very house to which they’ve sworn their loyalty? What choice

would Rose Red have but to save them from themselves, to transport

them through her walls to rooms where they will live safely

forever? This might further explain why men die and women disappear

in these halls.

Now, more than ever, I wish to commune with Rose Red, to

enter within her and divine answers to these outstanding questions.

Madame Lu once offered to put me in touch with Madame

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Stravinski, and I am remiss for not following up on this offer.

Whether a month or a year away, I feel the absolute necessity for a

séance. Here. On this property. With my husband in attendance.

(I am amazed that John has expressed an interest in both he and

Douglas Posey attending. He’s openly curious about the event.)

Perhaps Laura is there and can speak. Delora? Maybe the grand

house, the lady herself, would condescend to communicate with

those of us responsible for her birth and growth.

I feel light-headed with just the thought! A séance. The

chance to hear the voice that lurks behind the walls of this enormous

edi?ce. Rose Red. Here. In person.

I shall not make another note in these pages until that day

does come!

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24 june 1912—rose red

Reading back, I see I lied! (Here I am writing again already! I

can’t leave your pages!)

Oh, Dear Diary, tell me this isn’t happening to me! First, my

daydream about the bridge, during yesterday’s nap. Then, to-day

in the paper, front-page news that the bridge at Niagara Falls collapsed

yesterday. Forty-seven people fell to their deaths. How did

I know? How did I see this as it was happening? What power lurks

inside me? What is happening to me?

I know the answer: Rose Red has found her ways into my

dreams . . . into my soul . . . and I am powerless to stop her.

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23 july 1912—rose red

John is quite excited by the possibility of war. I will never understand

men, except to say that John believes it will expand his oil

business considerably, and if there’s a way to gain riches, John

Rimbauer is ever aware. There are reports to-day that the Brits

have ordered their powerful Navy into the North Sea, in a

buildup against the Germans. These same reports say that the

Germans attempted to corner the Brits into signing a mutual

declaration of neutrality, but the Brits would have none of it.

John believes a business trip to Europe is imminent, perhaps for

as long as six months or so, and has asked that the children and I

join him! To be free of Rose Red!! I accepted his offer immediately,

until he informed me that Sukeena would have to stay, to

make room for the children’s nannies.