I found the tea bags where Mrs. Appleton had indicated. As I fished one out of the box and placed it in a mug on the counter, I could barely hold the question bubbling up inside me. I offered Mrs. Appleton a cup of tea.
“Thank you, dear, that would be very nice. Would you like me to make you a sandwich? I think that would be a much safer option.” She moved to the fridge without waiting for my response and opened the door.
“Mrs. Appleton?”
“Yes, dear?” She didn’t even look in my direction. She was focusing on fetching the right ingredients for my sandwich.
I repeated my question, this time out loud. “Do you have a gas leakage that makes your cupboard doors open and close by themselves?”
“Of course not, dear. That was probably a draft. You know how these old houses can be.” She dismissed my concerns while struggling to get the bread from the fridge. I had to step in and help her with the cheese, as it was stored all the way at the back on the top shelf.
What had happened to all the prepared food she talked about? As she approached the kitchen table, I wondered about her situation in the house. Although I had seen the electric chair for the staircase and some ramps to help her move around, it seemed like this woman did not live here. Could that be possible? Could it be that Beatrix Appleton had been faking her living situation?
No, that is ridiculous. Why would she do that?
I picked up our cups and headed to the table where Mrs. Appleton had finished preparing my sandwich. I had to steady my hands as I was still shaken by the recent craziness. I placed the teas on the wooden surface and she handed the sandwich to me as I slid a cup towards her.
“So, what are your plans for today?”
“Nothing much.” My legs were still wobbly as I took a seat at the table. “I am thinking about grabbing a book and reading out in the gardens. Maybe write something,” I lied. Truth was that since I’d woken up all I wanted to do was spend some time alone in the manor, appreciating its magnificence in silence. I wanted to be able to investigate every nook and cranny and discover all its hidden spots.
“Are you writing your next movie? This is a great place to get inspired. All the history of the hill.” She smiled with pride. “I have some great stories of my ancestors if you ever want to hear them. It would be so exciting if you bring a film crew here and shoot a movie!” Beatrix carried on without waiting for any sort of input on my part. “Being around famous actors and watching how they get their hair and makeup done. How thrilling!”
I was taken aback by her sudden eagerness.
“Yes, Appleton Hill is a perfect place. But it would have to be done before you sell the property, right?”
This seemed to faze her for a moment. The fact that she was going to get rid of the hill had slipped her mind, thus my question threw her off-track on her dreams of… location stardom? Was that even a thing?
“Of course, of course. Who knows? Maybe I can sell it to someone who will allow you to rent it out. I could make the lawyer add a special clause in the contract. Did I ever tell you that in my youth people always mistook me for Lana Turner?”
I entertained her Hollywood ramblings until I finished my breakfast, as it was evident she was invested in talking about lighter affairs. I got to my feet and asked Mrs. Appleton if she needed help with anything at all, but she replied she was planning on spending a quiet day by herself. I walked towards the kitchen’s entrance and, before leaving, I asked one more question that seemed of vital importance to me, but it did not carry the same weight to her.
“Have you heard from your sister Rose, Mrs. Appleton? Any news when she might be arriving at the hill?”
“Sadly, no. I wasn’t able to get ahold of her. The phone lines must be down as well.”
Chapter 15
I went out to the garden with a notebook and a pen. Yes, I had initially packed those items to jot down ideas that might come up for stories. I always carry something like that with me just in case; I don’t like to type it out on a note in my phone. Right now, this notebook had become the perfect façade for my little excursion around the hill.
Mrs. Appleton had kept going on and on about how exciting it would be to shoot a movie in her property and how it could restore the manor to its former glory. So when she saw me coming down from my room armed with pen and paper, she not only had a big smile on her face but also decided I needed space to work; therefore, she retreated to her bedroom. I felt guilty; this was the first time I’d seen her expressing happiness since I’d set foot on the hill.
Yet, I couldn’t quite come clean to her. What I hoped to do was a one-person-only adventure. I wanted to map out the hill―as much as I could, considering my drawing skills were very poor―but I needed to figure out where things were. I did remember a basic layout from back when Claire and I used to hang out almost daily at the shelter. Now all the plants, bushes, wild grass, creepers―you name it―everything was overgrown to the point of suffocation, and it had covered most of the reference points I remembered.
Although the purpose of this secret investigation was not to make a film, it was nevertheless a selfish one. I wanted to find the shelter. I knew Tom had said it didn’t exist and that Claire had him dismantle the place, but I never believed him. After what Jo told me, I was now convinced the shed was still standing. I didn’t believe Claire would tear down anything that could hold memories of her father. She missed him constantly—when we were kids, anyway. And this was a huge problem. Everything I knew, all the information I held inside me, was outdated.
I stepped down the front porch and sat on the last step. It looked exactly like the day before, the vines created an intricate carpet of branches and leaves coming and going in all directions. It was uncanny how the vegetation grew on the hill. Shouldn’t the place be dead and barren? It was winter, after all.
I found a blank page in my notepad and started to draw. The first thing I wanted to do was to create a sketch of my memories of the place. The idea was to design it like a map, as if I were seeing it from above. I drew deformed shapes that represented the hill, and I set the manor in the center of it all. I marked the endless chain of steps leading up from the road to the main entrance of the house. At the back of the manor, I drew the driveway twisting and turning until reaching one of the side streets.
“Now, looking at this from above, the street to my right would be…” I wrote Emerson St. on the right edge of my sheet.
One of the few paths that was still clear―and that I not only remembered but had traveled on―was the one encircling the house. It was a flagstone path that led to the back entrance where the driveway began. I enclosed the manor in a circle. From the loose pieces of my memory, I understood that the trails leading into the gardens would branch from this circular stone path. This was as far as I could go into the past without moving. I got to my feet. It was time to explore.
I thought the shelter was farther left, at the back of the house. So that would place it closer to the driveway. I untangled some vines that had hooked their green claws into my jeans’ back pockets, and I was on my way. I skirted the house in the direction of the driveway, paying attention to any sign that a path might start somewhere… anywhere…
I had walked a quarter of that circle, halfway to the driveway, when I spotted what seemed like a gravel path. It was only visible on occasion, due to the proliferation of wild foliage that was eating it away. I stepped on bushes and moved aside wild grass until I was able to set the path free.
“Okay, I don’t remember this one, but I’m gonna write it down anyway.” I marked this new track on the map and set off to find out where it might lead. After all, I had all day to figure out how Appleton Hill worked. Even if it was a herculean task.
I had trotted downhill for a good half an hour when the elusive gravel trail finally opened up into a clearing. I could not believe my eyes. Nestled among all the mind-bending foliage that grew without rhyme or reason, this open space seemed like an awkward blessing.
What fascinated me was the fact that there wasn’t a single branch or leaf touching these sculptures. Although the gravel from the path had disappeared once inside the clearing, the grass was trimmed, and no bush or vine dared to enter this exclusive circle. I presumed this was Tom’s work, considering he did not care for the porch or the back entrance.
I walked around this assortment of petrified people and decided to venture into the red garden. Stepping into the circle created a peculiar sensation. The air felt warmer inside. I walked up to the center first and studied those stern faces. These represented older people, showing them in dignified postures. In some cases, I felt I was looking at a king or queen sitting on their throne. The younger ones were shown in a less formal manner, mostly doing leisure activities.
Overall, the young outnumbered the old. I found this to be strange. With most family memorials, pantheons, or whatever these statues represented, finding a majority of older people was the norm. I spotted an inscription at the base of one of the older male figures, the one placed at the center of the arrangement. I squatted down to take a better look.
“Henry Appleton,” I read out loud. I turned around and browsed through the inscriptions on the surrounding statues. Every one had the Appleton surname. “They represent the Appleton family.”
I got to my feet and studied the face of Henry Appleton. I had seen him before in a painting.
“You’re one of the guys who keep Beatrix company, aren’t you, Henry?”
I examined the rest of the faces. Some I recognized from Beatrix’s walls, and some I didn’t. As I moved to the exterior circles, one of the statues representing a young female stopped me cold.
“Claire?” I asked as if I were expecting the human-shaped stone to answer me.
Although the material was far from having the plasticity of flesh and skin, her facial features were unmistakable. I got to my knees again and read the inscription at her feet.
“Claire Appleton,” I confirmed my suspicions. I had no idea Mrs. Appleton had had this statue commissioned to commemorate the life of her daughter. “I wonder why Claire never used her father’s last name. She never explained why.”
Looking back, I now realize the overwhelming presence of the Appleton name would have been too powerful for any man to fight against. If the Appletons wanted their offspring to carry the name, regardless of who was the father, then I doubt it was possible to find a way to bend their will. And why would anyone refuse a powerful name? I sure wished I had such a privilege.
Still squatting down, I looked around me, trying to find a statue with a different surname. I wanted to know if this was an Appleton-only affair or if the family had let Claire’s father in. I had no idea what his full name was; I only remembered his first name was Charles. Although Claire had talked about how much she missed him, her father was a faceless figure to me who never carried the same weight as Mrs. Appleton.
“Wait…” A name caught my eye. “Rose Appleton? What is she doing here?”
I’d thought this was a stone garden for the dead. I straightened and gazed at her face. I was clueless as to how Aunt Rose looked, so I couldn’t verify if it was the same person Beatrix had mentioned to me. Maybe it was a name that ran in the family.
I stepped out of the circle, feeling the cold embracing me once again. I had spent more time on this than I’d anticipated, so I decided to head back. I put my notepad and pen to use once again. In my notebook, at the end of this trail leading from the stone path encircling the house, I wrote Garden of statues. Red was the only other note I added to the description.
I retraced my steps as it was evident there was no other way to get back to the house. Getting lost on the hill on a cold and foggy January day didn’t seem like a good idea. The mist had lifted a little from Ashwell that morning, so the winter was now making itself felt.
I hadn’t walked that far when the hint of a new trail caught my eye. This one forked to my right from the path I was on. I marked it on my map and proceeded along it. It didn’t take me too long to find out it was a trail that connected two different routes―one that led me to the garden of statues, and one that took me to a greenhouse. This greenhouse was completely out of shape. It was evident no one had cared for it for decades.
Needless to say, nature had wreaked havoc on the place. Every window, every doorknob, every single table and each crack on the floor and on the walls had greenery running through or around it. The greenhouse was quite large, with an upper-level that you could reach by climbing a rusty, circular staircase. But the place itself was impossible to access. You could see nature in full force in there, so attempting to enter and take a closer look was impossible and, ultimately, pointless. This wasn’t Claire’s shelter.
I marked it on my map to record its existence, realizing that was only one of the two things I could do there. The other one was to walk around the greenhouse and see if the trail continued.
I had circled it completely, believing there was nothing more after the greenhouse and that I would have to walk back empty-handed, when I discovered another detour. One that eventually turned out to be shorter than any of the other tracks I had already traveled along. This led me to an old brewery. The door wasn’t locked, so I was able to step into a small construction where cobwebs and grime fought against foliage to take over hoses and beer pumps, jugs, an assortment of unidentifiable stainless-steel containers, and as many glass bottles as one can imagine.
“So at some point, the Appleton family thought that brewing their own beer was fun.”
I looked around me, casting a light with my cell phone and trying to figure out what was what. The smell of beer was still palpable, and it mixed with that of rotten wood. I marked this place on my map as well, along with the trail that led to it, and headed back.
Once again at the greenhouse, I followed the trail that―if I guessed correctly―would lead me to the main house. It took me a while, a few wrong turns here and there, but eventually I found myself back on the flagstone path where everything had started. It was well past noon, and I was starving. I decided to step back into the house for a quick lunch. I was now closer to the back entrance, which led to the kitchen, so I headed in that direction. It didn’t take long for me to realize I’d made a bad call.
Dammit!
Tom’s truck was parked in the driveway, and he was loading things onto the back. There was no way I could get to the kitchen without him noticing me.
Chapter 16
There was nothing else to do but hold my head up high and, at most, say a quick hello as a courtesy.
As if he cared about manners.
I adjusted my coat and headed for the kitchen door, avoiding all type of eye contact.
“You’re still here?” he asked, and I froze in place. All of Jo’s warnings came rushing back to me.
“Hi, Tom. Yes, I’m still here.” I wanted to say that I was an optical illusion, that I wasn’t really standing there. But I didn’t think trying to be smart was a good way to deal with this guy. “Well, nice talking to you. Goodbye.”
I was climbing the ivy-covered steps when he said, “It’s not true. Whatever she said to you, it’s not true. I don’t care what you think about me personally, but I wouldn’t want anyone to believe such things about me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I retorted, finally reaching the doorknob. “No one told me anything about you.”
“Stop it, Althea. I saw you and Jo―Officer Brookmeyer—talking last night.” I pulled the knob, but the dam
ned door wouldn’t open. “I saw the way she looked at me and how you followed along. I know the police think I murdered Claire. But that’s not what happened. I’m sorry she has a hard time believing that Claire committed suicide, but that is the truth. There is no other explanation.”
I couldn’t open the door, not even using my entire bodyweight. I really didn’t want that conversation to take place, but I felt I was being held hostage. I was trapped outside with a potential killer.
I heard him opening the truck door, and for a moment I hoped he would leave. Unfortunately, that quickly faded when I heard the same door being slammed shut, followed by his steps approaching me. I decided this conversation had taken on a level of unspoken violence that was too dangerous.
“I’m going to try the front door,” I announced and turned on my heels, trying to escape his presence. But he was already behind me. Only three steps separated us. I couldn’t run away now; it was too late.
“Here,” he said.
By that point, I was scared enough that I had not stopped to make sense of the two paper bags he was carrying until he offered them to me. They were grocery bags.
“What’s that?” I asked, unable to disguise the distrust I knew was invading my face. I noticed my body retreating, almost trying to fuse itself with the door.
“Every week I do the grocery shopping for Mrs. Appleton. This is hers. Can you take them inside, please?”
His stare was as intense as it had been when he picked me up at the airport. To be completely honest, I didn’t want to grab the bags. Not only because it would mean reducing the short distance separating us, which had become my last safety buffer, but also because I didn’t want him to see my hands were trembling.
“Why don’t you get them inside yourself? I’m sure she has to pay you for them.”
“I can’t go inside.” Tom climbed the first step, and I flinched. “Please, grab the bags and take them to the kitchen. Mrs. Appleton always leaves the money on the counter. Just grab it and get it to me, please.”
The Haunting of Appleton Hill Page 9