The third recollection that captured my attention was told by the daughter of one of Ashwell’s merchants.
My father told me he had a sketchbook. Who would have guessed such a thing? A man with that level of power and perversion also had a creative side to him. There was this one time… Appleton called my father up to his studio. He used to buy horses from my father. He didn’t like to do breeding on the plantation, and he said my father had the best horses around. For some reason, Appleton had an especial form of respect for my father, although I knew my father didn’t like him very much. She stated this six years after Appleton’s death.
My family knew we had to stay on good terms with Henry Appleton. Appleton was not only cruel to his slaves but to everyone around him. He was not an enemy you wanted to make.
Anyway, my father became acquainted with this sketchbook one time when he went up to Appleton’s studio to collect the money from the last horses he’d sold him. The sketchbook was open on the desk, my father glanced at it, and Appleton noticed. He felt pride in his drawing ability, so he showed my father his sketches. Most of the illustrations revolved around different forms of torture. Many were set like instructions, indicating in detail where to cut or injure a person without killing them. He had a good eye to draw the human body, I presume.
“He was obsessed with owning human bodies, that’s why,” I concluded, feeling the mist of confusion slowly lifting from my mind.
Appleton told my father he had seen this form of torture in one of his trips to China. Apparently, he was so fascinated with the process that he took notes on it.
It was official. Henry Appleton had an instruction manual on how to bleed someone to death.
Appleton wanted to streamline the process, to include some of his own ideas to make it more efficient. My father became deeply disturbed by this. He couldn’t stop doing business with Appleton―we would have to leave Ashwell if he did so―but from that day on, he tried to avoid contact with Henry Appleton as much as possible.
It’s a land built upon the blood of innocents. That always brings sorrow and disgrace. This was another line I caught among the cascade of stories I was unable to stop from falling upon me. And they were all drenched in blood.
“Not one of them tells a story that does not connect Henry Appleton with blood, tyranny, and torture.”
With burning eyes, I flipped through the pages, trying to move forward in time. I needed to find another side of him. The years passed, but the topics remained the same.
The beginning of the end for the Appleton legacy came faster than anyone would have anticipated, one of the recollections farther ahead in the book started. A slave named Milton was the reason behind it. Of course, no one really knew his true name; this was the identity he was given by Henry Appleton. As one of his obsessions was ownership, when Appleton was fixated on believing someone had taken anything―or anyone―he considered his property, he became a tornado of rage. According to two ancestors of mine, if you got on the wrong side of Appleton, you might as well count yourself dead.
Appleton woke up one day with the idea that Milton had stolen from him. I never knew if indeed he did it, but Appleton decided to make an example of him. He ordered Milton―as he did with many others who took a false step in his presence―to be strapped to a pole and performed the “death by a thousand cuts” on him. I know Appleton forced the other slaves to watch the process. One of my family members told me that the hill came to a complete halt for the two days and a half this horrifying butchery took place.
Chapter 28
I had to pause, take a break from reading about torture and debauchery. But something inside me drew my eyes back to the page. I couldn’t continue reading. Yet I had to.
I know some people won’t believe what I’m about to say, but I have no reason to suspect those who told me the story lied. Apparently, Milton still practiced his religion, vodun. I believe some of this is mixed with what we know today as voodoo, but who knows? Every night, he would create a circle of salt around his cot to prevent angry spirits from taking over his body while he slept. I heard from many people that Milton believed Appleton Hill to be infested by the souls of those who had died under Henry Appleton’s reign of terror. I swallowed hard, remembering the line of salt drawn on my doorstep. What I was told was that as Milton endured this process, this Lingchi thing, he cast a spell―or should I say a curse?―on Appleton Hill.
The story kept evolving and explaining how, since Milton seemed to be reciting words to himself, they first believed he was praying. Apparently, there was some gossip generated among the slaves for the last words he pronounced.
“‘You will live and die by this house. This house will eat you and yours alive, you butcher!’” I read out loud.
Had Appleton Hill eaten Claire alive? Was this curse the reason why Beatrix was in a wheelchair? The stories about the spell Milton had cast on Appleton Hill went on and on, especially since Henry Appleton ordered Milton’s body to be buried in a shallow unmarked grave on the less fertile side of the hill. I came across several tales stating that after this event, Appleton Hill changed, especially its vegetation.
When, all of a sudden, Henry Appleton decided to get married, everyone around town wondered why, a new oral recollection began. Appleton had said for years he did not want to get married because he didn’t wish to share his wealth. But this was before his ability to do business with the tobacco crops was dramatically reduced by a vicious climbing plant that became a plague on the hill. Many said this was the result of some hex a slave had cast upon him, that the ivy grew out of the remains of said slave, but I think that’s nonsense. Perhaps Henry Appleton was trying to refocus his life and decided that spending it alone was not a good idea. God only knows what went on inside his head.
I had a neighbor once when I was a child who claimed she worked for the first two wives of Henry Appleton. Eliza and Louise, I remembered. Although the rumors around Ashwell were that he poisoned them, and that’s why they died mysteriously, my neighbor believed they died because he tortured them. She helped them get ready every day, and she told me their bodies were covered in wounds. And not from beatings… Oh, no. She did not mean bruises. The wounds were cuts made with a sharp object.
This book was making my head spin. I could have sworn, at that moment, the table in front of me was shaking. The mention of those cuts―Claire and me… I knew exactly what that neighbor was talking about. For a moment, I believed my heart was having trouble beating.
At first, she saw a couple of cuts here and there. And then they started to multiply. Along with them, it seemed the wives’ states of mind turned more unstable with each passing day. Even at first, before they turned so weak they became bedridden, they refused to go out and get some fresh air as the doctor had advised.
Over time, both Eliza and Louise became increasingly fixated on protecting the estate from outsiders.
My neighbor said Henry Appleton had a way of breaking someone’s spirit. And a broken spirit cannot keep a sane mind for long. By the time they died, my neighbor said both women were covered in uncountable cuts all over their bodies. She was certain Henry Appleton bribed the doctors to keep quiet and forge their death certificates. Who else could be doing that to them?
My eyes remained glued to that last line. I wondered if they were a thousand cuts. I remembered Jo and what she had told me in confidence about Claire. How many cuts were on her body? I already had three.
“Only 997 to go.”
“Catch!” a somewhat familiar voice ordered while a rectangular tinfoil package landed on the table, in front of my book.
I looked up and found myself once again facing the chess players. They each took a seat on the other side of the table. The one with the beard, who had thrown the package at me, made a gesture to his partner. The other one, who seemed to be covered from head to toe in flannel, was holding a soda. He placed it next to the silver package I had not laid a finger upon yet. The one with the beard was also carr
ying a tray with four coffees. He grabbed one of them and offered it to me. He then passed a second cup to Flannel Chess Player before grabbing the third coffee for himself. For whom would that fourth coffee be?
They stared at me in silence, while Gray-bearded Man took the lid off his coffee and stirred it, creating a column of wavy heat in front of him. I moved my eyes from one chess player to the other. I felt the need to figure out what my next move ought to be. The clock was ticking.
“What’s this?” I finally asked
“An intervention,” Flannel Chess Player stated with confidence.
“It’s simply food.” Gray-bearded Man tried to smooth away the harshness of Flannel Chess Player’s statement. “You’ve been here for a long time, don’t you think? We played our chess game, we went out for lunch, we came back, and you’re still here. Adelaide told me you never left this table, so we thought you’d be hungry.”
“And I don’t think we were wrong,” Flannel Chess Player said. “You look even paler than before.”
“No, I don’t need―”
“Eat,” both ordered in unison.
I had no choice but to do as I was told, like a toddler. I pushed my book aside and took the warm tinfoil package. The moment I started to unwrap it, the scent of melted cheese on a burger made me realize I hadn’t eaten in hours. Actually, it felt like I hadn’t eaten properly in days. And after the first bite, I noticed I was starving.
They watched me eat in silence for a few minutes, with fatherly pride on their faces. Gray-bearded Man passed a stack of napkins to me, along with a menu from the place where they had bought the food and coffee. I took both. “Gertie’s Diner” read the logo on them. After wiping my mouth, I sifted through the menu trying to find the prices of what I had consumed.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Flannel Chess Player responded. As I protested―I didn’t want to accept help from strangers―he continued explaining, “We told Gertie you are going to shoot a movie about Ashwell. She said she’ll give you and your crew free food during the shoot if you mention her in the credits.” Gray-bearded Man chuckled, and Flannel Chess Player smiled as well. “And… you need to cast Christina and Brad Reddington to play her and her husband in the movie,” he added, referring to Hollywood’s newest It couple.
“Both of those conditions are deal breakers,” Gray-bearded Man added, not able to contain a laugh any longer.
I joined in with a smile myself, then explained that satisfying said conditions could be a bit of a hassle, but I’d give it my best try. At that moment, one more revelation hit me. I had not smiled or laughed with sincerity in days. Probably not since I received Beatrix Appleton’s phone call, back in Los Angeles. What happened at The Troll’s Den had left a bitter taste in my mouth, so it didn’t count. But this was different. This felt good, light. It was an emotion I wanted to capture and hold tight, so it would never abandon me again.
“Because that is why you’re doing it, right? Reading all this horrid stuff about Appleton Hill?” Gray-bearded Man asked. “Adelaide told us. Have you found your map yet?”
As I finished the last bite of my burger, I thought Adelaide never seemed like a gossip to me before. But in the end, a small town is a small town. Lips part quickly, and words run fast. Those two axiomatic truths are the basis of any small population.
“I haven’t found it… yet.” I remembered my initial search for the map, which at that moment―after a veil of opaqueness had lifted from my eyes regarding Appleton Hill―was the last thing on my mind. “It’s just an idea, nothing else. It might not lead to anything of importance.”
“Oh, don’t tell that to Gertie,” Flannel Chess Player said, this time laughing out loud.
It was inevitable that his laughter would attract the shushing of the librarian. She approached the table fast, as if any kind of sound was one pole of a magnet and she was the other.
“What are you guys doing? You know you can’t eat here, much less be laughing out loud,” she reprimanded us in a hushed voice
“Relax, Adelaide. There’s no one else here,” Flannel Chess Player told her.
“Rules are rules,” Adelaide protested. “They cannot be applied only when convenient to those involved.”
“Yes, but one could argue that said rules and regulations are put in place, not only for the benefit of some, but to avoid harming the majority. Now, the true question would be: is a rule necessary if no one is at the receiving end of a damaging action?” Gray-bearded Man questioned her. His opponent agreed, nodding and adding an “exactly.”
Adelaide gave up, shaking her head and confirming they were being insufferable as always. Then she leaned on the tray of coffees and grabbed the last one.
So, Adelaide is the recipient of that fourth coffee, I concluded. They’re probably here every day.
As soon as she took a sip from her cup, the amicable opponents made a toast with their own coffees, saying “checkmate” and congratulating each other on the victory.
“I don’t know what you’re celebrating, Dad,” Adelaide scolded Flannel Chess Player. “Nathaniel was the one who won this battle. It was his strategy, not yours.”
This was why they spent their entire day at the library. Flannel Chess Player was Adelaide’s father. The resemblance was there, especially in those dark eyes rimmed with long lashes. This particular feature reminded me of someone. Perhaps I knew Flannel Chess Player from my teenage years? Maybe.
Adelaide’s father, a.k.a. Flannel Chess Player, explained that his moral support had been essential to Nathaniel’s―a.k.a. Gray-bearded Man’s―victory. He then drifted away on the topic of how moral support is the foundation of any solid strategy. The daughter rolled her eyes while Nathaniel hid his smile behind a few sips of coffee. Although my encounter with Adelaide had started on the wrong foot, it was warming getting acquainted with another side of her normally impeccable personality. This was her untidy side: a father who enjoyed bending the rules, and who was a die-hard fan of flannel.
“So, why are you doing a movie about Ashwell?” Nathaniel interrupted Adelaide’s father’s endless babbling.
“I think she is more interested in Appleton Hill,” Adelaide corrected him, and the disdain I had encountered previously in her voice resurfaced.
Now that I had read all that information, I couldn’t force myself to answer her in the same petulant manner I had done before. It was becoming increasingly evident that Appleton Hill had played a number on me. Why would I want to defend it in the first place? The yearning was still inside me, trying to claw its way back to the surface. But now it wasn’t as easy to invade my body as it had been before. All the words I had consumed in the past hours had created a thick layer of ice, and those feelings were forced to remain locked down.
All I ever wanted was to get out of Ashwell. Why in the world would I want to stay in Appleton Hill if Claire is not there?
As the audience of three coffee-drinkers waited for my answer, I stumbled through a half-baked response with an unlikely recipe: half of truth, quarter of a lie, and a teaspoon of ignorance. I affirmed I had not known Appleton Hill’s inception had been so bloody, even though the majority of what I had read seemed to be hearsay.
“We all know it, Althea,” said Adelaide. “The Appletons are no better than any of us, even though they want to believe they are. And they want everyone else around them to act like they are royalty. If anything, the Appleton family has been a curse on Ashwell. You were blind to this fact because you’re friends with the family.” Her words were like a poisonous sting. I felt I was being accused of hanging out with the cool kids, who also happened to be the courtyard bullies. “Whatever horrendous genes were inside Henry Appleton, they were passed down to his progeny. It still runs in their blood. Just because you haven’t read about any of the masters who followed Henry Appleton doesn’t mean they were not as terrible as he was. The only colorful thing about Henry Appleton is that he started it all.”
“Not eve
rything about them is so bad,” Adelaide’s father added. “Yes, we had a bloody start, perhaps bloodier than most towns. Nonetheless, it was the beginning of what we call home today. Like it or not, the Appletons are the seed of Ashwell.”
Nathaniel added that there were no “Appletons” anymore, as only one remained standing. But Flannel Chess Player’s answer had only fed the fire inside Adelaide. She began to list a million reasons why the Appletons were basically a pest on their lives.
Nathaniel cut her off. “You’re only mad because Tom works there. Beatrix Appleton is his boss. Just deal with it, Adelaide.”
That’s why Adelaide’s and her father’s eyes were familiar to me. They reminded me of Tom. I now knew from whom Tom had learned to accumulate anger. Was I sharing a coffee with the mother and the grandfather of Claire’s murderer?
“I don’t have an issue with that. Everyone has bosses. Everyone has to work. My problem with the Appleton family is that not only do they set themselves up as small-town royalty―bending and breaking rules according to their needs without ever experiencing an ounce of remorse―but they’ve also created a cult around them. Once someone comes in contact with the family, then they are locked up on that hill for eternity. They suffocate each other. They were a troupe of stingy oligarchs pretending to ride a purebred Arabian horse when, in reality, it was nothing but a smelly donkey.”
“And what is it to you if the family didn’t let anyone off of the hill?” Nathaniel snapped.
“It bothers me because it broke my son’s heart, Nathaniel. It matters to me because that sweet girl should be alive and married today.” Adelaide crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked away. Her last words sounded strangled with tears.
The Haunting of Appleton Hill Page 16