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.
When she heard the laughter again she looked over at Julian. He was sleeping on his stomach, dead to the world. It was pointless to awaken him. He wouldn’t believe in the reality of the phenomenon even if he heard it for himself.
She reached for her dressing gown and shrugged it on in the darkness. Pausing at the door, she pressed her ear to the wood.
Yes, the spöke was there. She could hear it. Creak…creak… Then the laughter came again. It was so faint as to be barely perceptible, but it was there.
Anine opened the door. The hallway was very dim. Miss Wicks often left one light in the entryway on, the gas turned very low. It was so faint that the orange glow barely filtered up to the second floor. But at the end of the hallway Anine could see a figure.
She was astonished at first. Rubbing her eyes, now certain of what she was seeing, the terror suddenly clutched at her. Twenty feet away, at the very end of the hallway near the doors to two of the guest rooms, Anine saw what was unmistakably the bell-shaped figure of the lower half of a woman’s dress. It was red and covered with some dark pattern. A fringe of red lace danced against the floor. The upper body of the woman was shrouded in darkness. As she moved the red-black bell of the dress moved with her, swishing about with the sound of gently rustling fabric. The giggling came again—a soft, polite, airy laugh—and then the shadows swallowed all.
Instantly Anine wrenched open the bedroom door, darted back inside and closed it behind her. Her breaths were fast and shallow. She could hear the pounding of her pulse in her ears. There was no mistaking it this time. She had seen it. For a split-second, yes; dark, yes; indistinct, yes. But she had seen it.
She turned. Julian still hadn’t awakened. Gingerly Anine tiptoed back to bed, took off her dressing gown and draped it on the bedpost. She was so terrified of the figure at the end of the hallway that right now even Julian’s presence was comforting. She bundled the covers around her, gathering them up as if they were armor that would deflect the supernatural.
Well, there’s no use denying it any longer, Anine thought. This house is hemsökt. Haunted.