If you ever wanted to live in a haunted house, go live with Remy. I’m not kidding. This place is spooky. First of all, it’s definitely not a farm. Not even close. It’s not even a house. Nope. Not that, either. Anybody with eyes and a semirespectable grasp of the English language would call this a castle. Because that’s what it is.
There’s a train station in Greenwich that doesn’t look like much. The cabdriver doesn’t look like much, either. Not hideous or anything. Just ordinary. So everything is just ordinary until you go down this extremely long, curving, tree-lined street that pops you out onto what basically constitutes an oval with a shallow pool in the middle surrounded on each side by four giant plants. Topiaries, I think you call them. I, on the other hand, don’t call them anything because I have never seen them before.
“That’s the gazing pond.” Remy smirks at me. “Don’t forget to gaze into it.”
The cabdriver starts to get nervous as we drive halfway down the oval to the front. Maybe he thinks we’re thieves. I mean, Remy is dressed like she’s wearing three outfits. Maybe he thinks we’re homeless. Maybe he thinks we’re about to steal the castle.
“Thanks, keep the change.”
Remy pops out and I follow her. Trying not to look too impressed by the estate in front of me, where it’s possible Satan was born.
The cabdriver idles and eyes the house a bit before driving off. It seems to me, and I don’t think I’m making this up, that he’s actually shaking his head as he drives off. I can’t tell if he’s shaking his head that anyone actually lives in this demonic monstrosity or if he thinks we obviously don’t live here and are hoodlums attempting to fool the world!
Whatever the case may be, he glides off into the distance, around the curve, leaving Remy and me standing there in front of a place that looks like it might actually open up its mouth and eat us.
“So, this is the farm.”
I try to sound vaguely humorous, but geez, this place is really making me self-conscious. Something about the vines everywhere and the Tudor stylings and the giant mahogany door. I’m a total spazbot.
Remy seems to clock my general discomfort and, God love her, tries to deflate the whole thing.
“I know . . . I didn’t want to show it to you because I knew you wouldn’t come. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I have no idea why we still have this. I think it has sentimental value or something.”
She heads to the door and starts rummaging through her book bag.
Is it possible that she is actually looking for a key? Is it really that simple? Oh, here’s the iron key to that giant door to that zillion-dollar estate. Really? But just as I start to form the thought, she’s gotten an old-fashioned iron key out and she’s finagling with the keyhole.
“Isn’t there an alarm system or something?”
“Of course, but we never use it.”
Right. Shrug. Why would you possibly use an alarm system?
Before I know it we are in the haunted halls of horror, and let me tell you, this place is ripe for a Scooby-Doo reunion.
Also, I would like to note that the ceiling is basically the top of the castle, formed by these giant wooden arches in a row. You know, like you used to make with your hands in grade school saying, “This is the church, this is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people.”
Except that in this case there aren’t any people.
There’s an enormous Persian rug and some oil paintings embedded into the wooden walls . . . but no people. Also, I would like to point out that there’s a huge marble three-dimensional fresco above the fireplace so you don’t have to worry about finding a mirror or anything to put up there.
“Um, isn’t there like a butler or a creepy caretaker we’re supposed to run into right about now . . . ?”
Remy smiles. “You’re cute. No, I told everybody to leave. But to answer your question, yes. There is a caretaker. But he’s nice. Not creepy. And he’s not here. At least I’m pretty sure he left already.”
“Let me guess. His name is Mr. Willies.”
“His full Christian name is Silly Willies.”
I laugh like a total goofball.
But I’m glad we’re back to being goofy. Anything but listening to that endless palaver about Humbert Humbert. That is a fate worse than death.
The good news is this definitely seems like the kind of quiet place where we can get some studying done.
“So, on a scale of one to ten . . . how haunted is it around here?”
“Mm, I’d say . . . about . . . nine.”