August 8^th, 1900

This will be the hardest entry to write. I am completely lost.

Things are so much worse for Father than I had imagined. There is still no word from Carol. His drinking is getting worse. And now, vendors are beginning to send us notices of bills that are past due.

This morning I woke up and went to check on Father. He was in bed, snoring loudly, and there was a bottle on the nightstand. I went to wake him, and the smell of alcohol was overwhelming. He told me he didn’t feel well and that I would have to work by myself, again.

I didn’t argue with him. It wouldn’t have done any good.

I set off for the pharmacy and arrived to find more past due notices.

A little past noon, a man walked into the pharmacy. He was tall with broad shoulders, and a bald head. He casually surveyed the shelves.

“Can I help you find anything?” I asked.

“Is Mr. Harker here?”

The tone with which he asked about Father worried me.

“No, he’s not,” I replied.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No,” I lied, knowing he was probably at home, passed out drunk in bed.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.”

He eyed me for a moment. I don’t know if he knew I was lying, or if he was trying to intimidate me, or both.

“What’s your name?”

“Susan,” I said, not wanting him to know that I was his daughter.

“Well, Susan, you don’t seem to know much about your employer.”

I was too afraid to speak.

“When he does come back, can you give him a message?”

I tried to nod without letting the rest of my body tremble.

“Tell him Mr. Lloyd dropped by to discuss his delinquent accounts. Can you do that for me?”

I nodded again.

“Thank you.” He gave one last appraising stare. “Good day.”

He turned and walked out.

Once he had disappeared out of sight and I was no longer immobilized with fear, I ran to the door and locked it, fearing more visits from collectors. I went into the storeroom and began pacing. As bad as I had imagined things to be, they were so much worse.

I didn’t know who to turn to, until I was struck by a thought: maybe Thomas would help. If he cares for me at all, maybe he would help a little. It would mean so much, and I wanted to see him. I wanted him to comfort me. I decided then and there that I would see him.

I went through the back to the alley, where the bicycle was waiting.

The sky was overcast and the morning was still cool. I rode out of town and tried to think of what I was going to say to him but by the time I reached Willow Lake, I hadn’t decided.

I leaned my bicycle against the bushes, steadied myself, and walked to the front door. I wasn’t going to use the key, in case his wife was home. I hoped that I could speak to him on the porch without anyone noticing. I pulled the chain and moments later, Thomas answered. He stood there, blinking at me as if I were some terrible illusion, but then became enraged. He looked around the yard, violently pulled me inside, and shut the door. He wrenched me with such force that I stumbled into the living room. I could see out the dining-room window into the backyard. Mr. Whitlock was standing in the middle of the grass with his hands over his eyes.

Thomas hissed at me to get away from the window and pulled me back so that I was hidden from view. It hurt so much that I gasped and tried to twist away but he held me firm.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I was so stunned by his actions that I momentarily forgot my entire purpose for coming to the Nightingale House.

“I—I needed to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to discuss.”

“But I thought—”

“You shouldn’t be here! I told you my wife was becoming suspicious. My little shit of a daughter told her that she saw us on the Fourth of July.”

I couldn’t believe he used such foul language about his daughter. I didn’t know this man.

“Is your wife here?” I asked.

“No, she’s still in Boston, caring for her mother. Her health is deteriorating again, and she couldn’t handle the brat while taking care of her.”

This wasn’t the man I thought I cared for. This was a monstrosity.

“And you need to leave, right now.”

“I thought you cared for me.”

“Don’t be stupid, little girl.”

I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

From the backyard, I heard Mr. Whitlock call out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

Thomas threw open the front door. “You are leaving, now.”

He dragged me to the porch, down the path, through the open gate, and into the road. Once we reached the bicycle, he spun me around to face him and gripped my shoulders. “Now, you listen to me; if my wife finds out this time, it’s over. If she leaves me, it will cause a scandal and I’ll lose everything. I will not let that happen. Do you understand me?”

I couldn’t speak.

He shook me and said, “Say you understand me, you little bitch!”

I nodded, horrified.

He relaxed his grip but not his intensity. “Now, get on your bicycle, go away, and never come back.”

He turned, walked back into the house, and closed the door.

I stood there, trembling, and choking back sobs. I leaned down and picked up the bicycle. As I did, I saw his daughter, Katherine, hiding in the bushes.

Her face. She had seen him yell at me. She heard what he called me. She looked terrified and furious at the same time. I understood. She lived with that thing every day. She was afraid of him the first time I saw her. So was Mrs. Carrington. I could leave and never come back. They were forced to live with him.

I saw her lips move but couldn’t hear what she said. Shaking, I stepped over to the bushes.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Please go away. You make him mad’,” she whispered.

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Please, go away,” she whispered again.

“Katherine, where are you?” a voice playfully called.

I turned to see Mr. Whitlock come around the corner of the house. He saw me and stopped.

“Now, you’ve given me away,” Katherine said, pouting and disappointed.

Mr. Whitlock and I stared at one another.

Without a word, I picked up the bicycle from the bushes and rode off.

I didn’t return to the pharmacy. I rode around the countryside all day. When I returned home, Father was still in bed, asleep, and more whiskey from the bottle on the nightstand was gone.

I’m in bed now. I haven’t heard him get up. I don’t know what to do.

This journal is turning into nothing but sorrow.