The door to the Nightingale House slowly swings inward.
The lights are still on from when we left yesterday. I stand in the threshold, waiting and listening. There are no sounds of crying from the stairs and no dripping water.
I step inside, close the door behind me, and make my way to the kitchen.
The basement door is also still open. Without looking down into the darkness, I press it closed and go to the pantry. There, I find the small toolbox, tucked away on the top shelf. I bring it down and set it on the island counter. It’s one of those el-cheapo tool sets you find at Walmart that only has the basics: a few screwdrivers, adjustable wrenches, a boxcutter, a leveler you’ll probably never use. The only thing I’m interested in is the hammer.
I take it from the toolbox and carry it into the Writing Room.
I stand in front of the bookcase, hammer in hand. I’m about to do something that may necessitate some very costly repairs, but I don’t care. I feel around the panels on the side of the bookcase, where I had pressed my ear against the wood and heard the whisper. I start knocking on the panels, listening for anything that sounds hollow.
Right there. Third panel up from the floor. It’s about waist-high.
I run my hand over it, trying to discern if there’s anything different from the other panels. I can’t really tell.
Thunk.
I quickly draw my hand back. I felt that. I felt the soft impact of something hitting the other side of the panel.
I steady myself, take aim with the hammer, and swing.
The panel cracks.
I swing again. Part of the panel bows in. There’s empty space behind it. I strike one last time. The head of the hammer splits the wood and disappears into the bookcase. I have to work it back and forth to dislodge it.
I place the hammer on the floor and get out my phone. I turn on the flashlight app and peer into the space behind the panel through the hole I’ve created.
There’s something in there.
I carefully slide my fingers into the opening, grip the panel, and pull. It comes away with a loud crack. The space is about the size of a shoebox.
I set the panel aside, reach in, and pull the object out.
It’s an old journal.
The cover is a faded blue, and there are brass plates mounted to the front and back. A clasp connects them, binding the journal shut. There’s an engraving on the front plate.
Beneath the inscription is a circular indentation with three small holes.
I read the inscription again.
It’s not complete. It doesn’t make sense. It’s missing the last line. I reread it, shaking my head. I’m just going to have to break it open.
Then it hits me.
‘Wishes and wonder you’ll find in these … the secrets that I keep.’
*
Climbing the stairs, I keep my eyes forward, but every now and again, I’ll glance behind me, terrified of something appearing at the bottom of the stairs, cutting off my only route of escape. I reach the top of the stairs without incident. The door to the master bedroom is closed.
In Caitlyn’s room, I walk around the bed, and over to the nightstand. The medallion is on the corner, face up. The engraving glitters in the setting sunlight outside the window.
I grab it and sit on the bed with the journal in my lap. I gently place the medallion in the circular opening, but it won’t go in. I check the alignment of the pegs on the back of the medallion with the small holes in the circular opening and see my mistake. I try again, slightly rotating the medallion. The pegs slide home. I rotate the medallion. There’s a light hissing sound as it slides against the rim of the lock.
The words align.
The clasp opens, and I gently lift the cover.
There’s a photo of a young girl pasted on the first page. It’s black and white, and fine cracks run across the surface. The girl’s hair is braided behind her head. She looks to be about seventeen or so. Underneath the photo are the handwritten words: This journal is the property of Rebecca Harker.
Where have I seen this face?
I’ve seen her somewh—
The Kingsbrook Historical Society. The photo from the Fourth of July Celebration. She was the girl that was sitting off to the side. The one who wasn’t looking at the camera in the photo.
I turn the page and begin to read …
April 7th, 1900
I love it. I simply love this journal.
I’ve never kept a journal, but I will try to do so, especially because of who gave it to me, but more on that in a moment.
The party was fine but I’m really too shy for public gatherings. Besides, while it was my seventeenth birthday, the party wasn’t really for me. It was Father’s way of ‘introducing’ us to Kingsbrook …
September 25th, 1900
It’s twelve-thirty in the morning.
Everything has fallen apart.
I don’t know if I should go to the police or not. I have to tell someone but I can’t, so I’m going to tell these pages.
I couldn’t avoid it anymore. I’ve missed two of my cycles. I kept telling myself it was stress, but I know it’s not. I’m with child.
I haven’t told Father. He continues to drink. The bill collectors keep harassing us. The pharmacy is now open by appointment only. Whenever we work, we keep the door locked and stay in the storeroom. If someone knocks, we’ll peek out through the curtain. If we think it’s a customer, we’ll let them in. If we think it’s a collector, we stay in the storeroom.
This morning, I told Father that I wasn’t feeling well and that I couldn’t work at the pharmacy. I spent the whole day sobbing in bed. Finally, I decided that I had to tell Father. I needed help. I didn’t know how he could help me, but I had to tell someone.
Towards evening, I got up, dressed, and walked into town, carrying the spare key to the pharmacy that we keep in the house.
I opened the door to the pharmacy and found that it was empty. I went to the storeroom. Father was sitting with his head on the desk, not moving. I hurried to him and found that he was passed out. There was an empty bottle and a telegram from Carol. It said that he was to stop trying to contact her and that she was never coming back. She said that she was sorry for me, but that I was his daughter, and not hers.
I had nowhere else to turn.
I took the bicycle from the alley and rode through the town, cursing Kingsbrook, the pharmacy, Carol, Father, and Thomas.
But now, Thomas was the only one who could help me. He had to help me. I’m carrying his child.
The moon was bright and illuminated the countryside for my journey to the Nightingale House. I once again parked the bicycle by the bushes at the end of the path to the porch. I was already in tears and my hands trembled as I pulled the chain next to the front door. I heard footsteps descending the stairs.
Thomas had to have seen me from the side window because he threw open the door, quickly stepped onto the porch, and shut the door behind him.
“What do you think you are doing?”
“I had to see you.”
“I told you never to come here! Do you know what will happen if someone sees you? My daughter is upstairs, asleep, for God’s sake!”
“Please, listen to me—”
“No. You need to go, right now. Our valet will be back any minute.” He then went to grab me.
“I’m pregnant.”
He stopped. The rage that had been fueling him was replaced by panic.
“No …”
“I am.”
For the first time, I saw fear in those blue eyes.
Then, he grabbed my arm and began violently dragging me off the porch. I screamed at him to let me go but he wouldn’t. I was able to free my hand and struck him across the face. He went to grab my wrists, but in our struggle, grabbed the butterfly necklace. It came away from my neck in his hand. He hurled it towards the bushes and finally succeeded in grabbing my wrists. He held my hands at my side and pulled his face close to mine. I could smell liquor on his breath.
“Listen to me; you are not pregnant. There is nothing between us. There never has been. You delivered those items to my house and went home. That is all. If you say one word of us, or if anyone finds out, I will kill you, do you understand?”
I screamed at him to let me go.
“Say you understand me!” His face was contorted with anger. He was no longer in control.
“Daddy?”
We looked back towards the house. His daughter was standing in the open door, wearing a nightgown.
“I can’t sleep,” she said.
The fear, rage, and fury that had been building in him exploded. He hurled me to the ground with such force, my head struck the stone path. I was dazed. My vision swam. I was barely aware of him running away. I heard the girl scream as she fled back into the house. I pulled myself to my knees. My balance was thrown. I tried to stand but stumbled onto the grass. I had to get out of there. I crawled on my hands and knees to the bicycle. I heard the girl scream again. It sounded like it was coming from the backyard. Finally, I was able to get to my feet. Slowly, my balance returned enough that I started walking towards the road. I heard another cry from the girl but it was cut short. I picked up the bicycle and on the second attempt, I was able to throw my leg over the seat. I began to pedal but the road swayed beneath me. I crashed to the ground, picked myself up, and tried again.
I heard him roar my name from the side of the house.
I was able to gain speed. My head cleared and I quickly glanced over my shoulder.
He was standing in the road, watching as I hurriedly rode away.
I took the bicycle all the way home. I let myself into the house and went straight to my room. As I passed Father’s room, I heard him coughing and retching on the other side of the door. Once I was in my room, I changed my clothes and sat in front of the mirror. There were scratches on my hands, knees, and shoulders. The spot on my head where I had hit the stone path was swollen and throbbed painfully, but it was hidden by my hair. Out of habit, I washed up for bed. The whole thing is a nightmare.
I tried, but I can’t sleep.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what happened. I thought going to him was the only way out of this.
Now, it’s worse.
So much worse.
September 29th, 1900
HE DID IT!
He did it! I know he did. I don’t care what anyone says!
Forgive me. I need to start from the beginning.
I told Father yesterday that I still wasn’t feeling well and stayed in bed all day. I figured it would give me time to think of how to tell him of my situation while also allowing my scrapes and bruises a little time to heal.
This morning, before he left for the pharmacy, he stopped by my room and asked if I was feeling better. I told him yes and that I would be into the pharmacy later. I couldn’t hide in my room forever. I heard him leave through the front door, and I spent the next few hours trying to decide how to tell Father everything that had happened.
I waited until I knew Patricia Fleming and her little herd would have completed their walk and set out for the main square. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, that it wasn’t until I was almost at the pharmacy that I realized nearly everyone in the street was reading a newspaper. I went inside and Father was reading a newspaper, as well.
“Have you seen this?” he said, pointing to an article. “The Carringtons’ daughter is missing.”
I grabbed the paper and started reading. The more I read, the more my horror grew. The article stated that she had disappeared last night from the station in Dover where she, Mr. Carrington, and Mr. Whitlock were waiting on the train to Boston.
Father asked me if I had ever met his daughter when I made the deliveries to the Nightingale House.
I felt like I was going to be sick. Father helped me to a chair and asked if I was all right. I told him that I was fine and that it was the shock of reading the article, but that I probably should go home. He agreed.
I believe I truly was in shock. I couldn’t conceive that he would do something to his daughter, but then I remembered that grip and those eyes, him throwing me to the ground, and running after her. That scream.
On the walk home, I did finally vomit into some bushes. Luckily, no one saw me. As the house came into view, I had a horrible thought—will Thomas come after me? If he was horrid enough to hurt his daughter, is there anything that would stop him? I worked myself into such a state that I raced inside, locked the door, and drew the curtains. I spent the rest of the day peeking out into the street until Father came home.
I skipped dinner and went to bed early. I’ve been in this room, worrying, and writing this entry ever since.
I still can’t believe it. I know he’s a monster, but his own daughter? She has to be alive. She has to. He’s not capable of that …
But I still keep going to the window and checking the street.
September 30th, 1900
I’m alone in my room, trying to get the blood off my shirt.
I need to calm down. I need to think.
Yesterday evening, Father arrived home and asked if he could have a word with me. I feared it was more bad news about the pharmacy, but it was worse.
He showed me a telegram that had been delivered to the pharmacy.
It was from Thomas.
He claimed that he wanted to settle his account and would only deal with me. Father said he had gone to the Nightingale House himself, but Mr. Carrington refused to speak to him. He would only speak to me.
“I don’t know why he insisted, but I need you to close the account.” Father then grew very grave. “We need every cent, Rebecca. I’ve made a decision; we have to close the pharmacy. I’m going to have a fire-sale to get whatever we can for our inventory. Then, we’ll close up the pharmacy and move on. We’ll start over somewhere else.”
The situation was plain; we were running away from the collectors.
It was too much and I began to cry. Father tried to console me, promising that it would all be all right. I couldn’t tell him the truth.
All last night, I couldn’t sleep. Somehow, I knew it was inevitable. I was going to have to confront him. I’m carrying his child.
I decided to go to the Nightingale House as early as possible to have it over and done with. I accompanied Father to the pharmacy and went back through the storeroom towards the back door and the bicycle waiting in the alley. As I passed Father’s desk, I stopped. I can’t explain why, but I grabbed the penknife he uses to open letters off the desktop and tucked it into my pocket. I went out to the alley and grabbed the bicycle.
It had rained the night before. The air was cold and the roads were wet, which slowed my progress. The closer I got, the more I was filled with dread.
As the Nightingale House came into view, I nearly fell from the bicycle. He was waiting on the front porch. I corrected my balance and continued on, finally reaching the stone path, but stayed on the road. He stepped off the porch, began walking down the path, and stopped in front of me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I could no longer stand it. “What did you do to her?” I asked.
He glared at me and said, “You and I never had a relationship of any sort. You delivered the items from the pharmacy to my house. That was all.”
“I’m pregnant with your child.”
“Impossible. You must have been with some boy and are insinuating it’s mine in order to extract some sort of blackmail from me.”
The fact that this supposed pillar of the community wouldn’t take responsibility for what he had done, that this man who I thought I was in love with was trying to deny the truth set my stomach on fire.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was here. I heard her scream!”
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. “Mr. Whitlock is inside.”
“Where is she?!”
He drew himself closer and loomed over me. “Somewhere she’ll never be found. Would you care to join her?”
I am not exaggerating. Those were his words. The man just admitted murder and threatened me with the same.
“She would have told my wife and that would have ruined me.”
“Your wife must suspect that you’re lying.”
“My wife suspects I’m an unfaithful husband, but I doubt she believes I’m capable of what you’re accusing me of.”
“The police—”
“Also have no proof, which is why you’re going to tell me, right now: have you told any of your friends about us?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“You haven’t written any letters mentioning us?”
“No.”
“You haven’t written—”
His face went white.
“That journal …” he breathed.
“What?”
“That journal my insipid wife gave you at the birthday party. The first time I came into your shop, you told me you were writing in it.”
I took a step back from him but he closed the gap.
“Have you written anything about us or your … situation?”
My silence told him all.
“You will bring me that journal.”
“No.”
He clenched his teeth. “I said, you will bring me that journal and I will destroy it—”
“No,” I spat.
“Do you know what I’ll do to you if—?”
“What? You’ll kill me? You really think you’ll be able to get away with murder twice? People know where I am, right now, and if I don’t return, they’ll come looking for me,” I bluffed.
“Maybe I won’t kill you here and now.”
“Then I guess the best thing for me to do is show everyone the journal, right away.” Then, I remembered. The thought struck me like a thunderbolt. “In fact, I don’t have to … Somebody already knows.”
“You’re lying …” he said, but he knew I wasn’t.
I shook my head.
“Who?” he asked.
“Patricia Fleming.”
The panic in his voice grew. “No …”
“She knows. There’s nothing you can do. You know what she’s like. You killed your daughter and everyone will know.”
In a blind fury, he lashed out and gripped my neck. His eyes bulged as he began to crush my throat. I struggled, clawing at his wrists, but he was too strong. He was about to choke the life out of me. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the penknife, and swung at his face. The blade sank into his cheek, under his beard. He released me, staggered backwards, reached up, and pulled the knife out. Blood poured onto his shirt. He dropped the knife onto the road and pressed his hand over the wound.
I took the opportunity and picked up the bicycle.
He was staring at me in horror as I rode away as fast as I could from the Nightingale House.
I went straight home.
Once inside my room, I changed my shirt. I found one that closely resembled it, and hoped Father wouldn’t notice. I took the rest of the money Mr. Carrington had told me to keep from his cash purchases, which I would give to Father and tell him the account was paid. There was more than enough.
When I arrived at the pharmacy, Father was in the process of making and placing signs, advertising the new prices. Things that had been a dime were now a nickel, and items that were a nickel were now a penny. Some customers had even found their way into the store.
“There you are,” he said, and gestured to the shoppers. “Busiest it’s ever been.”
I went behind the counter and handed him the money.
“Mr. Carrington’s account is closed.”
A wave of relief swept over him. Instead of depositing it in the register, Father stuffed the money into his pocket.
“Now, help me with these signs. I think my little plan is going to work.”
I spent the rest of the day in a fog. I performed tasks without being aware of what I was doing. The attack felt as though it had happened in some distant nightmare.
It did seem that Father’s little plan was working. As soon as the signs went up, people began wandering in. If it keeps up at the prices we were selling, it certainly won’t be enough to save the pharmacy, but it might amount to enough to purchase a carriage and leave Kingsbrook.
Around one in the afternoon, among the handful of customers, I glanced out the window. I guess I had been unconsciously keeping a lookout, and sure enough, there they were: Patricia Fleming and her little herd out for their royal stroll.
She turned her head towards the pharmacy and we saw each other. Instead of her customary condescension, she actually appeared concerned, but it was only for a moment before she continued on.
Father and I worked the store for the rest of the day, which was indeed one of our busiest, but that is not very high praise.
Once we closed the pharmacy, we returned home. I went to my room and have been trying to scrub Mr. Carrington’s blood off the sleeve of my shirt.
I assume Father is drinking down the hall.
I shall try to sleep, but I’m worried of what horrors tomorrow will bring.
Good night.
October 1st, 1900
I spent all of yesterday nervously glancing out the window, expecting Mr. Carrington to suddenly arrive and smash the glass, but he never appeared.
We were able to sell off a good portion of the store’s inventory. It’s all at a loss, but we’re only accepting cash and all accounts have been closed so that we can have the money in hand.
The disappearance of Katherine Carrington is still all that anyone talks about.
Amid the bustle this afternoon, I happened to catch a glimpse of Patricia Fleming and her cadre walked across the square. However, this time, she stopped and looked at me through the pharmacy window. She was clearly concerned. She even made a step towards the pharmacy, but then continued on with her friends.
I thought it was strange but it only occupied my thoughts for a moment before I was forced to continue helping customers.
We stayed open later than usual in the hopes of selling more of our stock. Father’s worried that the more days we stay open, the more likely a collector will eventually come calling.
We closed around nine o’clock after managing to clear out roughly a third of the storeroom. Father and I were both exhausted by the time we arrived home and went straight to bed.
October 2nd, 1900
This morning, Father and I walked to the pharmacy. I still haven’t told him of my situation or of Mr. Carrington. I was hoping we could finish the sale and leave Kingsbrook before it became necessary.
As we entered the main square, we saw that everyone was either reading or carrying a newspaper. I assumed that there may have been a development in the disappearance of Katherine Carrington and was anxious to get to the pharmacy.
I opened the door and went inside while Father brought in the stack of newspapers, which he said was the last we would receive, as he had canceled the subscription. He set the bundled stack on the counter and cut the twine.
I was about to step into the storeroom to bring out more items to stock the shelves when I heard Father call out, “Rebecca?”
“What is it?” I asked.
He held up the paper and pointed to an article in the corner.
I stepped over for a closer look.
Thomas Carrington Found Dead
I braced myself against the counter. Father brought me a chair and a glass of water as I read the article, which didn’t say much more than the headline. Thomas Carrington had been found dead yesterday in his bedroom at the Nightingale House. The article said that it may have been the result of a sudden illness, possibly brought on by the grief of his daughter’s disappearance. I flipped through the paper to see if there was any more, but the article was all there was.
It didn’t make sense. I considered that the wound I gave him may have become infected, but that would have taken weeks, not two days.
“Rebecca,” Father said, “you look ill. Would you like to go home? I can run the store, myself.”
I told him that I was fine, that it was just a bit of a shock.
I didn’t want to go home. I wanted answers, and I hoped someone would have them.
There were more customers this morning than yesterday, which is no surprise when you’re practically giving away the merchandise, but I made sure to keep my eyes on the window as one o’clock approached.
They arrived, right on time, strolling across the square.
Thankfully, we were experiencing a lull in the customers over lunch, and I told Father that I was stepping out for a moment.
I hurried out the door and across the street.
“Ms. Fleming?” I called when I was a few steps behind them.
They stopped and turned.
Patricia was surprised to see me.
“May I have a word with you?” I asked.
She regarded me briefly and then told her friends that they should go on without her and that she would catch up.
“What is it?” she asked, once they had moved away.
“I wanted to ask you about Mr. Carrington.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Thomas’?”
“Please,” I said. “You looked concerned, yesterday, like you were going to come to the pharmacy to talk to me. Do you know what happened?”
She paused again, and then her haughty demeanor fell. “Walk with me.”
I obeyed and we began slowly strolling along the square.
“Is he really dead?” I asked.
“Yes. He was found in his bedroom. The police came and spoke to my father. I was listening on the stairs.” She looked at me and sighed. “I guess I may have a bit of a habit of snooping.”
I was still struggling to believe that he was truly gone.
“What illness?” I asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The paper said it was a sudden illness.”
She hesitated, as if weighing her words before answering.
“It wasn’t an illness,” she said.
“What?”
“It wasn’t a mysterious illness. He killed himself in his room with a pistol.”
She strolled on a few more steps before she realized that I had stopped walking and was no longer at her side.
“He killed himself?” I asked.
“So it would seem. You were on familiar terms with him. Any ideas why he would do that?”
By the way she was studying me, it was clear that she believed that I did, but my shock was unreadable.
“If he killed himself, why did the paper say it was an illness?” I asked.
“Because it’s Kingsbrook. Their daughter’s disappearance is enough of a scandal. It’s out of respect for Mrs. Carrington and the rest of her family.”
“Where is Mrs. Carrington?”
“I heard my father say that she’s still in Boston. Their valet is on his way to join her.”
I looked around the square, still unable to comprehend it all.
“Listen,” Patricia said, stepping closer, “I don’t know exactly what your ‘business’ was with Thomas Carrington, but if you want my advice, it’s best that he’s out of everyone’s lives … Was there anything else?”
I shook my head.
“Well, thank you for the pleasant walk, but I’m going to rejoin my friends now.”
She sadly smiled at me and walked off.
October 5th, 1900
Tonight we locked the pharmacy for the last time.
It took two more days, but we’ve sold almost all of the inventory. There were some items left on the shelves, but we’re leaving those behind.
With some of the money we’ve made over the past three days, Father bought a horse and small wagon. Tonight, we’re going to only gather the essentials from the house and leave first thing in the morning. I’ve already packed most of my clothes. It’s all too much. I’m taking a rest to write this entry before deciding what else to bring.
I’m going to tell Father everything once we leave Kingsbrook. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll be able to find a loving family to adopt the child. Maybe I’ll try to raise it on my own to make sure it doesn’t grow up to be like its father.
I don’t know.
For now, I must decide how much of my life I want to take with me on Father’s next ‘adventure’.
October 6th, 1900
I’m sitting at Mr. Carrington’s desk in the Nightingale House. I must be quick. Father is waiting outside. These are the last words I will ever write in this journal and I hope no one reads them, but I can’t bring myself to destroy it. Destroying it won’t erase the past.
Last night, while trying to decide what to take into our new lives, I decided that I did not want to take these memories. I want to leave them here, in Kingsbrook, in the Nightingale House, where so many of them were born.
I convinced Father to take us by the house as we left Kingsbrook. He was understandably confused but agreed to do it. We drove out through the bitter morning cold to Willow Lake. I knew no one would be here. Mrs. Carrington and Mr. Whitlock are still in Boston. I went to the porch and found the key under the pot on the table. I had to reassure Father to wait for a few minutes as I unlocked the door and went inside.
I walked around the house one last time, stopping in the master bedroom, and came down here, to his little sanctuary. I’m going to leave the journal in the secret compartment in the bookcase. I’m returning his gift. Then, I’m going out back and throwing the key into the lake.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I want to let go of this past and bury it here in the Nightingale House, this house that holds nothing but sadness.
Farewell.