Virginia Elizabeth Cooper’s will was probated eight years later. I was sad to hear of her death. I’d stayed in touch with her over that time, sending notes, Christmas cards. I stopped in to see her when I visited with Dylan but I never expected her to leave me anything. Like most of the surprises in my life, it came in an envelope from a lawyer’s office. I ripped it open and read the letter inside.
Cora had passed away two years earlier, in prison, and had left the house to Ginny. Ginny left it to me. I read it ten times. It was mine. I had wanted to open it up for so long and go through it all, room by room. And now I could. It had been empty all these years.
The furniture had been moved out with Cora’s passing. The art work no longer covered the walls. The wall paper was dingy and drab covered with holes and tears. I stood in the foyer for almost half hour before I could bring myself to walk through the rest of the house. My eyes took in each nuance. Each detail brought back memories of those short months here. I felt an odd lump in my throat as I opened the doors that had been locked for so long. A strange echoing emptiness permeated each room.
I walked into the kitchen and looked at the large cathedral windows, the barbecue pit where I’d found that first scrap of paper. There were still ashes in the bottom. I couldn’t help but run my fingers through them. Then I moved on to the formal dining room and to the series of French doors. They needed to be opened. The heavy dark curtains were still in place, now faded and dreary, covered in dust. I pushed them aside and flung one door open and then another all the way down the wall. The air was cold but refreshing.
The patio and terrace were much the same as I remembered. But the meticulous landscaping had long since been overgrown. The grass was brown and barren. The woods but a massive tangle of trees. The Monroe family’s negative energy was still very much alive here. The ground still pulsed with it.
The windows of the room where I had stayed caught my eye. My room. The door sprung open when I turned the handle. Empty. Just a barren space at the corner of the house. Much the same as it had been a century ago, devoid of pretty decorations and furniture.
When I stood in that room, I knew that just below my feet was a maze of tunnels. Tunnels that held the mystery of this house. It’s where all the trouble had begun for this family. The tunnels and the people held captive in them over the years.
It was dark when I descended below but I had come prepared. I brought a big flashlight with me. My light bounced on the walls while I moved along. Puddles of water had collected and every so often I had to jump to avoid them. When I got to the fork, I took the path to the left, on a mission.
The marble staircase, the small bomb shelter black door just to the right, were unchanged. I turned the handle and stepped inside. Somehow I knew they hadn’t cleaned this room. It was covered with the same photographs behind glass. Cora, Bradford and Nick looked down at me. I stared up into Cora’s face staring back at me. I swallowed hard and refused to turn away. It was almost as if she were alive, standing right next to me.
One photograph hung precariously and fell to the floor when I touched the glass. The paper was yellowed with time. I sat on the old love seat and turned it over. It was an artistic scene of downtown Philadelphia taken in black and white. The crew teams had been out on the Schuylkill River, Boathouse Row was visible behind them. Bradford had written a short personal comment about the photo in ink. “For Nicholas Whitfield, always my son. The city is yours.” He had signed it in a hasty scrawl. I stared hard at the lettering.
“Where are you?” A voice screamed from above somewhere. I shoved the photo into my purse. I pushed the door open and walked back into the tunnel.
“I’m down here!” Footsteps came closer. “James?” My five-year old son came tearing down the steps and almost lost his footing. “James, be careful. Don’t hurt yourself.” Dylan wasn’t far behind him.
“I’m not surprised. You couldn’t resist, could you?”
“All the pictures are still there.”
“And there’s probably tons of crap in the attic.” He had some streaks of gray at his temples and little lines around his eyes when he smiled. “You probably shouldn’t have come here alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You never change, do you? You have plenty of time to go through all this. We promised to take him to McDonald’s, let’s go.” He pulled my arm.
I know it is strange that I named my son after Nick’s brother but it seemed right. The face in those photographs had stayed with me over the years. We still hadn’t decided on a name when he was born and it sort of completed the circle. Nick killed the other James Robert but in a strange way he helped to give life to this one. I wanted to make sure this one knew he truly belonged in this world and was loved. He looked nothing like his namesake. He looked just like his father. Dylan took his son’s hand and helped him up the steps. I followed not too far behind.
It took me almost a year to unravel the red tape but I did. That photograph and the message on the back made me seek out Bradford’s sister, still alive in a home outside of Harrisburg. Her cousin had power of attorney, but I managed to convince her to let me get a blood sample. I took it to a lab with a lock from Nick’s hair. The results came back after almost a month. It was conclusive to ninety-nine percent. Bradford had been Nick’s father. I cried when I got the results. So much pain, deception, even murder based on a lie. A misconception. There had been no curse on that family. They’d cursed themselves.
The Monroe Mansion now stands as the Episcopal Home for Boys.