Chapter 4

The cellar was entered by a concealed door underneath the main staircase. The three of us — Johnny, followed by Robert and me — descended the narrow stairs.

The light was dim, but what could be made out immediately was a series of wine racks that stretched for a distance to our left. To our right was shelving that held banker boxes as well as bundled and not-so-bundled objects.

“Johnny,” I asked. “I don’t remember all these shelves. Are they new?”

“Relatively new. Harry, the ever-resourceful handyman, built them to accommodate what continued to arrive after Alice’s death as well as make a storage space for things that nobody knows what to do with or dares chuck out. Take that antique lamp, for instance. Hideous. That being said, we should check out Alice’s section once we find those bottles. I doubt anyone has really gone through everything except on a cursory basis.”

“Really? How is that even possible?”

“Alice subscribed to many journals, magazines, maps, societies, you name it. There are boxes of the stuff. Besides, who’s going to go through all this junk? Father? Stanley? I don’t think so.”

“I could start going through it right now.”

“Not on your life. First, the wine; then, the treasure hunt.”

“Okay,” I said. “Lead on.”

We turned left and headed down the dimly-lit aisle. Racks of wine bottles extended from floor to ceiling.

Robert was leading the way when he froze. His tail quivered and stood straight up. He growled low in his throat. His lips curled up to reveal a set of truly frightening teeth.

“Rats or ghosts? What do you think?” Johnny wondered.

“I’ve no idea, but he seems a bit put out.”

“Go get ’em, Robert,” commanded Johnny, but just as suddenly Robert stopped his growling, and his teeth seemed to recede into his mouth. He wagged his tail and continued down the aisle, as if nothing had happened.

I looked at Robert. “I tell you, that’s one dog I wouldn’t want to meet in a back alley. I’m glad we have him around, but is he temperamental, or am I imagining things?”

“He’s quirky,” said Johnny, “and he scares the hell out of me when he does that growling-teeth thing. I just hope he frightens anything else, living or dead, that might be wandering around these parts. This house can be seriously creepy.”

“Tell me about it.”

The creepy aspect of our surroundings was a topic Johnny and I had long discussed as we grew older within its walls. Rhinebeck had a sinister side that we both loved and hated. The dark shadows by the cypress trees or the brooding marble statues could harbor all sorts of spirits, both friendly and unfriendly. The dark, silent emptiness could be a scary place to grow up in, and I was easily frightened.

Still, I had to acknowledge that this element had made me feel deliciously alive. I suppose Johnny felt the same way, although he had hidden it better than me. We had nonetheless played on each other’s fears. Our games of hide-and-seek were just as scary for the seeker as the hider. The setting was too perfect, the possibilities too numerous. If ghosts existed, there was no better place for them to inhabit than Rhinebeck.

While scaring each other was exciting, frightening the daylights out of others was even more so.

As per usual, Johnny and I often went too far.

Nannies were a regular part of our upbringing but never a permanent fixture. We went through them on a continual basis. Often they left after spending only a single vacation at Rhinebeck, as was the case of a particular one of Russian extraction named Miss Ponchikov. She was a youngish woman. Mrs. Dodge liked her because she spoke several languages, including French, and hoped that her ease with foreign tongues would somehow rub off on Johnny and me. It didn’t, but she seemed like a nice quiet creature, having passed a month’s trial at the Fifth Avenue apartment and gained Mrs. Dodge’s approval in the process.

Alice was still alive at that time and in residence at Rhinebeck. Johnny and I were nine.

The Miss Ponchikov incident began on the second morning of a school vacation. We had settled in on the top floor the day before.

Children were served breakfast at seven each morning in the dining room. Adults were served at nine.

That particular morning, we were alone with Miss Ponchikov. Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, as well as Alice, were in New York and would not be back until Friday night. We had finished eating our oatmeal when Miss Ponchikov asked if we had heard anything during the night.

Johnny and I looked at each other. The question was unusual simply because we were never asked anything as a rule. Johnny recovered and said, “No, Miss Ponchikov. Did you hear something?”

“Yes, I did. I thought I heard someone crying.”

“It wasn’t me,” I said.

“It was the sound of a woman weeping late in the night. When I got up to find out, the crying stopped.”

“Ah yes,” said Johnny. “The parents told us not to talk about that very thing.”

“Talk about what very thing?” asked Miss Ponchikov.

I wasn’t sure where Johnny was going with this, but I followed his lead and hissed, “You’re going to get us in trouble, if she finds out.”

“Finds out what?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Ponchikov,” said Johnny. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s about a previous nanny. We were told specifically not to mention it. It’s not suitable for children.”

While fishing for sailfish or marlin, we had been taught to release the drag on the big Penn Senator reels and let the bait drop after an initial strike. A big fish would turn back and swallow the bait if it appeared incapacitated, allowing the angler to set the hook in earnest. One had to be patient.

We waited to see if she took the bait. Miss Ponchikov looked like she was about to say something. Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth before she continued eating, and the moment passed. We finished our breakfast and moved on to our homework.

Johnny and I always had homework to do over vacations that usually required a fair amount of reading. Miss Ponchikov insisted that we study every morning. We set up our materials underneath the skylight at the top of the house, while Miss Ponchikov leafed through magazines or read her romance novel.

An hour later that particular morning, she asked how we liked our previous nannies. Our Russian fish was back.

Johnny sighed, got up, went to his room, and closed the door.

“What happened? What did I do?” she asked me.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “He’ll recover.”

“Was it something I said?”

“Miss Ponchikov, I’m really not supposed to talk about the previous nanny. Please don’t make me.” I looked at her imploringly.

Johnny opened his door. He carried a handkerchief and sat back down. He looked like he had been crying.

“Are you all right?” Miss Ponchikov asked him.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?”

Johnny turned to her and told her, “I can only talk about her if you promise me from the bottom of your heart not to mention this to anyone. Do you promise me, Miss Ponchikov?”

He looked her in the eye, a little blond boy with blue eyes and a sincere expression.

Miss Ponchikov put her hand over her heart and said, “I promise.”

The hook was set.

Johnny sighed. “She was a nice woman. Her name was Tabetha Tinsley…”

I wondered just how he could possibly get away with a name like Tabetha Tinsley. The name was just too preposterous, but Johnny always said that if you are going to tell a tall tale, be outrageous, because the bigger the lie, the more ornamentation it will hold. He was only being true to form.

Johnny proceeded to spin Miss Ponchikov a story of a well-bred woman betrayed by fate. Her lover had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She was forced to take care of children to make ends meet.

Miss Ponchikov sat and listened in enraptured amazement, her society magazines and romance novel forgotten.

I wasn’t sure which plot line Johnny was following, but I knew that few could withstand the sight and words of an angelic little person telling a story far too grown-up for him to imagine, with an innocence and sincerity that would set any heart aflutter.

Little did others know of the masses of books of all types we had consumed within these very walls. We may have been small, but we were quite well read.

Miss Ponchikov, however, was Russian. She came from a culture that lionized wealth and power, believed strongly in the supernatural, and was superstitious by nature. At Rhinebeck, she was surrounded by riches and status in abundance, along with something mystical that was peculiar both to the location and the house. I never doubted its existence. I just never knew what to call the presence I felt. Although not necessarily malevolent, I thought that whatever it was could change its mood quite easily.

My mind returned just as Johnny was wrapping up with a bit about the luckless nanny having received a mysterious letter. She learned the fate of her former lover. He was dead. She was undone. Johnny told her how he, little Johnny, had tried desperately to comfort her, but in the end, the heartbreak proved too much. She took her own life by hanging herself in this very room from the iron ring that hung from the skylight. The tragedy had broken his little heart and seared his soul. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Miss Ponchikov held him and rocked him in her arms. Her eyes were wet.

I thought the whole charade was a little thick, but I had to give him credit. Johnny was always gifted. How else could he get people to fork over millions of dollars today and thank him for the privilege?

Once his tears had dried, Johnny quietly explained that the sobbing of her ghost was what she had heard. He had heard the weeping too but didn’t want to say anything.

Into this pregnant silence, I injected, “Johnny, if the folks find out that you told Miss Ponchikov about her, we’ll be roasted.”

Miss Ponchikov said, “No, this will be our secret. I will tell no one.” She smiled but appeared a little pensive.

I had no idea what was going through the woman’s head, but I could tell the tale had affected her. She stared at the ring in the center of the skylight. She got up and went to her room for several minutes.

My experience even then was that people, including myself, did irrational things when they were afraid. The seed had been planted, and I started to form the opinion that we had once again gone too far, and that this might all end rather badly. She believed what Johnny said. I had no doubt. Her ready acceptance and subsequent unease cast light upon her mental state, which I thought was more fragile than she let on. Although she was an intelligent woman, historically, the display of innocence has fooled far more souls than the appearance of guile, and Johnny looked like an angel. Besides, she was in the presence of a master, even if he was only nine years old. She had been thoroughly taken in.

Later, when Johnny and I were alone, I scolded him. “Johnny, tell me we are not doing the hanging maiden trick on her.”

“Precisely! We just need a wet and stormy night. I looked at the forecast, and something suitable is coming up in a couple of days. She bought the whole thing — hook, line, and sinker.”

Johnny was thrilled with his performance. There was just no talking to him. He chortled and cackled, the very picture of self-satisfaction. I shook my head.

The days leading up to that memorable night were filled with eager anticipation. I too got caught up in the excitement. Alice and Mr. and Mrs. Dodge were due to arrive on Friday. We had the run of the house.

In a previous vacation, we had discovered a mannequin tucked away in an upstairs closet that now found itself in Johnny’s closet. It looked quite lifelike if one squinted one’s eyes and used a bit of imagination. To this we added a purloined wig of long black hair, compliments of Alice.

The item had been left out one day in the laundry room. Alice’s reputation of being only slightly less powerful than Morgan le Fey in the intuitive sorceress department meant that anything belonging to her was pretty much out of bounds. The wig was an exception simply because it was left in an area of the house she did not frequent.

We collected other materials, including a serviceable hangman’s noose that both Johnny and I learned to tie one summer, as well as some old sheets.

To keep the presence of ghostly spirits firmly in mind, the next couple of mornings, Johnny asked Miss Ponchikov if she had heard anything the night before. Miss Ponchikov replied each time that she was not sure. She appeared to be sleeping badly. Johnny told me that he had thumped about in the wee hours and even went so far as to do some chain-rattling. He almost got caught when she flung open the door to her room and called out.

I suppose I contributed to her unease shortly thereafter, when I knocked over a lamp on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I saw the light go on underneath her door and fled to my room. I leaped into bed and feigned sleep. A few moments later, my door quietly opened. I slit my eyes and made out the drawn face of Miss Ponchikov looking in on me, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through my window. I breathed regularly, and the door quietly closed.

The next morning, I mentioned to Johnny about the fact that Miss Ponchikov appeared to be a little unstable, but Johnny had a full head of steam and said her precarious state would make the whole trick even more memorable, which proved remarkably accurate.

During our study time, Johnny would occasionally sit up straight and appear to be listening intently.

“Vut, vut is it?” Miss Ponchikov would ask, her Russian accent more pronounced as her unease grew under both the steady pressure of Johnny’s ministrations and the house itself, which could take on a sinister aspect starting in the late afternoon. This attribute increased in strength as darkness fell and mist formed outside the windows and obscured the grounds. We were, after all, completely alone, except for Stanley and Dagmar, who slept in a different part of the house, along with the rest of the staff. Harry had a room over the garage. The isolation could unsettle even the most stalwart soul.

Friday morning, the air hung close and unmoving. Miss Ponchikov complained about the weather, while we prepared ourselves for that night’s festivities.

Mr. and Mrs. Dodge arrived at three.

We waited out front along with Stanley, Harry, and Miss Ponchikov. Johnny and I both gave them a big hello, said we were enjoying ourselves, and that Miss Ponchikov was very pleasant.

Alice arrived at four. She loved to drive, so she rarely used a chauffeur.

All of us, including Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, were outside to greet her. Her dark-green Jaguar convertible with the top down crunched toward us and rolled to a stop. She shut down the car and stepped out.

She was a striking woman in black slacks and a white shirt. Her hair was jet black and cut short. It contrasted with her pale skin, which set off eyes so dark they could be mistaken for black as well. She exuded energy, command, and sexuality that drove both men and women mad. All of them were either in love with her or hated her. Johnny and I were simply in awe.

She gave us kisses, hugged Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, flung the keys to Harry to get the bags and put away the car, gave a warm hello to Stanley, and proceeded to skip up the stairs, when she stopped in her tracks. She turned toward Johnny and me and asked, “What have you little men been up to?”

Johnny gurgled, while I gawked. She had that sort of effect on us. We were saved by a low rumble in the distance. She looked up at the sky and said, “There is a delicious storm coming. You boys aren’t afraid of a little thunder, are you?”

We said, “Oh no,” in unison.

She laughed and disappeared into the house in a flash.

Johnny and I breathed a sigh of relief. We were seconds away from telling her everything.

By dinnertime, which for Johnny, Miss Ponchikov, and me meant six, the threatened storm was still hanging in the distance with furious rumbling that often went on for minutes at a time. The sound was like distant artillery, not loud but unmistakably present and ominous. Miss Ponchikov was nervous, whether because of the approaching storm or the presence of her employers, I did not know. Her Russian accent was even more in evidence, and she clutched a rosary of pale amethysts as a constant companion. We would hear the mutter of her prayers as they slipped out between her lips at odd moments.

Rain was falling when we went to bed at nine. By ten, it was pouring, and by eleven, Johnny was at my door. The storm was approaching in earnest, and the electricity was out. We dragged our maiden into the common room as lightning flashed above our heads and illuminated us through the skylight. Thunder followed four to five seconds later. A big cell was about a mile away. Normally I would have been a frightened wreck, but our preparations kept me focused. By the time we had finished, it was close to midnight, and the storm was on us. Rain drummed on the skylight with a roar as lightning coruscated across the sky. The plan was simple: to wait for a huge flash of lightning and for me to scream as loudly as I could and then to cut it off abruptly.

I was wondering when to begin when there was a simultaneous flash and peal of thunder that was so loud I was scared in earnest. Miss Ponchikov’s door flew open, and I screamed. In the flickering light, Miss Ponchikov looked positively awful. She was in a long white nightgown tied at her neck. Her hair was sticking out in all directions. Her eyes were so wide I thought they would fall out at any moment. I heard a quick intake of breath as Johnny let loose a scream that put mine to shame. Her eyes looked upward in her appeal to the heavens and noticed the hanging lady swinging from the skylight. She grabbed her face with her hands and, in that moment, lost her mind completely. She gave out a shrill, keening sound like an animal and then bolted down the stairs. She was in the grip of a panic so profound that she was discovered at the end of the driveway by Harry, whom Mr. Dodge had ordered out after her. Apparently, she had almost knocked over Johnny’s parents as she flew down the stairs, before she flung open the front door and disappeared into the night. They admitted they felt terrible because they too had screamed in fright when they saw her ghastly appearance in the light of a candle they were holding as they climbed the stairs.

After Miss Ponchikov’s abrupt departure, Johnny and I decided that prudence dictated we hide away our creation before we were visited by parental authorities. The storm raged but was forgotten in our haste. We were not sure how much we were responsible for what had happened, but the less evidence on hand seemed the wisest course.

Mr. Dodge came up shortly with a flashlight. We ran to him and made our way downstairs. The family gathered in the drawing room, which was lit by candles, as Dagmar put on a kettle in the kitchen. Alice and the parents were still dressed, having not yet gone to bed, while we were in our pajamas. Alice wrapped us in blankets on the couch. Miss Ponchikov was discussed in hushed voices. Before long we were fast asleep.

The next morning broke wonderfully sunny and clear.

Dagmar took care of us at breakfast. Alice, the parents, and Miss Ponchikov were nowhere to be seen. Dagmar informed us they were dealing with the authorities. We had no idea what that meant exactly, but the implications sounded bad. We were good as gold, knowing that our doom was approaching with each passing minute.

The adults arrived, and we were summoned to appear before them. We had discussed our likely fate thoroughly before this, with no consensus reached, since we had sailed into uncharted waters.

It was Mrs. Dodge who told us that Miss Ponchikov would not be back. She apparently had a history of nervous breakdowns and should not have been looking after us in the first place. She apologized. We relaxed until Alice asked pointblank about what we knew of a previous nanny committing suicide. How she knew this, I don’t know. She must have questioned Miss Ponchikov and gotten the story from her. She looked at us steadily. We cried. We howled. All to no avail. We confessed everything.

The matter was argued, discussed, and decided by the adults present, not for the first time regarding Johnny and me, that idle hands do the devil’s work, and that we should occupy our hours with more constructive activity. We were turned over to Harry to work with him on the grounds. Further, our guardians decreed that henceforth Teutonic nannies should be the order of the day — the Russians being too mystical, the French too mercurial, and the English too dull.

That summer we were introduced to camp in the great state of Maine. By Christmas that year, Alice was dead.

My mind came back to the present. “I just flashed on the Miss Ponchikov incident. Do you remember it?”

“Oh, don’t remind me. That was a bad one.” Johnny stopped and looked at me. “We really traumatized that woman. I think we even stopped all pranks for a year. No, probably only a few days. We were such little shits. That was also the last time we saw Alice.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Time has certainly moved on, yet here we are, and we’re still in trouble. Some things never seem to change. Let’s continue. Perhaps we can avoid some sort of karmic retribution now that you mentioned her. At least poor Miss Ponchikov didn’t die of fright.”

“Barely.”

“Yes, barely.”

Robert judged the coast clear and trotted on ahead. We followed and arrived at the back of the cellar where there was a table, a candle, an ashtray, and two chairs.

“We return to the scene of the crime.”

Johnny and I had sat in those chairs many times. We had consumed some excellent spirits and had gotten seriously blasted in the process.

“We had some good times down here.”

“That we did. Let’s get busy. Those ’59s were somewhere in the far rack, if I recall,” said Johnny.

I went back to the far rack, which must have held over a hundred bottles. They were Château Lafites of various vintages. We spent a good fifteen minutes looking at bottle after bottle of Château Lafite, but the 1959s we wanted were not among them.

“Crap,” said Johnny. “I was afraid of that. Looks like we’ll have to consult Stanley on this one after all. I was hoping to simply verify they were there, and that would be the end of it. No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

“Okay, so let’s start exploring the shelves while we have the chance.”

We retraced our steps until we saw the shelves that Harry had built.

There were several banker’s boxes in Alice’s section as well as several stacks of magazines, periodicals, and auction house brochures. Robert had moved on down the line but stopped and rose on his hind legs to sniff and peer more closely at one box on the second row.

“Johnny, why don’t you start with that one, while I take this one.”

“Might as well. Robert likes this one.”

I took down my box and lifted the lid. It was full of envelopes, mostly of museum and auction brochures, invitations, and correspondence to Alice.

“You really think nobody’s gone through this stuff?”

“I should think not, but I don’t know for sure. We could take the boxes upstairs and go through a few of them to see if we need to really tear the place apart. Hey, look what I have here.”

Johnny’s box contained a smaller square package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He took out a penknife, cut the twine, and began to unwrap it.

Robert was interested as well. He stuck his nose in the box and began to whine.

“Back off, you mangy mutt. Let me see this thing.”

Inside the package was a cardboard box in which lay a lumpy object wrapped in cotton cloth. Johnny unwound the cotton to reveal a worn figure of dark stone while Robert took hold of the cotton wrapping and began to shake the strip back and forth like he was killing a rat.

“I have no idea what this is — odd that it’s down here,” said Johnny. “There might be more things tucked away, so why don’t you grab a box? I’ll take one as well, and let’s go upstairs.” He put the figurine back. “I’ll ask Stanley to bring the rest up to the top floor where we’ll have some room to go through this stuff.”

The three of us tramped up the stairs with Robert the Bruce bringing up the rear, the wrapping still in his jaws.

We arrived in the foyer, and Johnny put down his box.

“Take this upstairs if you can, while I go and talk to Stanley.”

I took the extra box. That was typical of our relationship, but I didn’t mind. We had all afternoon, and there was nothing like a mystery to stir the imagination.