The End of Temperance Dare: A Novel

by Wendy Webb

  Night was falling, and I was glad to be back in my room with the door locked before it became too dark. There would be no creeping around the house tonight for me. I was staying put. I poured a glass of water with shaking hands and sank down into the armchair next to the fireplace, shivering as I thought of how eerily similar my room looked to the one in the dollhouse upstairs.

  CHAPTER 11

  I watched some mindless television until I had trouble keeping my eyes open. Time for bed. I changed into my pajamas and crawled under the covers, hoping sleep would come quickly. It did, because the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes. Three thirty. I let out a groan. Not again. I hated waking up in the wee hours of the morning. It was rare that I could ever get back to sleep, and the grogginess would follow me throughout the day. Nonetheless, I was determined to try, so I snuggled back down and closed my eyes. They popped open again when I heard the noise that had, no doubt, awakened me in the first place. I sat up and listened.

  Footsteps. Upstairs on the third floor. It sounded as if somebody was running, or walking quickly, back and forth. It wasn’t a pounding noise, but a softer one, as though the person or persons running weren’t very heavy. And then it hit me. Children. It sounded like children at play.

  But that just couldn’t be. Could it? I slid back down and drew the covers up around me, ticking off plausible explanations in my mind for what I was hearing. Miss Penny had mentioned that the cleaning crew oftentimes worked during the night so as to not disturb the fellows during their workdays—was that what this was? Maybe, but what kind of cleaning would take people back and forth across the floor so fast? You didn’t exactly run with a mop or a broom.

  Could it be animals? Maybe a couple of raccoons or squirrels had gotten inside somehow? I wasn’t sure. But it was awfully loud to be small animals.

  Was Harriet up there creeping about? I couldn’t imagine what she would be doing, or why.

  Slowly, the sound of the footsteps began to fade, and soon they stopped altogether. I lay there, now fully awake. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself of any worldly reason someone should be up on the third floor at this hour walking back and forth across the floor.

  There wasn’t any other possibility. It was children at play, and I knew there weren’t any living children anywhere at Cliffside. Was it the lost children of the TB ward? Perhaps. But then another thought hit me. Maybe it was Penelope and Chamomile. Together again in the room they once shared.

  I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. When morning finally came, I made my way downstairs to breakfast to ask Harriet about what I had heard the night before.

  I found the winter garden just off the kitchen. As Miss Penny had said, it was an enormous, octagonal room, completely glassed in, including the vaulted ceiling. Windows were open on all sides, and a massive ceiling fan slowly rotated. Plants were everywhere, many varieties I didn’t recognize, though some, like ferns, were familiar. A fountain with seating running all the way around it stood in the center of the room, and I noticed goldfish swimming in its pool. Wicker and rattan chairs with cushions in greens, blacks, and whites sat in pairs here and there. The floor was a deep green and black tile, art deco style, it seemed to me, and a long, glass table ran along one side of the room, with ten chairs with black leather cushions around it. On the table, several newspapers were stacked in a row, and a place was set, presumably for me.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the trickling of the fountain or the sun streaming in through the glass and shining through the leaves, but I felt my blood pressure drop several points as I entered that room. What a peaceful place to start the day, I thought to myself. It almost made me forget what had happened the night before.

  A silver pot of coffee, a chafing dish of scrambled eggs and another of sausage, and a plate of fresh scones were on the sideboard. I chuckled at the huge amount of food for just me, but I knew Harriet was doing another dry run. The fellows would arrive the next day, and I had heard her saying something about having a new girl in the kitchen that she was training.

  I filled a plate and took a seat at the table, unfurled one of the newspapers, and was enjoying my first sip of coffee when a strange thought slithered into my mind. I had dreamed about being in the winter garden a few nights before. But I had only peeked into the room once or twice in the week I’d been there. I sipped my coffee and thought back. Maybe I had been in the winter garden when I was at Cliffside the first time, twenty years earlier. No . . . that couldn’t have been it. I’d had no idea what a winter garden was when I arrived—Miss Penny’d had to explain it to me.

  Harriet came through the swinging door, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” she said. “You slept well, I trust?”

  “Well enough,” I said, wincing a bit. “I woke up in the middle of the night. I heard something.”

  “What did you hear, ma’am?”

  “It sounded like somebody was upstairs on the third floor,” I said. “I know this is going to sound silly, but it really did sound like children playing.”

  She crossed her arms. “Everyone’s been a bit on edge since Miss Penny’s passing,” she said. “And you, in a new place.”

  “Yes, but—” I started.

  She cut me off. “Cliffside is a very old house, Miss Harper,” she said, her voice soft, as though she were talking to a child. “Very old indeed. She has her moans and groans, especially during the change of seasons like it is now. You’re not yet accustomed to the particularities of life here, not used to the sounds you might hear at night. There’s nothing to be afraid of here, I assure you.”

  I took a sip of coffee, unconvinced.

  “And no children,” she said. “No children at all.”

  I decided to let the matter drop, for the time being at least. So I changed the subject.

  “I remember Miss Penny saying that your mother was a patient here,” I said. “She mentioned that you might be willing to tell me some stories about Cliffside in those days, stories of your mother.”

  Her face softened a bit. “Yes, Mother was here,” Harriet said. “She always credited Mr. Dare and the doctors with saving her life. It’s the main reason I wanted to come and work here, once tuberculosis was cured and they transformed this place into what it is today.”

  “Because Cliffside had saved your mother’s life?’

  “And in doing so, gave me life,” Harriet said. “Cliffside is responsible for me being here at all. Had my mother died from TB, I’d never have been born. That’s why I wanted to dedicate my life to serving Cliffside.”

  I nodded, letting that sink in. Talk about a loyal employee.

  “Not all the people here were as fortunate as your mother, I understand.”

  “No, indeed,” she said. “No, indeed.”

  “How long was your mother a patient here?” I asked her.

  “Almost a year, ages six to seven,” she said with a sigh.

  She was getting ready to open up, but then I made a mistake.

  “Harriet, will you join me and tell me some of her stories? I’d really love to hear them.” I nearly bit my tongue as the words came out of my mouth. I knew better than to change the flow of a conversation once a tight-lipped source had started talking. I should have just let her talk.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her apron. “I’d love to tell you all about it, ma’am, and I will. At some other time. The fellows arrive tomorrow, and I’ve really no time to be sitting and chatting. I need to get back to work, if that’s all right with you.”

  I knew our conversation was at an end.

  “Of course,” I said, pushing my eggs around my plate. “I’ll just finish up and get to work myself.”

  And she was gone. I’d have to hear about the children of Cliffside another day. I had hoped . . . well, I wasn’t really sure what I had hoped. Perhaps that, by hearing the stories of the real children who had lived and died here, it would humanize whatever otherworldliness I was hearing and
seeing. After all, if you have the names and know the stories of the people who might be haunting your house, they become more real. Or at least, less frightening.

  I thought about a friend of mine who had recently purchased a very old, stately home. Soon after moving in, strange things began to happen. Lights would go on and off. Windows that my friend knew were closed would be open when she came into the room the next time. Doors would refuse to budge and then open by themselves. The backstairs had a deathly cold spot that even the family dog wouldn’t walk through. And my friend herself would often feel her hair being pulled from behind, or feel a shove on her back.

  She did some research and found that, a century earlier, a maid had committed suicide in the house. She even found the maid’s name—Sarah. So, armed with that information, she simply began saying: “Sarah, knock it off,” when otherworldly things would happen. And Sarah would knock it off.

  “Oh, she’s still around,” I remember my friend saying. “She just doesn’t push my buttons anymore.”

  She went from being afraid to being in control. I wondered if I could do the same.

  CHAPTER 12

  I had organized the dossiers for the incoming fellows and checked on their rooms (everything was shining clean and in order), chosen my outfit for the next day (a black, jersey-knit dress and flats), and sent word to the staff via Harriet that I wanted to have a quick meeting just after breakfast the following day to get everyone’s ducks in a row, for my benefit more so than theirs. I was set and ready for the fellows’ arrival the next day, and it wasn’t yet noon.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with myself for the rest of the day. I could go back up to the third floor and look for Miss Penny’s diary, but after what had happened the day before, I really had no desire to do that. All was quiet up there now. Let sleeping ghosts lie.

  Yes, the mystery was still scratching at the back of my mind, but frankly, I had the present day to worry about. Whatever had really happened to Chester and Chamomile Dare all those years ago and whatever reason Miss Penny had really killed herself on the eve of a new group of fellows coming to Cliffside, it didn’t have anything to do with what was happening in the present, despite her cryptic letter filled with veiled threats.

  I glanced out of the window and saw that the sun was shining brightly in a clear, blue sky. My eyes fell on the forest just beyond the yard, and I realized I hadn’t been out there yet. I remembered Miss Penny telling me about Cliffside’s extensive trail system. Why not go for a walk in the woods? A little jaunt in the fresh air would do me good. I had been itching to get some exercise since I had gotten here. I wasn’t usually much for working out, but something about being here made me want to stretch my legs, to walk, even to run. I felt a vitality surging through me, and it made me want to move my body to its limits.

  That was it, then. No more sitting around inside. I thought I had seen trail maps in the entryway, so I pulled on a pair of sneakers and trotted down the stairs to find one.

  There was indeed a table with several brochures about the area in the entryway, so I grabbed a trail map and was about to head out the door, but then I remembered something. I wasn’t familiar with the property and, even though I had a map, there were some forty acres of forest to get lost in. If that happened, I wanted somebody to know where I had gone. That was Wilderness 101, I knew, and even though Cliffside’s grounds weren’t exactly the last frontier, I still wanted to play it safe. I made a mental note to mention that to the fellows the next day.

  Harriet was probably in the kitchen, I thought, so I crossed the foyer and made my way through the drawing room. But I stopped short as soon as I pushed through the kitchen door.

  I saw an enormous stainless steel fridge on one wall and a restaurant-grade stove with three ovens on the other, stainless steel pots and pans hanging above it. Every high-tech, modern appliance known to man sat on the gleaming marble countertops. A long butcher-block table stood in the middle of the room with a great round of dough waiting to be kneaded, a rolling pin lying next to it.

  I blinked and shook my head, not sure, exactly, what was going on.

  A few nights previous, when I had first met Nate, I had come into this kitchen and been amused that it was such a relic of the past. I could’ve sworn it was an all-white, farm-style kitchen. Isn’t that what I had seen? Milk in glass bottles? I made coffee in an old percolator . . . didn’t I?

  As I was standing there, mouth agape, Harriet came in carrying an armload of silver trays.

  “Oh! Miss Harper! What can I do for you?”

  I slowly shook my head. “I’m not sure.”

  She set the trays on the counter with a clatter. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” She put a hand on my arm. “Miss Harper? Are you all right? You seem a bit confused.”

  “Harriet, when was this kitchen renovated?’ I asked her, not really wanting to hear the answer. I knew full well it hadn’t happened within the past couple of days.

  “It was 2011, I believe,” she said. “Why?”

  “And, what did it look like before?”

  “Before this renovation? It was rather ghastly, but you didn’t hear me say that.” She chuckled under her breath. “Lots of green. Countertops, appliances. You know, that avocado color that was all the rage back in the seventies. Before that, it was more stark and industrial in keeping with the original purpose of Cliffside.”

  I just looked around, not quite believing what I was seeing or hearing.

  “Why are you concerned with the kitchen, Miss Harper? Has anything been wrong with the food?”

  This shook me out of my stupor. “No, no,” I said. “It’s nothing like that. The food has been superb, Harriet, it really has. It’s just . . .” I had no idea how to go on. I wasn’t about to tell her I had seen how this kitchen looked in the 1950s, just the other night.

  “Well, then,” she said, gathering the trays back into her arms, “these won’t polish themselves, will they? I was just looking for Sylvia. Have you seen her?”

  I wasn’t even sure who she was, having met so many staff people. And then I remembered why I had come into the kitchen in the first place. “Harriet, I came to find you because I’m going to take a walk on the trails.” I stopped, feeling a little guilty to be doing that while she was scurrying around, busy as a bee. I added, quickly, “I thought it would be a good thing to familiarize myself with the whole property before the fellows arrive, in case they have questions.”

  “Oh, yes,” Harriet said, nodding. “Yes, indeed. You should do that, ma’am.”

  “I wanted you to know where I was going because, if I don’t show up for dinner, that means I’m roaming around in the woods lost.” I managed a chuckle.

  She smiled. “I’ll send out a search party if we don’t see the whites of your eyes in the drawing room at five thirty.”

  I left her then, out the kitchen door to the backyard, trail map in hand, thinking that we really should have some sort of system in place to keep track of people’s whereabouts. Not that I needed to know where they were at all times, but there were a lot of dangers here—the forest, with any manner of twists and turns, to get lost in; the lake, with all of its power; the cliff. I shuddered at the thought of it.

  I loped across the lawn, savoring the feeling of stretching my legs. I had never been much of a runner before, but it felt fantastic to be getting some exercise, finally. At the edge of the woods, I stopped, spying a wooden sign: Penny Trail. I dug the map out of my pocket and checked it—yes, there was Penny Trail. It snaked through the woods, across a small creek, and ultimately to the lake, before circling back up to the lawn. The legend said it was three and a half miles long. Perfect. It went only one way, and if I didn’t deviate from the trail, I’d wind up back where I started.

  I saw there were other trails, too. Milly Trail followed the cliff and went up a series of hills, Chester Trail went the other way around the property and hooked up with another trail that led to town, some ten miles away, and Temperance Trail wo
und its way through it all, twisting and turning. I’d steer clear of that one for now. I hoped there were clear signs at the trail intersections to tell me which way to go.

  Eyeing the map, I saw the trails were rated by difficulty based on hills and terrain (Penny was moderate) and they were also groomed for cross-country skiing in the winter. Just like a state park. It really was quite wonderful, having all of this right outside my door.

  I stuffed the map back into my pocket and stepped out of the bright sunshine into the shady woods. The scent of the pines wafted through the air and immediately relaxed me. There was something about the scent of the Northwoods—a mixture of pine and earth and the cool, clean air of Lake Superior—that was like a healing balm to me. Not a sedative, exactly, because when I was in the woods I always felt a sizzle of energy running through me. It was more like a relaxant, a calming incense that made me feel all was right with the world. That’s just how I felt as I walked, my feet crunching on pine needles that carpeted the path.

  Enormous pines towered overhead, and I wondered if this area had ever been logged. I knew part of the history of the Northwoods involved logging around the turn of the century, but these trees seemed so ancient, so tall, it was hard to believe they had grown back in that time. I wondered who had seen these trees when they were young. Were they standing sentinel here when the Revolutionary War was being fought?

  Around one bend, I came upon a massive poplar, its white bark gleaming in the sun and its crown of leaves quaking in the breeze. I remembered Miss Penny had said the property had always been in the Dare family, so perhaps Chester’s father had indeed spared his corner of the woods from the lumber barons.

  I walked on, trying to quiet the stream of chatter in my head. I breathed in and out, in and out, in time with my steps as a sort of meditation, and soon all of my distracted thoughts—the fellows, Miss Penny, even the history of the area melted away and I was just present in the moment, putting one foot in front of the other. The sun was poking its way through the pine boughs and maple leaves in delicate streams that illuminated the way before me. With its carpet of soft, green undergrowth, the woods seemed enchanted, as though I might encounter a fairy or an elf at any moment.