by Wendy Webb
The children I had seen my first night here. The presence I had felt on the third floor. The footsteps running around at night.
“Why would Chester Dare put his own daughter in a TB facility if she wasn’t ill?” Richard piped up. “That doesn’t make sense to me. If she didn’t have it, she’d certainly contract it in a hospital with other TB patients. It was very contagious, from what I understand.”
Brynn took a sip of her drink, obviously enjoying being the center of attention. “I don’t know for sure, and as I say, my book is a work of fiction, but I think that was the idea.”
“What was the idea?” I asked. “To infect his own daughter with TB?”
“I think so,” she said. “I think Chester Dare put Temperance in here to kill her.”
“But why?” I asked, a wave of rage passing through me that I couldn’t explain. “Why would he do that to his own daughter? By all accounts, he was a wonderful man and a great humanitarian. I don’t believe it.”
“He did it because she was evil,” Brynn said, her eyes shining. “Rotten to the core. Think about it—my grandmother was frightened of this girl. Maybe he was, too. Maybe he put her in here to keep her away from his other two girls. What would a ‘wonderful man and a great humanitarian’ do with a little girl who had no soul?”
Richard joined me at the sideboard, rolled his eyes, and popped open a beer. “So, you’re writing a horror novel, then,” he said to her.
“Supernatural, yes,” Brynn said.
I wondered if anything she said was true, or if she was simply extrapolating, inventing a narrative to go along with her grandmother’s journal. “You said Temperance died here,” I asked her. “How do you know that?”
“It was in the journal, and that’s the part that made me want to write this novel,” she said, grinning. “One day while she was here, Grandma Alice saw a nurse giving Temperance an injection and a short while later, the girl was dead.”
“The nurse killed her?” It was Cassandra, jumping in.
“That’s what my grandmother thought,” Brynn said. “She packed up and left here the next morning, against doctor’s orders.”
“And did she survive, your grandmother?” Cassandra asked.
“She did.” Brynn nodded, and then turned to me. “But, Miss Harper, you should know all of this. It was in my letter of application.”
The applications that had conveniently disappeared.
“I haven’t seen it, actually,” I admitted. “But, frankly, I’m astonished that Penelope Dare would sanction you turning that story into a novel. Her sister, some sort of demon? Her own father, putting a healthy daughter in with a bunch of TB patients? She idolized that man. And the nurse intentionally killing the girl? The reputation of Cliffside would be ruined. If she knew what you were intending to write, she’d get a team of lawyers to stop you. And she never would have let you come here.”
“That’s the odd thing,” Brynn said, swirling the ice in her glass. “I filled out the application as sort of a lark—I didn’t think she’d allow me to come, either. But I really wanted to write the book—or at least start writing it—here, and I was also hoping to talk to her about Temperance. So, I told her everything in my application letter and sent it off. That was just three weeks ago.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked her. “The fellows are scheduled a year in advance.”
“Not me,” Brynn said. “She called me as soon as she got my application and said she was eager to talk with me. She asked if I could come to this session, so I dropped everything and came.”
First, Richard. Now Brynn. The all-too-familiar sense of dread wrapped itself around me again, as I wondered exactly what Miss Penny had set the stage for.
CHAPTER 17
“Brynn,” Cassandra began, as we were nearly through with dessert, “did you say you brought that journal here with you?”
Brynn took a bite and nodded. “I did.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at it, for my own research?” Cassandra asked. “I’ve read a couple of journals written by TB patients who were in various facilities around the country, but I’ve never read one from a patient right here at Cliffside. I think it would contain some valuable insights.”
“I don’t know . . .” Brynn said, scowling.
“I’d actually like to take a look at it, too,” I said, jumping into the fray. “It would be a fascinating peek inside life here before it became a retreat.”
Henry reached over and put a hand on Brynn’s arm. “I think we’re all interested,” he said. “Why don’t you run upstairs and get it, and you can read parts of it to us, the parts you’re comfortable sharing, that is. You might not want other people touching it.”
Brynn looked from one to the other of us, assessing.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Diana piped up. “I’d love to hear it, too. Please?”
Brynn wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Okay,” she said, pushing her chair back from the table. “I was really taken with it, and maybe you will be, too. I’ll be back down in a minute.”
“Why don’t we retreat to the winter garden with coffee after dinner?” I suggested. “That would be a great place to hear a story.”
And so, after we had chatted over dinner, we were all sitting in the winter garden, rain trickling softly down the windows and the glass ceiling, and Brynn began to read from the journal her grandmother had written at Cliffside all those years ago:
It is my first day at Cliffside Sanatorium, the first of many, many days I will spend here. My husband gave me this diary the day before I arrived, suggesting that writing my thoughts and experiences might do me some good. How sweet of him—he’s always thinking of little things to do for me like that.
How did it all begin? It was on a Thursday when I suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood. I had been tired for a while, but I thought it was simply due to the hectic days of a new mother and wife. But the blood—it frightened me. I phoned the doctor, who told me to go to bed immediately, and that he’d come by the house in an hour. But I had the baby to put down and dinner for my husband to cook—little did I know it would be the last meal I’d prepare for a long while.
An x-ray the following day proved the diagnosis of tuberculosis in my left lung. And that was it. I was to go to a sanatorium for six months to a year. Luckily, Mr. Dare had built one not far from our home, but all the same, the idea of being away from Jim and baby Lucy for all of that time made me weak in the knees. I’m going to miss it all—her first birthday. Her first steps. Will she remember me when (or if) I am allowed to come home? It’s too much to even think about—I must steel myself to the reality of my situation and know that my time away will allow me to heal so I can be there for the other milestones. Her second birthday. The first time she learns to ride a bicycle. Her first day of school. Our fifth wedding anniversary. Even writing this now, from my chaise on the veranda, I can’t hold back the tears. How will Jim cope on his own?
Brynn stopped to take a sip of her tea and looked up at us. We were all rapt by these words, written in this very house so long ago.
“It’s so sad,” Cassandra said, leaning back in her chair. “I can’t imagine it, a young mother being away from her baby for all of that time.”
“And her husband,” I added.
“Read some more, Brynn,” Henry said. “Will you?”
“There’s an interesting part in here about the rules—what it was like day to day,” she said.
It’s my second day here and already I’ve become accustomed to the routine. The doctor and nurses have rules for me, of course, and I’ve set up rules of my own, to help me get through this confinement. I am determined to get well and go home. What are some of the rules?
Complete bed rest. I am allowed no movement, except to go to the bathroom. I am not to sit up in a chair, but instead recline on my bed or a chaise. I am to keep my strength up by eating well and breathing in the crisp, fresh air. I am allowed to write in th
is diary and write letters to friends and family for one hour per day. I may read or simply enjoy the beautiful scenery. I’m going to ask Jim, in my next letter, to send me some books. I’ll need them to stave off the boredom. Talking to other patients is discouraged—talking takes effort and taxes the lungs—but it seems completely ridiculous to restrict all talking.
Others here are on different schedules, based on how ill they are. Some may only speak in a whisper. Some are flat on their backs in bed, no reading, no writing, so I’m lucky in that regard. Some may walk about the house and grounds for an hour each day. Others may lead a more normal, yet quiet, life. The point is to get people ready to re-enter the outside world, allowing them more and more activity until they are strong and healthy once again. That is the goal for all of us, but clearly there are some who do not improve.
Those are their rules. What are my rules for myself? I am not allowed one ounce of self-pity. Yes, I am here, away from my husband and baby. I miss them terribly already. But everyone else in this place is in the same boat, and some are far, far sicker than I. Oh, their sunken eyes. Their skeletal frames. Death is all around me here. It is a daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence. And that brings me to my other rule. I am not allowed to dwell on all of the death here at Cliffside, or feel afraid. It is easy to imagine oneself in similar circumstances, to fear the worst. I cannot have one moment of that thinking. I must focus on getting well and going home and never imagine the alternative. I will see Jim and Lucy again. I must and I will.
Brynn’s voice wavered as she read that last sentence and she stopped for a moment to brush a tear from her cheek.
“She sounds like she was a great lady,” I said, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
Brynn nodded. “She was,” she said. “We lost her a few years ago, and I still can’t quite believe she’s gone.”
Henry took a sip of his tea. “You were close?”
“Oh, yes,” Brynn said. “Grandma Alice lived with us when I was growing up. She was funny and warm—she doted on my sisters and me.”
“And your mother,” Henry said, “was she the baby Alice was writing about in this diary?”
“That’s right,” Brynn said.
Diana leaned forward in her chair. “So, what happened? I mean, we know Alice got out of here, got well, and went home. But how long was she here? And did Lucy remember her?”
“She was here for almost nine months,” Brynn said. “But I only know that because of the diary. How my grandpa coped without her for all of that time, I don’t know, but I do know they stayed married and had another child, my uncle. Grandpa Jim died in the eighties, and that’s when my grandma came to live with us. My mom, of course, doesn’t remember anything from that time—she was just an infant—and my grandma never talked about it. Never. We didn’t even know she had TB until I found this diary.”
Henry rubbed his chin. “I wonder why she never talked about it,” he mused. “It’s not like there was a stigma attached to TB.”
“I think it had something to do with Temperance,” Brynn said, raising her eyebrows. “Grandma was really afraid of her. Listen to this.”
She turned several pages and began to read:
It’s the children that evoke the most pity from me and, I think, from everyone else here. I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be for these poor little ones, some as young as five and six years old, to be away from their parents, their homes, and everything they know and love, and be here in this place, surrounded by all of these sick, dying people. The third floor is their ward—it’s one big room, unlike ours—but I think that’s good. At least they’re not alone in their rooms; they have other children around them. The nurses have a hard time keeping them quiet! Some are allowed to play quietly with toys, but others must be confined to their beds. And here is the worst news: today Melody told me that Mr. Dare’s own daughter Temperance is now a patient here! My heart bleeds for that poor man. All that he’s done to help TB sufferers, and now his own child is among our sad, sorry ranks. I will be praying for her. And for him.
Brynn flipped ahead a few pages.
I can hardly write these words, but I must, before I burst. There is something wrong with that child. The Dare girl. And I don’t mean TB. Several of us believe she’s not sick at all, not with TB, that is. She’s healthy and strong, and a little terror. She leads the other children on “raids” at night—they get up out of their beds and rampage through the place. They’re so noisy and wild, they disturb everyone. She is impossible for the nurses to control, and poor Dr. Davidson is at his wits’ end with her. Everybody’s whispering about it. They’ve had to separate her from some of the children who are the sickest, because they don’t get any rest when she’s there. Four of them died yesterday—four in one day! I saw Dr. Davidson break down and weep when he learned they had passed. I heard the nurses say all four of them seemed to be on the mend. Dr. Davidson was so hopeful they’d go home.
But there’s something more than just an unruly, disobedient child in this girl. It’s the look in her eyes. They are completely devoid of any . . . how can I put this? It’s like they’re a doll’s eyes. Not human. Or even alive. They’re dark and dead and cold. She looks at you, and—I know this sounds crazy—but it seems as though she is wishing you dead. That’s a terrible thing to say about a child, but I must say it. She is not right in the head, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. This also sounds crazy, but that little girl scares me. I had intended to do my small part to watch out for Mr. Dare’s daughter, but I don’t want her anywhere near me, and I’m not the only one. I’m going to go to one of the nurses and request she be kept separate from us.
“There’s a couple more entries that don’t mention her, but here’s the next one that does,” Brynn said. Everyone was leaning forward in their chairs—you could have heard a pin drop.
I am writing this from a café in town, having left Cliffside Sanatorium. A few others and I simply walked away during our exercise hour and were given a ride to town by a passing car. We have left our things behind—they can be retrieved later. The only thing I took was this diary. The lady who runs this café was good enough to let me use her telephone. I called Jim, and he is picking me up in a few hours, so I have some time to sit, have a meal, and gather my thoughts. I wanted to put this on paper so I’d have a record of it, should I ever need it. I will write it down, close this book, and never open it again, unless the need arises. Here is my story of the terrible events that took place today.
I happened to be passing through the drawing room when I saw Mr. Dare, Dr. Davidson, and one of the nurses huddled in a very serious conversation. Normally, I wouldn’t stoop to eavesdropping, but I heard the name Temperance and it stopped me. I wanted to hear what they were discussing because, earlier in the week, I had gone to the nurse to tell her I didn’t want Temperance anywhere near me and relayed a message from several of us that something needed to be done about this girl. I don’t know what the doctor and Mr. Dare and this nurse were talking about, I couldn’t hear much more, but I did hear the words today and morphine.
A few hours later, it was the children’s outside time. (Adults are inside at this time.) I was watching from the window in my room as that same nurse (I’m omitting her name for her own safety, and mine, I suppose) came to check on the children who were on the chaises on the veranda. Temperance was one of those. She was playing with a doll. I watched as the nurse gave her an injection, to much protest from the girl, but she gave it all the same, and I watched as Temperance leaned back and lay down on the chaise—the first time I had ever seen her quiet. I thought the nurse had given her something to help her nap. The nurse left very quickly—where she went, I have no idea. But a while later, Dr. Davidson came on the scene, checked Temperance’s pulse, and listened to her heart. I thought she was sleeping.
Things got a bit hectic after that. Another nurse ushered the rest of the children into the house. Mr. Dare and his other two daughters were here, and he joined the doctor
at Temperance’s side. He patted Dr. Davidson on the back and thanked him before breaking down in tears and covering her body with the white blanket on the chair. He sobbed at her side for a long, long time. And I realized the little girl was dead!! I watched the whole thing unfold!
That’s when I decided to leave Cliffside. I don’t want to compromise my own health, but I am strong and getting stronger. I simply cannot stay in that place anymore after what I saw. I will never mention it to anyone, except to Jim, but I believe they killed that girl because she was a monster. I don’t think she ever had TB. I think he put her in here to infect her, and when that didn’t work, they took matters into their own hands. God help them all.
CHAPTER 18
It had stopped raining while Brynn was telling her tale, and after hearing it, I think everyone needed to clear their heads. So, Brynn, Richard, Henry, and Cassandra decided to walk around the grounds in the fading light. Diana retreated to her suite, exhausted, she said, from her flurry of productivity that day.
The group had asked me to walk with them, but I declined. After hearing what Brynn’s grandmother had written about Temperance, I was unsettled and even angry. This sounded like a very credible eyewitness account of a murder, but as the director of Cliffside, I simply could not accept that Chester Dare had anything to do with it. It felt like an affront to me, more personal than I could explain.
I decided to seek out Harriet. Maybe she could shed some light on it. I didn’t know whether to believe Brynn’s tale or not—maybe her grandmother hadn’t seen what she thought she had—but after hearing her story, I wanted to find out more.
I pushed through the door to the kitchen and found Harriet loading plates into the dishwasher.
“Something I can do for you, Miss Harper?”
I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank down into it, not knowing quite how to ask what I wanted to.
“I just heard the strangest story from one of the fellows,” I began. “It was about a third Dare sister. Temperance.”
