Winterhouse

by Ben Guterson

  “Yeah, but she left Winterhouse a long time ago.”

  Elizabeth took a few steps toward the door. There was a small sticker beside the lock that said NO ADMITTANCE. She studied the pile of glass and then looked up at the now-uncovered bulb above her. “You’re right,” she said. “We should tell someone about this mess.”

  “Absolutely,” Freddy said. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  Elizabeth reached a hand toward the door but did not touch it. Dangerous, she thought. She also thought that she wanted to see what was in that room.

  * * *

  After they found a bellhop and told him about the broken glass, Freddy led Elizabeth down one last corridor and then came to a stop when they rounded another corner. He pushed open a wooden door, and he and Elizabeth stepped through. The two of them were in an enormous hall, dimly lit and windowless, whose walls were lined with paintings—portraits, each one, from what she could see.

  “Incredible,” she said, whispering, because the huge room echoed, and it seemed the sort of place where you should be quiet. “This is like a museum.”

  Freddy began to wander off. “They’re paintings of the whole Falls lineage,” he whispered.

  She followed Freddy, gaping at the portraits around her.

  “There’s a lot of history here,” Freddy said. “I don’t come here very often, but I like to look at these pictures and think about what these people were like.”

  For the next half hour—while Freddy told her as much as he knew about each person—Elizabeth studied every picture in the hall, starting at the beginning. There was a painting of Nestor Falls, founder of Winterhouse and the oldest member of the family, sitting in front of a bookcase with an open book on his lap, a pipe in his mouth, and dressed like the Canadian Mountie she remembered from a book called Yukon King she’d once read; beside him was his wife, Lavina, who wore a rose in her hair and was as beautiful as any princess Elizabeth could imagine. There were portraits of an Edgar Falls, a Lambert Falls, a Ravenna Falls, and about thirty more—some young, some old, some kind-looking, some severe, some beautiful, some not so beautiful.

  There were children and grandchildren; some portraits were of the same person at different stages—as a child and then again as an old man; and there were even some portraits of pet dogs or cats, and a few paintings of groups of five or six people. She even found one of Norbridge painted in 1989, when he was fifty-three; a portrait of his wife, Maria, was beside him. She looks like an actress, Elizabeth thought. It was as if the names she’d read on the family tree outside of Winter Hall had come to life.

  As she came to the end of the gallery, she found two pictures next to each other and done in identical style—a background of what appeared to be Lake Luna, and a flutter of banners rimming all around—and of two people who looked remarkably alike. She looked closer: NORBRIDGE FALLS read the plaque beneath one picture; GRACELLA FALLS read the plaque beneath the other. They were children, maybe ten years old; but Elizabeth could see a look in Norbridge’s eyes that he had carried with him all through his life, something generous and honest. The girl Gracella, though, as much as she resembled Norbridge, had a look of wariness in her eyes that the artist had captured. It looked distant and appraising. Elizabeth felt a chill go down her spine, a feeling like the one she’d had after she’d awakened from her nightmare on the bus.

  “So that’s his sister,” she said to Freddy, thinking of the locked room that had belonged to her. “They look alike.”

  “Twins,” Freddy said. “They say she was kind of strange. I guess she ran away one night when she was about eighteen. No one’s ever seen her again.”

  Elizabeth stared at the portrait. “I wonder what happened to her.”

  “You want to hear something really creepy? A couple of the old-timers here told me she got into black magic, and that’s why she ran away. Some of them said that if you go to the library at midnight and say her name three times out loud, she’ll return to Winterhouse.”

  Elizabeth turned to him but he said nothing more. She looked at the painting of Gracella. “That is creepy,” she said. “I guess there are all sorts of crazy stories at a place like this.”

  “Want to get going?” Freddy said.

  “Just a couple more minutes,” Elizabeth said as she moved on to look at one last painting. It was a picture of a blond-haired girl on a summer day, blue mountains rising behind her amid a clear, bright light. She wore a powder-blue dress and had a thin scarf around her neck; she was smiling warmly.

  Elizabeth leaned in to read the plaque: WINIFRED “WINNIE” FALLS, B. 1983. DAUGHTER OF NORBRIDGE AND MARIA.

  “Norbridge’s daughter?” Elizabeth said. The date next to the artist’s name was 1996. “She was thirteen here. I wonder where she is now.”

  “I guess she left a while ago, too,” Freddy said, “but no one says much about her. She died a few years ago.”

  “That’s sad,” Elizabeth said, looking at the picture.

  The bells chimed for dinner, and even though Elizabeth wanted to study the portrait of Winnie further, she and Freddy headed for the door. As they were about to walk out, Elizabeth gave a quick glance at the portrait of Nestor Falls and realized there was something odd about it, something that had nagged at her ever since she’d studied it fifteen minutes before.

  “What?” Freddy said as Elizabeth stood looking at the painting.

  “So many books on the shelves behind him,” Elizabeth said, though she wasn’t sure why this seemed so odd to her. “Look at the book he’s holding. Do you see something?”

  In the painting, Nestor sat with an open book on his lap, as though he’d just set it down for a moment while the painter went about his work. On the only two pages that were visible, printed in small letters, were the following lines:

  Yhmll bozwz tf ubuj azx ttrm mofn qgr

  Yhmr otll fvwe xhdjr bahs ywn’k yhqgr

  Fnl bm doc’ol yriolqel hu yhql ytal

  Rvz’vm lvqvmw td Vqzlsezx jtdm

  Bm nn ghbw higkx ywn otll Moj Bwhr

  Nt’a nw yo ghb yhmg—zfivm vw czhvp?

  In ba’x tpx sfsb, ul hrcxs, ge utk

  Fnl nayez mons: “Q votoax ame jtk”

  Gub bm yhm ypwsb, vhqm qy ftu ehbqd

  Qgatnm cbxt bapx: “I kavtsm moj gwhk”

  N wzbaj tpxzj lqglx ov Tbluam lngpmo

  Weuxtgez tsbagl: Rjex moj fibam!

  “I never looked that closely,” Freddy said as he studied the book in the portrait. “That’s just a bunch of nonsense written there.”

  “Exactly,” Elizabeth said. She turned to Freddy with wide eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “It looks like a secret message!” Freddy said.

  Before he’d gotten the last word out of his mouth, all the lights in the ceiling high above them blinked out, and the portrait gallery was thrown into complete darkness.

  CHAPTER 14

  A DINNERTIME TALE

  SALE

  SOLE

  DOLE

  DOVE

  “Hey, hey, who turned the lights out?” Freddy and Elizabeth began to yell at the same time. “We’re in here!”

  And with that, the lights came back on and Jackson, in his crisp red bellhop uniform, came dashing into the room.

  “Very sorry, you two!” he called out. “My sincere apologies! I had no idea anyone was inside. I was just closing things down for dinner.”

  He was holding his hands up as he rushed to them, as if to indicate just how sorry he was.

  “We were getting ready to leave,” Freddy said. “We were just looking at the paintings.”

  Jackson stopped before them and put a hand to his chest to still his excitement. “Of course you were!” he said. “Of course! I switched off the lights from out in the corridor and didn’t imagine anyone was in here.” He looked to Elizabeth. “How are you, Miss Somers?”

  “Freddy’s been showing me all around,” she said. She liked Jackson instinctively. He had an honest,
pleasant face, the exact opposite of her uncle Burlap, who always looked as though he was adding things up or planning to do something once your back was turned.

  “Outstanding!” Jackson said. “No one better for the job than Winterhouse’s foremost inventor.” He tapped his wrist. “But dinner is approaching, and all the guests should be making their way to the dining hall.”

  “We’re heading there now,” Elizabeth said. “But may I ask one quick question?” Jackson nodded, and Elizabeth pointed to the portrait of Nestor. “We noticed something that looks like nonsense writing on the book Nestor Falls is holding. Do you know what that’s all about?”

  Jackson’s face brightened, as though Elizabeth had just cleared up some confusion for him. “Ah, the mystery lines from Mr. Nestor Falls’s portrait,” he said, and then he shook his head. “Many of us here at Winterhouse have noticed that, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever determined what those letters add up to or why they are on that book. I’ve asked Mr. Norbridge Falls himself about it, and even he has no idea.” Jackson shook his head again. “A complete and utter…” His sentence drifted off as he searched for the proper way to end it.

  “Conundrum!” Elizabeth said.

  “Nice word!” Freddy said.

  “Outstanding word!” Jackson said. He tapped his wrist again. “Now, let’s be on our way to Winter Hall.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth and Freddy speculated about the twelve-line message over dinner, all while replaying the events of the day and discussing their plan to tell Norbridge about Elizabeth’s run-in with Marcus Q. Hiems.

  “Maybe we can talk to Norbridge after dinner,” Elizabeth said as they were eating apple pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. It was at that moment that the lights in the hall dimmed and the guests at the many tables turned to the open space in front of the enormous, crackling fire to see Norbridge himself standing there. He had on the same clothes he’d worn each time Elizabeth had seen him—the boots and the bow tie, the wool jacket and white shirt—or, at least, the outfit he had on was identical to what she’d seen him in before. Everyone quieted down—conversation died and forks and spoons clinked into place—as Norbridge stood and surveyed the crowd. The fire popped and danced behind him.

  “I think he’s going to do a magic trick,” Freddy whispered to Elizabeth.

  “Good evening, dear guests!” Norbridge said, his voice echoing. “Tonight we are together here in Winter Hall, and we have shared a meal unlike any that will ever be served again.” He paused, glanced around. “Until tomorrow night.” The audience laughed; Norbridge took a deep breath and continued.

  “Some of you have joined us this evening for the very first time. Others of you have been here before. Many of you are entering the last part of the beginning of your stay, while others are nearing the start of the final portion of your time here, and so on, in other combinations. To each one of you I say: Welcome. Or: Glad you have been here for however long you have been here. Just remember, while you are within these walls, Winterhouse is your home, and those of us who work here are, in some way, your family. Our goal—our desire!—is for your happiness and contentment, and I hope that in some small way this joyous dinner tonight has been a part of that. My wish is that in the good company and with the good food we have all enjoyed here tonight, each of us has felt the spirit of goodness, the spirit of happiness, that Winterhouse offers.”

  At this point Norbridge paused and put a hand to his forehead as if to still his thoughts; he spread his arms wide to encompass the entire room.

  “And now,” he said quietly, “a bit of magic.”

  The lights dimmed more, and two of the servers from the kitchen carried a small table out and placed it before Norbridge. It looked to Elizabeth as though there were two napkins on the table, one black and one white, and nothing else; when Norbridge picked up the two pieces of cloth and slipped them onto his hands, she realized they were puppets. One was dressed in black and wore a pointed hat; the other, much smaller, was dressed in white and had brown hair.

  “A story!” Norbridge called out before lowering his voice. “And I will keep it brief, because I recognize I have interrupted your dessert.” Laughter rose from the tables. Norbridge lifted the two figures before him. The room grew quiet again.

  “There once was a girl who lived with her mother and father in a small house in the forest,” he said, wiggling the white figure. “They were a peasant family and very poor, but they all loved each other dearly. One dark winter night there was a knock on their door, and because they were kind people and always willing to help strangers even though they had so little themselves, they opened the door and allowed in an old woman. She told them she had become lost while traveling and needed some refuge from the cold and dark.” He wiggled the figure in black. “What they did not know was that this visitor was, in actuality, an evil witch.

  “They shared their dinner with the old woman and gave her a small cot on which to sleep, and then they all lay down for the night.” Norbridge dropped his hands onto the table so that the two puppets lay flat, and then he made the witch pop up. “But after midnight, when she felt certain the other three were fast asleep, the witch awoke and uttered a spell while lighting a magical candle, the power of which was that it made those who were already asleep continue in that state without interruption as long as the candle remained lit. Unbeknownst to the witch, however, the young girl had been suspicious of her from the start and had never fallen asleep.” Norbridge made the figure in white wiggle slightly while still lying on the table.

  “The witch went and stared down at the father on his cot. She went and stared at the mother on hers. And then she went and stared at the girl as she slept.” He moved the puppet of the witch so that it hovered over the puppet of the girl. “She stared down at the girl because she had a feeling the girl might not truly be asleep, but the girl lay motionless, sensing the witch’s face just inches from her own. She was terrified, and she felt her heart pounding, but she knew she had to remain perfectly still if she was to have any hope of saving her family from the witch. For a long, long while, the witch studied her in silence.”

  Elizabeth was transfixed. Her own heart was beginning to pound, and she sat waiting to hear what would happen next. The silence lasted for a long moment, and in that pause Elizabeth shifted her gaze to a table several over to her left and saw the woman in black staring at her. She gasped.

  “You okay?” Freddy whispered. The woman in black looked away, and Elizabeth sank into her seat to avoid seeing her again.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, though she had felt so startled at the sight of the woman, she was distracted as she returned her gaze to the magic show.

  Norbridge lifted the black figure away from the sleeping girl. “When the witch was certain the young girl was asleep, she moved over to the father and pulled a long blade out from under her cloak. At that moment the girl leapt up and dashed the candle to the ground while calling out her father’s name.” Norbridge moved the two figures around in a fury. “The father rose up and took the blade from the witch and did to her what she had intended to do to him!”

  With that, Norbridge threw the black puppet upward from his hand and, to the sound of four hundred simultaneous gasps, it turned into a large raven that flapped its wings and rose above the crowd. It gave a loud caw and then streaked to the rear of the hall and through the open doors and was gone. Everyone began to laugh or call out in amazement, and a ripple of applause began and then became a crescendo.

  “And the girl!” Norbridge shouted, interrupting the clamor. “The brave girl who had risked so much to save her parents, she stood and hugged them and hugged them as though she’d not seen them in years and was suddenly back in their arms.” At this he tossed the second puppet into the air, and where there had been a white cloth there was suddenly a beautiful white dove, fluttering just above Norbridge’s head before settling onto his shoulder and pecking at the air in perfect contentment.


  “The end!” Norbridge yelled.

  The crowd erupted in applause, a thundering, enormous noise of cheers and shouts and clapping and banging on the tables as half the people stood in ovation and the other half sat in stupefaction.

  Elizabeth was stunned, felt chills running up and down her back as she stood and began clapping madly. “How did he do that?” she said to Freddy, who was also standing and clapping.

  “No idea!” he said. “The man’s incredible!”

  Elizabeth put a hand on the pendant under her blouse and glanced over to see if the woman in black was still looking at her, but she seemed to have disappeared.

  “There is a concert by our lovely choir tonight in Grace Hall,” Norbridge called above the noise as it began to calm. “I hope to join you all there!”

  With that, he headed for the kitchen door and scurried off.

  “Let’s talk to him before he slips away!” Elizabeth said.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE LIBRARY AT NIGHT—ONCE MORE

  MODE

  RODE

  RIDE

  HIDE

  They were unable to find Norbridge after dinner. Jackson explained that he’d needed to attend to some hotel business, but he said he would let Norbridge know they wanted to talk to him. Elizabeth and Freddy decided to take a quick swim before the concert, and so she headed back to her room to grab the swimsuit that had been laid out for her in the wardrobe and then left to find the pool. On her way, Elizabeth stopped in the lobby to see if the two men were back at work on their puzzle. She felt bad about not helping them yet, and it seemed that the evening was already shaping up to be very full and so she might not have the opportunity at all until the next day; she wanted, at least, to check in.

  When she entered the lobby, Mr. Wellington and Mr. Rajput were standing beside their table again, studying the puzzle pieces intently. Their deep focus and the way their eyes scanned here and there made Elizabeth think of two old men she sometimes saw playing chess at the library in Drere: they would sit examining the board for a long, long time, lost in contemplation.