by John Simpson
Ryan turned left and found the room that had been designated for him. As he switched on the light, more memories of playing in the large bedroom as a child flooded him. He put his bags down and walked around looking at artwork that had been placed on the walls. He flicked on the bathroom light and saw that it was as spotless as the rest of the house that he had seen so far. Rosemary was obviously a top-notch housekeeper.
He unpacked his clothes and dressed for dinner. Sitting down in an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace, he became lost in memories of his uncle. He thought back to when the family had gathered in this great house during the summer and the fun and food that filled the lives of the family in those early days. He was filled with warmth at remembering the happiness of those times. A knock on the door startled Ryan back to the present day as he got up to answer.
“Sorry to disturb you sir, but it’s past eight o’clock,” said Rosemary.
Ryan looked down at his watch and saw that he had been lost in time for longer than he’d thought. “I’m sorry, Rosemary; I got lost in my memories. I’ll be right down.”
Ryan walked into his bathroom, ran some water, and splashed it on his face. After drying his sand-colored hair, he quickly combed it and gave himself the once over. Satisfied, he left his bedroom for the dining room. There he found a sixteen-foot mahogany Duncan Fife table with matching chairs. One end had a dinner place set for Ryan, and he took his place at the head of the table. The candles were lit, and Rosemary brought out Ryan’s dinner. When she left the dining room, Ryan felt lonely sitting in this large house, eating dinner by himself. How did his uncle live day in and day out like this? This would take getting used to, Ryan thought.
The food was simple but delicious. Baked boneless breast of chicken, potatoes Lyonnaise, green beans, butter biscuits, and iced tea. Ryan didn’t realize how hungry he was until he began to eat. When he was finished, he started to get up, and Rosemary glided into the dining room.
“Would you like dessert, sir?”
“Not tonight, thank you. That was incredible. My uncle was very fortunate to have you for a housekeeper. How long did you work for him?” Ryan asked.
“I’ve worked here for the past two years now, sir,” she replied.
“Oh please, call me Ryan. I’m far too young for you to be calling me ‘sir’,” Ryan said with a laugh.
“Thank you, Ryan. Will there be anything else tonight?”
“Would it be possible to have a pitcher of this iced tea? I drink a lot, and this was really well done.”
“Why of course, sir, err, Ryan. I’ll put it in the refrigerator.”
As he left the table, he paused to ask another question. “I don’t know if you live here or just come in for meals and cleaning.”
“I have a room that I used on occasions when your uncle requested me to stay overnight for a party or special dinner. Since you arrived so late, I’ll probably stay tonight. My eyes aren’t what they use to be, and I don’t like to drive this late.”
“Fine, I’ll see you in the morning. What time do you usually make breakfast?”
“Oh, I’m up at five-thirty usually, so whenever you get up, just holler, and I’ll make you whatever you’d like.”
“Okay, goodnight then,” he said as went to the staircase that would take him to the bedrooms.
On the second floor, he entered his uncle’s bedroom instead of his own. Curiously, he wandered around opening drawers, looking in closets and moving curtains aside. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—if anything—but he felt a strong desire to explore that bedroom. The only thing of any interest was a large, heavy black book with a lock. He looked for a key, but was unable to find one, so he took the book with him to examine it at his leisure
Chapter Two
RYAN looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle and saw that it was only nine-fifteen in the evening. In spite of the time difference, he didn’t feel tired. What he did feel was a chill; the temperature in the room hovered around sixty degrees Fahrenheit, which was a good deal colder than he was used to these days.
“Should I make a fire to warm up the room?” he wondered aloud. Was the fireplace in proper working order, or would he have a room full of smoke? Ryan decided to leave well enough alone and climb under a blanket with his letter opener and the black book. He wedged the blade between the latch and the latch plate and attempted to pop the locking bar open. After a couple of minutes of hard work, the lock flipped open, and he put the letter opener on the nightstand.
He eagerly scanned the first page, which was dated September 8, 1979. Ryan realized that what he had in his hands was his uncle’s journal. No wonder the book was so thick. He quickly flipped through the pages and saw the years fly by. Toward the end, he found a heading that simply read “2009.” He turned more pages and found that the diary had entries right up until the day Uncle Benjamin died. Here was thirty years of someone’s life and most intimate thoughts. Should he read it? Would it violate his uncle’s privacy somehow? Ryan supposed that if a person wrote all this down knowing that one day they would die, the intent must have been for someone to read it—all of the thoughts, dreams, disappointments, and heartaches along with the loves of his life, his successes, and his failures.
Ryan decided that he would flip back until the diary was recording entries from the beginning of the new millennium. When he found the entry for January 1, 2000, he began to read the fine script of his uncle’s hand. Some days only had a word or two, and others had half a page full of details about the events of that date. It was all pretty routine, and Ryan, tired from a long day, began to grow sleepy. Remembering that he had his uncle’s funeral in the morning, he decided to go to bed.
Closing the book with a thud, he put it on the floor and turned off the light by the bed. The house was quiet except for the typical odd sounds here and there that reflected its age. Ryan turned onto his side and after a short while, fell asleep.
THE next morning, Ryan got up, showered and dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast. Rosemary was already up and greeted him with a smile.
“Good morning. Did you sleep all right?” she asked.
“Not bad, but it took a little getting used to the creaks and groans of the house before I nodded off,” he replied.
“Ah, well, you just put those sounds out of your head and ignore them. That’s what I do when I sleep here. We have to leave in a little over an hour for your uncle’s funeral, so what would you like for breakfast?”
“Let’s keep it simple. How about coffee, OJ, and toast with butter?”
“Coming right up. Now you go and sit down, and I’ll bring it all to you,” she said as she turned to go.
Ryan wandered back into the dining room and noted that a place had been set for breakfast in the same spot dinner had been. He took a seat just as the wooden doors to the kitchen swung open, and Rosemary entered with a silver coffee service. She poured coffee for him and smiled before returning to the kitchen.
After the rest of the breakfast was served, Ryan asked her to join him for coffee. “Oh, thank you, but I never sit at the table. Your uncle was very precise on that point. Besides, I’ve had all the coffee I can handle for one morning. If you need anything else, just push the button on the floor near the right table leg.”
Ryan looked down and remembered the floor button for letting the kitchen know that you needed something. He felt silly even thinking of pushing the damn thing. He’d just as soon get up and go into the kitchen.
When he was finished, he returned upstairs to get his overcoat and gloves and came down to find Rosemary waiting by the front door.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I never did like funerals, and I’d just as soon get this one over,” she replied.
When they got out of the car at the funeral home, Rosemary turned to Ryan. “If you want to invite anyone back to Stanton Hall for lunch, I stocked up on supplies for sandwiches and the like. Your uncle never al
lowed alcohol in the house, so I’m afraid there’s nothing for drinks, but I can serve iced tea and coffee.”
“Thank you. Maybe I’ll ask the priest and the lawyer. We’ll see,” he said as they walked into the funeral home together.
The memorial service was moderately attended by members of the community and local government who had dealings with the family over the years. The young priest, Father Ken, did a superb job for not having known his uncle personally, and everyone seemed satisfied that proper respect had been paid. At the appropriate time, Ryan pulled the priest and attorney aside and invited them to Stanton Hall for lunch. Both accepted the invitation, much to Ryan’s pleasure.
As they took off their coats in the hall, Rosemary went to the kitchen to prepare sandwiches and coffee. “Shall we go into the living room?” Ryan suggested.
As they found seats, Ryan apologized. “I’d offer you something alcoholic to drink, but I understand there’s nothing in the house of that nature. Rosemary will be serving coffee or iced tea with lunch.”
“Oh, that’s more than fine, Ryan. I don’t drink during the daytime anyway,” replied the young curate from the local parish.
“Tell me, Father, how long have you been at St. John’s?” Ryan asked.
“I took up my assignment just a little over three months ago. That’s why I never really got that much of a chance to know your uncle. He only came to Mass once in a while, and I was never invited out here to the house. I understand he was a generous man who remembered more than one charity monthly.”
“Yes, that he did,” chimed in Mark.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with this magnificent house?” asked Father Ken.
“Actually, I’m leaning toward living in it. Now that the family is so small, this house becomes the largest symbol of what was once a powerful family with a lot of influence. This house was built with the hard work of my ancestors and maintained by my uncle. If I were to sell it, I’d feel that I betrayed those who came before me. When exactly will it be mine, Mark?”
“The will was filed in probate court yesterday, so I would imagine that within six to nine months, the deed will be officially transferred into your name, along with the taxes,” he replied with a laugh.
“I have to talk to some friends back in L.A., but I really feel that keeping this old place is what I want to do. I write for Silver Screen studios, which I can do anywhere, and there’s certainly no shortage of office space in this house.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen; lunch is served,” Rosemary announced.
After the meal, both guests said their goodbyes and left with promises to check on Ryan.
As Mark drove back to the office, he couldn’t help thinking about Ryan’s smile, good looks, and obvious sex appeal. The knowledge that Ryan was going to keep Stanton Hall and live there was a major bit of good news. Mark wondered if there were any chance that he could be gay. Audubon needed young gay men, and Ryan would be an outstanding addition. Could he be that lucky?
AS RYAN passed through the hall on his way to set up his office in the same place his uncle had used, Rosemary stopped him.
“Ryan, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course, what is it?”
“I’m afraid I won’t be staying on here. I want to retire and move to Wyoming with my sister. She lost her husband six months ago and is all alone in the world now. She asked me to come and stay with her, and I’ve agreed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s obvious that you took good care of my uncle and this house, and I was looking forward to that continuing. However, I certainly understand family obligations. When will you be leaving?”
“This will be my two weeks’ notice. If you have to have me after that, I might be able to stay a few more days.”
“I see. No, two weeks is good, and I appreciate your giving notice like this. I’m sorry to lose you, but we have our own lives to live.” Ryan smiled and went into what was to become his office.
Ryan spent the rest of the day cleaning his uncle’s things out of the office and moving what little he had with him into the office. He made several telephone calls and talked with friends whom he was leaving behind in California. He called a trusted friend and asked him to shut down his house and to ship the things he wanted to Pennsylvania.
Next, he phoned the local cable Internet provider and ordered cable to be installed. Stanton Hall was finally coming into the twenty-first century. He also ordered satellite television; he couldn’t bear not having access to all his favorite TV shows. He decided to buy a car after he returned the rental. In L.A., he relied on public transportation or friends to get around, but those things weren’t available in Audubon. He now had the money and credit to purchase almost anything that he wanted, so why not buy a car?
THAT night he had a quiet dinner and took a walk around the property at dusk. There was a formal garden behind the house filled with rosebushes and all manner of flowers that he’d loved to spend time in during the summer. In the middle was a fountain of French design that added to the ambiance of the setting. Beyond were trees and fields for a total of forty-nine acres. As he walked along the tree line, he came upon the old road that he had been forbidden to enter as a child. It was still chained off and overgrown with weeds and seedlings. Two signs guarded the entrance: “No Trespassing” and “Do Not Enter.”
Ryan stooped under the chain and set his feet upon the long forbidden path. Checking his watch, he found that it was almost seven forty-five. It would be dark in another fifteen minutes, and he began to walk faster. The air turned cooler the deeper he walked into the woods. He couldn’t imagine what was at the end of the road that he had been told to stay clear of even in the daytime.
Finally, after ten minutes of walking, he came to a clearing on the right of the roadway. In the rapidly fading light stood a building that was fairly plain to the eye except for the six-foot chimney on top. He was tempted to go over and find out what he owned in addition to the manor house, but he feared being stuck out here in the dark.
Turning on his heels, he jogged back down the dirt road. He would return to the mysterious building in the daytime and explore all that was now his. When he got back to the house, he found Rosemary had gone, and since there was no television yet, he decided to lock up and go to bed.
He stoked the fire, climbed into bed, and once again opened his uncle’s journal and began to read. He thumbed through the pages, skipping the brief entries that contained nothing but the notation “good day” or “bad day.” Those days when Benjamin didn’t feel well had only had the word “sick” written under the date. Ryan was becoming bored once again when he came to a couple more lengthy entries that contained the words “surprise” and “fear.”
The date was April 21, 2000, and his uncle’s handwriting was slightly larger than the previous entries.
Today began like any other day, filled with the revelations of spring. The winter was long, and I was tired of everything around me looking quite dead. Late this afternoon, I went to my office, as is my habit, when something very odd happened. I was writing out checks for various bills and house needs when the door to the office slammed shut as if some great wind had taken hold of it and smashed it into the doorframe. I came off my chair by at least two feet. I got up to see if someone had opened the main door to the house, which might have created suction to make the door slam shut. All was as it had been in the moments before I entered my office.
I returned to my desk, giving one more look at the offending door. When I sat to continue writing checks, the checkbook was no longer in the center of my desk. I searched the desktop to no avail. The checkbook was simply not there. I got up to look in the closet to see if someone hidden there was playing a joke on me, but of course, there was no one.
Fear began to grip me as the coincidence of the door slamming and the checkbook vanishing was more than I could chalk up to a figment of my imagination or a natural occurrence. There must be a rational explan
ation for the occurrence, but I could not puzzle it out.
Later, I stopped by my bedroom to retrieve a ring that I wanted to take to the jeweler for repair. Lying in the middle of the bed was my blasted checkbook! I am certain that I did not remove it from the office, so who did? I’ll check with Rosemary when she gets back from her grocery shopping.
The entry ended with no more added for the day. “Was the old boy losing it as early as 2000?” Ryan wondered before he returned to his reading
April 22, 2000
I asked Rosemary at breakfast if she was responsible for placing my checkbook in the bedroom. She showed complete surprise and said that she was at the supermarket when the event occurred. She raised an eyebrow at me and went back into the kitchen. I think she thinks I’m nuts!
The rest of the day was uneventful, and I will attribute the strange events of yesterday to my lack of attention to what I was doing. How else could the checkbook have possibly moved into my bedroom?
A chill ran down Ryan’s spine and ended at his feet. He didn’t really believe in the supernatural, but reading his uncle’s account was a bit bothersome. It made far more sense to suspect his uncle’s soundness of mind over any other possible explanation.
He skimmed the next month’s worth of entries and found nothing as interesting as the events of April 21. A yawn escaped Ryan’s mouth and he decided to go to sleep early, as it had been a long hard day that included the burial of his uncle.
THE next day, Ryan telephoned Mark. “I have a favor to ask of you. Could you possibly pick me up at the car rental place and take me to the car lot in Audubon? I wanna buy a car since I’m gonna live here.”
