Seclusion
Pamela Linville hated the formal dinners Burgess Press threw whenever one of its authors received national recognition or a major literary award. Although no one at the publishing house cared much for Humphrey Sloane as a person, everyone agreed that he deserved his Pulitzer Prize; and although attendance at the celebration dinner was not exactly mandatory, editor Abner Crowley strongly urged all his writers to attend.
On the night of Humphrey Sloane's dinner, Pamela arrived at Boston's Fairmont Copley Plaza fashionably late. Many of Burgess's authors were already there. Decked in diamonds as usual, Yvette Delacroix, the self-proclaimed queen of romantic fiction, was possessively clinging to the arm of her fourth husband, a man more than ten years her junior. Both Donovan Greer, a bestselling science fiction writer, and Parker Holtzman, a master of horror, who were attending with their wives rather than their mistresses, looked extremely bored and irritable. Sloane, the guest of honor, rarely ventured far from the open bar. Also in attendance were editors, proofreaders, typesetters, salesmen and administrative personnel.
One face stood apart from all the others, a face that Pamela surely would have remembered had she ever seen it before. When the incredibly handsome man sat down next to her at dinner, her pulse began to race.
"I don't believe we've been introduced," he declared, as he crumbled his seating card into a ball and put it into his pocket.
"I'm Pamela Linville."
"Are you an editor?" he asked.
"No, I'm an author."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you a writer of steamy bodice-rippers like Yvette Delacroix?"
"No," she laughed. "I write gothic romances like Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre and Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights. What about you?"
"I'm Graham McDonald. I've just had my first book published. It's due to hit bookstore shelves in about three months."
"What kind of book is it?"
"Nothing interesting. Just a how-to book: The Complete Guide to Automotive Maintenance. If you'd like, I'll give you an autographed copy when it comes out," he joked.
"I'm afraid that's one book I won't need. I don't own a car. In fact, I don't even know how to drive."
"You're kidding, right? This is the Eighties. I thought every American over sixteen knew how to drive."
"I've lived in Boston all my life. I take mass transit."
"I guess when we get married the first thing I'll have to do is teach you how to drive."
Pamela was speechless, flabbergasted at receiving a marriage proposal—even a humorous one—from a man she only just met.
Whether or not Graham's comment was made in jest, the two writers did get married just after his book appeared in bookstores. His work, however, was not a how-to book on car repairs. It was a psychological thriller that eventually made it to The New York Times Best Seller List.
When the newlywed couple returned from their honeymoon in Hawaii, Pamela jokingly reminded her husband that it was time for him to teach her to drive.
"I'm afraid your lessons are going to have to wait," Graham apologized. "Burgess is after me to write a second novel."
It was welcome news to Pamela. Since meeting Graham, she had barely written a word.
"We both need to get back to work," she announced with an encouraging smile.
"Which brings me to the subject of your wedding present."
"What is it? A Selectric typewriter? Or did you really go overboard and buy me one of those new personal computers?"
"Better than that. We're going on a little vacation."
"Why do we need a vacation? We just got back from our honeymoon."
"This is a working vacation. I'm talking about a few months in some secluded place where we can both write without any distractions, someplace far from the crowds and noise of Boston."
"Where will we go?"
"We could go to some lonely moor or a centuries-old castle, like in the setting of one of your books, but I don't think we'll find either one in New England. So how about an old Victorian mansion in rural Maine?"
Since Pamela was a homebody at heart, the idea of leaving Beacon Hill for any length of time did not appeal to her, but she supposed as long as she was with Graham, she would be happy.
* * *
"You weren't kidding when you said this was a mansion," Pamela exclaimed when she first glimpsed Whitlock House standing amidst the towering pine trees. "How did you ever find this place out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"I called a real estate agent and told her I wanted to get away from it all, and here we are. The pantry is stocked, there are two cords of firewood, and I purchased a few reams of typing bond and several boxes of ink cartridges and correcting tape for the typewriters."
When Pamela walked through the front door, it was like stepping back in time. The furnishings, carpets and wallpaper were all reminiscent of a bygone era.
"I'm surprised this house has electricity," she laughed as she examined the silver candelabra on the fireplace mantel.
"Even better," her husband teased, "it has indoor plumbing."
"I see you made it safely," a voice spoke from atop the grand staircase.
Pamela looked up and saw a severe-looking woman who had all the charm and warmth of Mrs. Danvers, the villainous housekeeper in Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca.
"I assume you're the housekeeper the employment agency sent over," Graham said.
"I'm Mrs. Riggs. I cook and do light cleaning. I'll be here every morning at seven, but I won't stay after dark."
"I specifically requested a live-in housekeeper."
"I don't believe you're going to find one, sir. At least none of the people in town would be willing to spend the night here."
"Oh, why is that?" Pamela asked.
"Nearly a century ago the family who lived here was murdered."
"Are you suggesting the house is haunted?" Graham inquired.
"I'm not suggesting anything of the kind," the housekeeper replied stiffly. "I just know no one from these parts wants to be in this house after the sun sets."
"Well, I'm sure my wife and I can muddle through the evening hours by ourselves. Before you leave, though, would you get us something to eat? It's been a long drive, and I'm starving."
Without a further word, the housekeeper walked down the stairs and headed for the kitchen.
* * *
If Whitlock House was haunted, Pamela certainly found no evidence of it. There were no creaking sounds coming from the floorboards, no cold spots or flickering lights. On the contrary, the house was warm, comfortable and quite peaceful.
"This is the perfect place in which to write," she told her husband one morning at breakfast. "In the two weeks we've been here, I've drafted four chapters."
"That's nice," Graham replied with an air of distraction that worried his wife.
"Are you feeling all right?"
"What? Oh, yes, I'm fine."
"Something on your mind?"
"Why do you ask that?" he cried defensively.
"You just seem—distant. That's all."
"It's the book. I'm trying to work out a few things with the plot."
The explanation was a plausible one, but Pamela was not sure she believed it. Her husband gave the impression that he was hiding something from her, not struggling with writer's block.
"Why don't we talk about it? Perhaps I can give you a few ideas."
"This isn't your type of fiction. I'm just going to go to my study and try to think things through. Please tell Mrs. Riggs that I don't want to be disturbed."
For the remainder of the day, Graham stayed in his study, not even bothering to emerge when lunch and dinner were served. It wasn't until after midnight that Pamela saw her husband again.
"There you are," she exclaimed cheerfully. "I was about to file a missing person's report on you."
"That's not funny!" he barked angrily.
"I was only kidding."
"My career is no laughing matter."
"Why don't we go up to bed?" Pamela suggested. "You'll be able to get a fresh perspective on things after a good night's sleep."
"No. I'm going to take a shower, grab a cup of strong coffee and get back to work."
"You don't want to overdo it."
"Will you stop nagging me! I'm under enough pressure without listening to you whine."
The astonished wife stared, speechless, as her husband stormed out of the room. It was the first time he had ever spoken harshly to her, and it took her by surprise.
Pamela slept fitfully that night. Graham never went up to bed. She assumed he either worked through the night or slept on the couch in the study. When she woke up, she noticed the frost on the bedroom windows. It had snowed during the night, and there were about eight inches of accumulation on the ground.
After donning a warm fleece robe over her flannel nightgown, she headed downstairs. The kitchen was empty, and there was no coffee or breakfast in the dining room.
"I suppose Mrs. Riggs couldn't make it because of the weather."
Pamela put the kettle on and walked down the hall toward the study. She knocked, but there was no answer.
"Graham? Are you awake yet?"
She opened the door.
"Graham?"
There was no sign of her husband. The desk was neat; all his papers were in order.
That's odd, she thought when she noticed all the sheets of paper beside his typewriter were blank.
Come to think of it, she had not heard the familiar click-clack of the typewriter element for some time.
"No wonder he was in such a foul mood. The poor dear must be at a complete loss for words."
Where was he, though? When she found no sign of him on the first or second floor, she searched the cellar and attic. Graham seemed to have vanished.
"Maybe he went for an early morning walk," she said hopefully.
But there were no footprints in the snow around the perimeter of the house. The car was parked in the driveway, so he could not have gone into town, which was more than seven miles away.
"Wherever he went, I'm sure he'll be home soon."
Pamela waited close to an hour before deciding to call the police. When she finally took the phone off the hook, however, there was no dial tone.
"Damn it!" she swore, slamming the receiver back down on the cradle. "Oh, Graham, where are you?"
* * *
Morning turned to afternoon, which, in turn, gave way to evening. There was still no sign of her husband. Pamela paced the floor nervously, uncertain of what to do. With the phone out, her only option was to try to drive to town. Although she did not have a license, she knew how to start a car. All she had to do was creep along the road at a low speed until she found help. After all, driving a car was not exactly rocket science.
The worried wife put on her coat, took the spare set of keys off the rack in the kitchen and got behind the wheel. She put the key in the ignition and turned it. Instead of the familiar rumble of the engine, her efforts met with silence. She tried a number of times without any success. The car simply would not start.
"What else can possibly go wrong?"
She went back into the house, trying desperately to remain calm.
"Now, let me think about this logically. The phone is out, the car's dead and Graham is missing."
One possible explanation came to mind. Her husband may have gone into town during the night, perhaps to get a drink at the local bar. The car was dead, so he either walked or hitched a ride. The storm kept him from returning, and he could not phone because the lines were down.
"It all makes sense," she said, feeling relief flood over her.
Pamela made herself a sandwich, took a hot bath and climbed into bed with a good book. She was certain her husband would be back early the following morning. Perhaps he would get a ride from the housekeeper.
The next day, however, there was still no sign of either Graham or Mrs. Riggs. The phone was still dead, and presumably the car still would not start, although Pamela did not go outside to try it.
"Maybe the road is out," she said, grasping at straws. "There might be a tree down."
Whatever the reason, she hoped her husband would return home soon.
As the day wore on, Pamela found it increasingly difficult to keep from worrying. What if something had happened to Graham? She would not even know who to contact if he was injured or .... She shook her head, refusing to consider the worst.
Still, it would be prudent if she kept the names and phone numbers of his personal contacts on hand. She got her address book out of her purse, walked into the study and sat at the desk. The rolodex her husband brought with him from Boston contained only the numbers of his editor, the real estate agent and a grocery delivery service. The rest of the cards were blank.
Pamela looked in the top desk drawer, but all she found were pens, paper clips, a stapler and a pocket thesaurus. The side drawer contained carbon paper, sheets of typing bond, manila envelopes and a typed, double-spaced manuscript approximately one-inch thick.
"Is this what Graham has been working on?"
She scanned the first few pages. The text did not appear to be fiction. It read more like a factual account of a crime committed in the late nineteenth century. It told the horrific story of two adults and six children who were brutally murdered in their beds. All eight victims were bludgeoned to death, presumably with an axe that was left at the scene of the crime. The victims included a prominent local businessman, his wife, his four children and two little girls who were spending the night at his home.
Suddenly, the significance of the manuscript struck her. Mrs. Riggs told her and Graham that there had been a murder in the Whitlock House nearly a century earlier.
"Those murders happened here in this house!"
Pamela had never feared ghosts, but then she had never been alone in an old house with a bloody history, a house seven miles from town and nearly five miles from the nearest neighbor.
She tried both the phone and the car again, but neither worked.
"Where is Graham? Surely the road is passable now."
A new scenario presented itself. The last time she saw him Graham had been angry at her. Could he have walked out on her? Maybe he was gone for good; perhaps he had even contacted Mrs. Riggs and the phone company and notified them both that their services would no longer be needed. Was her husband that angry that he would behave so despicably? Even though they had only known each other a few months, Pamela believed she had married a good, decent man. Could she have been so wrong about him?
* * *
Early that evening, the snow began to fall again. The phone was still out, and Pamela was starting to buckle under the stress.
"What I need is a long, hot bath and a drink of wine."
As the tub filled with water, Pamela lit some candles and poured herself a glass of rosé. Then she climbed into the old claw foot tub. The hot, fragrant, soapy water soothed her frazzled nerves. After the bath, she donned her favorite fleece robe, sat down in front of the fireplace and poured another glass of wine.
A noise from above startled her. She walked upstairs and opened the door to one of the smaller bedrooms. A shock of fear raced down her spine when she saw the bed sheets soaked in blood. Even the child's doll, lying on the floor, was blood-stained. Pamela screamed and slammed the door shut in an attempt to block out the hideous scene.
Unfortunately, shutting the bedroom door seemed to awaken the rest of the house. The temperature dropped noticeably. Phantom footsteps climbed the staircase. And from each bedroom, in turn, came the sounds of murder.
Pamela could not take it anymore. She raced down the stairs and headed toward the front door. Although she pulled on the knob with all her strength, the door would not budge, so she went to the rear of the house and tried the glass doors that led out to the garden. She had no better luck opening them.
"Oh, God, help me!" she screamed in panic.
The house instantly fell silent. Pamela froze, her nerves tense, her ears straining to hear a sound—any sound.
It was a visual apparition, not an audio one, that pushed the horrified author over the edge. A man walked slowly down the stairs, his features obscured by the darkness. What was obvious even in the dimness of the room was the bloody axe he carried.
Pamela shrieked with terror as she crashed through the glass doors and tumbled out onto the lawn. Although bleeding from at least a dozen deep cuts and suffering from three broken bones, she managed to crawl through the snow to the far edge of the garden. With her nearly frozen hands, she pulled herself up the bars of the gate, only to discover that there was a padlock preventing her escape.
"Oh, no," she moaned as she sank back down to the snow-covered walkway.
Behind her she heard the footsteps of the murderer drawing nearer. Mercifully, she passed out from loss of blood before the final blow was dealt.
* * *
Pamela Linville's death was considered a tragic accident. Law enforcement officers in the small Maine town believed the city born and bred writer had succumbed to a lethal combination of isolation and her own overactive imagination.
Several employees and writers from Burgess Press gathered at Boston's Forest Hills Cemetery for the burial service. The grieving widower stoically faced his business associates and accepted their condolences.
"What are your plans for the future?" Abner Crowley inquired as the two men headed back to their cars after the service.
"I'm going out to California to finish my novel," Graham replied. "After what's happened, I'd like a change of scenery. My sister lives in Los Angeles. I can stay with her awhile until I find a place of my own."
Two weeks later Graham got off a plane at LAX. An attractive woman was waiting at the airport to pick him up.
"How did everything go?" the woman asked.
"Smooth sailing," he replied with a smile of satisfaction on his handsome face. "I deposited the check from the life insurance in a Swiss bank account, and I put the Beacon Hill townhouse up for sale. That should bring in a few million."
Graham McDonald's "sister," the woman Pamela had believed was Mrs. Riggs, the aloof housekeeper, but who was actually her husband's long-time lover, was delighted by the news yet anxious about the next step in Graham's plan.
"Are you sure when you write about the incident in your novel that no one will connect the character's death with your wife's?"
"Don't worry, sweetheart!" Graham assured her. "No one is likely to make any comparisons between Pamela's accidental death in a harmless old house in Maine and that of the young wife in my book who dies after spending a night in the Ohio house where the Villisca axe murders took place. And even if anyone does, so what? Writers often incorporate experiences from their own lives into their work. No one will ever suspect that you and I planned Pamela's little vacation of terror so that not only could we get our hands on her money but also that I could describe her ordeal in my book."
"You've got it all on tape?"
"Every minute she spent in that house: every scream, every cry for help and every futile attempt to get free. Tomorrow morning I'll sit down and begin putting it all into my novel."
* * *
Graham sat back in his chair and rubbed his aching neck. He had been typing for several hours and needed a break. He briefly looked at the monitor of his new Apple II computer.
There were no footprints in the snow around the perimeter of the house. The car was parked in the driveway, so her husband couldn't have gone into town. It was as though Jerry had vanished off the face of the earth.
Carol waited close to an hour before deciding to call the police. When she finally took the phone of the hook, there was no dial tone.
"Damn it!" she swore, slamming the receiver back down on the cradle. "Oh, Jerry, where are you?"
When he returned after having a quick lunch, Graham again looked at the computer monitor.
Graham McDonald read the words on the screen and immediately realized they were not his own. He felt an all-encompassing coldness spread through his body as though he were being gripped by countless icy hands and frozen fingers. Shocked, he realized the writing was similar in style to his late wife's.
As the realization came to him, words began appearing on the monitor, even though his hands were nowhere near the keyboard.
"Who is typing this?" he asked himself.
The screen of the new Apple II gave him the answer: it's me, Pamela, your wife. The woman you drove to the point of near-madness.
Graham wanted to push himself away from the desk but was unable to move. He sat, mesmerized by his wife's words, unable to move or even call for help.
You used me like a pawn in a terrifying game of life and death. Well, you heartless bastard, two can play that game. You made your move, and it resulted in my death.
Now it's my turn ....
This story was inspired by the actual crime that became known as the Villisca axe murders. Although I've never been there, it is possible to tour the house where they occurred.
Salem plays for high stakes. Not life and death. He plays for Godiva chocolates!
