The Vanishing (4 page)

“You owe me no explanation, Julia. Adrian told me all about the particulars of your husband’s less-than-savory business affairs, and how public opinion is against you. Unfairly, he thinks. And so do I. He explained to me that this house would be living up to its name with you here. It will indeed be a haven in the woods for you just as it has been for me, and so many others, I have no doubt.”

I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. “My life for the past year has truly been a nightmare.”

“Nightmares.” She smiled at me, rather sadly I thought. “Now, I know all about those. Many of my books were inspired by nightmares I had in this very home. It is good to awaken, isn’t it?”

I thought about the dark nature of Amaris Sinclair’s novels and shuddered, but at the same time a tingle sizzled through me.

“So you wrote here, in the house?”

“At this very table, my dear,” she said, running her hands across its wooden surface. “Just me, my typewriter, and the various monsters and mishaps that were swirling around me begging to be put onto the page. Those were the days!”

“I’ve read all of your books. And the short stories.”

Her face lit up. “Do you have a particular favorite among them?”

“
Seraphina
,” I said, referring to her book about a psychic medium who got more than she bargained for when she contacted the spirit world during a séance in a house, I just then realized, that was a great deal like Havenwood. “I read it so many times when I was growing up, I think I knew every word by heart.”

She stared at me then, her spoon suspended midway from her bowl to her mouth. It was as though her eyes were grasping at mine, trying to see into my brain. My skin began to prickle, and I felt like a mongoose in the thrall of a cobra.

“Of course you did, my dear,” she said finally.

Her gaze was directed at me, but her eyes seemed to be looking at something else, not beyond me, but through me. As though I weren’t there. Was this one of the “episodes” Adrian had warned me about?

“Mrs. Sinclair?” I reached across the table and grasped her hand, which still held her spoon aloft. This seemed to startle her, bringing her back from wherever she had gone. She shook her head and blinked several times.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “The mere mention of my books seems to have sent my thoughts hurtling back into the past. It was
such a wonderful time, you see. I loved it all, the writing, the book tours, meeting my readers.” She sighed audibly. “Glorious, so glorious.”

“Mrs. Sinclair, forgive me for asking, but why did you give it all up?” I asked her. “The world thinks you died.”

“Oh, I know what the world thinks,” she said, finishing the last of her soup. “But the real reason I gave it up? That’s a conversation for another time, my dear.” She turned her gaze to the window and seemed to be looking at something I couldn’t see. “No, today the sky is too blue and bright for a tale as dark as that one.”

I stood stock-still as three giant dogs bounded toward me. Mrs. Sinclair had suggested we take a stroll around the grounds, so we bundled up and headed out into the chilly air. In the pasture, I saw the dogs Adrian had told me about—three giant Alaskan malamutes, chasing one another and yowling. He had told me they were large, but I was unprepared for exactly how large. They saw Mrs. Sinclair and raced toward us, and I braced for impact.

Before I knew it, I was on my back in the snow, a giant red-and-white dog on top of me, licking my face. I held my breath, not quite sure what to do. One bite from this dog’s mighty jaws would break a bone, I had no doubt.

“Molly!” Mrs. Sinclair barked. “That’s enough now!” She snapped her fingers at the dog. “Get off, Molly, for goodness’ sake.”

The dog hopped into the snow next to me and wagged her tail furiously as I scrambled to my feet, brushing the snow off my backside. My knees were knocking.

“It’s not every day you get a greeting like that,” I said, trying to sound steadier than I felt.

“The old girl has taken to you, Julia!” Mrs. Sinclair informed me. “I knew she would. Reach out your hand and let her sniff it.”

I did as I was told, and Molly moved her great head toward me, nuzzling her snout against my palm. I scratched behind her ears; her fur was as soft as cashmere.

The other two dogs, both gray and white with bright yellow eyes, circled us, looking like two gigantic wolves on the hunt.

“You mustn’t be afraid, my dear.” Mrs. Sinclair smiled at me. “You live at Havenwood now. You are a member of their pack.” She turned an adoring gaze back to the dogs. “Tundra is the alpha,” she said, gesturing at the largest of the three. “And Molly is just positively an angel.”

She reached down and gave Tundra’s back a good scratch.

“Think of them as your bodyguards, Julia. They take that responsibility very seriously.”

We took a few steps and the dogs fell into line, the largest of the three walking ahead of us and one on either side of Mrs. Sinclair and me. They did seem like bodyguards, I thought, as we walked along, me relaxing more and more with each step. Lions and tigers and bears had nothing on those three.

Soon we came to the creek that I saw from the breakfast room, which meandered its way to Lake Superior, and Mrs. Sinclair pointed out a path that led to the village, some three miles away.

“It’s a lovely ride on horseback,” she said. “Nelly is quite gentle and slow, just right for someone new to riding. Would you like to do that one of these days?”

I could almost see myself there, in the distance, trotting through the landscape on a horse. “It sounds wonderful,” I said.

“It’s decided, then,” she said. “We shall have a riding party. But it will have to be another day.” She sighed deeply. “Now, my dear, let’s make our way back to the house, shall we?”

I took her arm and she leaned on me as we walked through the snow, the dogs leading the way.

Back inside, the dogs loped off to parts unknown as we peeled off our jackets and hats.

“I believe I’ll have a nap now, Julia,” Mrs. Sinclair said, her usually bright eyes suddenly filled with what seemed to be sadness.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Sinclair?” I asked, moving toward her. “May I help you upstairs?”

“Thank you, my dear, but no,” she said. “I’m just a bit tired, but I can make it on my own.”

She then took her leave of me, and I watched as she walked slowly up the grand staircase, seeming to age with every step.

I hurried after her. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

She touched my cheek with one papery hand. “This old gal still has a bit of kick in her.” She smiled at me. “Please, darling, feel free to make yourself comfortable. Explore the house. Snoop! You never know where secrets might be lurking!”

I got the distinct impression she didn’t want me to help her to her rooms—why, I had no idea—so I respected her wishes but stood where I was on the stairs to make sure she reached the second floor with no trouble. As she disappeared into the dark hallway, I turned and walked back down to the foyer alone.

After what had happened that morning, I didn’t want to venture too far afield into the house. I found myself in the living room once again, with the massive portrait of the man in the kilt. I had been drawn to this painting, so I decided to sit down and spend some time with the man who already seemed like an old friend. The room was rather dark—all of that wood paneling seemed to capture whatever sunlight was coming through the windows—so I flipped on a table lamp and gazed upward.

“I see you have found Mr. McCullough.” It was Mrs. Sinclair with Marion behind her holding a tray with two cups and a pot of tea. Mrs. Sinclair settled onto the sofa next to me while Marion lit a fire that had already been laid in the fireplace.

“I thought you were having a rest!” I said, surprised to see her again so quickly.

“It didn’t feel right, leaving you on your own on your first day,” she said, patting my hand. “We can both rest here.”

Marion served the tea and left us. We sipped in silence for a while, both gazing at the painting.

“Most visitors to Havenwood are curious about its origins, Julia,” Mrs. Sinclair said, as the flames began to crackle and dance.
“The man who built this house, Andrew McCullough, the handsome fellow right up there, was quite the colorful character. Would you like to hear about him?”

I smiled broadly. Adrian had told me his mother wanted to talk about stories with another writer—this must be just the kind of thing he meant. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to hear a tale spun by the great Amaris Sinclair.

“I’d love to!” I said.

“It’s not a sweet and gentle tale, however,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Not all of it, anyway. I’ll just warn you of that. Are you sure you’re up to hearing it?”

I nodded, eager to learn more about the man in the painting.

Amaris Sinclair folded her hands in her lap, stared into the dancing flames, and began to speak:

“The year was 1850, and unlike life on the East Coast of this country, things here in the wilds of Minnesota near the Canadian border were anything but civilized, at least by the standards of a young and rather spoiled Scottish nobleman sent here to run his family’s fur-trapping business. Despite a few settlements here and there, this was the wilderness, darling, pure and simple.”

She paused to take a sip of her tea, so I asked a question. “You said he was a young man? I imagine coming here would have been quite an adventure back in those days. Probably not something that an older gentleman would have undertaken.”

“You imagine correctly. As the eldest son of an aristocratic family, Andrew stood to inherit his family’s considerable wealth and position. But his father simply couldn’t bear for that to happen, not to the man that young Andrew was at the time.” Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes sparkled. “He was what we might call a wild child. Gambling, drink, women—if there was a vice possible to have, Andrew succumbed to it. By all accounts, he was a spoiled, self-centered, entitled playboy with no sense of direction and no sense of responsibility, either. I’m sure you know the type.”

I wondered if she was referring to my husband, and at the
thought of him, my stomach curdled. “It sounds like he needed to man up a bit,” I offered.

“Indeed,” she said, raising her eyebrows and taking another sip of her tea. “Andrew’s mother, Marcelline, was French Canadian, the daughter of a prominent fur trader in Montreal. Her father had given her a line of his business, the fur trade along the Canadian border with Minnesota, as a dowry when she married Andrew’s father, Hugh. And when the wild Andrew turned twenty, Hugh charged him with a task: he was to run the fur business and make it successful, before he would be eligible to inherit the family fortune, lock, stock, and barrel. Hugh thought the experience would make a man of his son. He had no idea.”

Mrs. Sinclair chuckled and looked into my eyes, as though we were sharing a joke. “Andrew came to this land, sailing from Scotland to the East Coast, up the St. Lawrence River to the Great Lakes, and finally making landfall in Duluth. From there he went on horseback, and what he found, my dear, was like nothing he could even imagine in his wildest dreams. Or nightmares.”

My arms tingled. I wondered how dark and twisted this tale might become. She had warned me, after all.

“Unlike what was happening in other parts of the state at that time, the native tribes in this area were friendly and welcoming,” she continued. “Andrew settled into a modest cabin north of Duluth and began, as his father had instructed, to learn the business with the goal of one day taking it over.”

“Obviously, he achieved that goal,” I said, gesturing to the opulence around me.

Mrs. Sinclair smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, my dear. You haven’t heard the full story yet.”

I snuggled deeper into the sofa and curled my legs under me.

“It’s my opinion, Julia, that the voyage itself and the rustic, and one might say harsh, living conditions began to work their magic on young Andrew. One might think this spoiled, rich young man would have rebelled against his circumstances, but in fact the
opposite occurred. I suppose he had a good deal of time to think on the voyage over here. Or perhaps he was awestruck by the beauty of this land, which was wild and untamed and like nothing he had ever seen. Whatever the case, by all accounts Andrew was a fast learner who embraced his new life. In no time he mastered the business and accounting side of things and was itching to get out into the field, so to speak. Soon he asked the business’s manager to go on a trapping run with the Voyageurs.”

“Voyageurs?” I had heard the term before, but I wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“These were the men, many of them French Canadians like Andrew’s mother, who got into canoes and paddled up and down the lakes in the region. They worked the traps, bringing in the pelts that drove the business,” she explained. “They were savvy about the surroundings and very friendly with the native people, who shared secret knowledge about the land and the rivers and the lakes. Andrew wanted to know what they knew, and after several months of asking, he was finally allowed to go on a trapping run with them. It was an experience that changed Andrew’s life.”

I was silent, sipping my tea and waiting for Mrs. Sinclair to go on.

“After days of paddling in the massive canoes with eleven other men, portaging from lake to lake, sleeping under a canopy of stars each night, and seeing all manner of wildlife along the way, they reached what is now known as Gunflint Lake, not far from where Havenwood is today. There, they were invited to join the natives for a meal. The Voyageurs brought fish they had caught earlier in the day; the natives had venison and wild rice. After they had eaten, they sat around the campfire and began to tell young Andrew a tale. It was a warning about a monstrous being that roamed these woods.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Not Bigfoot…?” I hoped this wasn’t where the story was going. I didn’t believe that old legend. Science would have discovered the creature by now if it existed.

She shook her head. “Nothing as benign as that, I’m afraid. They told him the legend of the Windigo.”

She visibly shuddered as she said the name. I knew I should know what this was; I had heard the name of this creature before. My mind reached back into the dusty recesses where it stored all of its not-often-used information but couldn’t grasp it.

“The Windigo, darling, is a Native American legend. It is said that there is a beast that roams this area that is, well, for lack of a better term, Julia, a cannibal. It is a monstrous thing that had once been human. But now it feeds on human flesh.”

I shivered. “I have heard about this,” I said, the long-forgotten ghost stories told around campfires when I was a child seeping back into my brain. “So, Andrew learned about the Windigo from the natives?”

“More than learned.” There was a dark sheen in her eyes. “As the story goes, Andrew became obsessed with the beast and aimed to catch it and kill it. He had grown to love this land and wanted to rid it of this evil.”

“So he thought the Windigo was real? But it’s just a legend.”

“Where do legends come from, Julia?”

I held her gaze. Surely she didn’t mean to suggest this old fairy tale was true, that a monstrous cannibal was roaming these woods.

“In any case,” she said quickly, “real or not, Andrew set out to find it.” She took a sip of her tea and stared into the fire. “That was a mistake.”

“A mistake? What happened?”

Mrs. Sinclair turned to me and smiled. “We’re not quite sure. After a month or so alone in the wilderness, he returned to his business’s base, and then came the news that his parents had died in a stagecoach accident. The family fortune was now his. But instead of returning to his beloved Scotland, as everyone thought he would do, he built a replica of his family home right here. At incredible expense, I might add.”

“So, he loved it here enough to stay.”

“That’s one way to look at it. He certainly had success here, and by all accounts became a good man. After several years, he fell in love with a local girl and got married, and they had children. And once the house was completed, he began holding salons for the arts—he brought in musicians and artists and writers from not only the East Coast of the United States but from all around the world.”

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming right about now.”

Mrs. Sinclair nodded. “Exactly right, my dear. He never left. Never again did he venture beyond the estate.”

“He never went back to Scotland, even for a visit? Why?”

“That’s the interesting question, isn’t it?”

I sensed she was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. “Was he compelled to stay?”

“Or prevented from leaving… by someone or something. There is more magic, both good and evil, in the woods beyond this house than you could imagine in your wildest dreams.”

“Or nightmares,” I said, shuddering.

“As the story goes—and this is just pure speculation, now, nobody really knows for sure—Andrew did indeed encounter the Windigo one lonely night in the woods. He saw the creature—tall, thin as a skeleton, sunken eyes, with an insatiable hunger for human flesh, the remains of its victims strewn around it. Andrew froze in terror as it turned its horrible gaze toward him. He surely would’ve been killed but for a Native American shaman who had also been hunting the Windigo to rid his people of its menace. He used dark magic to kill the beast, saving Andrew’s life in the process.”