The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror Read online

  When I returned to my homeroom desk several girls asked me what Mrs. McClelland had wanted with me?—but I couldn’t tell them, just yet. My heart was filled to bursting with a secret so delicious, just to impart it too quickly was to risk diluting its wonder.

  After school that day Mrs. McClelland walked me through the rooms of the large Colonial house on Drumlin Avenue which previously I had only seen from the street.

  The McClellands’ house was one of a number of handsome old houses on Drumlin Avenue with which residents of Sparta were all familiar. Dreamily you bicycled past such houses in which important citizens lived. In other neighborhoods in the small city (population 12,000) people were often viewed in their driveways, on front walks and front lawns; often, they were viewed working on their lawns. But never the residents of Drumlin Avenue, who hired others to do their lawn work. And if they appeared out of doors it was at the rear of their large houses, hidden from view.

  Even in adulthood you would go out of your way to drive past such distinguished old residences, wondering at the secret lives within even as, with the shrinkage of time, you are apt to know that happiness does not require such houses, and that inhabiting such houses guarantees nothing.

  How strange to me, at fourteen, to be so suddenly—so easily —inside this Drumlin Avenue house! And how strange, to be alone with my teacher Mrs. McClelland, in this private place.

  It was rare for me to be alone with any adult not my parents or a close relative.

  And Mrs. McClelland was not quite the same person whom I knew from school. On the eve of her husband’s surgery she was visibly agitated. The witty, composed and self-assured teacher had vanished and in her place was a distracted woman of my mother’s age, not much taller than I was. Though she was wearing her teacher’s clothing of that day—red wool jacket with brass buttons, pleated red-plaid skirt, dark-hued stockings and black leather shoes—she did not exude an air of glamour. Her hair was brushed back behind her ears and her lipstick was worn off. Her usually lustrous, playful-alert eyes were red-rimmed and damp with worry. In a brave voice Mrs. McClelland told me that her husband had been brought by a private car to Syracuse that afternoon, to check into the hospital attached to the medical school; she would make the drive early the next morning, hoping to arrive at the hospital at about the time her husband’s surgery was scheduled to begin. She explained that he was having “minor surgery”—“nothing to worry about”—adding then, with a breathless little laugh, “except of course any sort of surgery requiring anesthetic is not minor.”

  And several times she insisted: “It’s important, Hanna—don’t let anyone else in the house while you’re here. Only your mother, if she wants to come with you, but—no one else. Do you promise?”

  Gravely I promised Yes.

  Soon after our conversation that morning in school Mrs. McClelland telephoned my mother. It had not occurred to me that she might telephone my mother at all. It would not have occurred to me that my teacher would require permission from my mother to hire me for this task of “helping out”—but of course Mrs. McClelland had acted properly, and graciously.

  Mrs. McClelland was telling me that the upstairs rooms would all be shut: “No need to go upstairs at all. And my husband’s home office—at the end of the hall, here—will be locked. When you bring in mail for ‘Gordon McClelland’ just put it with the other mail, on the dining room table.”

  Mrs. McClelland spoke quickly, with an air of distraction, leading me through the downstairs rooms of the beautifully furnished house. I had never seen such interesting furniture—a large, sinuously shaped coffee table seemingly made of a single piece of smoothed and polished red-brown wood, like the interior of a tree; a miniature piano, made of some sort of white wood—was this a harpsichord? I did not dare ask for I was too shy, and I sensed that Mrs. McClelland would be impatient with idle questions. Her instructions for helping out were more elaborate than I would have expected: I was to take care of the cat, and tend to the plants; bring in the mail and newspaper and anything that might be tossed onto the front steps; switch on lights in several rooms, raise and lower the blinds each evening in a different way, turn on the TV—to suggest that someone was in the house. “Try to spend at least an hour here, if you can. So that Sasha doesn’t feel totally abandoned. You could do homework, on the sofa here. You could watch TV. You are welcome to eat anything you find in the refrigerator or the freezer but—of course—just you. No one else.”

  Mrs. McClelland spoke rapidly without uttering my name as if in the exigency of the moment, her eyes darting about, the fingers of one hand nervously turning her gold wristwatch around her wrist, she’d forgotten who I was.

  One end of the elegant dining room had been extended into a sunroom with ceiling-to-floor plate-glass windows and a skylight and in this space were potted plants of various sizes and shapes. Some were spectacularly beautiful—a large Boston fern, in a hanging basket; a row of African violets in clay pots; a five-foot Chinese evergreen. These plants required a far more complicated care than the relatively simple plants Mrs. McClelland kept in her homeroom which were mostly cacti and jade plants, that could go without watering for long periods; fortunately I’d brought along my notebook, so that like the good-girl student I was, I could take notes.

  Mrs. McClelland instructed me to water the ferns sparingly—“Enough to moisten the soil. You can judge how dry the soil is by touching it. Don’t overwater.” No water for the “snake plant”—an ugly, tough-looking plant with tall spear-like leaves; no water for the enormous jade plant, which looked like a living creature with myriad, twisted arms; no water for the orchids, which looked impossibly exotic and fragile. There were English ivy and grape ivy, philodendron with flowing leaves, “spider plants,” and “peperomia”—all of which would require watering/spraying in two or three days. Several African violet plants with small delicate petals required the most complicated care.

  “If a leaf turns yellow, pinch it off. And don’t move any of the plants, of course, each is in its optimum position for sunshine. Remember to test with your finger, to see if the soil is dry. And remember—don’t overwater. Any more than you would want to drown, no plant wants to be drowned.”

  It was the sort of offhanded, wry remark Mrs. McClelland might make in school, with a smile that indicated she meant to be funny, and so we might laugh; but here in her house Mrs. McClelland did not smile, and so I knew she did not mean to be funny, and I was not meant to laugh.

  She would leave the sprayer and the green enamel watering can on the floor by the plants, she said. There would be water in both, at room temperature; when I replenished the water, I should make sure that it was not too cold, or too hot.

  All this while, a sleekly beautiful silver-blue Siamese cat was observing us at a distance, following us from room to room but never crossing a threshold. The cat’s eyes were a startling blue. Her ears were much larger and more angular-shaped than the ears of an ordinary cat and her chocolate-tipped tail was switching with obvious unease or annoyance. I had never seen such a striking animal up close. Mrs. McClelland said that she hoped I might “make friends” with Sasha, but the prospect did not seem likely; the cat continued to keep her distance from us, even as Mrs. McClelland tried to entice her with a cat treat that resembled a handful of cereal.

  “Sasha! Sasha, come here. Kit-ty.”

  Each day I was to open a fresh can of cat food for Sasha, Mrs. McClelland said, as well as provide her with dry food and fresh water. Sasha would be upset at being left alone, and so possibly she wouldn’t eat—at first; but even if she hadn’t finished her food from the previous day, I was to wash out the bowl and dry it with a paper towel and open a new can. I was to “vary” the cans—tuna fish, salmon, chicken, beef—in that order; each day I was to change the water bowl. Mrs. McClelland showed me Sasha’s litter box which was kept in a corner of a large utility room off the kitchen, and this litter box was to be c
hanged at least every other day—“Before it gets seriously dirty, or Sasha will refuse to use it.”

  Refuse! I had to smile thinking of our family cats who were forcibly put outside if they balked in freezing weather and who had not the privilege of any sort of refusal.

  “Sasha, come here and meet your new friend! No one will hurt you.”

  The silver-blue Siamese kept a wary distance. Her icy eyes betrayed no more recognition of the devoted mistress who called to her in a cajoling voice than of her “new friend.”

  “You must not let Sasha slip outside—she may try to, when you open the door. She can be devious! But a Siamese is strictly an indoor cat and could not long survive outdoors.”

  Could not long survive outdoors. I wondered if this strangely phrased statement could be true. If the purebred Siamese would not soon adapt to a new environment, like any cat, and become a feral creature.

  I assured Mrs. McClelland that I would not let Sasha slip outside.

  At this moment the phone rang. Mrs. McClelland gave a little cry of pure fright and for a moment looked terrified. I was embarrassed to see my teacher fumbling for the phone, and looked away as Mrs. McClelland murmured evasively, “Yes, thank you! I’m fine. I will be driving to the hospital tomorrow. I’ve asked one of my very dependable ninth-grade girls to look in on the house while I’m away . . . Yes, of course I trust her!” Mrs. McClelland shot me a squinting smile as if to reassure me.

  As Mrs. McClelland spoke on the phone to this person to whom she clearly did not wish to speak at this time, I drifted away so that I wouldn’t overhear. Dropping to my knees, whispering, “Sasha! Kit-ty!”—trying without success to entice the sleekly beautiful Siamese to approach me.

  It was disconcerting—it was shocking—to see our admired teacher in this state and to realize that this was the true Gladys McClelland, emotionally dependent upon a man, a husband; not so very different from my mother and my female relatives. The other, our glamorous teacher at Sparta Middle School, was a performer of a kind, who’d captivated our attention but who was not real.

  Not until years later when I was a young married woman would I understand why Mrs. McClelland was so frightened. I would understand the blunt, terrible truth—A career is not a life. Only a family is a life.

  Before we left the house Mrs. McClelland had me practice opening the door with her key—not the front door but the kitchen door, which was the door she wanted me to use; she gave me a typed list of instructions and telephone numbers; and she gave me several twenty-dollar bills—“In case you need emergency money.”

  Sixty dollars? I could barely speak. This was more than I might have fantasized earning if I’d helped out Mrs. McClelland for weeks.

  Though I told Mrs. McClelland that I was perfectly able to walk the short distance home, she insisted upon driving me. I understood—(this was evident from Mrs. McClelland’s classroom personality as well)—that once Mrs. McClelland had made a decision, she would not change it; she knew what should be done, and would do it.

  “It’s dark. It’s cold. Of course I’m not going to let you walk home, Hanna.”

  Hanna. The sound of my name in Mrs. McClelland’s voice suffused me with warmth.

  In the November twilight, that comes early, and darkens to night by 6:00 p.m., I was grateful that my parents’ small asphalt-sided house on narrow Quarry Street wasn’t clearly defined and I was grateful that my mother had no idea that Gladys McClelland had pulled up to the curb in front of the house in her canary-yellow Buick—as in a teenager’s nightmare, my mother might well have run outside to invite her in.

  That evening my mother interrogated me about the visit. What sort of house the McClellands lived in, what my duties would be. My mother was pleased and excited for me—(she’d already begun to boast about my helping out my teacher to ­relatives)—but she was apprehensive too: if something happened to the McClellands’ house, would her daughter be blamed?

  Mrs. McClelland had told my mother how much she intended to pay me but my mother could have no idea that Mrs. McClelland had already paid me, several times more than the sum she’d promised. I considered whether to tell my mother about the sixty dollars, and when—but not just yet.

  I felt a stab of rebellion, resentment. My mother would take most of the money from me, if she knew. But she didn’t have to know how much money there was.

  It’s my money. I am earning it.

  Like most of the adults of my acquaintance, my mother was not given to extravagant praise. Generosity of spirit was not typical of either of my parents’ families who’d grown up on small, unprosperous farms in the area, adults who’d lived through what came to be called the Great Depression. If my mother and her female relatives spoke well of anyone, however it might be deserved, there was invariably a pause in their conversation, and a qualifying rejoinder—Of course, look where she came from. That family.

  And so when my mother spoke positively of Mrs. McClelland —“gracious”—“kind”—“a real lady”—I waited to hear what she would add; but all she could think to say was, thoughtfully, “They don’t have children, her and her husband. I wonder whose fault it was.”

  7.

  “Hello? Hello . . .”

  So nervous and excited the following afternoon when I first entered the McClelland house I couldn’t resist calling out in this way as if I half expected someone to be home.

  But the house was empty of course. Except for a murmurous sound, a muted cry, a rapid scurrying of cat-claws on a hardwood floor—the silver-blue Siamese fled from view as soon she realized a stranger had arrived.

  “Sasha! Kit-ty.”

  I saw that a few things were not as I’d expected. Mrs. McClelland hadn’t left the sprayer and the watering can on the dining room floor; these were in the kitchen. In the sink, breakfast dishes were soaking as if she’d departed hastily. On a kitchen counter, scattered pages of the previous day’s Sparta Journal. A hall closet with door ajar, and a bare lightbulb burning inside.

  I remembered how distracted Mrs. McClelland had been the previous afternoon. How frightened she’d been when the phone rang—as if she’d feared the worst.

  We are sorry to say—bad news . . . Your husband has died.

  Later, I would discover that several of the upstairs rooms hadn’t been closed as Mrs. McClelland had planned—that is, their doors hadn’t been shut. After some anguished deliberation I would close these doors, reasoning that if Mrs. McClelland believed she’d closed the doors, to discover them open would be a shock; naturally she would think that I’d been prowling in a part of the house forbidden to me.

  Thinking It might a test, how honest I am.

  But this was not likely: Mrs. McClelland already trusted me. Mrs. McClelland liked me. Mrs. McClelland is my friend.

  I’d brought in mail and newspapers and left these on the dining room table where Mrs. McClelland had indicated. There were several letters for Mr. Gordon C. McClelland that appeared to be business letters or bills and just one letter for Mrs. Gordon C. McClelland that did not look especially interesting.

  All this while I’d been calling for Sasha in a light airy voice. To my disappointment Sasha ignored me.

  Deftly I removed yesterday’s (partly eaten) cat food from the cat’s plastic bowl, and opened a new can—tuna. The pungent odor of tuna fish filled the kitchen. Fresh dry food, and fresh water. It did look as if the lonely cat had eaten something, and when I checked her litter box in the storage room, that too had been used, if sparingly.

  But where was Sasha? Keeping her distance.

  Back in the kitchen, I washed and dried the dishes in the sink. Here too I was concerned that when Mrs. McClelland returned she might think that her student helper had left the dishes soaking, and not her.

  I thought—Mrs. McClelland will see how clean the house is! Mrs. McClelland will be impressed.

  With the same
fastidious care I dealt with the houseplants. I was determined not to make any blunders, and disappoint my teacher who had such faith in me.

  At close range I examined the orchids—so fragile, and so beautiful! These were native to Mexico and South America, Mrs. McClelland had said. Their flowers were so subtly colored, I could not have described them: silvery pink, pearly lavender. And the petals were so finely marked, like Japanese or Chinese calligraphy I’d seen reproduced in books.

  I thought—Someday I will have orchids like these. A house like this.

  I’d intended to examine some of the many books in the McClellands’ bookshelves which had been built floor-to-ceiling in a library-like room adjacent to the living room—but I didn’t feel at ease in this room; nor did I feel at ease turning on the McClellands’ floor-model television, which was so much larger and more beautiful than my parents’ small, black-and-white television. For what if something happened to the television set, when I turned it on? I had a dread of being blamed.

  Next to the TV room was Mr. McClelland’s “home office”—which Mrs. McClelland had locked, she’d said. I did not try this door for I could imagine Mrs. McClelland observing me, frowning.

  Somewhere behind me—or upstairs—there came a sound, like harsh breathing. My heart leapt in my chest like a frightened little toad.

  “Hello? Hello . . .”

  There was no one—of course. (Was there? No one?)

  This house was so much larger than my parents’ house! I had not even any idea, how many rooms.

  Suddenly, I had to leave. Had to get out of this house.

  Though I had not been here for twenty minutes and had not executed all of the tasks Mrs. McClelland expected of me. Though the lonely Sasha must have been waiting for me to approach her, and plead with her to eat.

  Hurriedly I switched off lights, and fled to Quarry Street to my own house. Not a thing had happened—and yet I felt shaken, and exhausted.

  Seeing that I seemed distraught my mother questioned me about the visit. Had something gone wrong?