Chapter 17 - The Mercy Cage

The seventeenth chapter of our thriller novel, in which Emily discovers there is more to her garden and groundskeeper than it seems on the surface.

Emily- New York City, 1945

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Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 // Chapter 13// Chapter 14 // Chapter 15 // Chapter 16

“Excuse me! Sir! Sir!” I call shrilly to the figure in the garden. My hands wrap and tighten to secure the belt of my robe as my slippered feet stomp through the front door of the mansion and down the drive towards the grass. I huff and hold myself as severely as possible despite being in my dressing gown. Why did George have to leave just then? No matter. I am quite capable, as my Mother always reminded me. The figure I stalk towards halts and looks to me, still, but makes no response. He shakes his head then turns back to his spade. “Sir!” I call again, closing in now. He snaps his head up to me and startles back a step before a soft, gruff voice emerges from him. “You shouldn’t be here. Who are you?” He looks on me with an intensity that chills me for a moment. I shake my confidence back and respond with authority, “ I beg your pardon, sir, but my husband and I have just moved into this property today. Now would you mind telling me who YOU are, and why you are in my garden? At this hour no less?” I purse my lips preparing for a volley that doesn’t come. His face softens from confusion to- what was that? Pity? -yes, unmistakable pity. He speaks again, stoic and calm, “I am the keeper of this land, Ma’am.” 

I feel my own face soften now. Of course we have a groundskeeper with a property of this magnitude. I am thankful the sun has set and the pink flush of my cheeks is imperceivable. “You- oh. My husband hadn’t mentioned,” I offer apologetically. “Oh, what a terrible introduction we have had..” I trail off, unsure how to save the conversation. Thankfully, the groundskeeper steps in. “-Charlie, Ma’am. I tend the garden.” “Charlie,” I exhale in relief. “It’s lovely to meet you. I am Emily Williams, the new lady of the house I suppose.” There is another awkward silence as he shuffles his weight from one foot to the other, eager to get back to work, and I stand waiting for him to speak again, unsure of what else I can say. Eventually I blurt out, “It’s rather late to be working, I should think. Why don’t you retire for the night, Charlie?” Charlie nods, somewhat obscured himself by the dusk. His eyes linger a moment past me at the garden, which causes my eye to follow. I turn, curious to see what is being planted anyway, but my mouth falls open. Instead of plots for flowers, I see what looks to be a row of synchronous mounds, too large to be innocent. Like those inhabiting a graveyard- unmistakably so. A burial site, mournful, forgotten- and a deep trench where Charlie had begun to dig, the start of the next. 

“If you need anything, ma’am, I’ll be around.” I pry my eyes from the trench and begin to turn back towards the groundskeeper, “What exactly-” but he is gone. I trail off- I can dimly make him out in the distance moving away from me, deeper into the abyss of the property. How did he get that far? I debate calling him back over, and decide to leave it alone. I turn back to the garden and there before me is exactly that- a garden. I feel as though someone has knocked the wind out of me, I hear an incredulous breath pass my lips. There are rose bushes, dwindling in the early fall air, but make no mistake to what they are. Some already planted, some waiting to be. There are no mounds, no “graves” in sight. My cheeks flush hot again in embarrassment. What the devil is wrong with me? I must be exhausted.  I readjust the tie on my robe tighter and stomp back towards the house.