Below Stairs
Shana Hellings gazed out the car window with wonder at the "cottage" on Ochre Point Avenue. Not as large as the nearby The Breakers, it was nonetheless one of the most beautiful mansions in Newport. When the Toyota Camry came to a stop in front of Rêves de Mer, she paid the Uber driver, collected her luggage and walked past the fountain to the front door. A cold wind blew in from the Atlantic, and she pulled her jacket closed to ward off the chill. Apparently, March was going out like a lion this year.
Shortly after she rang the doorbell, an elderly, portly butler answered.
"Miss Hellings," he solemnly greeted her in his crisp British accent. "Mr. Meares is expecting you."
He stepped aside, and she entered the grand foyer, pulling her wheeled suitcases behind her.
"Never mind your luggage. I'll see that it's brought up to your room. Come this way, please. Mr. Meares is waiting for you in his study."
When the butler opened the office door, Shana saw the distinguished, gray-haired financier sitting at an immense mahogany desk.
"Ah, Miss Hellings!" he said and rose to shake her hand. "I hope you had a pleasant journey."
"Yes, I did. Thank you."
"Won't you sit down? Tonks, bring us some refreshments, will you? What do you like, Miss Hellings? Coffee? Tea?"
"Coffee will be fine."
"And I'll have my usual tea."
The butler nodded his head and withdrew from the study.
"I assume you are aware of the requirements of the position," Barton stated, wasting no time with banal conversation.
"I was told you needed a nurse to care for your mother, but I was not told what her condition is."
"My mother is old, and like many elderly people, she suffers from dementia. Her physician prescribed medicine to help with her cognitive decline, but, at this point, it does little good. Your duties will be to see to her needs. You'll help feed her, bathe her, dress her ... the usual. I'd also like you to be her companion. Read to her, take her outside on a warm day to get some fresh air. Mother has mobility issues, so she'll need help getting into and out of her wheelchair."
Shana, who began her nursing career working at a home for senior citizens, was well aware of what these duties entailed.
"You agree to the salary I mentioned in my letter?" Barton asked.
"Yes, sir. It's a very generous one."
There was a soft knock on the door. Moments later, Tonks entered with tea, coffee and an assortment of pastries.
"Will that be all, sir?" the butler inquired.
"Yes, Tonks. You may go."
After taking a sip of his tea, the financier continued, "You will, of course, live here at Rêves de Mer for the duration of your employment. A room next to my mother's will be provided for you. You won't be expected to sleep in the servants' quarters or take your meals below stairs. You are to make yourself at home here. Except for my bedroom suite and this study, you may go wherever you please."
"Thank you. And may I say you have an exquisite home? Rêves de Mer. That's French for 'sea dreams,' isn't it?"
"Yes. The architect who designed this place was inspired by a chateau in the Loire Valley."
Shana finished the last of her coffee at the same time her employer put down his empty tea cup.
"Please, have another pastry," he offered.
"I really shouldn't, but I don't often get to enjoy such delicacies."
As though he received a secret communication from Barton Meares, Tonks appeared and collected the tray and dirty dishes.
"Will you show Miss Hellings to her room?"
"Yes, sir."
Shana was delighted to discover that her "room" was, in fact, a suite with a large bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. Someone had brought her luggage up and put her clothes away, presumably someone from below stairs.
"Below stairs?" she laughed to herself. "Sounds like I'm living in Downton Abbey!"
* * *
Shana knocked on her patient's door but got no response. Assuming the woman was sleeping, she quietly pushed it open and tiptoed into the room. The octogenarian was sitting up in her wheelchair, wide awake.
"Hello, Mrs. Meares. My name is Shana Hellings. Your son has hired me to take care of you. I see you've had your lunch already," she observed, noticing the empty dishes on the small table in front of the window.
The woman looked into her eyes but said nothing. Her continued silence did not upset the nurse. People with dementia frequently stop talking.
"Are you a fan of Dickens?" Shana inquired, seeing a hardcover edition of A Tale of Two Cities on the nightstand. "Would you like me to read it to you?"
The old woman's eyes followed her and seemed to indicate understanding, but she neither shook nor nodded her head in answer to the question.
"There's no bookmark to indicate where you left off, so why don't I start at the beginning?"
She picked up the book, sat in the Louis XV Bergere chair and opened the novel to the first chapter.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," she read, "it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness."
A lifelong lover of literature, she savored the words. It was a book she had read several times and more than likely would read again. Working as a private nurse, she frequently kept vigil at a slumbering patient's bedside.
When Shana reached the end of Chapter 5, she concluded, "... a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes."
She looked up from the book and saw Mrs. Meares's head resting on her shoulder, her eyes closed. She wheeled the petite woman to the bed, gently lifted her out of her chair, placed her on the mattress and covered her with a thin blanket.
"Time for a nap."
With her patient soundly sleeping, the nurse took the opportunity to explore the house. Since the second story consisted mainly of bedrooms, she went downstairs to the first floor.
This place is gorgeous! she thought upon seeing room after room filled with antique French furnishings, luxurious carpets and priceless works of art.
Shana's exploration of the mansion ultimately led her to what was to become her favorite room in Rêves de Mer: the library. Her eyes widened in appreciation as she gazed at the twelve-foot-high bookcases that lined the walls. She walked to the nearest shelf and read the titles as her hand reverently brushed the leather spines. Hawthorne. Dickens. Shakespeare. Austen. Brontë. Tolstoy. Homer. The names were like those of old friends. She took The House of the Seven Gables off the shelf and turned to the opening paragraph, where Hawthorne introduces the reader to the eponymous home of the Pyncheon family.
"Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns," she read, "stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. This street is ...."
A noise drew her attention away from the novel. She tilted her head and listened carefully. Footsteps. But they came not from the hallway.
It sounds as though something is trapped behind the wall.
* * *
Dinner was served at seven in the family dining room. The table was set for two: Shana and Barton. Tonks served each course of the meal, beginning with the salad.
"I trust you're finding your way around the house," the financier stated.
"Yes. I explored the rooms on the first floor while your mother was taking her afternoon nap. I was delighted by the library. I hope you don't mind that I borrowed one of your books."
"Of course not. They're not works of art to be admired. They're meant to be read."
Once the salad bowls were cleared away, the soup was served. Since the clam chowder was too hot to eat, Shana retrieved her cell phone from her pocket. Her employer frowned.
"I hope you're not one of those people who use a phone during dinner."
"No. I only took it out now because I want to put your mother's doctor's information in my contacts."
"That won't be necessary. Tonks updates Dr. Van Buskirk on my mother's condition."
"But in case of an emergency, I ...."
"You will ring for Tonks, and he'll get in touch with the doctor."
In her years of experience as a private nurse, she had never been refused access to her patient's medical providers. Still, Mr. Meares was paying her salary; she would have to follow his instructions.
"As you wish," she concurred and put her phone away.
"I hope you don't feel that you must remain in the house all day, every day. There is so much to see in Newport that you ought to take advantage of being here. My mother always naps after lunch. Tonks brings her dinner, and you won't be needed until she is ready to go to bed. You could take that time to enjoy the shops on Bowen's Wharf, stroll along the Cliff Walk, visit Fort Adams State Park or see the mansions that are open to the public."
"Did you ever consider offering tours of Rêves de Mer?" Shana inquired.
"Never! I could not abide a bunch of strangers traipsing through my home!"
Knowing Barton had no immediate family, she idly wondered who would inherit the house once he was gone. Perhaps there were distant relatives in the wings, or maybe he would donate the mansion to a worthy charitable organization.
After enjoying the main course, the nurse had little room left for dessert. Still, she could not resist the lemon chiffon cake topped with berries and whipped cream.
"That was delicious!" she exclaimed, finishing the last of her after-dinner coffee. "My compliments to your cook."
"If you'll excuse me," Barton said, rising from his seat, "I have work to do. Have a pleasant evening, Ms. Hellings. Perhaps I shall see you at breakfast."
Breakfast! I can't think of food after that meal. I had better take my employer up on his offer of free time in the afternoons. If I don't get any exercise, I'll be as big as a house by the time this assignment is over.
Before returning to her own suite, she helped Mrs. Meares prepare for bed. Another three chapters of Dickens and the patient was sound asleep.
When she entered her own suite, she noticed that the linens on the bed had been turned down, and her nightgown was laid across the pillows. A servant had apparently entered the bedroom while she was tending to her patient.
But I never heard anyone in the hall. That maid must be as quiet as a mouse.
She showered, changed, got into bed and reached for Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel on her nightstand. While reading about Hepzibah Pyncheon's little shop, she again heard the sound of footsteps.
They're too loud to be mice, she reasoned. Could there be some other animal inside the walls? Perhaps a cat or a raccoon?
Shana's brain refused to accept the evidence of her own ears. The footsteps, she insisted, were not those of a human.
* * *
The following afternoon, once her patient was napping, Shana took Mr. Meares's advice and visited The Elms, originally the opulent estate of coal baron Edward Julius Berwind, now owned by the Preservation Society of Newport County. Located on Bellevue Avenue, the mansion, like Rêves de Mer, dated back to the Gilded Age, a time when Newport was a summer playground for the very rich.
"How many servants were needed to take care of a place this size?" a tourist from New Jersey asked the guide.
"It took approximately forty servants, both indoor and outdoor staff, to maintain The Elms when it was a private home."
"And only two people lived here, Berwind and his wife?"
"That's essentially correct since the couple had no children. But the servants lived in the house. There were sixteen bedrooms and three shared bathrooms for their use."
"But I bet none of those rooms looked like the ones the Berwinds inhabited."
"You're right there. Theirs were much more modest."
In learning about the life of servants during the Gilded Age, Shana solved the mystery of the footsteps at Rêves de Mer. Except for the butler, servants were not meant to be seen in the house. Thus, they worked below stairs and slept in rooms on the top floor. Separate staircases were at the back of the house so that they could carry out their duties or move from floor to floor, unseen by the homeowners and their guests.
The footsteps I heard must be one of the servants using a back staircase.
That night at dinner, Shana shared with Barton what she had learned at The Elms.
"I suppose, today, thanks to our many modern conveniences, not nearly as many servants would be needed in such a house," she theorized. "How many servants work here at Rêves de Mer?"
"I honestly don't know," the financier confessed. "I'm far too busy to concern myself with such matters. Tonks sees to all household affairs."
Strange that the butler had so much responsibility and yet did not delegate simple tasks such as answering the door and serving meals to an underling.
Maybe the housekeeping budget is not enough to hire more staff. After all, the upkeep on so large and old a home must be staggering!
"Are you planning on visiting any of the other mansions?" her employer inquired as he waited for Tonks to take away the soup bowls and bring out the main course.
"Yes, I am. I'd like to visit one each week. The next one I'd like to see is Rosecliff. I was told that's where they made The Great Gatsby with Robert Redford."
"Many movies and television shows have been filmed in Newport. My favorite is Reversal of Fortune. Sunny and Claus von Bülow lived at Clarendon Court on Bellevue Avenue."
Although she had never seen the movie, Shana was aware of the trial that had inspired it. When Sunny von Bülow slipped into an irreversible coma, charges were brought against her husband, Claus, accusing him of trying to kill her with a dose of insulin. He was convicted of attempted murder, but the conviction was overturned on appeal.
"Is their house open to the public?" she asked.
"No. It's privately owned."
"Oh, well. Rosecliff, it is then."
* * *
The summer passed quickly. In addition to The Elms and Rosecliff, Shana visited The Breakers, Marble House (her favorite), Chateau-sur-Mer, Kingscote and Chepstow. In September and October, she toured Doris Duke's Rough Point, Belcourt, the Isaac Bell House, the eighteenth-century Hunter House and the oldest surviving house in Newport, the Wanton-Lyman-Hazard House. She was also able to see the exteriors of many of the mansions that were privately owned and not open to the public. Wanting to get the full picture of what Newport was like in its heyday, she was able to find several books that featured the Gilded Age mansions that were destroyed or torn down over the decades.
Winter weather came early, with the first snow arriving in early November.
"I suppose my sightseeing will be over until the spring," she told Barton one chilly autumn evening at dinner.
"If you don't mind the cold, there are events scheduled all winter long. Several of the mansions are decorated for Christmas. And you shouldn't miss the illuminated boat parade."
"A boat parade? That sounds like a lot of fun. I'll have to check into that."
Over coffee and dessert, Barton reminded Shana that he would be away on business for most of the month of December.
"I leave on the fourth, and I won't be back until January 1."
"So, you won't be here for the holidays."
"No. It will be just you and my mother."
"And the servants."
"Of course. Tonks will be sure to have a special holiday meal prepared on Christmas Day."
"That won't be necessary. I can eat whatever he and the servants are having."
"I insist. And I'll have him put up the tree in the foyer."
"He doesn't have to go through all that trouble just for me."
"Nonsense! It's Christmas."
On the morning of the first of December, Shana walked down the stairs to find the foyer decorated for Christmas. An eight-foot Douglas fir, decked out in lights and ornaments, was prominently placed to herald in the season. Potted poinsettias were placed on the side tables, and greenery and gold baubles were strung up on the stair bannisters.
Tonks could never have done this all by himself. The other servants must have spent most of the night decorating.
The transformation reminded her of the Brothers Grimm tale "The Elves and the Shoemaker," in which a group of elves secretly enter a poor shoemaker's workshop and make shoes for him overnight.
"I see you and the staff have been busy," she told the butler when she entered the dining room for breakfast. "You all did a wonderful job. It's absolutely beautiful."
A simple "thank you" was Tonks's only response.
"You're not a very talkative person, are you?" Shana asked.
"I'm here to do a job, miss."
Clearly, his responsibilities did not include conversing with the nurse. She wondered if he treated the other servants differently. Was he taciturn by nature, or was he only aloof toward her?
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," Barton said as he took his seat at the head of the dining room table.
"Yes," the nurse agreed. "It makes me want to listen to Christmas carols or watch one of the many film versions of Dickens's A Christmas Carol."
"Bah! Humbug!" the financier laughed.
"You're in a good mood today."
"I always liked this season. An old year is drawing to an end, and a new one is about to begin."
Tonks served their breakfast: pumpkin spice pancakes for Barton and French toast with sliced bananas for Shana.
"Speaking of the holidays," the financier began, pouring maple syrup over his pancakes. "I'm sure you'd like some time off to go Christmas shopping."
"No. I have no one to buy gifts for," the nurse admitted softly. "I have no family, and due to the nature of my work, I don't remain in one place long enough to make any close friends."
"What shame."
How odd!
He was aware that she had no family when he hired her. When he had questioned her about the lack of emergency contact information on her resume, she had explained her solitary state to him.
He must have forgotten. After all, he is a busy man. My personal life is hardly important to him.
* * *
Barton had been away a little over a week, and the solitude was already depressing Shana. Tonks, distant as ever, served the meals and then disappeared below stairs. The ever-silent Mrs. Meares was no suitable companion either. This was understandable since her condition was slowly deteriorating. The old woman had aged considerably since March. In the absence of a scale, the nurse estimated that she had lost twelve pounds, and she slept most of the day. She was slowly wasting away as if something were sucking the life out of her.
I'm no doctor, but I've been around enough dying patients to know the poor woman doesn't have much time left.
Late one snowy December night, Shana lay in her bed reading Wuthering Heights, when she heard the footsteps coming from the servants' staircase. She wondered how many people lived in the mansion. Probably not nearly as many as had lived here during Newport's more prosperous days. There would be no need for laundresses, footmen, ladies' maids, scullery maids, chamber maids and such. Obviously, there were people to keep the house clean and cook the meals, but how many of them were live-in servants and how many went home at the end of the day?
Her curiosity unsatisfied, she tucked a bookmark into her novel, placed the book on her night table and turned off the lamp. Tomorrow, she would find her way to the kitchen and introduce herself to the staff.
The next morning, Shana woke earlier than normal. She hurriedly dressed and headed for the stairs that led down to the servants' work areas. Two observations immediately struck her. The lighting was dim, and the temperature was cold. Could Barton have given the servants time off while he was away?
"Hello?" she called. "Is anyone here?"
No answer. Her own voice echoed back to her through the gloom.
Listening for any sound of life but hearing none, she made her way to the kitchen. No one was there. The nurse glanced at her watch. Breakfast would normally be served in fifteen minutes. Where was the cook?
She peered into the murkiness of the hallway. Given the absence of light, she could not see where the hall led. It seemed to end in total darkness. Footsteps, similar to the ones she heard through her bedroom wall.
"Hello?" she repeated.
The noise that emanated from the black recess was more chilling than the cold temperature she encountered below stairs. The footsteps became a shuffling, slurping sound. Surely, it wasn’t one of the servants.
Whatever it is, it's not human, but what kind of animal sounds like that?
A familiar voice shattered the tomb-like silence.
"May I help you, Miss Hellings?"
"Oh, Tonks! You startled me."
"If you're looking for your breakfast, it will be served upstairs in the dining room at the usual time."
"I wanted to meet the staff. I've been in this house since March, and I haven't met any of them."
"I'm afraid the area below stairs is off limits to you."
"Why? I work for Mr. Meares as does everyone else here," she protested.
"You are not a servant in this house. You are special."
"Special? What do you mean?"
"Please follow me," Tonks commanded and headed for the staircase.
"All right," she agreed, noticing that not a single servant lurked in the nearby shadows, intent on investigating the disturbance in the kitchen.
"Need I remind you not to return to this area?" the butler asked after they mounted the steps.
"That won't be necessary," the nurse snapped, offended by Tonks's harsh treatment.
I won't be coming back down here, she vowed to herself. This area of the house gives me the creeps!
* * *
New Year's Eve is a time when most people celebrate with food, champagne, music, dancing and all-around merriment. For many, it is a time to make resolutions for the year ahead; some even keep them. Sadly, for Shana Hellings, it was just another day. Worse, because Mr. Meares had yet to return from his business trip to dispel her sense of cabin fever.
In honor of the holiday, Tonks served another praiseworthy dinner.
I wonder who cooked this filet mignon and all the side dishes, she mused, but she had no intention of asking the butler or going to the kitchen to learn the answer herself. You won't catch me going below stairs again.
On this occasion, champagne was served with dessert.
"Happy New Year!" she whispered to the empty room and drained her glass.
After her meal, she went to Mrs. Meares's room. Surprisingly, the old woman was wide awake.
"Would you like me to read to you?" the nurse offered.
Without waiting for a reply that she knew would not come, Shana picked up the copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, which she had started reading to her patient on Thanksgiving Day. She opened the book at the dog-eared page that marked the spot where she had left off. It was the ninth and final chapter. Continuing with the story at a point two years after Gatsby's murder, she read Nick Carraway's narrative describing the aftermath of the shooting. She had expected her patient to fall asleep, but the old woman was still awake when she reached the end of the novel.
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past," she read and closed the book.
"It's almost midnight," the nurse announced, glancing at her watch. "Too bad you don't have a television in your room. If you did, you could watch the ball drop in Times Square. Wait! Why don't I get my laptop? We might be able to watch it online."
Shana collected her computer from her room and found a website entitled TimesSquareNYC.org, which featured live coverage of the performances leading up to the famed midnight tradition. She kept the volume low in case the old woman wanted to sleep.
"Look at all the people!" she exclaimed. "I can't imagine ...."
The sound of footsteps was louder than usual. Mrs. Meares's eyes widened with fear, and she reached out a bony hand to grab hold of her nurse's wrist.
"There's nothing to be afraid of. That's just one of the servants on the back staircase."
Frail though she was, the patient tightened her grip. Her lips moved as if to speak, but no sound came out.
"Is something wrong?" the nurse cried. "What is it? Are you in pain?"
Since she did not have Dr. Van Buskirk's phone number—nor had she ever met him—she picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button to summon the butler. He did not pick up, but moments later, he appeared in the doorway.
"How did you know I was trying to contact you?"
"I didn't. I was on my way up here to see you," he answered.
"Why?"
"I wanted to inform you that Mr. Meares has returned."
Upon hearing of her son's return, the old woman tried to rise from the bed.
"As you can see, Mrs. Meares is distressed," the nurse pointed out. "I think you ought to contact her doctor."
"No need for that," Barton insisted, stepping past the butler and entering his mother's room.
The patient's eyes filled with tears, and a barely audible sob escaped from her contorted mouth.
"Come now, Mother. Let go of Miss Hellings," he ordered and effortlessly lifted her from the bed. "It's time to welcome a new year."
"Where are you taking her?" the nurse demanded to know.
Despite his years and his bulk, Tonks moved quickly. She felt the sting of the hypodermic needle before realizing she was in danger.
"You, too," the butler stated in his crisp British accent.
"Where ...?" she managed to ask before her eyes fluttered closed.
"Below stairs."
* * *
When Shana came to, she found herself lying on the kitchen table, surrounded by lit candles.
"Why have you brought me here?" she asked Barton, who was standing next to his butler. "Why the kitchen, of all places?"
"While it is used to prepare the meals served at Rêves de Mer, this room also serves a much more important purpose."
"Where is your mother?" she muttered, noticing the old woman’s absence.
"She died many, many years ago. Back in—when was it—1882, I believe," the financier explained.
"That's impossible! That would make you well over a century old!"
"Closer to two centuries, actually," he chuckled. "I was born in 1845."
"Do you take me for a fool!" Shana growled. "No one lives that long."
"I was eighteen when I was killed at the Battle of Gettysburg."
"Not exactly killed," the butler corrected him.
"True. I was on death's door when Tonks here found me."
"And I'm to believe you're over a hundred and eighty years old, too?" the nurse addressed the butler sarcastically.
Tonks laughed, "No. I came to this country on the Mayflower. You won't find my name on the passenger list, however. I guess you could say I was a stowaway. But I was born long before 1620. In fact, I honestly have no idea how old I really am."
"Suffice it to say, he's not human," Barton summed up. "He made a pact with the Dark One many centuries before he found me half-dead on that part of the Pennsylvania battlefield known as the Devil's Den. For some reason, he took pity on me. With his unique skills, he brought me back from the brink of death."
"And we've been together ever since," the preternatural being concluded.
"How is that possible?" the nurse argued, curious as to what they hoped to gain by their ludicrous story.
"Like Tonks, I also made a pact with the Dark One. Being a fairly bright young man," Barton boasted, "I prospered greatly over the years."
"We prospered, you mean."
"We prospered," the financier rephrased his statement with a nod of his head to the butler. "I became exceedingly wealthy. I was the one who built Rêves de Mer, not my fictional great-great-great-grandfather. And down through the years, I have been its sole owner."
"Yet in all this time, no one questioned your longevity?"
"I pretend to age. Eventually, my death is announced in the paper, and soon thereafter, I reappear as my own heir, looking like a much younger man. You see, physically, I'm still eighteen. This gray hair and the wrinkles are merely a disguise. By the end of January, Barton Meares will no longer exist. Randall Meares will take his place as head of the business and the owner of this house."
"Your story gets more and more unbelievable," Shana insisted, attempting to get off the kitchen table, only to discover her muscles were still not responding.
"But true nonetheless," Barton assured her.
"What do you plan to do with me? And where is the woman you claimed was your mother?"
"Your patient was, in fact, your predecessor. Not a nurse, but a secretary I hired to assist me."
"Was?" the nurse echoed with mounting fear. "Have you harmed her in any way?"
"I'm afraid it was necessary," the former Union Army private answered. "It's all part of the deal I made back in 1863. At the start of each new year, I must sacrifice a life to extend my own for another twelve months. But you needn't worry; her death was painless. I'm not a monster, after all. I gave her a glass of champagne, and she quietly drifted off to sleep, never to awaken again."
"What about me? Are you going to kill me, too?"
"Not yet. You've got another year left to live. You'll be kept alive, here in this house, until next December 31, when it will be your turn to be brought down here and sacrificed."
The chilling breeze Shana had felt when she first ventured below stairs returned, causing her teeth to chatter. Moments later, the footsteps returned, and again, they became a shuffling, slurping sound.
"What is that?" she cried in alarm.
"That, Miss Hellings, is one of my servants. The cook, to be precise."
Thankfully, the shot Tonks administered to her prevented her from looking down at the floor at the hideous servant sent from hell to do Barton Meares’s bidding. She was spared having seen the subterranean creature that had cooked her food and walked behind her walls at night.
"My cook has kept you well fed while you were here," the financier laughed. "And for the next twelve months, you will return the favor."
Shana now understood why her patient's condition had worsened since she'd arrived in Newport. And like that poor secretary, she would waste away as well, having her life slowly sucked out of her by Satan’s spawn.
As the thing slithered its way toward the table, its slurping sound indicating its hunger, the nurse closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.
She supposed her death next December 31 would be a blessing in disguise.
There is no truth to the rumor that Robert Redford got the role of Jay Gatsby only after Salem turned it down.
