The Asylum . . . "A Tale as Old as Time." Second Installment.

Here’s the second post from my Beauty and the Beast retelling. Thank you for all the encouraging feedback! If you missed the first post, you can read it here. And here is a link to an upcoming collection of five retellings of this favorite fairytale. As always, I would love to hear from you in the comments! Enjoy 🙂

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Chapter 3

Wendy paced the floor between a four-poster bed and a little-used fireplace. She held her phone at various angles and hoped to get a signal. When one eeked into existence, she punched speed dial and bounced on her toes, excited to share the news with her editor.

“Hey, Bossman, guess what?” Her finger absentmindedly twirled a lock of hair. “No, no. Quite the opposite. Even better than the opposite. Better than I could’ve hoped—except for a certain stipulation that makes things a bit . . . complicated.”

Wendy went on to explain her sudden, working “leave of absence.” Though she knew her boss, Seth, would fight her about ditching some other, minor stories, she also knew the struggle would end in her favor. The man showed a little too much interest in his talented, tenacious protégé. She knew he would relent—after a proper protest—in hopes to score that dinner date he continued to pursue.

Sure enough, he conceded.

“Thank you, Seth. You know how important this is to me.” Wendy couldn’t suppress a victorious smirk. “I’ll try to touch base once a week. But the signal is lousy, so don’t panic if you don’t hear from me. Talk to you soon.”

Phone in hand, she took some photos of her luxurious room—home for the next month. The bedroom outsized her efficiency apartment and felt like five-star accommodations. The issue of owning nothing but the clothes on her back, and her electronic gear, unsettled her a smidge. Though Stanley assured Wendy that the manor was stocked with suitable clothing and toiletries, it felt strange to borrow an entire wardrobe for a month.

After properly capturing the charm of a vintage armoire and screened dressing area, she strode to the door ready to tour the mansion and meet the residents.

“Wha-?” Wendy grasped the handle and frowned. She rattled it, a bit of panic pricking her gut. The door was locked from the outside.

“Hey!” She banged the impenetrable wood. It seemed to absorb and muffle her blows. “Let me out of here!” 

A silken cord hung beside the doorjamb and Wendy recalled the bells that hung outside of the patients’ rooms. She yanked it and heard her own bell clamor, and hoped someone else did too. While she waited, her eyes scoured the room for an in-house phone or intercom.

Nothing presented itself.

A hasty hammering on her door made her jump. It sounded like a giant woodpecker drilled from the other side. Wendy instinctively reached for the handle but realized, again, her predicament. 

“The door’s locked,” she called. “Can you open it?”

“Of course I can,” replied a rapid-fire, female voice. “I’m asking for permission.”

“Yes, please!” Wendy heard a clunk and helped yank the door open to reveal her rescuer. She blinked at the unusually tall woman, with raven black hair, that stared down from beady, charcoal eyes. 

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you to ring the bell precisely three times?” The woman tilted her head and stared at Wendy sideways.

“No one told me anything.” Wendy took a step away from the overbearing lady. “Stanley lead me here just as the front doorbell chimed. He told me to make myself at home—but I don’t understand why I’m locked inside.”

The woman flipped her long, glossy hair and crossed her arms. “All the patients’ rooms lock from the outside. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

“I’m not a patient. I’m a guest.” Wendy tried not to take offense at the stranger. She offered her hand. “Wendy Kauffman, Jacksonville Journal.”

“Carmen,” she said, grasping Wendy’s hand with bony, chilled fingers. “I’m the housekeeper. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to being locked up soon enough. None of the patients want to admit they’re a patient, so you’ll fit right in.”

Wendy withdrew her hand and placed it on her hip. “Excuse me! I’m here to do a story on Mr. Brantley. I am a reporter, not a patient.”

The woman nodded in a skeptical way and pulled out a feather duster from her apron. “Mmm hmm. Heard that before.” She moved off with a staccato whistle and began to dust a lampshade. 

Flustered, Wendy stepped back and slammed the door shut.

“Ugh!” She stamped her foot, angry at herself for the predicament. Before she could yank on the bell chord again, someone knocked.

That’s when Wendy noticed the peephole. She pressed her eye against it, not caring to endure another lecture from the housekeeper. Stanley stood on the other side, his hair the distinguishing feature.

“Come in,” she said.

The lock clanked and the door swung open.

“Why am I locked in my room like some sort of prisoner?” Wendy stepped toward the man, hands balled into fists.

“My dear, I’m terribly sorry. I should’ve explained before I left.” He clasped and released his gloved hands. “All of our rooms double as patient rooms. We rarely have guests, you see. I do apologize for how it must make you feel.”

Wendy relaxed her stance. “I see. Well, is there any way to rig the lock so I can be in charge of my own comings and goings?”

“I’ll ask Grayson, our handyman,” he said. “Now, how about a look around our humble abode?”

Wendy smiled, ready to step off of her emotional roller coaster. “Excellent. And you mentioned something about borrowing some clothes?”

“Yes, yes. Already stocked in your wardrobe and chest of drawers. They may not be the current fashion, but you’ve a wide selection to choose from.”

The butler offered her his arm. Though it felt formal, it also endeared the shaggy-headed man to Wendy. She looped her arm through his and they headed toward the towering, industrious figure of Carmen.

When they approached, Stanley said, “Carmen, please go to the supply room and gather the necessary toiletries for Miss Kaufman to be comfortable for the next month. You know what suits a female guest better than I do.”

The woman cut her dark eyes to Wendy. “You’re not a patient after all.”

Wendy hoped a friendly smile may soften the housekeeper’s scowl. “No. Just a simple journalist, trying to do my job.”

“You’re job? You really think Mr. Brantley will pour out his heart and have you broadcast it to the world?”

“Well, I doubt he—”

“It’ll never happen. A few nights in this looney bin and you’ll go crazy as well. You might not be a patient right now, but—mark my words—it’s just a matter of time.”

Chapter 4

Wendy didn’t protest when Stanley lead her away from the housekeeper.

“That woman possesses horrific manners.” Stanley shook his head and didn’t seem to notice that Wendy turned a puzzled glare back to the housekeeper.

“That’s one miserable person,” Wendy muttered.

“Yes, yes. She’s a thorough housekeeper, but also one of our most difficult patients.”

Wendy stopped walking. “She is a patient?”

“Quite so, m’dear. Everyone that you meet here, besides myself, is a patient.”

Wendy tried to wrap her mind around that statement. She shuddered as if to rattle something into place. “That makes no sense. What about the staff? The doctors?”

Stanley shrugged. “What do they need a doctor for? They aren’t sick. They’re . . . different. They don’t function well in society but, together, they all function as a family here within these walls. The world out there would be quite unkind. In here, they can be themselves. They can enjoy working in various positions from cook to gardener to cleaning lady. It’s unusual, yes, but it’s cozy and safe. It’s a system that’s worked for years.”

Wendy blinked. She didn’t know if these revelations mortified her or piqued her journalistic curiosity.

The butler escorted her downstairs and past the front door. Halfway down another plush hall, Stanley stopped before two towering doors that formed one stately arch. The lack of bell and outside latch indicated they were not in front of a patient’s room.

Stanley opened one door and stepped aside. Wendy walked in and inhaled the musty, comforting scent of books. Loads of books. Nearly every wall held floor-to-ceiling, two-story bookshelves. Narrow windows peeked between the shelves on the opposite wall and allowed a slender beam of butterscotch sunshine to angle into the room, invitingly. 

Wendy felt more at home in a library than anywhere else. Books fed an escape from a troubled home life as a child. They also left her aching for more information than she could consume—which launched her into investigative journalism.

“This library is available for your use, for research or pleasure, at any time. As you can imagine, we have a wide selection of books on hypertrichosis, but there are many other treasures to be found, as well.” Stanley watched the glow that settled on Wendy as she took in the enormity of the place.

“Wow. What a collection. Some of these are rare and original.” She stopped exploring when she noticed a row of mirrored windows along the top of one wall, above the bookcase. “What’s up there?”

The butler shifted his weight. “That would be part of Master Brantley’s quarters, miss.”

Wendy squinted. “Is he watching us right now?”

Stanley shrugged.

“Does he enjoy reading?”

“Oh yes, yes. Though it’s becoming more difficult with his claws—er, nails. He doesn’t wish to tear up his precious collection. I read to him, when he asks.” Stanley turned toward the door. “Come, let’s go to the drawing room for tea.”

Wendy’s eyebrows shot up. “Tea? Quaint touch. I should’ve expected it.” 

Stanley continued the tour as they made their way to the other side of the manor. They approached an archway draped with crushed, crimson velvet and parted in the middle. Inside the room, a chaise lounge cradled a drowsy looking man. A cluster of people stood behind him, pouring their tea. 

“Will Mr. Brantley be joining us?”

Stanley’s face clouded. He shook his head. “No. He used to come down occasionally, but it’s been . . . it’s been quite some time.” He gestured towards the room. “Shall we?”

Wendy tried to hide her disappointment about not meeting the reclusive subject of her story. All that she knew of the wealthy man—formerly a spoiled, unruly rich kid—was gleaned from a few newspaper articles and tabloid rumors. Living with his condition had surely changed him in profound ways, and she wanted to understand how. Since Brantley insisted she stay a month, he probably wasn’t in any hurry to warm up to her presence, she decided. 

The two walked into the drawing room between the parted curtains. It made Wendy feel like a bit of a spectacle. Everyone stared with unmasked curiosity. 

Stanley stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce our lovely houseguest for the next month, Wendy Kaufman.”

Silent stares abounded. The butler cleared his throat. “And it’s Master Brantley’s wish that you each maintain the utmost decorum in all of your interactions with Miss Kaufman. Help to make her welcome.”

The silence prompted Wendy to speak first. “That’s Ms. Kaufman, actually. But, please, call me Wendy. I look forward to getting to know each of you.”

When no one did more than blink, Wendy added, “Wendy, is short for Wednesday. My full name is Wednesday Annabelle Kaufman. My mom must’ve been crazy, right?”

Wendy’s hand flew to her mouth. Why did she feel obligated to address awkward silence? It guaranteed regrettable remarks.

Stanley diplomatically took over. “Since we are a bit out of practice hosting a guest, let me remind you that the polite thing to do is introduce yourselves. Carmen, why don’t you begin since you and Ms. Kaufman are somewhat acquainted.”

The gangly woman looked perturbed but complied. “Carmen. Housekeeper.”

Wendy stepped toward her and, once more, offered her hand. “Nice to meet you again. I think we may’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over, shall we?”

Carmen gripped Wendy’s fingers so that she winced. “Hello. Don’t continuously ring your bell ever again. Three chimes. Thank you.”

Wendy swallowed her shock and tugged her hand free. “Yes, I understand.” She turned to the next patient, eager to avoid Carmen’s intense, sideways stare.

A pudgy man with round glasses and thin, wispy hair stepped forward. “Forgive our lack of manners, Ms. Kaufman—”

“Wendy, please.” She shook his calloused hand.

“Very well, Wen-dy,” he said, as if to try a foreign word. “We’ve been so long without a hope, I mean, a house . . . guest, that we’ve quite lost our tongues. I’m Grayson, resident handyman, at your service.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Wendy felt relieved to meet a warmer character. “And I’d love to talk to you about a small issue with my door, over tea.”

Grayson nodded and snapped his fingers at the man that dozed on the chaise, beneath a cockeyed hat. He hadn’t appeared to move since Wendy spotted him from the hallway. “Spade! Wake up. Wake up and be a gentleman.”

With a start, the man sat up, rubbed his eyes, and blinked. His plaid hat tumbled onto his lap. “Am I seeing things? Who’s this beauty? As lovely as any rose I’ve nurtured in the garden, for certain.”

Wendy laughed and gave a little curtsey. “Wendy Kaufman. Jacksonville Journal. Call me Wendy.”

Spade scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply, revealing a thick head of slick, ebony hair. He replaced his hat with a wink and adjusted his suspenders over a rumpled, denim shirt. “Wendy! Like the wind that blows the Spanish moss that hangs upon our trees. Wendy! Like the wind that rustles the chimes and carries music through the outdoors for all to enjoy. Wendy! That—”

“We get the idea, Spade!” A woman waddled backwards through a swinging door then turned toward Wendy, holding a tray of steaming baked goods. “You’ll have to wax nostalgic another time. I’m sure our guest would like to revive her constitution with some tea and crumpets.”

The plump lady set the tray on a sideboard and wiped her hands on a ruffled apron. “I’m Bonnie. Everyone calls me Cookie, however, so you might as well.” She walked to Wendy and smothered her in a hug. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to meet you, love. Prepare yourself to get fattened up! I’m going to pull out all the stops so that you’ll never want to leave.”

Wendy chuckled, a bit uncomfortable with the belly rub the woman bestowed when she said, “fattened up.” Bonnie’s good nature was infectious though, and the promise of home cooking cheered her.

“Thank you, Cookie. I feel most welcomed. Wendy Kaufman, at your cooking mercy for the next month.”

The woman crinkled her eyes in a smile and reached both hands to Wendy’s cheeks. “Oh, what a sight you are for our weary souls, m’dear. What a sight!”

Cookie turned with a scolding finger to the others. “Don’t you guys mess this up, ya hear? It’ll be bread and water for life if you do. Bread and water.”

Mess what up? Wendy wondered. The peculiarity of this place continued to build. The term asylum became more fitting.

“And you,” Cookie said, pointing at a frail girl that sat near a window, “quit your daydreaming. You’ve got five minutes to grab a crumpet. Then come help in the kitchen. There’s much to be done before a proper supper can be served.”

“Please don’t do anything special on my account, ma’am,” Wendy said.

“Nonsense. You must allow me to spoil you a bit. That’s an order!”

The petite girl scurried to the tray of treats, picked one up and plunked it on a napkin. She dashed to where Wendy stood, so light on her feet that she appeared to hover in her long, ill-fitting dress.

“I’m Clara,” she said with a bob. “You’ll find me helping Cookie in the kitchen or Carmen with the housekeeping. Happy to have you with us.”

Wendy didn’t think the girl looked happy in the least. Large, hazel eyes were rimmed red, her mousy hair escaped from a loose braid. Though Wendy guessed the girl must close to her own age, her childlike naiveté and tiny stature gave the impression of being younger.

“Clara, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m happy to be here as well.”

“Clara!” Cookie yelled from the kitchen.

“That was a fast five minutes, wasn’t it?” Wendy winked.

Clara’s shoulders slumped and she moved toward the swinging door. “Coming.”

“Well, that’s everyone,” Stanley said. “Have a seat, won’t you? Cookie does make the best crumpets east of the Mississippi.”

“That’s everyone? Surely there are more people in a place this size.” She took the seat Stanley offered.

“Nope. This is the entirety of our little family.”

Spade offered Wendy a plate piled with crumpets.

“Thank you.” She selected one.

Grayson appeared on her other side with a cup of steaming tea. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Just sugar, please,” she said. “Grayson, I hope it’s not premature to ask a favor. Stanley mentioned you may be able to fix my latch so I’m not locked in my room.”

Wendy pretended not to notice Carmen’s glare.

Grayson nodded. “Of course. Your wish is my command, dear.”

“Thank you. And, if I may be so bold to ask one more thing . . . perhaps a lock on the inside of the door, if possible. You know, for privacy.”

“All the doors are equipped with a lock on both sides. Privacy is important for each individual, after all. The inside lock is inconspicuous. It’s on one of the hinges, where you wouldn’t expect it.”

“Okay, thanks.” Wendy felt stupid for bringing it up. It gave the impression she wanted to protect herself from the very people surrounding her. A glance at Carmen’s sullen facade made Wendy admit that there was at least one person she wanted to avoid in the dark of the night.

Chapter 5

After tea, Stanley finished the tour. Both towers were off-limits without his escort—one of which she visited earlier to meet Brantley—which made her wonder what she might find in the other. Being directionally challenged might have its unintentional perks . . .

When she returned to her room, she found Grayson putting away his tools.

“Gotcha fixed up, Ms. Kaufman.” He pointed to the gate-like latch, now rigged to stay open.

“Thank you, Grayson. Please, call me Wendy.”

He waved her inside the bedroom. “Let me show you how this other lock works.” A thin flap of metal attached to one hinge and swiveled toward the door where it dropped into a notch and prevented the door from opening.

“No wonder I didn’t see it. Very inconspicuous.” Wendy tried the lock a few times.

“It’s a flip-action lock. Small but effective.” From the look on Grayson’s face, Wendy guessed it must have been his idea.

“Thanks for everything, Grayson.” Wendy opened the door. So much had happened, she needed some time alone to process.

“My pleasure, lovely lady. If you need anything,” he grabbed the bell chord, “just ring.”

“Precisely three times,” Wendy added.

“Oh, don’t let that jealous, old crow bother you. Carmen might be cranky but she’s all right. A bit threatened by your being here, no doubt.”

“Why?”

“Your beauty. Your youthfulness. Everything she no longer possesses.” Grayson leaned in close. “She’s a jilted lover. Had a thing for Master Brantley once, but he didn’t return her advances.”

“I see.” Wendy could well imagine why. “Thanks for the insight. See you at supper.”

Wendy worked the latch in place, stepped out of her shoes, and face-planted on the bed. What a day! It turned out better than anything she dared imagine before her arrival. To stay in this upscale estate felt like a working vacation—a nice perk to accompany her crowning feature story.

She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes against the glow of the chandelier. What would it be like to finally meet the mysterious master of the house? She hoped to make a good impression at dinner. Her questions would have to simmer a bit while she gained his confidence. Wendy smiled. A month’s worth of investigation would surely lead to a series of stories in the paper. Perhaps it would get syndicated. Maybe Time or Life magazine would want to do an exclusive. Maybe . . . 

***

“Ms. Kaufman! Are you in there?”

Wendy sat up, startled. It took a moment to grasp her surroundings. Oh no!

“I’m here.” She jumped off the bed and smoothed her clothes. “May I help you?”

“Supper was served at 6 o’clock. Did you plan to join us?” 

Wendy smacked her forehead. “Ugh!” She unlocked the door and peeked out. “I’m afraid I fell asleep.”

Stanley’s mustache curved upwards. “No harm done. Cookie’s crumpets are a sure tonic for a nap. Go ahead and get changed. Join us as soon as you’re ready.”

“Changed?”

Stanley nodded. “Supper is a formal occasion. You’ll find what you need in the wardrobe.”

Wendy felt panicked. “What a way to start my visit. I’ll be right down.”

She shut the door and rushed over to the armoire.

“You can’t be serious.” She stepped back and looked around. For what, she couldn’t say. Another wardrobe with clothes from the current century, perhaps? A sigh of resignation left her fingering through gowns suited for a gala with Queen Victoria.  Taffeta, velvet, chiffon . . . all manner of garish material hung on billowing dresses. Wendy couldn’t suppress a giggle. If the household wasn’t strange enough on its own . . . she had now become a contributing oddball.

“These will make for interesting selfies,” she mumbled. A creamy lace dress with an empire waist seemed the least ridiculous of the bunch. She slipped into it, surprised by the superb fit. Handmade touches, like beads and embroidery, proved the gown to be of highest quality. The fit flattered Wendy and, she noticed, made her feel like a part of the stately home on another level. She wondered whether that was a good thing—considering the reputation of the place.

To her amazement, Wendy found a matching pair of heels that fit like she was Cinderella in glass slippers. With practiced poise, she walked out the door to find Stanley waiting in the hall.

After a calming breath, she said, “Thank you for waiting. I’m ready.”

“You’re a vision of loveliness.” Stanley took her arm. “I hope Master Brantley is still with us.”

Wendy stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Drake Brantley is a man of habit. Supper is precisely served at 6 o’clock. It’s nearly 7.”

Wendy could not disguise her despondency. Way to blow your first impression, Wednesday Annabelle Kaufman!

Drake’s empty chair, at the head of the long table, announced Wendy’s unprofessionalism. Though everyone chatted politely, an air of disappointment infiltrated the gathering. It oozed with particular coldness from Carmen’s seat, halfway down the table.

Wendy tried to ignore the unpleasant predicament of being last to eat, while everyone looked on. Instead she gushed about how much she loved the stuffed pheasant and caramelized vegetables. Cookie brightened a bit, but her earlier spark didn’t surface.

After enduring an obligatory round of cake and tea, Wendy feigned sleepiness and excused herself. She dashed out before Stanley had a chance to escort her upstairs. Once out of sight, she hefted her skirt and trotted up the staircase, hoping no one pursued.

In her room, she leaned against the door, after properly locking it. Humiliation spilled from her eyes. Anger surged ahead of the humiliation and caused her to reach down and pluck off each shoe and fling it against the bed. Who did Drake Brantley think he was—demanding she drop everything for a month of playing dress up?

With a sniff and a swipe at her tears, Wendy lifted her chin and decided to get ready for bed. Tomorrow was a new day. The faster she went to sleep, the faster it would get here.

“Time to put your big girl pant—” Wendy looked down at her outfit—“big girl pantaloons on and deal with it.”