The Asylum . . . "A Tale as Old as Time." Part Three.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this retelling of Beauty and the Beast. I must admit that I feel badly about stringing out this story over several weeks! It’s my belief that most blog readers prefer to cruise by for a “fast food” reading experience, so it is probably best to post a few chapters at a time. On the other hand, most blog posts don’t leave their readers hanging. My solution: Post a larger portion of the story so it can be consumed a bit faster . . . without asking you to hang out for an hour and read a novella. Hope that’s a good compromise. If you need to catch up, HERE is my first post and HERE is my second. Also, here is a link to an upcoming collection of five retellings of Beauty and the Beast. Hope you are enjoying Wednesday Kaufman’s story…I look forward to reading your comments!

---

Chapter 6

A menagerie of noises startled Wendy awake. She pressed the covers up to her neck and tried to make sense of the din. Howling, screeching, and other strange sounds muddled together in an awful symphony.

Wendy felt conflicted. She desperately wanted to investigate, but realized there was a reason these individuals were kept away from society. Had she become an unwitting participant in a reality TV show? It sounded reasonable. The past 24 hours had unfolded like her very own tale from Brother’s Grimm. The finishing touch would be a violent thunderstorm.

She waited expectantly, but nothing happened.

The bizarre sounds trailed off, which seemed anticlimactic. But the adrenaline surge made sleep impossible. Wendy decided to record the day’s events and snatched up the notepad on her nightstand. Though her colleagues liked to do everything electronically, she preferred the feel of a pen streaming her thoughts onto paper. Parting the curtains, she climbed onto the window seat, pleased by the full moon that bathed her in its frosty glow.

Full moon? The idea generated a fresh spike of fear. Then she laughed at her dramatic theories. Reality shows . . . full moons. Without a professional grip on the situation, the situation would get a grip on her—whether anything was amiss, or not. Wendy remembered Carmen’s warning: “You might not be a patient right now, but . . . it’s just a matter of time.” Maybe the woman was alerting Wendy, in her own, unusual manner, that this place could drive you crazy, if you let it.

An hour passed, quiet and calm. The scratch of Wendy’s pen, and the grumble of her stomach, the only sounds. She recalled a bowl of fruit in the drawing room and decided to tiptoe down and snag an apple. Would that be stealing? No. If Brantley expected her to stay for a month, she needed to feel free to grab a piece of fruit from a public offering.

She found a robe in the bathroom, unlocked her inside latch, then turned the handle slow and silent. Or, at least, she tried.

Locked!

Wendy fumed and grasped the cord to ring the bell—more than three times. Thoughts of the earlier, bizarre noises made her pause. The uneasy outsider, alone in an asylum, won out over the curious and hungry journalist. She stomped back to bed.

So much for my resolve. They’ve already got me locked up like a nutcase. That’s sure to drive me crazy.

Chapter 7

Wendy struggled to rally around. Lack of sleep, coupled with frustration over the locked door, created a cranky houseguest. She hoped she hadn’t slept through breakfast, as she had last night’s dinner. The clock on her phone confirmed that she could make it if she hurried.

The bathroom had been stocked with necessities, even a hairbrush and curling iron. Though she preferred a flat iron, she wouldn’t be picky. The chest of drawers offered a profusion of casual clothes in her size—which still baffled her—despite the fact they were a decade or more behind.

In her haste to get to breakfast, Wendy hadn’t realized her door was unlocked until after she stepped into the hall. She looked back at the outside latch, and found it rigged like the day before. Did they plan to lock her in each night? That someone considered her wishes enough to come unlock the door in the morning made Wendy feel a bit better about the whole thing.

When she arrived in the dining room, Stanley sprang to hold the door open. “Miss Kaufman—or Ms. Kaufman—or Wendy . . . glad you’re able to join us. I didn’t want to wake you. Figured your transition here might’ve left you weary.”

Wendy gave a nervous laugh, sure that her tardy appearance at supper was still the elephant in the room. She took a seat next to Carmen, determined to make some sort of amends. The housekeeper gave a sidelong glance but didn’t move, which Wendy half expected. Stanley flanked her other side.

The paltry gathering filled but a third of the glossy, walnut table. With visitors being rare . . . this was it. Five people, plus Brantley—if he bothered—were the sum of the whole. The realization washed Wendy in sadness. Shame over her own selfish expectations made her cringe inside.

Cookie ceremoniously placed a covered platter in front of Wendy. “Please, do the honors.”

Wendy thanked her and lifted the lid to reveal mounds of hotcakes. The smell wafted its magic around the table and everyone poked eager forks at the pile.

The seat at the head of the table remained empty. Stanley caught Wendy’s searching eyes and whispered, “He takes his breakfast in his chamber, Miss.”

“When shall we finally meet?” She hoped to sound optimistic, rather than frustrated.

“No telling, I’m afraid. Master Brantley keeps to himself most days.” He nudged Wendy. “Though with a beautiful young woman under his roof, you’d think he’d branch out a bit.”

“You’d think.” She took a forkful of pancakes, ready to change the subject. “Cookie, these are the best melt-in-your mouth flapjacks on the planet.”

Cookie chuckled. “Oh, pish-posh! You know how to make a girl blush.”

After breakfast, Wendy asked Grayson to walk with her to the library. Though no longer incensed about the locked door, she felt something should be said.

“Sleep well last night?” he asked.

“Funny you should ask. I woke up and wanted a late-night snack. But I couldn’t get one. I’m guessing you know why . . .”

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “You’re guess is incorrect.”

“Someone locked my door. That wasn’t you?”

The man stopped and looked serious. He glanced around and dropped his voice. “I’m sure Stanley felt it necessary. For your safety.”

Wendy recalled the strange midnight noises. “My safety?”

Grayson nodded and adjusted his glasses. “It’s complicated. You see, full moons have a reputation. For a reason.”

Wendy swallowed. “And in this instance, the reason would be . . .?”

“I’ve already said too much.” He turned and continued to the library.

Wendy trailed behind, tempted to press him for information, but opted for patience.

Once inside, Wendy asked, “Could you point me to books about hypertrichosis?”

Grayson nodded and led her across the room. She noticed he also glanced up at the row of windows above the bookshelves.

“Does Mr. Brantley frequent the library? I mean, should I expect to run into him here?”

“Not that I’m aware.” He shrugged. “Seems the longer he’s dealt with this disease, the more he insists on being locked in his quarters. He doesn’t trust himself, miss. His temper is unpredictable. If he keeps his distance from you, it’s best you respect it.”

***

Five days.

Wendy had been a guest in Mr. Brantley’s home for five days and the man hadn’t the decency to introduce himself. She filled anxious days studying his disease and getting acquainted with the kind, but quirky, residents. She understood more about what made Brantley Insane Asylum an insane asylum. Everyone had a certain charm coupled with a strange undercurrent that exposed itself in different ways. Even Stanley, who technically wasn’t a patient, had something that struck Wendy as odd.

But five days was downright offensive. Wendy would show Drake that stubbornness was a two-way street, in her neighborhood.

Suppertime approached and Wendy forced herself to heft on another cumbersome gown. She went through the dresses in order of most tolerable to least. That placed day five’s selection in the ‘so-so’ range. Yellow chiffon made her feel like a Disney character, but she preferred its silky exterior over taffeta and velvet.

Stanley faithfully waited to escort her to supper. This evening, when he held the dining room door open, he announced, “Ms. Wendy Kaufman.”

Puzzled, Wendy stepped inside. There, at the head of the table, stood Drake Brantley.

Chapter 8

Wendy gaped like an idiot for an instant. Brantley responded with a look that said: I-knew-you’d-find-me-repulsive. Shame denounced her high-minded intentions, and months of research, as abysmal. So much for a good first impression.

He needed to know that she valued him as a person. This thought propelled her forward, hand outstretched. “Mr. Brantley, sir. It’s truly an honor. Thank you for having me in your beautiful home.”

Drake Brantley seemed taken aback. He stared at her hand, then slowly extended his. Fingers misshapen, nails long and jagged, patchy chestnut hair covering the entirety of it, he grasped her gently, as if she might break.

She clutched the handshake with her other hand as well, feeling the wiry hair against her palm. “I mean it. It’s an honor to be here and to meet you.”

“Thank you for accepting my invitation to stay.” He withdrew his hand and pulled out her chair.

Wendy resisted the urge to remind him that the invitation was more of an ultimatum, and took her seat. Over a scrumptious prime rib meal, the two exchanged stilted conversation while the others stared, wide-eyed. Even Carmen lost her scowl, to a degree.

Wendy tried to imagine what Mr. Brantley would look like clean-shaven. His slate-blue eyes captivated her—perhaps because they were the easiest to focus on. The coffee-colored hair that swept across his face grew silver near his temples and chin. A touch that seemed both refined and intimidating. She watched his emotions shift from wary to amused to wistful. Most often, though, he looked sad.

While researching Drake Brantley, she viewed a plethora of pictures of him from his younger years. He not only inherited a windfall from his parents, but their good looks as well. Blonde hair, blue-eyes, chiseled jaw . . . the all-American ladies’ man. After his mid-twenties, pictures became rare. With the onset of the disease, he made limited public appearances wearing a hooded jacket, glasses, and gloves. Eventually, he vanished from the public eye.

Wendy tried to recognize the former man beneath the hair—or fur, for lack of a better term. His skin seemed mottled, where it peeked through thinner patches of hair. The shape of his face appeared to have stayed the same, though his forehead protruded more than she expected.

Through months of preparation, Wendy’s list of questions multiplied. If she could unlock the mystery of Drake Brantley, if she could compassionately share his struggle with the world, it might change his life—and her career—forever. Those questions would need to be eased into, she realized. Living under Brantley’s roof leant a different tone to their interaction from that of interviewer and interviewee. The story would not play out in a straightforward manner. But, this opportunity meant it would be better than anything an afternoon of questions could have produced. Off-the-charts better.

Feeling stuffed like a turkey, Wendy could only nibble a few, polite bites of dessert and sip some tea. She longed for a cup of coffee but didn’t want to impose on Cookie. A caramel cappuccino had her name on it, however, in about a month.

“Ms. Kaufman,” Drake Brantley pushed his chair back and stood. “This has been one of the best meals I’ve enjoyed in . . . in a long time.”

A despondent look flickered across his face. He doused it with a grin. “Delicious as always, Cookie. But the company made it even better.”

Wendy stood. “I agree. Wonderful on every level.”

Drake offered a small bow. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire. This werewolf isn’t used to keeping such late hours.”

Wendy stiffened, unsure of how to respond. 

The man gave a gruff laugh. “C’mon, now, don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”

Flustered, Wendy only blinked.

“Gotcha!” Drake laughed again. “They say a sense of humor keeps you sane.” He leaned toward Wendy, “Sort of an oxymoron since I live in an asylum.”

With that, he guffawed himself out of the dining room. Wendy looked at the others, dumbstruck. They fidgeted and appeared equally uncomfortable.

Stanley cleared his throat. “Well. That was a-a different side of Master Brantley.” He chuckled. “Why, I’d say tonight has been a booming success. A breakthrough! I propose a toast . . .”

He raised his tea cup and everyone followed suit. “To hope. To . . . possibilities.”

Wendy didn’t entirely grasp his choice of words but felt a sense of pride in being  part of the celebration. She clinked her cup with the others, while her mind reeled with new questions, and new angles for her story.

“Yes,” she echoed. “To possibilities.”

Chapter 9

“To our knowledge, Master Brantley has never possessed a sense of humor,” Stanley admitted while he escorted Wendy back to her room. “That was most uncharacteristic of him.”

“I had that impression.” Wendy giggled.

“It’s because of you, Ms. Kaufman. I believe I speak for everyone when I say thank you for providing a spark of hope. Even if it doesn’t last, we’re better for having met you and to have witnessed Master Brantley’s more human side resurface.”

“I should be thanking you all. You’ve welcomed me and made this new friendship possible.” Wendy grasped Stanley’s arm in one hand and lifted her skirt with the other to ascend the stairs. “I found Mr. Brantley quite pleasant. What do you mean by his ‘human side’ resurfacing? He’s just a human with a skin disorder.”

At the top of the stairs Stanley turned to her. “Ms. Kaufman—”

“Wendy.”

“Wendy . . . though I wish to respect my Master’s privacy, I think you should know that his disease affects more than his skin. His particular, uh, strain of the disorder affects his mind. To a degree. Tonight we were stunned to hear him discuss everyday subjects and even use silverware. Though he’s always kind to us, we’ve been troubled to watch him deteriorate over the years. There’s not been much to smile about here in a long time.”

Wendy felt the weightiness of his words. What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened? Everyone seemed to look to her for something she couldn’t possibly deliver. What would become of this household when she went back to her high-rise and cappuccinos?

She continued toward her room, lost in thought. “I guess we should keep the faith. Maybe I’ll be enough of an interruption to propel Mr. Brantley in a new direction, even after I leave.” Wendy opened her bedroom door. “Goodnight, Stanley.”

“Sleep well, Wendy.”

***

Wendy did not sleep well. Between replaying the evening’s events and considering Stanley’s words, she failed to catch a wink for over an hour. She hadn’t been in dreamland long before a wretched snarl woke her in a panic.

Unsure of whether she had dreamt or heard the noise, her pulse pummeled her beneath the covers. Another ferocious growl surged through the walls and wrapped gnarled fingers around her nerves. It sounded like Drake Brantley, the animal, was winning out.

Visions of what might be happening in the far reaches of the asylum rendered a horrific tale in Wendy’s mind. The tortured sounds chilled her far more than the noises from the other night. Perhaps because she knew exactly where they were coming from . . . and suspected she may be the cause.

The rage lasted several minutes. The all-engulfing silence that followed carried its own terror. Wendy slipped out of the covers, checked the inside lock, and went to the window. She didn’t know how long a full moon lasted but felt it might be worth checking. Though large and bright, the moon lost a sliver to the earth’s shadow.

Movement in the garden caught her eye. Something, or someone, ran along the circular hedge, stopped, then lunged at the massive stone fountain in the center. Wendy gasped to see the carved figurine topple over, water spraying wildly, which obscured her view.

She snapped the curtains shut. More than anything, she hoped that was not Drake Brantley. He couldn’t be powerful enough to smash a giant slab of stone. But that seemed the only explanation that fit. Wendy tasted salt and realized she was crying.    

Maybe she should leave. Everyone would be better off she abandoned her mission, and let them return to their sheltered, routine lives. I’ll just get in my car and drive away.

She crossed to the nightstand where her keys lay. She snatched them up and froze.

He needs me.

That sounded crazy, even though she believed it. Needs me? If Drake’s humanity had resurfaced tonight, perhaps he felt like it was gasping for air the rest of the time.

Shaken, yet certain, Wendy climbed back into bed. She knew it would be wrong to start something and leave before seeing it through. Now that she’d seen how he lived and coped, she could put herself in his place—to an extent. When the disease struck, Drake was a few years younger than her. A devastating reality.

No wonder he’s conflicted. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Wait. Things didn’t turn out so well in that story, did they . . .?

Chapter 10

Two days passed with no interaction. This time, Wendy understood that patience would be her friend under the circumstances. Instead of pining away, she took advantage of the vast library and sought out books on psychology. She wanted to learn how a devastating illness, and seclusion from society, affected a person. What sort of interaction would he welcome? She wondered if Drake watched from behind the windows, and hoped her steadfast presence assured him of her commitment.

Many of the antiquated books used brutal sorts of therapy and restraints to deal with patients—ideas popular in Victorian times but shunned in modern society. Making her way around the bookcases, Wendy came to a corner where two bookcases met, perpendicular to each other. The backside of both bookcases were illuminated in the shaft of light that beamed through the opposite window. Wendy noticed that the wall sat flush behind one set of shelves, but seemed cut-to-fit around the other.

An opening behind the bookcase.

Pulse tripping, she pressed here and there until the case shifted inward on one side.

“Oh my.” Wendy turned and looked around, sure to be caught. Cool, musty air wafted from the hole. With haste, she rotated the shelves back into place and decided to return when she knew the others were occupied. She also wanted her phone handy to illuminate the dark cavity with the flashlight feature.

The library door swung open. Wendy jumped, though she was now several steps from the bookcase.

“Oh, hello Clara.” She gave a nervous laugh. “What a surprise!”

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “Some people say I flit around this house as silent as a bat.”

“It’s okay. Caught me off guard, that’s all.” Wendy walked toward the door. “I needed to grab something from my room, so . . . if you’ll excuse me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Just needin’ to dust.” Her gaping eyes were glassy and bloodshot.

“Everything okay, Clara?”

The girl looked at her feet. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

Silence.

Wendy walked over and put her arm around the girl’s slender shoulders. “Need to talk?”

Clara shrugged. “Have you seen poor Angelina, ma’am?”

“Call me Wendy. No, who’s Angelina?”

“The angel statue on the garden fountain. She was smashed the other night by a bunch of vandals. Spade said he can’t fix her. Gonna throw her away.”

“I’m sorry. She really made the fountain beautiful.”

Clara stared up at Wendy. “She was my friend. My only friend. I could tell her anything.”

Remember you’re in an asylum. Wendy nodded. “I see.”

“Plus, she protected us from . . . things.”

“Like what?”

“You know, dragons, trolls, evil enchantresses. The usual.”

“Mmm hmm.” Wendy had to fend off a smile. Taking Clara’s hand she said, “I’ll be your friend, Clara. I may not be able to protect you from dragons and things, but if you need to talk, let me know.”

“Oh, but you can—” Clara coughed. “I mean, you can? That’s kind of you. Thanks, Wendy.”

“You’re welcome.” She squeezed Clara’s hand. “Listen, I need to make a phone call but I’ll be back in a few. Wait here if you still need to talk.”

The girl smiled. “Thank you. And thanks for being my new friend. Maybe Angelina brought you here, ‘cause she knew she had to go back to heaven.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Wendy left the girl to her dusting. Strangest conversation yet.

***

Phone in hand, she figured it may be time to make an obligatory call to Seth. After a few find-the-signal contortions, she dialed his desk extension and hoped for his voicemail. Wendy didn’t have answers for the typical questions Seth would toss her way. She wished to avoid an actual conversation. How could she convey what had transpired, or how she felt about it? Her mind hadn’t unraveled anything of consequence so far.

Voicemail cut off her message—or maybe she lost the signal. Either way, at least Seth heard Wendy’s voice and knew she was okay. If the manor had wifi, she may have sent an email. Though indoor plumbing and electricity were the extent of modern conveniences in the manor, she had to admit it felt freeing to have her electronic umbilical cord severed.

The passage behind the bookshelf overrode any concern about work. But she would need a fresh round of resolve. She couldn’t explore unless she knew Brantley was gone—a rare occurrence thus far. She shoved her phone-come-flashlight into her back pocket to be prepared. As a journalist she knew that perfect timing only presented itself with deliberate patience. Adventures and secrets were worth holding out for, especially when the two were combined . . .