The Carpenter and the Girl

Extracted from John Parish's journal, April 7th, 1903:1

It is perhaps ironic my last name is Parish. I am not a superstitious man; in my adult life I have refused even to attend just one a service at a church, although doing so has at times severed me from many friends and mademoiselles whose only fault was to be too religious and intolerant to any differing point of view. The only time I have ever stepped inside such consecrated ground was when I was ten-my mother, for the past few weeks at least, had been incessantly nagging my father to bring me to church on Sundays. My father, being a genial, up-standing man attended church with his vigorously religious wife merely for appearance's sake. He had neither a strong view either way on religion, and therefore found it much easier to go along with the crowd. And Jacob, being of such a genial nature, gave in to his wife. He knew about my scornful opinions of religion in general, and most certainly of my unabashed dislike for Catholicism. But in his sweet, befuddled mind he saw no reason why attending Sunday church-merely a social event!-would prove to be such an endurance for my character. Needless to say, after attending the Mass I kicked up such a racket that even my pious mother desisted of her command. But I am being too hard on my mother-she was a caring soul, for all her stringent moral views. Yes she was self-righteous, but she made sure I had the finest education available, and I am sure it is a disappointment to her that my occupation is simply that of a carpenter. A highly successful carpenter, yes, but a carpenter none-the-less. And perhaps my being a carpenter should prove a blessing to my poor, deceased mother in the end. For in the past few weeks I have found my strictly atheist character tested. My views on the impossibility of the supernatural have greatly diminished, and of my views on God: perhaps some form of such a being might exist, or has existed in the past. The events leading up those changing views of mine is what has compelled me to scribe these lines in my journal, a journal normally reserved for job-related calculations and perhaps an interesting story I pick up here and there, along my travels.2

My most recent job was to renovate a Victorian-style house that had been abandoned and thus was falling to pieces. It was a masterpiece in itself, with two beautiful cone-shaped towers and bright paint still faintly gleaming in places. As soon as I saw it I thought that this exquisite dying beast could inspire Edgar Allen Poe himself to rise out of the grave and pen another masterful, macabre tale. There was no doubt why this family needed my skills to turn this beauty back into what she must have once been. As I climbed up the steep hill, I noticed that at the property line all plant matter stopped. It was a long, unbroken swath of a disgusting gray-brown color up to the weathered and buckling porch. Me being a quick and clever man, I soon found out why. Sewage seemed to leak from the basement of this venerable house. Yet, there must be something deadly to plant matter in the sewage-otherwise those breath-taking but somehow squalid grass and flowers would breathe in the human feces and grow to outstanding proportions. Salt, perhaps? Whatever the reason was, it did not matter. I am no landscaper; I work on houses and turn them into works of art. So I continued my steady tread to the door where I knocked upon the beautiful oak wood. Being that the whole house was made of wood, sound traveled quickly through the gigantic beast. Yet no one answered. While being commissioned for the job, I had been made to understand that the residents of this house might be out while I worked here, and I was free to enter as I please. The doors had been unlocked specifically for this reason. So I entered, without a worry that I might disturb the owners. It was quite dark inside, as the windows had all been boarded up, and the liberal amount of blackish dust on the floor did not help the lighting situation. I did not understand how anyone could live her for more than two weeks, and concluded that these owners were rich out-of-towners that had bought the house for the sole purpose of almost building it from scratch. Such prosperous people (and I am lucky to count myself among them) often have a need for original objects created just for them. Being the prepared man my wife often praises, I had brought along a lamp. Quickly lighting it, I proceeded to the basement. It was clear that no matter how fantastic this house had been, it needed a lot of work. Down in the basement I was startled, for there suddenly appeared a couch. And sitting on this couch without a care in the world was a little girl, aged no more than seven. With a cherubic smile she told me she had heard me coming from all the way upstairs. This house was very noisy, so noisy that secrets could never keep. Then she explained that her parents were away, as usual, and that I mightn't’t worry: everything in this house was open to me, and I could do whatever I wished. Now, I possess no daughter of my own, although often I wish I did. My wife, on the other hand, can not stand children, and so as blissful as we are, our house is often empty. With a slightly outraged tone I inquired whether her parents often abandoned her like this. She laughed a little laugh, so endearing! It was like pearls falling harmonically on rock. She said that her parents had acquired a nanny for her, but it was not very often that she came, either. I felt an instant bond with this pretty child, who was obviously affectionate but lonely. She had such dark eyes, they reminded me of embers at their very last minute of life: dark, yet gleaming. From that day on I often remembered to bring a sweet to this child, who, for some unexplainable reason never revealed her name to me. I supposed it was a child’s basic instinct to distrust strangers that propelled her to do it, although in other aspects she treated me like a father, or even more, an older brother. As I worked upon the house, slowly restoring it to its former glory, she would sit by my side and stare at me with those deep eyes and thick lashes. She was such a curious darling, and asked me everything about my life and the town. Now, I was new to this place: I hadn't’t lived here more than a few months or so, but I obviously knew more than she did. Poor thing, she apparently didn't’t get out much! 3

One day while I was re-plastering the last of the basement walls I remarked to her that I saw much of her, but that her parents never seemed to be here. That little child instantly seemed troubled, and a strange look passed over her eyes. But then, in her usual sunny way, she replied to me that it was because they were very much in love and went out to the park much. When I asked her why she was not invited, for the town’s parks were glorious, she instantly grew sullen and refused to answer. I felt very sorry that I had offended her, for I was growing immensely found of this odd little girl, and so didn’t press the issue. Although, when I finally did meet her parents (for I must, even if only when I receive my compensation!) I might pass along some hint that their child is lonely, and possibly inquire as to why she seemed neglected. Indeed, it seemed increasingly odd that her parents never came-why, I had not even heard their voices! The job offer I had received for this house had come by mail. Everything was in order, so I barely questioned the arrangement. Yet, the whole nature of this affair seemed odd. When I came home to my wife that night I relayed the whole events to her. Darling thing, she was pre-occupied and said that I was probably over-reacting: it was not uncommon for adults to leave their home during the day. Besides, she told me, with that bright spark of wisdom my wife sometimes receives, they knew that I would be working upon their house for a while yet, and figured I would be an adequate nurse for their one child. My wife, the dear heart, as a tendency to being slightly muddled, as my father was, but occasionally she would have a bright remark, as she did know. Assuaged, I mused that the parents of the child (for now everything I thought about revolved around that child) would have researched their choice in carpenters, even though I probably seemed the clearest choice from the moment own. Even living in town for only a week or so, the parents would most likely come to hear of my care for children, and indeed, my affable nature when in the vicinity of them. My heart being soothed, I went back to the house happily. But it was to my surprise when I found that the door had been locked! And furthermore, all the loving care I had put into the house seemed to have disappeared overnight. I was slightly bemused, but me being a quick and clever man I noticed the tiny note in the keyhole almost right away. I assumed it was from the parents, and so eagerly unfolded the paper. Yet, it was from that girl! Written in a dark red ink, the note read:4

Dear John,5

You told someone about me, which means I have to go away. I don’t want to, and I don’t want to hurt you either. But you forced me to, John. I’m sorry. I thought we were friends, but friends don’t betray each other. I love you.6

The note was very simple, the way a child would write it, yet the words seemed heavy and cold. Confused, I tried to break down the door and get in. Perhaps the parents indeed abuse their child, and they were angry when I mentioned their girl for they did not want to partake in responsibility of her. But how would they found out? My wife is not a gossip, and even if she was, she would not have had time to tell anybody about that girl. So I continued to break down the door, getting angry and worried for that child inside. I was a strong man, yet the door resisted me! As I pounded on it, a lady came up to me and proceeded to tap me on the shoulder. Breathing deeply, I asked her politely if she had any business with the family inside, and if so, would she be as kind as to relay a message to them from me? The elderly woman looked at me with apprehension in her eyes and then proceeded to tell me that she had noticed how I had gone up to the house every day, and being a neighbor, she wanted to know if I happened to be a realtor of some other business professional? When I asked this woman why, she backed away a few steps and asked why I had come here in the first place. I do admit I became a little impatient with her and shortly told her I was a carpenter, fresh in town, who had been hired to renovate this fine house for the occupants inside. The woman muttered something I can only assume was “So that explains it…” and then told me a story about this house. A few years ago, it had been owned by a lovely couple who were dagger-eyed over each other. They had one child, Mary, who was such a beautiful baby. She had the same eyes as her mother-deep, and dark. They were like dying embers. Yet, that baby didn’t bring her parents closer together: Mary tore them apart. The couple had been a party couple, who always went out, and up until Mary was seven, hired a nanny to care for their little child. Yet one day, Mary disappeared. The nanny swore that she had been walled up as a sport for her parents who had partaken of a bit more liqueur than usual. The nanny swore that she had been walled up alive, and she had been threatened when she tried to save her. The nanny bore marks on her arm to prove it. The police came, prepared to knock down walls, but by then, the couple had disappeared. Frightened that she would be blamed, the nanny disappeared as well. The police quickly dropped the case, because the father happened to be the police chief’s brother. The house had been deserted for years, until I had recently starting visiting it, the old woman concluded. “Such a pretty thing too,” she sighed “She loved being with people, but the parents threatened the nanny if Mary was taken outside or even if the nanny told about Mary to other people.” A cold feeling gripped my flesh, and I ran away, albeit with some dignity, for I was not a man to abandon appearance even if I was slightly afraid. I know this account sounds like a superstitious jargon of no importance, but believe me, it happened. Yet, my mind is sound and tells me that none of this could ever have happened…I suppose I don’t know what to believe. I suppose it is best to forget such things.7

Note: On April 14th, John Parish disappeared. On the suggestion of both his wife and an elderly woman, a Victorian house on the highest hill in town was searched. There in the basement, amidst a plethora of carpenter’s tools, John’s body was found. Around his neck was the imprint of a small hand.8