I know that from experience.
When the town passed judgment on Lenora Hope, she hid away in her family’s house, never to be seen again. But that didn’t stop people from trying. When I was in high school, it was common for groups of boys to dare each other to sneak onto the property and peek into windows, angling for a glimpse of Lenora. As far as I know, none of them ever got one, which earns Miss Hope some grudging respect in my book. I would love to be able to disappear.
Up ahead, the land rises even higher, and the road inclines to meet it. The Escort does another shimmy as I spot a brick wall in the sun-streaked distance. It’s tall enough to block out any hint of what’s behind it and old enough that the road curves around it, as if in deference.
I follow the curve, driving slowly until I see spray-painted words on the wall. The graffiti, neon blue on stately red brick, tells me I’m in the right place.
ROT IN HELL LENORA HOPE
I blink at the words, wondering if I should press ahead or drive away as fast as I can. I know the answer. It’s the one I can’t afford.
So I continue on, nudging the Escort closer to the ornate gate covering a gap in the vandalized wall. On the other side, the driveway slices across an emerald lawn toward the Hope house itself.
Looking at it now, I wonder why anyone ever called it that.
This is not a house.
It’s a mansion.
Something I haven’t seen in person since my parents took me on a day trip to Bar Harbor when I was fourteen. I remember how my father spent the whole day complaining about the rich bastards who’d built the palatial homes there. God knows what he’d say about Hope’s End, which eclipses those stately mansions in that snooty town. It’s bigger. Grander. This wouldn’t be out of place on Dallas or Dynasty or any of those other silly primetime soaps my mother used to watch.
Three stories tall and seemingly as wide as a cruise ship, the mansion is a marvel of Gilded Age excess. The walls are redbrick. Around the front double doors and all the windows is marble detailing that serves no purpose except to show how much money the Hope family once had. A ton of it, to judge by the amount of sculpted curves and curlicues on display. The windows of the third floor retain the marble but jut from the pitched roof, which is topped by a dozen narrow chimneys that look like candles atop an ornate birthday cake.
At the gate is a small intercom system. I roll down my window and stretch to press it. Thirty seconds pass before it crackles to life in a burst of static, followed by a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
It’s not a question. In fact, the way she says it is packed with as much impatience as three letters can hold.
“Hi. I’m Kit McDeere.” I pause to allow the source of the voice to also introduce herself. She doesn’t, prompting me to add, “I’m with Gurlain Home Health Aides. I’m the new care—”
The woman interrupts me with a terse “Come up to the house” before the intercom goes silent.
In front of the car, the gate starts to open, giving off a nervous shimmy, as if spooked by my presence. It creaks as it slowly swings wider, making me wonder how often Hope’s End welcomes guests. Not a lot, I assume, when the gate rattles to a stop even though it’s only halfway open. I inch the car forward, trying to gauge if there’s enough room to pass by. There isn’t. Not if I want to keep both of my side mirrors, which I very much do. My budget, such as it is, doesn’t include car repairs.
I’m about to get out of the car and push on the gate myself when a man’s voice calls out in the distance.
“Is it stuck again?”
The source of the voice comes closer, pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with fallen leaves. He’s handsome, I notice. Mid-thirties. In very good shape, as far as I can tell, under his flannel shirt and dirt-streaked jeans. He has a full beard and hair grown a little too long so that it curls slightly at the back of his neck. I’d be interested under different circumstances. Completely different. Living-another-existence different. Just like car repairs, my life doesn’t have room for romantic entanglements. And no, Kenny doesn’t count.
“I don’t know about the other time,” I say through the open window, “but it’s certainly stuck now.”
“You should have said times,” the man replies, flashing a smile that’s endearingly crooked. “This is, like, the tenth. I keep forgetting to add it to the list of the hundred other things I need to do around here. Are you the new nurse?”
“Caregiver,” I say. A necessary correction. Nurses go to school. Caregivers like me get specialized training—a state-mandated 180 hours in Maine—teaching us the basics. Checking vitals, dispensing medication, light physical therapy. But explaining all of that to a stranger takes more time than it’s worth.
“Then let’s get this gate open so you can start.” The man pulls a pair of work gloves from the back pocket of his jeans. Making a show of putting them on, he says, “Safety first. I’ve learned the hard way—this place can bite.”
He yanks on the gate, and it lets out a squeak so awful I would have described it as pained if it had come from someone in my care.
“Do you work here full-time?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard over the sound of the gate.
“I do,” the man says. “There aren’t too many of us here anymore, although once upon a time this place was overflowing with hired help. For instance, there used to be a gardener, a groundskeeper, and a handyman, along with a bunch of part-time helpers. Now I’m all of them rolled into one.”
“Do you like it here?”
The man gives the gate one last shove, clearing it from the driveway. Turning to me, he says, “Am I scared, is what you mean.”
Yes, that’s what I mean. I’d intended it to be an innocent question. A natural one, considering what happened here. Yet in hindsight I realize how it also could be perceived as incredibly rude.
“I just—”
“It’s okay,” the man says. “You’re only being curious. I know what people beyond these walls say about this place.”
“I guess that means no.”
“A correct assumption.” The man removes one of his gloves and extends his hand. “I’m Carter, by the way.”
I shake his hand. “Kit McDeere.”
“Nice to meet you, Kit. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
I pause before driving away. “Thanks for helping me with the gate. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come by.”
“I think you would have managed somehow.” Carter studies me, his head tilted in curious appraisal. “You strike me as being pretty resourceful.”
I used to be. Not anymore. Resourceful people aren’t suspended from their jobs, can find new ones if they are, and don’t still live at home at age thirty-one. Still, I accept the compliment with a nod.
“One more thing,” Carter says, coming to the open car window and bending down so we’re eye-to-eye. “Forget what everyone says about Lenora Hope and what happened here. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Miss Hope is completely harmless.”
Even though he intended them to be reassuring, Carter’s words only underscore the surreal truth of the situation. Yes, I knew what the job entailed when I left Mr. Gurlain’s office. But it was an abstract notion, pushed to the background by packing, dealing with my father’s ambivalence, trying to find this place. But now that I’m here, it hits me like a sucker punch.
I’m about to meet a woman who slaughtered her family.
Allegedly slaughtered, I remind myself. Lenora was never convicted of any crime, as Mr. Gurlain so coyly reminded me. But who else could have done it other than Lenora? There was no one else at the house, no other suspects to consider, no one else left alive. The rhyme’s final line clings to my thoughts.
But she’s the only one not dead
A shudder runs up my spine as I pull away from Carter and head toward the main house. I drive slowly, my gaze fixed on the jaw-dropping structure looming up ahead. But as I get closer, the luxurious grandeur of the place fades like fog, revealing the neglect hiding in plain sight.
Up close, I realize, Hope’s End is a mess.
One of the second-floor windows is missing panes and now has plywood covering the gaping hole. Chunks of marble have broken off the detailing around some of the doors and windows. The roof is missing a fifth of its slate shingles, giving it a battered, pockmarked look that’s honestly a relief. At last, a place as broken as I feel.
The driveway ends in a roundabout in front of the house, with another spoke leading to a low-slung garage several yards from the main building. Turning through the roundabout, I count the garage doors.
Five.