the diary of rimbauer ellen
the diary of rimbauer ellen 
My Life at Rose Red 
edited by 
joyce reardon, ph.d. 
new york
Photographs on pp. vii, 30, 34, 45, and 253 copyright © 2001 Jimmy Malecki / ABC 
Photograph on p. 65 copyright © 2001 MSCUA, University of Washington Libraries, 
Barnes 171-L 
All sketches copyright © 2001 Hyperion 
Copyright © 2001 Hyperion 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner 
whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States 
of America. For information address Hyperion, 77 W. 66th Street, New York, New York 
10023-6298. 
ISBN: 1-4013-9674-7 
Designed by Casey Hampton
The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer is a rare document, a record 
of the mysterious events at Rose Red that scandalized 
Seattle society at the time -- events that can only be fully 
understood now that the diary has come to light. 
Visit www.beaumontuniversity.net to read more about it.
Joyce Reardon 
Department of Paranormal Phenomena 
Beaumont University 
Seattle, WA 
Dear Reader: 
In the summer of 1998, at an estate sale in Everett, Washington, I purchased 
a locked diary covered in dust, writings I believed to be those of 
Ellen Rimbauer. Beaumont University's Public Archive Department 
examined the paper, the ink and the binding and determined the diary to 
be authentic. It was then photocopied at my request. 
Ellen Rimbauer's diary became the subject of my master's thesis and 
has haunted me ever since. (Excuse the pun!) John and Ellen Rimbauer 
were among the elite of Seattle's turn-of-the-century high society. They 
built an enormous private residence at the top of Spring Street that 
became known as Rose Red, a structure that has been the source of much 
controversy. In a forty-one-year period at least twenty-six individuals 
either lost their lives or disappeared within its walls. 
Ellen Rimbauer's diary, excerpts of which I offer here, set me on a 
personal course of discovery that has led to the launching of an expedition. 
Shortly I will lead a team of experts in psychic phenomena through 
the doors of Rose Red, the Rimbauer Estate, in an effort to awaken this 
sleeping giant of psychic power and to solve some of the mysteries my 
mentor, Max Burnstheim, was unable to solve before he went missing 
in Rose Red in 1970. (I never met Dr. Burnstheim, but I consider his 
writings the most progressive in the .eld of psychic phenomena.) 
Many thanks to my publishers, Beaumont University Press. I hope the 
publication will widen the public's perception and acceptance of psychic 
phenomena, and .rmly anchor a fascinating historical period in the 
growth and expansion of the Paci.c Northwest. I have taken great pains to 
edit this document to a readable size, deleting the repetitive sections and 
omitting those I found offensive. For the extremely curious, or the 
voyeuristically minded among you, a portion of those edits can be found 
archived on the World Wide Web at www.beaumontuniversity.net. 
Photos of the house can be viewed on the Web site as well. 
Good reading. In the name of science I will pursue the truth of Rose 
Red, wherever it may lead me. 
Sincerely, 
Joyce Reardon, P.P.A., M.D., Ph.D.
The following are excerpts taken from Ellen 
Rimbauer's diary, dated 1907–1928. Any and all editing 
has been done at my discretion. Some effort has 
been made to protect the integrity of Mrs. Rimbauer 
and her descendants, though never at the cost of 
content. What follows are the words of Ellen 
Rimbauer, in her own hand, with as few editorial 
comments as possible. 
-- Joyce Reardon, November 2000
the diary of rimbauer ellen
17 april 1907 -- seattle 
Dear Diary: 
I .nd it a somewhat daunting task to endeavor to place my 
thoughts here inside your trusted pages, I scarcely know if I am 
up to the task, but as my head is .lled with lurid thoughts, and my 
heart with romance and possibility, I .nd I must con.de in 
someone, and so it is to your pages I now turn. I have lived these 
nineteen years in full premonition of that time when a man 
would come into my heart, into my life, and thrill me with love, 
passion and romance. That time has now come. I swoon just 
thinking of John Rimbauer, and some of my thoughts are not at 
all becoming of the lady I am expected to be. 
My physical desire does at times possess me. Am I in.uenced 
by my reading of popular novels, as my mother is wont to say, or 
am I sinful, as my father has implied (no, not with words, but by 
branding me with his raised eyebrows and scolding brow)? 
I must admit here too to the simultaneous impression that 
danger lurks within an arm's reach. Death. Dread. Destruction. 
Born of guilt, I wonder, for the unladylike fantasies to which I 
succumb when alone in the dark? (Or is the source of these 
images something, some force entirely exterior of myself, as I am 
prone to believe?) Does another world exist? For it seems to me 
it must: a force apart from human experience. A power, all of its 
own, and not one familiar with the God to whom I pray. 
Something darker, external, other-worldly. Something altogether 
unknown. It lurks in the shadows. I feel its presence. 
I would be lying here if I did not admit to a certain thrill this 
looming sense of the future, of the unknown, affords me, both 
the unknown of what John Rimbauer's touch might bring to my 
life, as well as this sense of a larger, darker force at play. 
John Rimbauer is a partner in a large oil company, Omicron 
1
Oil, along with a Mr. Douglas Posey, an affable, quiet gentleman 
whose company I've had the good fortune to keep, along with that 
of his wife, Phillis. Oil, I'm told, holds great promise as a fuel for 
lighting homes, and perhaps someday even heating them. John 
says that oil water heaters for the home are all the rage in the East. 
Kerosene is being used in motorcars. I hope someday to perhaps 
take the train with John back to Detroit, where he does business 
with the Rockefellers. Oh, but my head spins with such fancy: 
dinner with John D., himself! A banker's daughter from Seattle, 
Washington! And yet . . . I sense the world is about to unfold at 
my .ngertips. John is the key to that world. I feel certain we are 
to be engaged within the month. Dare I say that with such honesty? 
Only here in your pages, Dear Diary! 
John has ordered the construction of a grand house. Grander 
than any house in all the state, perhaps in all the land. He tells 
me of it often, as if it is to play a signi.cant role in my life as well, 
which I now feel (nearly) certain it will. (I am blushing as I write 
this!) He has offered me a motorcar ride to the construction site, 
and I have accepted. Within the week we shall ride together to 
what may prove to be the site of our future happiness together. 
(One hopes for happiness. This dread I feel -- will it too play a 
role? I can only hope and pray that this sense of impending 
doom will be overcome by the light and love my future husband 
and I shall share.) 
2
11 may 1907 -- seattle 
With trembling hand, I .nd myself reluctant to record in your 
pages the horrible events of this day. Several weeks have passed 
since my last entry, weeks given to one delay after another 
brought on by John's business affairs (or so I'm told), my own 
in.rmity (a woman's monthly "ritual of roses" as my mother 
refers to it) and John's apparent inability to arrange a convenient 
time for the two of us to visit the construction site. At last that 
time was set, for to-day, this very day, and I awaited John's arrival 
on the front steps of my family home with what can only be 
described as a beating breast. Such anticipation! 
Much to my disappointment (and to my mother's, too, all 
things confessed) an offer of betrothal has not been received. 
Certainly not by me, nor has John approached my father (my 
mother has informed me in the strictest of con.dences) with any 
discussion of dowry. My, but the weeks have crawled by slowly. 
Twice, I've been told by trusted friends that John's motorcar, or 
one just like it, was spotted late, late at night on the high road 
between the city's loading wharfs and the Hill where John currently 
makes his residence. I am con.dent that these excursions 
can be easily explained by the importing of barrels of oil to those 
wharfs -- as this happens at all hours, night and day. But of course 
a tiny part of the woman in me fears another truth altogether, as 
that part of town is known for its debaucheries. Who is this man I 
hope to marry? I scarcely know! 
My fears have found their way into my prayers, and I .nd 
myself in sin, making silent requests to the powers that surround 
us to punish John Rimbauer if any transgressions be 
known. Just last week, as I made such a "dark prayer" at the side 
of my bed, an enormous wind -- quite like nothing I've ever 
seen -- took wing and delivered not only a branch but an entire 
tree to my window, shattering glass and throwing debris as it was 
3
ripped from its roots. Oddly, no other tree in our yard was 
affected, nor did any neighbor report any such wind. I attribute 
that reckoning to the very substantial power of prayer, though 
my mother calls such reasoning foolish, despite her being a 
woman of Christ. Dear Diary, let me tell you this: if that tree 
had anything whatsoever to do with my prayer, it had nothing to 
do with Christ. On that evening, neither Christ, nor God, were 
in my prayers. Oh faint of heart, dare not read on. For it was to 
Him I prayed. The other Him. The other side. For if transgressions 
have been made, then John Rimbauer has already switched 
his allegiance, whether aware of it or not. It is to His Power that 
I pray. 
I have taken a moment to lock the door. (I am staying these 
nights in my sister's room while repairs continue to my own.) 
Increasingly, I feel as if someone is reading over my shoulder as I 
write. John? My mother? I know not. But it is a disturbing 
notion, and one that requires of me certain precautions to 
which I have now dedicated myself. I not only lock the binding of 
this diary, but I secure it safely in a locked drawer as well, the 
small keys kept around my neck, and hidden down my dress, on 
a silver necklace once worn by my great-grandmother Gilchrist. 
Certain small oddities, events unexplained, continue to perplex 
me and drive me to these precautions. ( Just yesterday my hairbrush 
switched sides of the sink, all of its own, as I ran water on 
my face. I swear it's true! I lifted my head to .nd the brush available 
to the left hand, when only moments before it had been 
held in my right!) Some furniture has been found out of place. 
One of my dresser drawers stuck yesterday (the one bearing love 
letters from John) and would not come open, even under the 
efforts of Pilchert, our butler. To-day, I'm told Pilchert will 
remove the back of the dresser in an effort to reach the drawer's 
contents. If taken individually, not one of these small events 
4
would matter to me. But collectively? Are they to be ignored? I 
.nd myself both terri.ed and thrilled -- so perhaps I am to 
blame, not only for my sinful prayers to the other Power but for 
my innate curiosity and fascination with the other-worldly quality 
of these apparently disconnected events. The Devil's due, do 
you suppose? 
But wait! To the events of this day! 
John Rimbauer picked me up this morning at 10 A.M. in an 
automobile made by Olds. It is one of only a few such vehicles in 
all the city. The buggy was quite loud, and the experience altogether 
exhilarating, though bumpy and somewhat terrifying at 
times. John drove -- I believe quite well, though who am I to 
know? West on Spring Street to the site of the construction that 
preoccupies him. The trip consumed some .fteen minutes -- the 
house is to be built atop a hill that overlooks the city. Twice I was 
nearly thrown out the side (or so I imagined! John assured me I 
was safe all along.). 
John Rimbauer, ruggedly handsome, is a pragmatic man 
(which possibly accounts for his success in the oil business), 
extremely sure of himself and even given to moments of conceit. 
He remains calm in the face of adversity, whether a fourhorse 
team blocking the road or a storm on the high seas. (John 
is extremely well traveled, having visited Asia, the Americas and 
Europe.) I .nd his strength both comforting and disarming, in 
that John is often an unpredictable mixture of tolerance and 
intolerance. I have never been on the receiving end of his ill 
temper, but woe to those who are. Of course I don't wish to be, 
nor will I tolerate such ferocity directed at me or our children. 
( Just the thought of children .oods me with a keen, passionate 
warmth, the likes of which I've only read about in my novels. 
Perhaps Mother is right!) I should like to relate here my recollection 
of an exchange we had on the trip over. 
5
"John, dear," I said, "do you suppose I should have offended 
my mother by my refusal of a chaperone?" 
"You're a grown woman of nineteen, El." (I love this nickname 
for me he has chosen!) "Your mother was married and with 
her second child by the time she was your age. I doubt very much 
you could do anything to shock her." 
"You don't know her as I do," I said. 
"I am twice your age. I should imagine that concerns your 
parents. Especially as to my intentions." He lowered his eyes to 
me, running them down the full length of my dress to where I 
felt faint. He understands full well this power he has over me, 
uses it playfully, but on this occasion -- and there have been others, 
truth be told -- it was not so much playful as provocative, 
and he made no effort to disguise or conceal his lust. I felt certain 
of it at the time. And what was I to do? I giggled, all 
nerves, of course. Blushed no doubt. I felt the heat in my 
cheeks. But I kept my chin high and my eyes on the muddy 
road ahead. 
"And what are your intentions?" I asked, suppressing a 
smile. 
"To ravish you, of course. To pluck your innocence from the 
vine of youth and leave you for the next man to marry." 
"And my father will come after you with axe and rope." 
"And you? Will you refuse me?" 
"Your so-called ravishing, of course. Until we are married." 
"Engaged or married?" 
"We've had other . . . fun, John Rimbauer." Certainly I 
must have blushed again for I felt it in my face. We had 
touched. We had kissed. His strong hands knew the shape of my 
bosom (though never skin to skin!). Once, while dancing, he 
had pressed himself to me and I had known of his arousal. But 
he had yet to know of mine. Mother's cautions of "a lady's 
6
behavior" fall .at on my ears. She lived in another time. All the 
girls talk of touching their men -- of pleasing them, if for no 
other reason in an effort to quell their desires and protect their 
own virginity, that most sacred of marriage rites. John's age 
perhaps has accounted for no such need on my part. He is 
experienced. I treasure his worldliness, and believe it affords 
me much opportunity. 
"And more to come," he said. "I trust we both will .nd . . . ," 
he searched for his words, "great reward in marriage." 
"John!" I blurted out, like some sniveling twelve-year-old. 
"Marriage?" 
"Patience, my dear. Never push me. Never challenge my decisions. 
If you hold to these two virtues, we will never have a single 
quarrel, you and I. I am lord and master of my house. I have 
worked long and hard to earn not only a small fortune but the 
right to stake out my own territory, and that territory includes 
opinion. You understand that, don't you, dearest?" 
"Yes, John." 
"No reservations." 
"None." 
"Because I am well aware of suffrage, and have no quarrel with 
a person's striving for individual freedoms. More power to them. 
But not in my home, you understand? You will .nd I can be a 
most generous, most loving partner, my dear. But just ask Mr. 
Posey what happens when my partners betray my trust or break 
agreements. I am offering you many things in sharing a life with 
me. Freedom is not necessarily one of them." 
"John Rimbauer, are you proposing marriage to me?" This, I 
fear, is all I was thinking. All that I heard. Only now as I write 
down my recollection of events, only now as I recall those words 
of his clearly, do I feel their full import. 
"Patience, my dear. Patience." A smug smile. I felt for sure I 
7
knew what this day held in store. As it turned out, I couldn't have 
been more wrong. Neither John, nor I, could have possibly foreseen 
events as they were about to unfold. 
The property John purchased to hold his mansion, his grand 
statement of achievement and success, is nothing short of spectacular. 
It is crowned with a tall forest of cedar and pine, and 
workers have cleared nearly six of the forty acres to hold the 
house -- if something so large can be called that! (I could not 
believe the plans John showed me!) Though well out of the city, 
the house sits at the muddy end of Spring Street. From this 
location, one can see the entire city below. Spectacular! Just 
west of the property is a tract that I'm told runs all the way to 
Canada, and south as far as Mexico. How my imagination runs 
wild with the thought: one road spanning the entire country. 
Just think! The redwood forests. San Francisco. Los Angeles, 
where they are now making .lms. (Not quite two years ago, 
when a traveling projectionist brought it to town, I saw Le Voyage 
dans la Lune [A Trip to the Moon], adapted from the novel by Jules 
Verne -- I loved this book! The .lm was .fteen minutes long, 
the longest ever made at the time, and was shown at Father's 
bank, of all places, because it had the largest white wall that 
could be found.) I adore motion pictures, simply love actors 
and actresses and hope that John and I will include them as our 
guests when we make our home together -- but I'm getting ahead 
of myself! The property is accessed from the west. John parked 
the Olds quite some distance from the construction -- a gigantic 
hole in the ground is all! -- and, bless his heart, had had workers 
lay a string of redwood planks, wide enough to walk upon, so I 
might avoid the mud and ooze. Horse-drawn wagons came and 
went, burdened and brimming with materials ordered by the 
foreman, Williamson, a big, Irish-looking man with .orid 
8
cheeks, a broad mustache and a surly disposition. He did not 
appreciate a woman being on the premises, I can tell you that. 
(He made several insinuations upon my arrival, that is until 
dear John led him aside by the elbow and had words with him, 
after which he ignored me with full contempt though was loath 
to outwardly reveal his disapproval of me. I can only wonder 
now if this brief altercation with my beloved, an altercation 
that resulted from my attendance there, had something to do 
with the events that would soon transpire. Oh, Good Lord, 
pray let it not be so! Nay, do not curse me with the burden of 
lost life!) 
I am forced to wonder now about my musings put forth in my 
.rst entry to these pages. Was what happened to-day at the grand 
house the sense of foreboding danger that I felt so strongly? The 
end of it, or just the beginning? The manifestation of some dark 
power greater than can be imagined? Am I a part of this darkness, 
or separate from it? Controlled by it, or instead by my prayers? 
The pen trembles under my grasp as I search for these answers. 
Am I, in fact, already possessed? Dare I think that? Dare I write 
it? Dare I keep it to myself, for fear of spoiling the arrangements 
already under way between my beloved and me? But oh, there I 
go again. Back to the day, and the tragedy that befell us. 
The cavernous hole cut into the earth on that forested slope so 
far from the warmth of my family home forewarns of a structure, 
in scope and size, that challenges even one's imagination. I admit 
fully that I had never visited any construction site prior to my 
journey this day, and that perhaps because of this lacking I write 
with what borders on ignorance, but I am no stranger to architecture. 
I promise you that. Furthermore, I now intend to 
immerse myself in the study of this science, along with that of 
construction, so as to appreciate fully the efforts being undertaken 
on our behalf. The sheer enormity of it! (I can only hope 
9
this does not match my future husband's ego or conceit, for if so, 
I am in for a formidable challenge in the years that lie ahead!) To 
my eye, it rivals in size the university building that occupies the 
hill to the south overlooking the city, that building that newcomers 
nearly always mistakenly attribute to be the statehouse. I 
believe John's house -- our house! -- will dwarf this structure by 
such proportion as to render it insigni.cant, will so dominate 
that clearing where it will stand that it may be seen for miles. 
Miles! I tell you! A landmark for generations to come. Why, the 
hole in the ground, the foundation, is a marvel of excavation. I 
watched as four-mule teams carved and cut the thick wet soil with 
blades, followed by workers busy with shovels to .ll wagons. 
Wagon after wagon, hour after hour, and barely a dent in the 
giant cavity. The scale of this project de.es description. I can 
only say that nothing like it has ever been built. Perhaps even, 
that nothing ever will be. 
The event of the day, to which I wish to address myself, however, 
was one of horri.c consequences, something no person, 
certainly not a woman such as myself, should ever have to endure. 
But .rst to our arrival. 
As we studied the magni.cent goings-on, the laborers with 
their shovels, the teamsters with their wagons, the supervisors 
working their crews with disciplined patience (for the hand 
laborers are almost entirely Chinese or Negro and need much 
supervision), I was struck by the militarylike organization of it all. 
An easy analogy given the sharp tongue of Williamson. 
This man Williamson was given to large bones and a massive 
head; he had a commanding presence. Shouting and gesticulating, 
he seemed to possess a language of hand signals known to all 
who worked for him, but especially those supervisors immediately 
his junior. He lorded from the porch of a rough-hewn 
shanty, calling names and then waving his arms like a frantic 
bird, directing deliveries, the removal of mud and dirt and the 
10
efforts of the teams. Perhaps John's attendance contributed to 
this man's nerves, .xing him in an agitated state. Having not met 
Williamson previously, on this I cannot comment. However, I 
must tell you, Dear Diary, that on no terms would I have wished 
to be employed by Mr. Williamson on this day. His bilious, perfunctory 
tone carried clear across the construction site, often 
heard echoing right back at us, as if from the mouth of God. 
(Not an insigni.cant reference, given the events to follow.) 
Enough! 
John and I made our way to the edge of the giant pit and 
were witness to the .rst of the stones being laid for the grand 
home's foundation. This, as it turned out, was the cause of our 
delay these many weeks. John had wanted us to witness a 
momentous occasion, not simply a hole being dug into the 
earth (although I must confess here that the hole alone would 
have surely impressed me as well). And there below us, a group 
of ten or more Chinese ran -- not walked -- to and from a large 
pile of stone, inspecting every angle before running -- not walking
-- that stone to a cutter who smacked it with a hammer and 
chisel that rained stone chips in small showers all around him. 
From there the stone was whisked to one of several Scottishlooking 
gentlemen (it was dif.cult to discern ancestry, given 
our perspective) who examined the rock, nodded his approval 
and, applying mortar, positioned it in place. Stone by stone, 
the .rst of many of the grand home's walls began to grow, as the 
Scots worked as a team. (I am told seven thousand stones will be 
used in the foundation alone!) I found myself mesmerized by 
the sight. John, as I recall, had several conversations, but I 
scarcely heard his words. What beauty. It seemed almost alive to 
me, not as if it were being built, but instead, growing all of its 
own. The thrill of witnessing this is hard to explain here in 
these pages. I found it consumed me, awakened a heat in me, 
not unlike what John Rimbauer is capable of with simply a touch 
11
or a whisper. Dare I say I was moved by this? The pleasing .uidity. 
The sweating Chinamen, some bare-chested, .exing and 
glistening as they bore their burden. I could not take my eyes 
off of this activity. Not until, that is, Williamson's voice arose 
like an ill wind, cursing a string of profanities that forced such a 
blush on my part my face must have looked like a ripened 
cherry. 
A large, overstocked wagon belonging to John stood in front 
of the foreman's shack, the driver equally as big as Mr. 
Williamson, and equally verbose. It was clear, even from a great 
distance, that Mr. Williamson did not approve of the quality of 
the items being delivered. I cannot tell you exactly how I discerned 
this, distracted, even repulsed as I was by the language 
involved, but the conversation between them went something 
like this: 
"This is not what we ordered, Mr. Corbin." 
"This here is what I was told to deliver." 
"You should have checked your ***** load." 
"I loaded this ***** load, mister. I didn't have to check it -- I 
loaded it." 
"Look at this quality. It's horse***t. Pure horse***t, and 
you're telling me I'm supposed to use Mr. Rimbauer's money to 
pay for it? I would ask you to reconsider that position, sir." (I 
might add that this reference to John inclined me to believe that 
our presence there to-day may have in.uenced Mr. Williamson's 
response, as well as his aggressive nature.) 
"I ain't reconsidering no **** position. And it ain't ****, and 
I'd thank you, sir, not to call it such." 
"It is ****." 
"It is the goods you ordered. These are them. Right here in 
Mr. Rimbauer's wagon. Now sign the receipt, get your Chinamen 
to off-load the wagon and let me get out of this hellhole of a 
12
stinking construction site. Never seen so much yellow skin in one 
place, except maybe the railroad. And I don't like railroads!" 
"You will lose your job for those comments, sir. You will 
never be a teamster again, with that attitude and that mouth of 
yours. You just wait until -- " 
"Unload the *** **** wagon. I got me a date with a beer at the 
Merchant Café, and you're getting in the way of that, and that 
there is unsettling me a good deal. That there is what you want to 
do right now, mister. Unload the **** wagon, or prepare to eat 
some horse***t!" 
"That's it! Enough of you! Turn this team around. Return the 
wagon. It's the last run you'll ever make." 
I recall the teamster -- Mr. Corbin -- reaching into the back of 
John's wagon, beneath a tarp, almost as if he were digging for 
something. And then he turned toward Williamson. From a distance 
where I stood, I saw a puff of blue-gray smoke, like a tiny 
cloud. Then felt a punch in my stomach as a dull boom .lled the 
air. Another small puff. Another boom. The .rst of these reports 
actually lifted Mr. Williamson off his feet. He looked as if someone 
had tied a rope to the back of his trousers, the other end to a 
horse, and then slapped that horse's behind. The second of the 
two shotgun blasts caught Mr. Williamson in the neck and face, a 
bloody spectacle so horri.c that I was immediately sick to my 
stomach. 
He lay there on the porch, as still as a statue, rose-colored and 
dead. I'd never seen a dead person. I didn't know the effect it 
would have on one. The .nality. The awareness that I too shall 
follow Mr. Williamson to that place. Heaven. Hell. I don't have 
the vocabulary. Those two offerings don't help me. I believed in 
Heaven and Hell before to-day. Now, I'm not convinced there 
are only the two places, the black and white of afterlife. I'm of the 
13
opinion that gray must exist. Mr. Williamson convinced me. I 
can't imagine a man with that foul disposition in Heaven as I 
write; but what man who dies at the hands of another deserves 
Hell? And what of Mr. Corbin? Where will the afterlife place 
him? 
Did I tell you where they found Mr. Corbin? At the Merchant 
Café, of course. His beer. They found him bent over that beer, 
nursing it. They say he didn't know where he was, or what he'd 
done. Didn't remember any of it. They say he must be crazy. 
"Half out of his mind," John said to me. But of course he means 
fully out of his mind. There are many of us walking around with 
only half a mind. They don't lock you away for that. You need to 
lose it all before they take you, and Mr. Corbin lost his. And they 
took him. Off to jail, still wondering what it was he'd done. 
I've heard the term "possessed" before. I've heard it used as an 
explanation for someone "half out of his mind." A Christian 
woman, I have never given such claim much weight. Possessed by 
14
what? I wondered. But -- dare I write this, when writing seems so 
.nal an act? -- now I better understand the term, now I am 
inclined to accept it. It pertains to the gray in the afterlife. It pertains 
to tragic people like our Mr. Corbin. Not empty, as "half 
out of one's mind" implies, but instead .lled, but with the wrong 
element. The bad. Evil. Filled with tainted .sh, the stomach is 
already informed but has not yet signaled the brain to retch. 
Filled with the gray. The other side. Possessed. 
Mr. Corbin was possessed. In this regard, who do we blame 
for the vicious act perpetrated upon poor Mr. Williamson? The 
possessed, or the possessor? Was Mr. Corbin merely an instrument 
of the gray? 
It won't matter now. He'll never be back among us. He will 
hang. Possessed or not, he will hang. And he will die -- legs twitching 
in the wind. 
The grand house will never be the same, of course. Mr. 
Williamson's blood is spilled upon the earth, is mixed with the 
mud and the mortar, is part of that place. And I can no longer 
think of it as I have. The blood is spilled. I saw it with my own 
eyes. Someplace between Heaven and Hell. Some color between 
black and white. And I .nd myself wanting a name for the place, 
seeing Mr. Williamson lying there. He can't have died at the 
grand house. He died someplace more lyrical than that. I will talk 
to John about this, for it is his house. But the color I remember 
so vividly is the color rose. Rose red. Blood thinned by a falling 
mist. 
On the way home in the car, John pulled off the road, came 
around and opened my door. He apologized for all that had 
gone before us that day, as if we'd encountered a delay or bad 
service at a restaurant. I recall being amazed by his apparent 
indifference to the fate met by Mr. Williamson. He begged my 
forgiveness for the "aggravation" of that day, whereas I certainly 
15
bore him no blame for it whatsoever. Then he dropped his right 
knee into the mud, and I knew what was coming, and I must 
admit to both elation and revulsion. John is pragmatic. I told 
you that, didn't I? 
This was on his schedule, and he refused to allow a small murder 
to derail his plans. As he explained it, he regretted very much 
the events of that day, but his heart and passion would not allow 
another minute, not another second to pass without voicing his 
intent. 
He asked for my hand in marriage. Clouded in rose. Clouded 
in gray. I am to be a wife. John's wife. (For I quickly said yes!) 
But truth be told, he picked the wrong day to ask, the wrong time. 
I am quite surprised, in fact, that he could not see clear to delay 
this engagement. Even a day or two might have helped. And after 
so long, what difference is in a day? 
But there was a difference in John Rimbauer. I wonder if it 
took another man's death to create in him a desire to extend his 
lineage, or if one had nothing to do with the other? With life so 
seemingly .eeting, did he rush to judgment to marry? I feel certain 
we will discuss Mr. Williamson's demise for many months, 
even years to come. I believe that I saw in John a fascination with 
death. I know that for me, Dear Diary, life will never be the same. 
I wonder where it is that Mr. Williamson has gone. Is there any 
return from there? So many unanswered questions. 
What, if anything, does John's hesitation to include me in his 
thoughts tell me about the upcoming marriage, this voyage on 
which I'm about to embark? How far, how smoothly, can this ship 
sail if Captain and First Mate are not sharing their thoughts? Are 
we doomed to the rocks? Or is there some lighthouse yet to be 
seen around the next spit of land? Captain, oh, Captain. My 
breast swells with thought of my marriage and all the new experience 
it will bring to me, I tingle head to toe. And yet my heart 
goes cold at the thought of John's carefully kept secrets and his 
16
refusal to let me in. He is so reluctant to share his thoughts. Will 
I ever gain entry, or am I doomed to live in isolation despite our 
union? I fear this is how it's to be, and I dread the thought of a 
life spent in a lie. I dread the thought of this marriage as much as 
I am thrilled by it. 
17
18 august 1907 -- seattle 
As the future Mrs. John Rimbauer (it's the only plausible explanation 
for this) I was invited to join to-day an elite group of 
twenty-three women, led by Anna Herr Clise, to address a health 
care crisis in our great city, namely the lack of a facility to treat 
crippled and hungry children. Over an extravagant lunch at 
Anna's home, we all agreed to contribute twenty dollars each to 
launch the Children's Orthopedic Hospital. The press gave us 
great attention, both because of our sizable personal donations 
( John provided me the twenty dollars, thank God) and because 
our board is to consist entirely of women, unthinkable to the 
bankers downtown. 
I have subsequently invited all twenty-two of my fellow 
founders to our wedding, this November, and expect all to 
attend. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a crippled 
child, and I hope and pray (yes, even to my darker god) that I 
shall never have to endure such a hardship. John and I plan on a 
large family, and I, for one, can't wait to get started -- though not 
without a great amount of nervousness do I approach my wedding 
night, quite afraid as I am of the actual physical union of our 
love. (The idea of a man inside me both sickens and excites me.) 
I wouldn't have bothered to even mention the fete at Anna's 
except as a way to preface my anxiety over one Priscilla Schnubly, 
a ferret of a woman with an exacting manner, pinched face and 
scandalous tongue. Yes, I invited her and her husband to the 
wedding out of proper social intercourse, but my how this woman 
vexes me! When I mentioned John, Priscilla Schnubly snickered 
for all to hear. She then whispered into the ear of Tina Coleman, 
who blushed as rose as the spilled blood of Mr. Williamson and 
went on to refuse to share with me the exchange that had transpired 
there between them. And yet I know in my woman's heart 
18
that whatever it was had to do with John and the rumors of his 
nighttime activities. 
Do I dare condemn John for actions taken prior to our marital 
union? Does such an eligible man owe me his chastity before 
we are of.cially wed? All these questions circulate in my mind, 
with me knowing nothing of the truth to begin with. Would I not 
prefer my future husband sow his oats prior to his promises than 
to break those promises later? Am I personally humiliated in 
social circles for his actions, as the snickering Priscilla Schnubly 
would have me believe? Am I to be the laughingstock of Seattle's 
prominent women because my husband may prove incapable of 
being a devoted husband? Am I willing to trade that for the 
wealth and privilege he is certain to bestow upon me? I am nearly 
dizzy with consideration. Consternation. Concern. 
Is John merely entertaining other women, or, Heaven forbid, 
is he taking advantage of them? Was this the reason for the snickering? 
And why on earth do women like Tina Coleman think that 
their silence somehow protects me? Indeed it does not. I have 
invited Tina to tea this very afternoon. We shall see. 
Tina Coleman is a gorgeous specimen of a woman. Tall. A 
brunette like myself. Flaming blue eyes. I .nd myself quite taken 
by her beauty. She is the wife of an orthopedic surgeon, famous 
in these parts, and therefore a perfect board member for our new 
cause. She speaks slowly and calmly, and rarely moves her head 
left to right, as if her spine were .xed. 
We sat down to tea in my mother's parlor. Earl Grey tea was 
served with cucumber sandwiches and huckleberry scones. I recall 
our conversation vividly. 
"What a lovely home you have," Tina Coleman said. 
"I have lived here all my life. When I leave to marry John, 
it will be the .rst time out of this house, except for our family 
19
travels overseas and six months I spent in .nishing school in 
Brookline, Massachusetts, outside Boston." 
"I know Boston well," she said, maintaining her airs. 
"Tina, we have been raised in the same city, and had our parents 
shared the same circles, we might have been closer friends. 
I've known of you, of your beauty, of your .ne manners, your 
intelligent speech, for many years, as I believe we were both 
courted by Jason Fine, that most peculiar, insolent man, who in 
my opinion will be lucky to ever .nd himself a wife." 
"Amen." When she sipped from her teacup, Tina Coleman's 
small .nger raised in the air like a .ag. 
I said something like, "I would have to have my head in the 
sand not to be aware of the rumors that circulate concerning the 
nightlife of John Rimbauer. You need not sugarcoat it, dear 
friend, but I do ask of you the truth as you know it. What you've 
heard, and how much credence and faith you put in these reports." 
"You .nd them vexing." 
"Indeed. Wouldn't any woman, especially one about to 
marry?" 
"Honestly, I don't know how you cope. I will tell you this: you 
have the respect of many of the .nest women in this city, both 
because of your strength in light of the rumors you now mention 
and because of your ability to win John Rimbauer's heart. Some 
women will envy you, Ellen, and you must be prepared for their 
vengeance. They will stop at nothing to see you fail. I would 
attribute a great deal of the rumor to this and this alone." 
"But not all," I said. 
"John Rimbauer is a respected businessman, a man at the very 
peak of society. For me, or any others, to color him this way or 
that without any .rsthand knowledge is undigni.ed and without 
call. He is twenty years our senior, yours and mine. A man of the 
world. What are we to expect of him? That he spent these past two 
decades in a monastery? Clearly he did not. I would not trouble 
20
myself over his past. His future is with you, dear child, and a 
bright future I should think. Very bright indeed." 
"But you've heard things." 
"Words is all. Words can be so destructive, especially when 
they are just so much .ction." 
"But we don't know that. I don't know that," I said. 
"I have been married three years. I have given birth to two 
children in that time. One lived. One did not. My husband is a 
brilliant surgeon, a .ne man and a loving husband. He does not 
always come home when he says he will. Sometimes it is with the 
smell of liquor on his clothes. Not perfume, thank God, but a 
woman's imagination can paint many a dif.cult picture, can it 
not? I love my husband, Ellen. He is not perfect. Neither am I. 
Neither is John Rimbauer. I'm certain of it. But these are challenging 
times. We live in a challenging part of the country -- some 
still refer to it as the frontier. Can you imagine? I trust my husband's 
love, even if at times I question his actions. Never to his 
face. Never aloud. A woman's heart is much stronger than a 
man's. They are weak creatures, dear. Weak, and often far more 
insecure than they present on the outside. Trust your love, child. 
The rest will follow." 
"What is it you've heard?" I asked. 
"Are you listening?" 
"Yes, and I appreciate your sound advice more than I can tell 
you. But I simply must know what is being said behind my back, 
behind the back of my future husband, or am I to be the laughingstock?" 
"There are women who can see the past, and some even the 
future. Have you ever consulted such a medium, my child?" 
"A séance?" 
"They take all forms." 
I felt .ushed with excitement. "Have you ever consulted such a 
person?" 
21
"Oh, I do so regularly. Not always with my husband's knowledge, 
you understand. So you see two can play at this game of 
carefully guarded secrets. I am trusting you not to betray our 
friendship and share any of this with John Rimbauer." 
"Of course not." I felt giddy. A medium. I'd read news 
reports, but I had never met anyone who had actually attended 
such a séance. "What can I expect from such an experience?" 
"Remarkable. Profound. Transcendental. You have never 
experienced anything quite like it. For all my heightened anticipation 
of the union of a husband and wife, I must admit to you 
now, dear friend, that I .nd a séance quite a good deal more 
stimulating." She showed her teeth when she laughed. She had 
gold work throughout. She appreciated her little joke more than I 
did, implying that I would be let down by the culmination of my 
forthcoming marriage, the anticipated union of which, only here 
in your pages, can I admit my honest excitement. 
"Is it true the mediums can see to the other side?" 
"I do not know what to believe, but I imagine they can, yes. 
That is, I have experienced such a connection myself, during a 
séance, and I must confess . . ." 
I found her timidity provocative. She teased me with her 
reluctance to divulge all, begging my curiosity. I gripped my 
teacup with both hands and caught myself leaning into her every 
breath, wanting more. "Yes?" 
"I think it far wiser for you to make your own estimations, 
dear friend. My experience . . . Well, you see . . . That is, I 
believe each of us . . . either the connection with the other world 
is there or not. And for me it was . . . is . . . and as to whether it 
might be for you." 
"But I know it is," I said, clearly startling her. "My prayers are 
answered, you see." 
"Yes, well . . . prayers . . . There is more to the netherworld, 
dear friend, than one can possibly imagine. And it would be 
22
improper and wrong of me to imply it all has to do with angels 
and prayer. Some of what is revealed is most unpleasant. Not at 
all the stuff of prayers." She placed down her own cup and craned 
forward. When she spoke, it was less a voice than a cold wind. Less 
a woman than a presence. The curtains behind me ruf.ed as if 
that window were open, which it was not. The crystal of the chandelier 
tinkled. I swear the temperature of the room dropped a 
dozen or more degrees. I could see her breath as she spoke. 
"Many of the dead are still living. Whether you believe this or 
not, that is not my concern." She waved her long .ngers dismissively. 
She looked pale, almost gray. "One does not attempt to 
make contact with the other side without a certain . . . shall we 
say . . . personal investment." A wry smile. She was consumed. I 
shuddered from the sudden cold, longing for a shawl or a throw 
over my shoulders. "One does not approach this lightly." She 
leaned back. 
The curtain stopped moving, as did the chandelier. The color 
returned to her cheeks and the temperature of the parlor was 
restored. I am certain I must have looked the idiot, my mouth 
sagging open in abject horror. For a minute, I swear to you, Dear 
Diary, Tina Coleman was not in that room. It was someone --  
something -- else entirely. And I will also tell you this: I am a 
believer. Nothing in that room was of the world I know. Nor can 
I perceive that place from which it came. But I am fascinated and 
intrigued, as curious as a person can be about something so 
unknown. 
I wanted to ask her for the name of her medium right there 
and then, but something prevented me from doing so. Fear? 
Guilt? Was it John looking over my shoulder and cautioning me 
that "no wife of John Rimbauer will be found to be engaged in 
such sinful activities." 
For I have no doubt as to its sinful nature. None whatsoever. 
God, whoever and however He may be, was nowhere to be found 
23
in that room this afternoon. And I would be lying if I did not 
admit to a certain amount of enthrallment, dare I say attraction, 
to whatever occupied my new friend for those brief few seconds. 
A power greater than any I have known. A power that both .lled 
me with a numbing cold and an unspeakable heat that penetrated 
the depths of my soul. This is a friend I long to visit with once 
again. A power I yearn to feel again. To glimpse such a formidable 
presence is one thing. To taste it, to drink of it, yet another. 
To be owned by it -- what must that be like? And how soon until I 
can .nd out? 
24
12 november 1907 -- seattle 
I am sitting in my mother's dressing room and parlor, a room in 
which I doubt my father has ever set foot. I am here, in front of 
the mirror where for years I have watched her brush her red hair 
before bed. I am perplexed, and nearly in a state, some moments 
giddy, some pensive, some nearly in tears, clothed in my wedding 
gown, a garment at once both splendid and lush, yet fetching (or 
so I hope). My maid of honor, dear Penelope Strait, has gone off 
to inspect the route of my descent to the front door and the team 
of two black geldings who shall deliver me to the church in royal 
fashion. She said she would arrange tea to be delivered, and given 
this small break, this moment alone, it is to you, Dear Diary, that 
I now turn. 
I feel a bit like the young girlish child who once picked at 
daisies reciting, "I love him, I love him not." Petal by petal my 
poor heart labors over my decision to marry John Rimbauer. I 
feel both passion for John and reservation, cloaked as I am under 
the uncertainties that rise to the lips of my friends. The caution 
in their eyes that greets me whenever John's name is mentioned. I 
fear that in a very short time, I am to marry a ladies' man, I am to 
be both pitied and scorned by my peers. And I shiver with the 
thought. "Deliver me from evil and leadeth me not into temptation." 
Why do I .nd it so dif.cult to move on from these 
thoughts? Why do I weep now at my mother's mirror, knowing I 
shall never live in this home again? 
Following the reception, John and I are to take the 
Presidential Suite at the Grand, where we shall stay but a single 
night prior to our departure on the Ocean Star, bound for the 
Paci.c Atolls. I am told the native women go bare-breasted there, 
and the men wear loincloths and the water is as clear as an old 
man's eyes. Much has been made in Europe about the changing 
face of .ne art, and the in.uence these islands have had, and 
25
John would like to experience this part of the world .rsthand. 
Oil is not used on the islands, and he claims he might consider 
starting a small business there, but these islands are said to be 
rustic and quite taken to debauchery and even open fornication, 
and I don't know whether to believe this or not. If true, what kind 
of a place is it for a woman? Why would John bring his new wife 
to such a place? And is this trip of ours to be made as husband 
and wife, or businessman and wife? I harbor all these questions, 
but I ask nothing of John, for it riles him so when I challenge his 
decisions. He takes it for criticism instead of the curiosity it is. 
And so more tears fall here upon your pages, for I know not what 
I have gotten myself into. Wealth. Position. A darkly handsome 
man who has caught the eye of many an eligible girl. But twenty 
years my senior, moody and private. About our trip overseas he 
has only told me "to pack for a long trip. A year or more. 
Warmth, cold. Prepare for it all." 
"But where are we going, my dearest?" 
"To the islands .rst, as we've discussed. India, perhaps. 
Burma or Tibet if we can .nd passage. The British have long 
since installed magni.cent rail lines in this part of the world, and 
how far behind can an oil-burning locomotive be? I tell you, 
Ellen, Omicron is in a position to be an international supplier. 
We have the jump on the Far East because of our base here in 
Seattle. And after that? Persia. I'd like to see Persia. And then on 
to Africa as the seas blow cold and that continent warms with 
summer winds. East Africa, of course. Good hunting. And 
around the Cape and up the coast to Spain, France and Britain, 
if war doesn't prevent us. New York. Philadelphia. And then by 
rail again. Chicago? Denver? Who's to know? The world is ours, 
my dear. Five star. The best cabins, coaches and the .nest suites 
at the grandest hotels, train cars all to ourselves. Six months? A 
year? Long enough for the completion of the grand house, so 
that we have that magni.cent structure to which to return. A 
26
place of our own. A place to raise the children that I hope you'll 
be carrying before our return. A family, Ellen. Just think of it." 
Said with such passion and enthusiasm. Who was I to cut in 
with the voice of reason? To intrude upon my husband's shining 
moment. Never mind the insects that came to mind, the disease 
carried by every living creature in such places, never mind the 
rumors of bare-breasted heathens (it seemed he had chosen only 
primitive locations). Never mind that I might have preferred San 
Francisco, Paris and London. A year in Paris, Venice or Rome --  
now there was a honeymoon! Long hours spent languishing in 
bed under a down comforter with room service a bell pull away, 
hot bubble baths with Parisian soaps and my husband to guide me 
through the pleasures of being husband and wife. But for him, 
hunting. Natives. Exploration. Elephants, diamond mines and 
the Iron Horse. 
I kept my thoughts to myself the .rst time he mentioned the 
trip. And the second. And the third. Always telling myself there 
would be plenty of time to set the course straight. That course 
now starts to-morrow. Pier 47. We steam to Victoria, switch ships 
and board for the Tahitian Islands. I see in myself this hesitation 
to confront John, a reluctance to spoil his good moods, or dare 
to enter his bad ones. He lives on these giant swings, like an ape, 
back and forth, high to low. Perhaps the great Sigmund Freud, 
about whom everyone is talking (his publication on the sexual 
theory is under translation into English but is said by Germans 
who have read it to be quite scandalous and intriguing), would 
have some way to quantify John's moods. For me they are dif.cult 
to read, and dangerous to intrude upon. At his most elevated 
moments, he is so exciting and stimulating to be around: animated, 
courteous and entertaining; at his low points he is sullied, 
dark and brooding. I fear him. I anticipate violence at times, 
though have yet to see -- and I hope I never will! -- this side of him 
rise to the surface. If John ever does become violent with me, I 
27
tremble at the thought. He is a big man, strong and imposing. I 
fear he could crush me like an insect. 
I read the last few paragraphs and wonder that I could put 
such thoughts to ink on our wedding day, of all days. My mother 
tells me that she too had reservations prior to her wedding (she 
told me other things as well, concerning what to expect on my 
wedding night, but they are best left between mother and daughter), 
that it is not uncommon for a woman to question her decision 
and that men go through much the same thing. I must admit 
that John, bless his heart, has never for an instant voiced anything 
but total support for, and faith in, our union. In fact, one of the 
great ironies here is that the concern is all mine. John, for his 
part, seems absolutely giddy with the marriage. He has been a 
saint throughout its planning (has .nanced a good deal of the 
reception and celebration, a much appreciated gesture from my 
father) and has often been boyish with glee about the approaching 
date. Now he waits for me at the church. I can picture him there, 
in his .nest London-tailored tails, white gloves clasped behind 
his back like a general awaiting his army. In this case my arm, not 
an arm-me. (I annoy John with my puns, but what liberties I have 
here!) Standing there at the altar, an occasional grin steals its way 
onto his otherwise composed expression. He is a man of great 
vision, and I know that he sees much ahead for us, and I trust him 
to make the most of it. Yes, it is true that at times I fear he 
regards me more as a brood mare than a mate, that as a man 
turned forty with a sizable fortune he is looking more for an heir 
than a companion. That -- dare I say it? -- women of pleasure are 
there to pleasure, and a wife is there to bear and raise children. 
He will want a son, of course. Will not stop breeding me until I 
throw one for him. I see all this in his eyes, hear all this between 
the lines of his reasoning. As long as the love is there as well -- and 
it is, it is!! -- I am not deterred by his intentions. Love, true love, 
28
provides an abundance of good. I go in just a matter of minutes 
to profess that same love before God, family and all our friends. 
And oh, how I do love my John Rimbauer. I go with courage. I go 
with faith. Great anticipation. I go without doubt or expectation. 
Let love carry us where it may. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. 
29
13 november 1907 -- aboard ss OCEANSTAR 
Oh, my. Where to start? The marriage? The reception? Dare I 
ever put in these pages a recounting of the marriage night itself? 
(The pain? The pleasure? The ful.llment of dreams? The fear? 
The feeling of overwhelming consumption, as if possessed by 
him?) Another time perhaps, although some things are better left 
to blossom in memory rather than wither in re.ection. 
Here we are aboard the Ocean Star, a luxurious steamer bound 
for Tahiti, in a presidential stateroom .t for a king and queen 
(three rooms and a full bath with WC). We dine at the captain's 
table tonight (black tie and evening dress) and begin our Paci.c 
crossing. If the rest of the trip is anything like our .rst few hours, 
it is to be spent in the union of marital bliss -- we have been 
together twice already, and only on the ship for four hours! John 
has gone topside for a cigar and to hope to collect telegraphs he's 
expecting concerning both business and the construction out at 
30
the grand house. The complexity of the project has continued to 
consume him. To my knowledge the only day he was completely 
away from it was our wedding day, and for all I know he had one 
of his many business associates keeping him current even then. 
He has informed me that he wants the house decorated to re.ect 
our travels, to remind him of our various ports of call, and that it 
is my duty to spend as much money as possible to that end! Yes, 
he was kidding, of course. But his eyes twinkled in such a way as to 
tell me he was serious as well. Even now I am only beginning to 
glimpse how wealthy we are. Comments like the one to which I 
refer would have seemed something .t for one of the tawdry novels 
I read, not for a serious comment from my husband. The 
house alone is costing a fortune -- literally. This trip, another fortune 
entirely. And yet I sense these fortunes are but mere play 
toys to John. Could there be a bottomless well from which John 
draws our funds? Is such a possibility anything more than pure 
fancy? Whatever the case, I am thrilled with this challenge of his. 
I expect to collect many objets d'art, decorations and furnishings, 
so that he shall never forget our voyage. (Without John's knowledge, 
I paid for and kept the sheets from our marriage bed at the 
hotel, crimson stains and all. I wanted a souvenir of that night as 
badly as he wants souvenirs of our trip. I carry them with me in 
one of my six steamer trunks, wrapped in tissue paper and a red 
bow. Something feels so shameful about this action, especially 
preserving my virgin blood, and I hesitate to think of John's 
anger if he were to ever .nd out. And so it is that we start our 
marriage with secrets. We start our marriage holding on to some 
small part of ourselves, treasured and kept private. Is this wrong? 
I ask myself. Or does a woman have to hold on to something in 
the face of such overwhelming surrender? He climbs on top of 
me, and he possesses me in a way I never imagined could be true. 
Inside me. Occupying me. Pleasure, and pain. And I wonder, 
will I ever get used to it?) 
31
Teak from the islands; ivory from the dark continent. I have 
begun to make lists in my head. Thankfully John has brought 
along a complete set of plans to the grand house, allowing me to 
anticipate placement of our forthcoming collection. Now, not 
just John, but husband and wife shall be poring over those plans 
day and night. Now, .nally, the project can consume us both! I 
have become a part of that great house that owns so much of my 
dear husband. I feel myself inside its walls. He enters me. He 
resides in me. I sweat and I writhe in his presence. My walls shudder. 
My mind reels. 
He comes and goes from our stateroom, having not invited me to 
join him topside. Returning just now smelling of liquor and 
cigar, he pulls the underclothes from my trembling body, lifts my 
skirts and drives me against the far wall, the sound of the ocean 
and the rumble of the ship. He lifts me from the .oor, pulling 
my legs around his waist, and I am carried away to the point of 
frenzy, the point that any shard of ladylike behavior is lost to his 
lust, his penetration. My lipstick smeared, my breast exposed and 
the object of his attention, I can no longer maintain my composure. 
I cry out into the stateroom, "Oh, John. Dear John!" my 
.ngers raking the back of his dress shirt, "Dear God in Heaven! I 
have never . . . I have never . . ." And all my shameful release so 
unexpectedly serves to engorge him, to send him into a fevered 
pitch, a furious, frantic pace where the thumping of my bare bottom 
on the wall runs up my spine and .lls my ears like drumming. 
He pins my arms to that same wall, his face a crimson cry, 
and I wail behind his release like some wounded animal, humiliated 
and reduced to a trembling, panting state of spent excitement. 
And he loves it. 
He leaves the stateroom yet again, neglecting to offer me his 
company. Me, ruf.ed, sitting quietly on a chair, awaiting his 
32
departure so as I can tend to my toilet. He, his eyes .ashing, his 
white teeth grinning at me, and without a word, he departs. The 
air is no longer tainted with liquor and cigar, but with our commingled 
scents -- dark and somewhat sour. I freshen it with perfume. 
I open the doors to the balcony. I stand with the wind 
whipping my hair, .ushed with a woman's satisfaction, embarrassed 
with myself, and yet exhilarated. I am a wife. I have made 
the transition. 
33
19 november 1907 -- aboard ss OCEANSTAR 
A brief note in an effort to keep myself company. I have torn out 
and discarded many of your pages, Dear Diary, small knots of 
white paper in the trash as I attempt to come to terms with my 
position. Dearest John is quick to display me at dinner or lunch, 
or an evening reception offered by one guest or another, but the 
remainder of my time on board this ship resembles more prison 
than honeymoon as he con.nes me to our stateroom, where I 
34
must admit, I am taken to nausea in the early winter seas that we 
encounter. I have begged to go topside to relieve myself of this 
condition, for fresh air and a .rm horizon can do wonders to 
steady my stomach, but my husband steadfastly refuses me, saying 
that he doesn't want any "displays" on deck. He points to the balcony 
off the stateroom and suggests its use for my purposes. He is 
afraid I might vomit, or show my pale face, I suppose. ("No 
Rimbauer ever shows weakness!") He uses me as a charm on his 
bracelet while claiming that the less others see of me, the more 
mystery, the more power I hold over them at the captain's table, 
afternoon teas and cocktail parties. When he does visit me in my 
con.nement it is to take of me his pleasure. With no other trustworthy 
woman in whom to con.de, I have no idea if this is normal 
or not, though I must admit it is thoroughly exhausting, if in 
no other way in terms of bathing and dressing. I must spend half 
my day being undressed by him, later bathing and .nding new 
wardrobes to replace the last. What appetites he has! 
I .nd myself at least a bit unstable, with the only attentions 
his, and these so clearly physical. Only this morning did it occur 
to me, from something he said, that he is hiding me from the 
other men on board, the silliest boyish notion I can imagine. 
John, jealous? The conversation went something like this: 
John asked me, "Did you notice Mr. Jamerson, last evening?" 
"Notice how, dear?" 
"Does the word notice escape your comprehension, Ellen?" 
His tone immediately sharp and coercive. I feel myself being 
drawn into a .ght, and worse, I .nd myself willing to go. Why? I 
wonder. Because he locks me in this stateroom, a captive, readying 
myself for his next .t of womanly satisfaction? 
"It does not. Taken literally, I most certainly did notice Mr. 
Jamerson. He sat immediately to my right, as you will recall." 
"And the captain placed you to his right for the fourth dinner 
in a row." He pauses, strutting now about the stateroom. "The 
35
chair of highest honor on a ship, its occupation to be rotated 
night to night through a variety of guests." 
"I am honored." 
"You are the most beautiful woman on this ship, Ellen, by a 
factor of ten." 
"You .atter me." 
"I caution you," he said. "A ship is a lonely place." 
"What are you saying?" 
"You needn't take to their humor quite so vigorously. Your 
endowments, my dear . . . ," he indicates his own chest, meaning 
mine, of course, "quite an eyeful when you laugh like that." 
I blush, for I can feel it in my face. Not from embarrassment, 
as he must suspect, but anger. Is he implying that I am purposefully 
being vulgar in such company? Is this the kind of thing husbands 
and wives argue over? "May I remind you that it is you, 
dear husband, who bids me to remove my shawl at the dinner 
table. Such as my bosom may be, and I might remind you -- as if 
it's necessary -- that Miss Pauling, our ship's entertainer, and a 
guest I notice who has come to address you most informally, 
John, has a substantially greater bosom than I, and is in a mood 
to display her wares in what I consider, quite frankly, a most 
inappropriate and lascivious way. Moreover, my gowns are crafted 
by the .nest San Francisco seamstresses and fashioned to designs 
created by Paul Poiret himself, and that all of this was at your 
request. These gowns were ordered because you heard of them, 
or saw them for all I know, on that business trip last August. I 
take great umbrage at any implication from you that I have 
behaved in any way unbecoming. I was born, bred and raised a 
lady, dear sir, and you will kindly remember that fact before leveling 
such accusations at me." 
"I meant only -- " 
"You meant to say that when I laugh my bosom is on display, 
and believe me this fact does not escape me. I have nearly come 
36
out of my gown. I am terribly aware of that fact. So perhaps your 
indignation might give way in favor of allowing a woman to wear 
her shawl when she sees .t, rather than forcing her into compromising 
moments of great embarrassment. Now, leave me alone! 
Go do whatever it is you do on this dreadful ship. But if you 
return with Miss Pauling's perfume on you, John, as you did two 
nights ago -- oh yes! you thought I missed that? how could I? It's a 
dreadful scent! -- then there will be hell to pay!" 
I had lost all composure and found myself shouting at the top 
of my lungs. At my husband. To my regret. But oh, Dear Diary, 
the story does not stop there. For I swear it is true that upon 
mention of the word "hell" did the gas lights in that stateroom 
dim, and the bedroom door blow open. Behind this door came a 
wind that lifted my nightgown from the .oor and blew my hair 
straight back off my shoulders -- and yet John moved not a hair. 
His handkerchief did not wave. The curtains did not ruf.e. As 
my heartbeat did subside, so too did this wind lessen. John and I 
stood perfectly still, a silence between us. The air crisp and 
smelling as it does after an electric storm, both bitter and sweet 
all at once. 
My husband said not a word, a stunned, apoplectic expression 
overtaking him. His eyes narrowed, boring into me. He turned 
and left me then, partly because there was nothing left to say, 
partly out of fear, if I read him right. I have never seen John 
Rimbauer seeming anything less than absolutely certain. Stoic, 
even. 
Until now, that is. This evening the tables turned. 
I attended dinner without a shawl, just to spite him. And I 
laughed as never before. 
37
for the sake of expediency, and due to any diary's 
repetitious nature, the editor chose to omit various 
diary entries. ellen rimbauer's full diary is 
archived in the winslow library of letters and 
memoirs, seattle, washington, a copy of which 
resides along with other materials in the joyce 
reardon collection: observed paranormal activities, 
1982–1999, which resides in the wirmser 
library, beaumont university, seattle, washington. 
-- joyce reardon 
38
15 december 1907 -- the south pacifIc islands 
I don't know why they bother giving these islands any name but 
Paradise. Certainly one is no different than the other, a crust of 
sand rising from the deep, palms clinging by shallow roots, wind 
and bright sky and the bluest, clearest water on the face of the 
earth. The cinnamon-skinned women, as bare-breasted as the 
National Geographic Society would have us believe, welcoming 
white strangers with wide smiles and, I fear, open arms. The sun 
beats hot as we enter the part of their seasons that coincides with 
spring and summer, despite it being fall and early winter at 
home. Our world is quite literally turned upside down. 
I lock your pages closed each night, Dear Diary, and then, in 
turn, lock you away in my steamer where I keep my underclothes 
and my toilet, con.dent my husband would never violate that 
sanctity. I scarcely know what would become of me if he ever did. 
And so it is, with beating heart and a certain amount of timidity, 
that I once again turn to you as my confessor. 
It began more than a week ago now, during a nighttime celebration 
as the Ocean Star crossed the equator. There was music, 
much drink, a proclamation by the captain, dancing and a gay 
atmosphere on board. John and I, for all our con.icts, rose from 
our beds in the morning as if we had not a care in the world. 
We had taken breakfast together on the balcony, a peaceful, 
enchanting hour. I do believe that John has adopted a different 
attitude toward me, and that this is re.ected both in our breakfast 
and in the fact that we followed breakfast with a stroll on the deck, 
an extremely social activity where certainly my absence has been 
noticed. We lunched together, in a smaller dining room I'd not 
seen before, but one where all the waiters knew John quite well, 
addressing him as "Mr. Rimbauer," instead of the "sir" and 
"madam" used on guests less well known. After high tea with several 
new friends, we retired to our stateroom and "rested" --  
39
John's new term for our husband and wife activities, which falls 
desperately short of the truth of that time spent together; it is 
anything but restful! -- and prepared for a late dinner at the captain's 
table and the equator celebration scheduled to follow. 
It was sometime during that fabulous celebration, the warm 
tropical night winds playing over the Ocean Star's rail, the champagne 
playing with my head, the delicious chocolate mousse still 
lingering in my taste buds, that the following events occurred. 
John, I believe, was dancing with a matronly woman named 
Danforth, Danvers -- I have a devil of a time with all the names! --  
leaving me to the company of Mr. Dan . . . I can't possibly 
remember! . . . who rather quickly excused himself to the toilet, 
one brandy over his limit, if I might say. 
"Truf.es, Madame?" A creamy warm voice over my shoulder, 
as welcome as that tropical wind. A woman's voice. Deep and 
soothing. 
I turned, perhaps too quickly for our proximity, and found 
myself eye-to-eye with a Negro of nut brown skin and enormous 
olive-shaped eyes. Her face was a perfect oval, her lips thick and 
sensuous. I felt myself stir in a way no woman should stir for 
another woman. I am certain I made a fool of myself, the way my 
voice caught, with the blush I must have revealed. 
A waitress, she was dressed in a black costume appropriate to 
her service, with a white apron and a .rmly pressed white collar 
buttoned nearly to choking. She had a tiny, wasp waist, full hips 
and strong legs, widely set. The shoes they had put her in were 
easily a size too large. She had feet more my size. What an idiot I 
was, just staring into her eyes as I did. 
"Madame?" she inquired a second time. 
"Well, yes," I answered, having no desire to consume any 
more food. But I picked one off the silver tray nonetheless, and 
bid her to remain in my company a moment longer. 
What I felt is unspeakable, but I push my fountain pen to write 
40
it here in these pages: I wanted to kiss her. To touch that soft 
skin. Mind you, I did not want to be kissed back -- Heaven forbid!
-- nor touched in any way, shape or manner. But I did want to 
undress her and see her God-given body in all its glory, to run 
my hands over her skin and feel it respond to my woman's touch. 
So horri.ed was I by this response that I left the celebration early, 
feigning a headache, and I returned to prayer in our stateroom, 
kneeling at the side of that bed where my husband and I perform 
acts of increasing indecency, praying for salvation from wherever 
it is my mind seems destined to take me. Is this what marriage 
brings on in women: a heightened curiosity of the forms that 
pleasure takes? If there were only someone to whom I could bare 
my soul! The ship's priest comes to mind, but he is a rheumyeyed 
man with a proclivity for drink. My one great fear now is 
that in all my isolation of the forthcoming year I will not .nd 
answers, not .nd release for such sinful thought. For the better 
part of three weeks I have been shuttered in our stateroom. I am 
currently ensconced in a .ve-room suite in the only decent hotel 
for a thousand miles. Laughter rolls up from the hotel bar, 
spilling out into the street and then rising like hot air to the 
room's high ceilings. 
Dare I confess this? Earlier this morning a chambermaid 
entered to service our rooms, to change the sheets that my husband 
and I have soiled with our activities. (I dare not ask where 
John has learned all that he is "teaching" me -- his term.) She 
couldn't have been over .fteen, if she's a day. Petite, and fairskinned 
with black eyes and a strong back. Oh, yes, I studied every 
inch of her as she worked. She saw me watching and seemed to 
take great pleasure in it. Giggling. Provocative. She knows not 
what she does to me! I had a kink in my neck that I tried to work 
out -- there are no pillows here to speak of, only .rm square mats 
with cotton slipcovers. I sleep .tfully, if at all -- in part because 
John's appetites are insatiable (he drinks heavily into the night 
41
and then arrives to our rooms in a desirous state). Our maid took 
note of my efforts and indicated that I should turn around. She 
touched my neck with her small, warm hands and I jumped, a 
source of great amusement on her part. Then, for the better part 
of a quarter of an hour or more, she kneaded my tight, knotted 
muscle and sculpted it, restoring it to a state of complete relaxation. 
I am told this form of massage is Asian, Japanese or 
Chinese in origin, and spilled down the archipelago over the 
thousands of years of commerce that has come and gone in this 
remote area of the world. I was quite taken by the magic of her 
hands, and I tipped her generously, which she clearly enjoyed. 
But listen, Dear Diary, there's more! This young beauty then 
indicated that I should lie down on the bed. In her unfamiliar 
tongue and sign language, she .rst locked the door and then 
motioned for me to disrobe. (I am certain this was the meaning. 
It needed no translation.) She indicated with her hands that she 
would continue her work, the Asian massage with which she had 
soothed me. She appreciated my generosity, no doubt, and saw 
clear to the idea that she might expand on that gratuity by 
increasing the canvas, if I may adopt an art analogy. I declined, of 
course, thanking her profusely, which I'm sure she understood, 
and getting out of it as best I could. I suppose she meant for me 
to remove my dress, and only my dress, so that she could continue 
her work through my undergarments, but given the level of 
undress these natives undertake, my thoughts went elsewhere. I 
had visions of disrobing, becoming naked in front of this young 
girl.
Even now, many hours past, I .nd myself excited at the 
prospect. Dare I confess this? To be touched by another woman, 
someone of my own sex, who would know the aches and pains of a 
woman, where to touch, where to relieve the back pain that comes 
of the corsets, the foot and leg pain that comes from the shoes. 
42
Nothing more than this, you understand! And yet, even this 
seems a sinful act. One woman with another, one in full undress. 
The bright-eyed young girl had such a problem accepting no 
from me, either being driven by the desire for another tip or 
being culturally unfamiliar with such a refusal. This island and its 
simple people are so very foreign to me. 
I am troubled by my desires. There, I wrote it down. Perhaps 
that will help to purge me of them. Perhaps if John included me 
more, allowed me out more often, my mind would have elsewhere 
to go other than to the physical pleasures that have entered my 
life for the .rst time in these past few weeks. The dark secrets of 
satisfying a man that John continues to reveal to me. But my days 
are just this: food and carnal pleasure. The honeymoon is for me 
more a horrormoon. I have prayed -- to both sides -- for release 
from this depravity of thought, for increased independence from 
my husband, for the freedom to walk the sands and visit the markets. 
I have prayed for his drinking to temper, for his earlier 
return to our suite, as some nights he does not return until three 
or four in the morning, sweating, smelling of liquor and cigars --  
and -- dare I say it, for I am not absolutely certain? -- other women. 
He snores as I cry. He snores as I long for home, and most of 
all my dear mother. Her guidance. Her advice. Oh, the ache in 
my heart this loss causes me. The terror with which I face another 
day here, for I know it is but one of many that will combine to 
make up this year of travel. 
There is talk of a European war. John believes the need for 
petroleum will increase dramatically, and with it our fortunes. 
But what good is fortune without love? And if John loves me, 
what strange ways he chooses to display it. Is love at the heart of 
our sweaty embrace? I once felt this -- it seems like months ago 
now. But since our arrival here at the islands, it is bestiality that 
my husband brings to bed, not love. He takes me, he does not 
43
make love to me. It is carnal and awful, and I give myself to him 
only reluctantly and with great displeasure for fear of suffering 
badly should I do otherwise. 
I know not what I've gotten myself into. 
And all I want is out. 
44
19 april 1908 -- kenya, africa 
Africa. The dark continent. A man's place. Primitive and 
intriguing. The birthplace of mankind, they say. Eden, they say. 
Skin so black it's blue. Wild animals in numbers that stagger the 
imagination. Oh, to have a motion picture camera record this! 
John and I, and three other couples, two from Britain, one 
from Cleveland (ironically he and John share some business 
acquaintances there), are escorted into the bush by nearly thirty 
natives, an Australian guide named Charles Hammer and a Negro 
gun-bearer named Hipshoo -- at least that's how we all pronounce 
it. About ten of the thirty are women, two of whom are assigned 
to me, one named Sukeena, the other Marishpa. They tend to me 
like court-appointed maids, at my side the moment I need them. 
Bright-eyed and .lled with laughter, they have greatly elevated my 
spirits, which had been lagging these past several weeks. Christmas 
away from home was most trying, and though John endeavored to 
explain to me that I had a new home now, it only made matters 
worse. 
45
That home is, of course, the grand house, and what pieces of 
information we've obtained while away are encouraging indeed. 
The walls are up, the roof going on. It is said to have thirty windows 
on the front of the house alone. The glass is being ordered 
for them now. I have continued to collect, starting in the Paci.c 
Islands with lovely wood carvings, some coral and one enormous 
.sh that John had taxidermied. Its species escapes me, though 
indirectly he's told me a dozen times as he loves telling this .shing 
story at nearly every dinner table we enjoy. I believe John 
caught some two hundred .sh during the course of our stay, and 
with only this one to remember it by, he stretches the story a little 
longer (the .sh too!) each time he tells it. 
But John started me thinking about the house, and now I .nd 
I am hard pressed to do otherwise. Planning for its decoration 
and its completion consumes me. I bought a hundred yards of 
silk for wall covering while in Siam; beige, and exquisitely woven. 
Another hundred yards of a similar linen, also for wall covering. 
(We skipped India because of the anticolonial uprisings there.) 
John keeps encouraging me to "buy, buy, buy," emphasizing the 
enormity of our future home. To my great relief, the home itself 
has drawn us close together again. We talk of it constantly, consulting 
the plans, he inviting my opinion. I can actually see it 
growing as we discuss it, as strange as that may sound. These 
"visions" of mine seem a preternatural connection to the house 
itself, effortlessly reaching across the thousands of miles of 
ocean -- a radio of the mind. (Radio has not yet reached Seattle, 
but it was all the talk before we left.) I have kept the existence of 
these "visions" to myself -- John has no mind for any of it -- while 
all the time actually "seeing" the house grow behind the work of 
the hundreds of men now on-site. 
A most remarkable thing happened two days ago, worth sharing 
here. In studying the plans with John, he was pointing out the 
Breakfast Room, a well-intentioned space left of the Banquet 
46
Hall and below the Kitchen on our plans, and one obviously 
thought up by a man. I'm annoyed with its placement, as its only 
windows face west into the garden, and any woman knows that it is 
the morning's east light that so pleases the morning soul. John 
argues that I may take my breakfast wherever it pleases me, 
including the Parlor, which does, in fact, face east and south, but 
with an uninspired view of the driveway. He reminds me that the 
home will be staffed with over thirty, and that if I wish to have 
breakfast in bed every day of my life, so be it. But he misses the 
point, of course, of the aesthetics of the placement of the 
Breakfast Room and my belief that it shall go virtually unused 
because of it. No matter. What was astonishing was this: in the 
course of our heated discussion, John pointed to a second of the 
room's windows in the plans. I told him no, that the window had 
been lost, as the architect had only recently discovered a need to 
relocate the pantry from north to south, to provide better access 
to cold storage and the china storage in the basement below, 
access to which was to the north of the Kitchen. He'd heard 
nothing of this, he reminded me, even taking the time to sort 
through his many telegraphs. But you see, I knew, quite clearly, 
that this change had been made. I had "seen" the wall being 
erected already, the bricks laid in place, the trowels tossing the 
mortar. I knew, and no one had ever told me. When John 
received a telegraph late that evening, he came to our rooms 
somewhat ashen. He passed me the telegraph and said, "Explain 
this, Ellen." 
"A premonition is all, my love." 
"A premonition?" 
"Exactly so." 
"Concerning the house," he said. 
"This particular time, yes." 
"You've had others, then?" 
"The world is opening up to me, dear husband, just as you 
47
said it would. This voyage of ours has already proved most . . . 
illuminating. One might even say, enlightening." 
"And what else do you . . . 'see,' if I may ask." 
"You dare not ask, I would suggest." 
"Me? Is it ever me?" He looked nervous, visibly upset. 
"And if it was?" 
"I don't believe in such rubbish." 
"Then you've nothing to worry about, dear soul." 
"Do not call me that." 
"I see you with women," I answered. "Young women, barely 
budding. I see you performing unspeakable acts with these dark 
women with whom we've surrounded ourselves since we left 
home." I was crying now, but trying so hard not to. I'm sure I 
must have looked the fool. 
He blanched. "Ridiculous!" A hoarse, dry whisper that I fear 
even he did not believe. Void of the usual .are of temper, he left 
our rooms in quietude. 
To my surprise, he returned later, sober and unusually considerate 
and polite. That night he was husband to me as gentle as 
our wedding night. He luxuriated me in my own pleasures as he 
has never done before, and later I heard him crying in his sleep. 
It's the heir, Dear Diary, the all-important heir. I am now the 
vehicle through which to deliver him his lineage, and any other 
will be bastard. (I fear we have left a string behind us on this trip 
already!) He needs me in this endeavor, my willingness to take to 
bed with him, or this dream of passing along his fortune will 
never take light. It is this need that compels him to treat me with 
respect and dignity, no matter what the truth of our union be. I 
do believe I have struck the fear of God in him. But truth be 
known, it is the Devil, for who else invoked in me such a lie as I 
told him that night, having never had such visions of him with 
others. Suspicions, to be sure. But brought forward as images, I 
do believe that he brie.y saw them as well, reliving his unfaithful- 
48
ness, and that perhaps these memories, so vivid and so clear, 
afforded him the opportunity to believe that I too had witnessed 
his depraved acts. Am I to believe he simply invents these things 
he puts me through when in bed with him? He learned them, of 
course, and we both know it, and we also know that I am not that 
teacher. 
And so the little games we play continue. Acting out husband 
and wife. Reviewing our grand house plans as if none's-theworry. 
Me, beginning to communicate with Sukeena and enjoying 
her company so very much. He, taking off on his safaris for 
days at a time and returning with guilt on his face and a fallen 
impala under his arm. Me, with my visions. He, with his dreams. 
And my womanhood the secret that holds the balance for both of 
us. When my monthly issue does come, he shrinks into the bottle 
and depression for days, only to return to try again, sometimes 
tenderly, sometimes desperately. I am the key to his future happiness, 
and he, in turn, is the key to mine. I am beginning to learn 
the ways of marriage. 
49
15 may 1908 -- kenya, africa 
I have not made entries in this personal chronicle for nearly a 
month -- three weeks and .ve days, to be exact. I do so now, only 
weakly, unable to hold this pen for long, I am afraid. I have been 
unconscious for some of this time and delirious for the rest, 
stricken with what our recently departed fellow travelers believed 
was malaria. I have lost no fewer than .fteen pounds -- my rib cage 
protrudes front and back like some of the native women in our 
employ. I have suffered from fever for days at a time, a complete 
loss of appetite, sweats and tremors. Only through the tender 
care of Sukeena and her bitter teas and remedies she has fed me, 
and my own endless prayers for recovery, have I survived. For 
these four weeks I have never left the con.nes of my tent, quarantined 
from all but the natives. Even John has avoided contact, 
standing outside at the far end of my tent and talking to me 
through a small triangle of light caused by a turned-up tent .ap. 
It is this isolation that has worn on me, driven me at times to the 
very edge of my sanity. Only my rough conversations with 
Sukeena, an awkward combination of words and gestures, have 
maintained my link to this world. In my delirium I have traveled 
to unthinkable places, at times believing it so real, only to have 
Sukeena pull me back. I do believe that no less than three times I 
was within a breath or two of death, hovering in a netherworld 
where at once I felt both refreshed and fearful. This delicate contact 
with what I perceive of as the other side has left me far less 
apprehensive of my own demise, and yet with mixed opinion as to 
whether I was in Heaven, or Hell, or Purgatory. What I know, and 
know for certain, is that God saved my life, but that the Devil may 
have bargained for my soul. The exact conversations escape me 
now (though they were extremely clear at the time), but I know 
for certain I made promises that perhaps I should not have made. 
Sukeena, who has served me as both nursemaid and witch doc- 
50
tor, as sister and friend, has known the truth all along, that my 
fevers and in.rmity resulted neither from the water nor from the 
jungle insects that do infest this godless place. Instead my illness 
was contracted by contact with my husband, for I am plagued by 
an unmentionable disease carried by men and suffered by 
women. The remedy for my af.iction is most unpleasant, though 
as I understand it, is far less worse than it is, or will be, for John, 
who has no doubt undergone, and will continue to undergo, a 
series of injections to an area of the male body that is also 
unmentionable. 
This, in turn, explains John's sweats of nearly six weeks ago, a 
lingering illness that put him of foul mood, unable to walk, and 
accounted for his sending for certain medications, of which I was 
unaware until Sukeena recently informed me. His recovery, however, 
appears to have gone much more quickly than my own, for 
he has returned to hunt and safari these last three weeks while I 
lay here in my tent. (I am told, again by Sukeena, that the reverse 
is usually true -- that women tend to suffer far less than men from 
this horrible af.iction. What curse on me reversed these odds?) 
Husband and wife have not spoken of this, nor will we ever. 
Of this I am certain. Much have I cried and agonized over my 
husband's unfaithfulness, his failure to live up to the mutual 
consent of our marriage vows and the lack of respect he has shown 
me. Much have I now suffered for his pleasures, and I ache for a 
way to return such shame and pain to him. It is the heir, of 
course. To deny him the right to continue his line, but I cannot 
throw myself into this cause with much heart, for I, too, would 
welcome the distraction of children. And yet the thought of joining 
him physically I .nd so repugnant as to literally make me sick 
to my stomach. I vomit if any such image enters my mind. I expel 
it and swear it will never come to fruition. I have now lived the 
error of forgiveness (for certainly I've known all along what he 
was up to!). I will never fool myself again. He will be made to beg 
51
me. He will be made to cry. To pay, both .nancially and emotionally, 
for the trials he has put me through if he wishes to have 
his heir. This inferno that has lived in my loins and in my head 
these many weeks has taken root in my condemnation of my husband 
and my determination for revenge. If it's money that he 
loves then I shall bleed him. This grand house of his will never be 
complete. Construction will never stop. No expense will be 
spared. He will watch as the frivolity of my mood directs the 
depletion of his funds in whatever unnecessary and trivial manner 
I can and do imagine. And he will be loath to stop it, to even try --  
for my legs shall close upon his lineage forever, like a springed 
trap. 
The call for revenge drives me to take the soup Sukeena offers. 
To allow my sweat-soaked bedsheets and nightgown to be 
removed and replaced, rather than succumb to the fevers. To tolerate 
the treatments Sukeena puts me through, at once both 
painful and humiliating. 
I will prevail to leave this tent, to face my husband across the 
dinner tables erected beneath what appears to be a banyan tree. I 
will look him in the eye and show him my resolve to right his 
wrong. And he will know. He will wither under the power I have 
gained both through my prayers (to both sides) and from my dear 
friend, Sukeena. She has the power to heal, the power to connect 
to the other side. Her dolls of black hardwood. Her musical 
chants and infusions. In what my husband may only slowly come 
to see, my illness has led to strength of mind, my suffering to 
strength of heart. He will come to regret his in.delity, ultimately 
and forever. 
And I shall triumph, Sukeena at my side. She is coming home 
with us. This is the .rst of many concessions my husband shall 
learn to make. 
52
15 june 1908 -- cairo, egypt 
I cannot imagine any place hotter in all the world than Cairo in 
June. We have sailed down the Nile for days (how strange a world 
this is that north is downstream?). John is foul of mood, and no 
wonder: he has not won my affections since late April when he 
bestowed upon me that horrible curse. And now, in such close 
company as this small .at-bottomed boat, he cannot .nd any 
budding young women to pluck except those of the European 
families that people this vessel -- girls who can speak, read and 
write -- girls who would report him in an instant if he lifted their 
skirts. He broods and drinks and brags with the other passengers, 
wisely leaving Sukeena and me to ourselves, except at dinner at a 
tedious captain's table where liquor is the of.cial language and all 
but I speak .uently. I hear him tell his hunting stories and marvel 
at his ability to win friends, and I watch the women swoon, and I 
wonder if that is how I once looked in his company as well. I want 
to hate him, but that vexation is slowly wearing off. Calculated or 
not, he has taken some time to charm me, has helped me pick out 
several splendid rugs from Persia (bought in Luxor) and a great 
deal of woven wicker -- baskets and hampers mostly, some seventy- 
.ve in all. The prize so far is the hand-carved alabaster. We are to 
have dinner, bread and salad plates, soup bowls of two sizes, all 
for a table of forty. It is to be shipped to Seattle within the year, 
each piece carefully packed. John said that if half the cargo 
arrived undamaged we should consider it a victory, at which point 
I increased the alabaster order to a serving for eighty, and 
watched John wince at the increase in price, although these dirtpoor 
Egyptian farmers are practically giving away such wares. I 
could have increased it to eight hundred and not taken a week of 
my husband's income. Indeed, if I am to have any revenge on my 
husband, I see clearly now that it absolutely must come in the 
53
construction of the grand house. That is the only weapon I 
possess. 
I have come to detest the Europeans for their treatment of my 
dear Sukeena. Of those who acknowledge her presence (precious 
few, I'm sorry to say), few treat her with any respect above a slave. 
A French couple was nice to her -- the woman offered her some 
clothes that would .t (mine are far too small for her) and she 
accepted. A Canadian woman was quite thoughtful and respectful 
and always greeted Sukeena by name. The rest were brutes. I was 
glad to be free of the Sun Ra, even if it meant the streets of Cairo. 
Few cities in the world are as densely populated as this one. 
Brown bodies by the millions, all covered in long cotton robes of 
soft browns and a few subtle greens. They look like nightgowns --  
as if everyone has just woken up. The men wrap their heads in 
white cotton. The women cover their faces -- all but the black eyes 
that stare straight ahead, unseeing and yet all seeing. Water buffalo 
drag carts through the streets but foul the sunbaked brick and 
make a stink that rises with the sun. People wash themselves in the 
river -- this river that is the heart of the land -- they wash their 
babies, their food utensils, their camels. The river is putrid and 
foul -- and they practically live in it. 
But to the story at hand! Sukeena and I were bicycled by rickshaw 
into the city's main market -- deep in the center of humanity. 
We were not, by any means, the only visitors to this city, but it felt 
that way. We collected some trinkets, a good deal of colorful fabrics 
and a few more pieces of alabaster, these ornately carved. All 
our goods were stacked high on the three-wheeled bicycle, our 
driver never hesitating a moment to add to his load. After about 
an hour of this, we took tea in a small teahouse where young boys 
circulated the air by manning large fans. The tea helped me to 
perspire, which in turn cooled me off. I made the mistake of 
showing my coin purse to pay for the tea -- a practice John has 
warned me against time and time again, and one I just cannot 
54
seem to master. At any rate, I committed this mistake ( John is 
right, of course) and must have shown to all those looking a good 
deal of bills within that small purse, for John had just exchanged 
some dollars upon our arrival and had provided me appropriate 
spending money. 
I realize now this must have been staged, but at the time the 
commotion that arose at the front of the building drove Sukeena 
and me to the rear, in hopes of escaping the melee. As we 
slipped out the back, not one, but two very evil-minded men 
approached, their message clear from the knives they carried: the 
purse, or our lives. I nearly fainted at this threat of violence, and 
it did not escape me that as men confronting a white-skinned 
woman they might want more than just my purse. 
I willingly offered the purse, but Sukeena lovingly took hold 
of my arm, shook her head "no" and made me to hold on to it. 
One of the two stepped forward -- I believe to challenge us, certainly 
to challenge Sukeena. But that brave woman stood tall. Her 
skin so dark it shined blue. "Nubian!" they called out in their 
foreign tongue. 
And then I witnessed with my own eyes a side of Sukeena I had 
never before seen. She stared at this man -- a glaring stare unlike 
anything, impossible to describe. She stepped toward him, her 
body .uid and .awless, moving more like a wave than a step, a 
snake than a legged creature. And all the while a deep, low, guttural 
sound pulsated from her throat and chest. This sound 
seemed to surround us. The man, increasingly uncomfortable 
with her approach, took a step back, the .rst sign she had dominion 
over him. At this point, the guttural sound evolved into language
-- a tongue I had never heard, not in all our travels in the 
dark continent. But this man, and his associate, apparently 
understood the primitive message she imparted. As she waved her 
hands the man stopped, absolutely still. As still as marble. That 
knife carried as an ornament, not a weapon. Both men began to 
55
tremble -- and I swear I felt the earth beneath my feet rumbling --  
like a self-contained earthquake. Then they folded in on themselves 
and writhed in pain on the ground as if stricken by some 
disease to the stomach or bowels. What began as their moaning 
developed into cries of terror. 
Sukeena took my hand, stepped around the one in front of us 
and led me down the alley to our waiting driver. As I looked back, 
the men were still groaning miserably. 
Sukeena has not spoken of the incident, and I, for one, am 
glad of that fact, for I'd know not what to say. But I am less concerned 
about travel deep into these foreign streets now. I feel 
protected, defended against the dark side by my African friend. I 
am more intrigued by her unspeakable powers. Where such powers 
come from, and whether or not a person can learn them, can 
adopt them for her own, I have yet to discover. But with Sukeena 
to teach me, I suddenly feel that anything is possible. Anything 
my heart desires. 
56
4 july 1908 -- crete, greece 
Our nation's birthday was met by much drinking on John's part. 
He began his celebrations before noon, partaking in the clear 
liquor these .shermen drink by the shot, said to be a variation on 
grain alcohol. The Greeks, of course, have little if any idea of our 
Independence Day, and must .nd John's display of patriotism 
somewhat confounding. 
Sukeena and I toured a ruin, an old port city now inland by a 
quarter mile, rocked above sea level in a seismic shift two thousand 
years earlier. We visited a row of stone tubs used for washing 
laundry, so well preserved that all they lacked was a stopper and 
some soap to be put back into service. This is the land of raw olive 
oil, squid and goats that climb trees (I saw this with my own 
eyes!). A quiet, peace-loving peasant people with a rich appetite 
for café discussion, drinking and coffee so strong and bitter that 
it turns my stomach. 
It was here, this morning, in a spectacular suite of rooms 
overlooking the rich blue depths of the Mediterranean that my 
will surrendered to John for the .rst time since this past April. 
The morning broke incredibly hot and I slipped out of bed to 
stand by the ocean breeze at the window when my husband took 
hold of me from behind, his massive hands beneath my gown 
before my voice could rise to protest. I grabbed for either side of 
the open French doors and braced myself, casting myself forward 
and clearly inviting his ardor, the hem of my nightgown riding on 
my hips, his brazen intentions driving me to my toes, my knees 
quivering, my heart racing. My God, I must admit here to the 
thrill of it all. Our passions mutually heightened by my months 
of refusal, John's aggressiveness, so masculine and forceful, yet 
careful and kind to me. I could not maintain my footing, and 
therefore slowly sank to my knees, my husband keeping us joined 
and fervently pursuing his climax, to where, in a dizzying 
57
moment of unbridled sensation I tried to call out to him, only to 
hear my voice moan through indistinguishable syllables that he 
clearly took as a signal. We collapsed in a gasp of satisfaction, he 
on my back, me with my face pressed to the tile .oor. "This is 
hardly a situation becoming of a lady," I said weakly, winning a 
spontaneous eruption of laughter from the both of us. 
"Our morning ride," he said, and we laughed again. 
When we were apart he rolled me over and we lay together 
again, half in, half out of our bedroom, half in, half out of consciousness, 
basking in the morning sunshine, basking in our 
union. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist and heard 
myself say, "It's all behind us, yes?" 
"I have hope it is." 
"Never again." 
"Never," he said, gently touching my cheek. "I was a fool, 
Ellen." And then the words I had prayed to hear. "Forgive me." 
"We will not speak of it. Not now. Not ever." From where this 
capitulation arose, I know not. Perhaps I wanted a marriage back. 
A life. Perhaps my con.dence in Sukeena's enormous powers 
made John Rimbauer less of an obstacle and more of a game to 
me. I felt more the cat than the mouse. I had what he wanted: 
ability to deliver his heir. He had what I had quickly grown accustomed 
to: position, power and tremendous wealth. 
As we lay there, this forty-year-old man grew ardent yet again, 
and again I capitulated. And for the .rst time since our marriage, 
I directed him as to the choreography of my pleasure. With each 
instruction I gave, I witnessed arousal in my husband, excitement. 
He would answer each touch I gave to him with a hearty, 
throaty, "Yes!" and do exactly as I wished. I tell you, Dear Diary: I 
never knew . . . I never knew. But under my careful instruction, 
both of the hips and the hands, he did pleasure me, carrying me 
to new sensations that both alarmed me (for my surrender to 
them) and overcame me with pure and perfect delight (my every 
58
muscle on .re at once!). My legs still gripped around him, I 
eased my damp head of hair back to resting, my chest a .orid 
pink, my husband panting like a long-distance runner. "Good 
boy, Johnny," I said, using a nickname I had never dared use 
before, adopting an attitude -- as much a test as a conviction. 
He placed his head on my chest, and brie.y was that little boy 
I had complimented. I cannot explain in these pages, but in that 
moment the tide of our relating husband to wife did shift, wife to 
husband. I gained the strength and courage to express my physical 
desires, and in doing so somehow also gained the upper hand 
over my formerly de.ant husband. I didn't want to think about 
the past, I wanted to command the future. 
As we dressed and took coffee on the balcony, I felt another 
stirring in my loins, and nearly requested my husband's favors yet 
again. But this stirring was something altogether different from a 
woman's urges. At .rst I blamed this awful coffee and then, later, 
the excitement pent up from my morning discoveries and the 
accomplishment of one part of my dream. 
But then I blamed the act itself (or the acts, if one is counting!). 
For though I'd never experienced the condition .rsthand, 
could only speculate on the sensation surging through my soul 
(not my body, but my soul), I sensed the presence of another life. 
A life within me. I was pregnant. 
I knew this absolutely and with all conviction. The .rst .edgling 
moments of a human being were growing inside me. 
When Sukeena saw me it was all but con.rmed. She met me in 
our rooms, looked deeply into my eyes and smiled widely. "So," 
she said in her pidgin English, "it has begun." 
Indeed, it has. 
59
9 september 1908 -- paris, france 
I am cursed. Ever since our engagement to marry and the tragic 
murder at the site of the grand house, Harry Corbin's insanity, 
events so strange and peculiar as to foreshadow a life so different 
than a young girl dreams -- I should have known! Earlier to-day I 
lost my child. It issued from me, Sukeena nursing me through it 
(she says all women lose the children not made for this earth, but 
that hardly helps). This, following a social calendar here in this 
beloved city that I begged John to constrain. We have been active 
every night for nearly two weeks -- opera, dinner parties, business 
dinners. I felt myself weakening under the fatigue, straining to 
keep awake at times, eating food I found utterly too rich and 
unappealing. Wearing corsets too tight. I cautioned John, who 
knows so little of women and their needs. I warned him that if he 
wanted this child, he could not make requirements of me after 
this fashion. And now we suffer the agony of this loss. 
Such complete devastation I have never known. I spent two 
hours in Sukeena's arms in hysterics, sobbing and incoherent. 
My little child that warmed in my belly is gone. A doctor has been 
brought in. I am to take bed rest for a week to ten days. As if the 
torture of my loss is not enough, my in.rmity now frees my husband 
for the .rst time in months to roam this city alone in search 
of his favorite .ower -- and don't think I don't know it. He began 
drinking heavily this morning, the moment he was informed. I 
can picture her: .fteen or sixteen. Blond. Blue eyes. So much my 
opposite. My husband lavishing gifts upon her. And she, spreading 
her honey, a sweetness he cannot resist. 
I am sick to my stomach with the thought. Sukeena believes my 
nausea is related to my loss, but I know better. I am livid with 
anger and resentment. Again I brood and consult the dark side 
on how to punish John for never listening to me. Always ordering 
me around like one of his foremen or ship captains. Again I 
60
know that the power I lord over him is the presentation of an 
heir. Without me he has only bastards. I offer him legitimacy. 
Immortality. 
Sukeena has eyes that smile as I explain this to her. "As long as 
you angry, Miss Ellen, I know you to live." She wants me to have a 
raison d'être, afraid that my loss will throw me into a slump (for I 
am certain she has seen this before in her tribal friends). So I 
focus on punishing John, on denying him my womanhood, 
denying him his child. Let him roam the streets for his girls, he 
will never know love. He will never know family. 
I conspire in my mind to hurt him, while at the same time 
worshiping him. At times I hate myself for my devoted love of my 
husband -- is it the age that separates us? his success and 
strength? -- I treasure him, even while disliking him so fully, so 
absolutely. If anything drives me insane, it will be these two 
women who live inside me: one that loves, one that wants to hate; 
one that prays to God to celebrate life, one that prays to Darkness 
to punish my husband. How can I ever reconcile these two in the 
same body, the same woman? I loathe him, I love him. I want his 
attention, and yet I now grieve because he wouldn't leave me to 
rest; I want independence, separation, and yet I long for our life 
together at the grand house -- a family. I want to punish him, I 
want to serve him. Who am I, Dear Diary, that I can be so vexed? 
And so, for the next ten days, I shall mourn the passing of this 
almost-child. I shall beg to be given back the gift of God's gracious 
blessing. I shall resent my husband, so very much, if he 
takes my in.rmity as opportunity. 
I cannot .nd peace. I cannot sleep. I am not hungry. My body 
purges. Sukeena nurses me like a sister. My belief builds that if 
God has allowed me to lose this child, there is some hidden reason 
behind it. Why else would He put me through such loss and 
agony, anxiety and pain? Is it perhaps not yet time for John's 
heir? Are there more tests upon us to come? Or am I de.cient in 
61
some way, unable to deliver what every other woman delivers so 
naturally? 
How, if ever, will I now .nd internal peace? How, if ever, will 
I recover my soul? For I fear it has .ed with this almost-child --  
his little heir running from his father before even entering his 
world. And as I read back what I've written, I know that the 
answer to these questions is itself a dichotomy: motherhood. 
That which I seek to deny him is itself the solution to my grief 
and anxieties. I am so confused. Tired now, I must rest. I must 
close my eyes, even if sleep won't come. I will listen to Sukeena 
humming by my side, those tribal melodies and rhythms. I will 
fall under her spell, this enchanting woman who loves me and 
cares for me like a sister. Where would I be without my dear 
Sukeena? We are bonded now, the two of us. And it shall remain 
so, forever. 
62
9 december 1908 -- seattle, washington 
After nearly a year away, John and I returned to Seattle to-day by 
train. Met at the station by my mother and my former governess 
(who now works as my mother's secretary), I threw myself into 
Mother's arms like a schoolgirl returning from summer camp. I 
had written home at least a letter a week, and so it is that my 
mother is quite aware of both the pregnancy and the miscarriage. 
She greeted Sukeena, not like a Negro kitchen maid, as I feared 
she might, but as a member of the family, with kisses and the 
warmest of welcomes. This, above all else, meant so much to me. 
My mother took Sukeena to her home. We are to live apart for 
a short time, until John and I are moved into the grand house, an 
event that is expected to take place within a matter of days but may 
stretch out a few weeks due to the holiday season. Oh, how grand 
it is to see this city I love so. Muddy roads and all. Gray, wet skies 
and all. The lush green is a welcome relief to eyes that have 
looked out train windows for days as we crossed the wheat .elds of 
Kansas and Colorado and the barren reaches of Idaho and eastern 
Washington. These endless rains are not without their lush 
rewards. 
John and I took to his rooms. Sukeena met me later in the day 
and together we began the arduous task of unpacking my twelve 
steamers. Added to our burden is the job of overseeing the 
inventorying of the goods shipped home over the past year. They 
have been assembled in a downtown warehouse -- crate upon crate 
upon crate. Some are to be unpacked, some will wait for relocation 
to the grand house, but all are to be counted and accounted 
for. It is a task that will occupy both Sukeena and me for weeks to 
come, as by my count no fewer than ninety-.ve shipments should 
have arrived. Rugs, furs, John's African shooting trophies, urns, 
vases, lights -- the list is nearly endless. Christmas indeed. I have 
63
never been so excited as to unwrap these treasures. I am like a little 
girl under the tree. 
The long train trip afforded me the opportunity to refuse 
John's advances time and time again. I gloated in the pleasure of 
it. Con.ned as we were, he had no opportunity to take to the 
streets. Instead, day by day, he became both more frustrated with 
me and more subservient. I had him serving my every need, calling 
for porters, for dining service, acting as manservant to me. 
What a sensation! I cannot explain it here, it is the .rst time I've 
felt so since the loss of the child. He wilted under my glare. He 
trembled when at night we took to bed and I pressed my warm 
body against him, only to deny him the ultimate prize. I will surrender, 
of course. It is hard for me to deny myself his pleasures as 
well (though I never indicate this!). And now that we return to a 
place he can .nd such satisfactions without me, it is time I give 
in, hoping to stem that tide. I prepare myself for that eventuality. 
John and I spent much of the train trip writing a list of guests to 
be invited to the opening of the grand house. We have scheduled 
a party for January the .fteenth, allowing several extra weeks in 
case of a holiday slowdown. ( John will devote himself to the 
house fully when not engaged in his oil business. He has already 
left for a meeting with Douglas Posey, his oil partner, to discuss 
the events of the past week, during which time we were isolated on 
the train.) A packet of photographs awaited us at the Ritz in New 
York upon our arrival there by steamer. Oh, such grandeur! The 
facade is brick, the house contained behind a wrought-iron fence 
and a twin set of stone pillars over which hangs the Rimbauer 
crest. The driveway hosts an island, home to one of the many 
statuettes we purchased in Italy. There must be thirty windows or 
more on the front of the house, a half dozen chimneys rising 
from its myriad of rooftops. The interior pictures, of the Grand 
Stair and the Entry Hall, leave me breathless. Oh, to think of this 
64
magni.cent place as my home! I can't imagine! (But I shall soon 
enough!) In the Parlor, I saw that the suit of armor (from 
England), the brown bear (shot by John in the Swiss Alps) and 
the pipe organ (from Bavaria) are already installed! How impressive 
a sight it is -- these souvenirs and treasures from our year 
abroad. I thrill at the thought of taking tea in my Parlor! 
The party -- our homecoming and the dedication of the 
house -- is to be a lavish affair: local politicians, entertainers, 
friends and businessmen, perhaps three hundred in all. My 
mother has been overseeing much of the preparation in advance 
of our arrival. John sent nearly .fty cases of champagne from 
France and another several hundred cases of wine, many of which 
will go to the celebration, the rest to be housed in our Wine 
Cellar ( John wants to boast the largest private wine cellar on the 
West Coast). Beef has been shipped from Chicago and Kansas 
65
City. Pork from Nebraska. Fresh .sh is to be delivered from 
dockside on the day of the grand affair. Chocolate from 
Switzerland. Tea from England. Cigars from Cuba. John is leaving 
nothing to chance. This is a party no one in Seattle will ever 
forget. 
And if I have my way -- and indeed I will -- it is a party we shall 
repeat annually. A party to dwarf any New Year's Eve event. The 
Rimbauer Party. It shall go down in the society pages for years to 
come. The biggest party in the biggest house. 
I feel myself on track again. I am glad our long journey is 
over. 
Another is just beginning. 
66
christmas eve, 1908 -- seattle 
For two painful weeks, John has denied me a visit to our grand 
home as workers complete the .nal touches. We shall formally 
move into our home on January the .fteenth, the day of our 
homecoming party ( John has scheduled our "arrival" with a 
greeting by the staff on that day). After repeated requests on my 
part to tour our new home, so that I might orchestrate the delivery 
of our personal items well in advance of our formal arrival, 
John drove me up Spring Street in his new Cadillac this afternoon, 
a trip I remember well from my .rst journey here so many 
months ago. 
The city is still in the grips of various stages of the regrade, 
accounting for some very silly sights. Some families have elected 
to challenge in court the city's right to lower certain streets by as 
much as seventy feet, while .lling in various gulches that make 
passage nearly impossible. This effort, ongoing now for nearly a 
decade, has been a bitter battle. Those families that have brought 
legal suit against the city have not been required to lower their 
homes, leaving some lots and the houses atop them isolated on 
forty- or .fty-foot "pinnacles," earthen towers rising from the 
new street level (muddy as it is). The homes are completely inaccessible, 
leaving the families without residence. It is quite obvious 
that at some point these families will capitulate, but oh what a 
sight in the meantime! It seems as if nearly every building in this 
eastern part of the city is on scaffolding of some kind, and intermixed, 
these "pinnacles" rising over .ve stories into the gray, 
dreary sky. 
Our arrival at the gates of the Rimbauer mansion (for it is 
nothing less!) left me breathless. All these months of reviewing 
plans, moving walls, changing windows, even the photos delivered 
in New York, did nothing to prepare me for this moment! She is 
spectacular! Pretentious! Gorgeous! 
67
The front of our stone and brick home stretches hundreds of 
feet, north to south, presenting one with a formidable wall of 
brick, roof, glass and chimney. If impression is what John was 
after, impression he accomplished. I could go on and on in my 
description -- and perhaps I will when I am less tired -- but for now, 
I wish to describe just one or two rooms, rooms that as wife to 
this man will be forever important to me. 
The dining room, to be called the Banquet Hall, is magni.cent, 
with the gleaming walnut table occupying its center. I estimate 
this table can accommodate roughly seventy or eighty dinner 
guests. Cabinets are built into two sides of the room, all with glass 
doors, and are soon to contain our vast collection of china. I 
envision the north wall holding John's family's collection of 
teapots, representing over sixty countries around the world. Fine 
paintings from the European masters adorn the walls: landscapes 
mostly, many of which we acquired on our honeymoon, so our 
guests can sit and dream of places far away while six-foot logs 
burn furiously in the .replace. I can hardly wait for our homecoming 
party! We will .ll this table and more with our dinner 
guests -- what an occasion it is to be! 
John's and my chambers occupy the entire West Wing of the 
second .oor, each of us having six or seven rooms to ourselves 
when including parlors, dressing rooms and our studies and 
libraries. My bedroom, the Lady's Chambers, is everything I 
dreamed it to be! It has a big bay window facing the courtyard and 
overlooking the glassed-in Solarium off the Kitchen, where 
botanical varieties of every sort are currently being planted. The 
windows of the room are hung with white silk curtains with overdrapes 
of heavy green brocade. The bed itself rises up three steps, 
and I can already imagine the staff making comments about my 
"throne." No matter -- I love the look! The woodwork in the room 
is decorated with hand carvings, most of which are from the small 
68
town of Opede in the south of France, where John and I visited 
not six months ago. Installed into my bedroom, the craftsmanship 
looks sumptuous, ornate and quite rich! To the right of the 
bed, and down the steps, is a three-panel Oriental screen, behind 
which I can quickly undress. The doors of this screen carry fulllength 
mirrors so that I might view all sides before joining my 
husband in bed for his husbandly visits. (I must say that sight of 
this house has erased so much of our ugly past. John is so proud 
of it, and I of him, for this magni.cent accomplishment.) The 
opposite sides of the screen, those facing into the room, are of a 
dark green plush reminiscent of the forest behind our home. 
There are four area rugs, all from Persia, a green velvet recliner, 
two Louis XIV armchairs and a dresser from the Loire. I am .t to 
be a queen! 
69
16 january 1909 
I must report, Dear Diary, on the inaugural of the grand house 
and the night of divine romance that followed. 
First, to the weather. We must be being punished for our year 
away to mostly tropical locations. The heat of Kenya and Cairo is 
being more than made up for in the most bitter cold Seattle has 
suffered in memory. The freeze that gripped this city just days ago 
with a temperature of only twelve degrees above zero, and allowed 
skating on Lake Union for the .rst time I can recall, was reversed 
less than a day later with temperatures in the mid-twenties. The 
cold-weather fun continued for all of that day, and into the 
night. And then tragedy as the thermometer soared to well into 
the forties -- a more typical temperature. By early the next morning, 
the paper reported that over twenty thousand pipes had burst 
across the city. Miraculously, our new home, perched high on the 
hill, was somehow spared. We suffered not a single burst pipe -- a 
fact that quickly made the social circles. John claims it is the 
result of good planning on his and the engineers' part, having 
insulated the pipes and run them on interior walls. It didn't 
hurt, I suppose, that the staff has had .res raging in every room, 
and the steam heat on as well, preparing the home for our party. 
No matter! Our guests, many without running water in their 
homes, were delighted to join us that evening! 
And now again, to the house itself, for I am smitten with her! 
Such splendor, such lavish expense has seldom been seen, certainly 
on these shores. Perhaps only Rockefeller, Vanderbilt or 
Carnegie has ever built an American home so grand as ours. It is 
still under construction as I write this (will it ever be completed? 
I wonder), and yet we were able to tour our guests through some 
twenty thousand square feet of living space. The front Entry Hall, 
gallery to John's hunting trophies, is sixty feet long, a stunning 
foyer of rich, African mahogany that leads to the curving two- 
71
sided staircase ascending to the .rst of four .oors. To stand at 
the base of the stairs, one faces a hallway both right and left, forward 
and back. Ahead is the Kitchen and Solarium. To the right 
is a picture gallery and several sitting rooms. To the left is the 
Banquet Hall, more hallways and parlors, the Breakfast Room. It 
has taken me days just to learn my way around this palace. One 
can get lost so quickly and easily. 
Our inaugural was attended by over two hundred and .fty. All 
ate dinner in one of six rooms, and then there was dancing in the 
Grand Ballroom until well into the wee hours. We had a senator, 
the mayor, the great Broadway stage actress Marjorie Savoy, a 
baseball player whose name I cannot recall but is said to be quite 
famous, the soprano and stunning beauty Jeanine Sabino (with 
whom John spent a little too much time for my liking) and two 
Italians and Chinese, all three of whom are rumored to be gin 
runners or some other form of lowlife and were invited only 
because John's importing of oil depends on their cooperation. 
(The more I learn of this business, the more horri.ed I am. One 
great advantage of our year abroad was that John took me into his 
con.dence regarding his oil matters and I learned a great deal. 
He seems constantly involved in secret negotiations to bring 
re.neries and minor oil companies together to extort the railroads 
for lower shipping costs, to affect supply, to negotiate better 
labor costs. So much secrecy is involved -- I had no idea!) 
I wore a white dress that was such a success with the men that I 
shall wear it each and every year from now on! The women were 
all dressed so beautifully, rich velvets, silks and wool. The men 
wore tuxedos -- white tie, so elegant and re.ned. I tell you, we 
were the toast of the town and shall remain in high regard for 
years to come because of it. Few could believe the size of the 
grand house, as close to town as it is. I heard words like 
"museum" and "royal palace" on the lips of everyone who toured. 
The decorations are splendid -- our long trip so justi.ed now that 
72
I see all that we collected so beautifully coordinated. It is sumptuous 
without being gaudy, extravagant without being hideous. I am 
quite proud of both John and myself for what we've accomplished. 
I share here a conversation I overheard while approaching the 
Library (6,000 volumes!) between two men -- Tanner Longford, 
chancellor of the university, and Bradley Webster, head of a bank 
that competes with my father's. I point out, Dear Diary, that 
these are not small-minded men -- far from it! -- and that to hear 
such talk (taken in con.dence, I'm sure) adds a great deal of 
verisimilitude to the content of their exchange. 
Tanner's is a deep voice that reminds one of a storyteller. 
Bradley Webster is a small man with a choked, nasal exaggeration 
to his conversation. I heard Tanner .rst. 
"You heard about the murder up here?" 
"Yes, of course. Horrible, wasn't it?" Bradley Webster is a bit 
full of himself. 
"I hear the man -- Corwin, wasn't it?" 
"Corbin, I believe." 
"Yes. That's it. Well, the poor man went insane. Totally mad. 
Sentenced to twenty-.ve years. He clawed his eyes out in his cell 
claiming an Indian had made him do it. Said he came out of the 
hole like the Devil -- the hole being the foundation to this house, 
you see -- had handed him the shotgun." 
"His eyes, was it?" 
"Yes. Died from it, I heard. Bled to death. The eyeless bastard 
running around his cell screaming 'Go away! Go away!' Claimed 
that same Indian had visited his cell and told him his work wasn't 
over." 
"An Indian." 
"Rimbauer knew, of course." 
"Knew what, Tanner?" 
"You don't know about this site?" 
73
"I'm afraid I don't." 
"Lisa told me," Tanner Langford explained. (Lisa is Tanner's 
sister, an in.uential woman and a member of our children's hospital 
board.) "They uncovered Indian remains while digging the 
foundation. Goddamned cemetery is what it was. Skeletons by the 
wagon load, I heard. Some of the Chinamen quit. There was 
some illness blamed on the graves. Fevers, that sort of thing." 
"I haven't heard any of this." 
"Lisa knows all the doctors. I think we can trust her reports." 
"I didn't mean to imply . . ." 
"Some relics were uncovered, I heard. A chief or some tribal 
head of state. There was looting. Rimbauer ordered several men 
.red. But word got out. The state was to send an expert. And 
then he burned the bones." 
"He what!?" 
"Made a bon.re of them, as I understand it. Had them use a 
few barrels of his oil -- I like that little touch -- and burned them to 
ash. By the time the state's man arrived, there was nothing left. 
They were going to shut him down, you see, but they couldn't do 
that now. Rimbauer put it all off to rumor. A clever one, 
Rimbauer is. But then this man Corbin -- what do you make of 
that? 'An Indian,' he said. Made him do it. Can you imagine?" 
"A story is all. Nothing more than a story." 
"I agree. I agree! But still . . . an Indian!" 
At this point in their conversation someone met me in the 
hall and greeted me, and my eavesdropping was interrupted. I 
don't know what followed. What I do know is that John never 
mentioned a word to me about any Indian burial ground. I never 
heard the story about Corbin either. His eyes! Good God, I can't 
imagine such a self-in.icted wound! I hope beyond measure that 
it's purely sensational rumor -- my but how people love to spin 
tales about the wealthy! John has been the subject of much discussion 
and rumor for years now. I am a part of that now, and I sup- 
74
pose it will continue as long as he wields the kind of power he 
does. He supplies this city with some eighty percent of its lighting 
oil, kerosene and gasoline. Portland as well. Forty percent of San 
Francisco. Ninety percent of Denver. The Japanese are buying, 
the British, French Indonesia. He has created an empire (having 
enlarged it during our honeymoon!), and any emperor suffers at 
the lips of his people. 
I related what I had overheard to Sukeena, who is so perceptive 
about matters of the spirit. She tells me the house is "powerful" 
and like nothing she has ever felt before. 
One matter of note: several of our guests at the inaugural 
related to me that they became frightfully lost while touring the 
house on their own. I found myself amused by this, actually, as I 
was myself lost just a day or so ago -- for a moment I actually 
believed the hallway had looked entirely different just minutes 
earlier. Can you imagine? I paid little attention to these reports 
until Sukeena warned me to stay out of the Billiard Room. At 
.rst I thought she meant because John is so possessive about his 
private time spent there with his cigars and brandy. We did not 
speak further of it until this evening when I made a comment 
about how some of the guests could not .nd their way. 
"The Billiard Room," she said. 
"I'm not sure," I told her. 
"Miss Ellen, I tell you -- it is the Billiard Room they speak of. I 
seen things there. I feel them in here." With that she clutched at 
her heart, a mannerism she uses only in the most engaging of 
expressions. (When I lost the baby she sat by my side, holding my 
hand, covering her bosom in this same way.) 
"Feel what, my dear friend?" 
She shook her head, not wanting to speak of it. 
"What?" I repeated, perhaps a little desperately. 
"Not what, Miss Ellen: who," she said. "I feel them. The ones 
that take us. My parents. My nephew." 
75
I shuddered. Sukeena's parents and nephew were dead. I knew 
this absolutely. 
"The Indians," I whispered. 
Sukeena looked at me gravely, and she nodded. "We not alone 
in this house, Miss Ellen." 
As to the romance of this inaugural evening, suf.ce it to say here 
in these private pages that the champagne went to my head quite 
early in the evening, and that by the wee hours, when John and I 
.nally retired, I was not quite myself, given to my desires and 
overcome by my husband's passions. Our lovemaking was frantic, 
desperate even, John upon me before my undergarments were 
removed. His affections are so impossible to resist at moments 
like this. His strength, his intensity. Had I not had the wine, perhaps 
I could have found my strength, but as it was I succumbed 
with little resistance. And then I participated. And then I cried 
out my demands and drove him to a frenzy -- a practice I have 
learned to time to meet my own needs. We fell to the .oor of my 
dressing room in a tangle of white silk and a mutual hunger that 
did not abate until the silk was torn and my dear husband carried 
deep scratches down his back. (My gown will need much repair!) I 
fear I screamed so loudly that the maids must have heard. Perhaps 
the whole house. Sukeena gave me a look this morning that 
informed me at least she had heard. Then she made me to lie in 
bed with my rump elevated on pillows for nearly three hours, a 
twinkle in her eye. 
"I will give you child, Miss Ellen." 
Sukeena knows how badly I want this, how much I fear losing 
another. But just those words .lled me with excitement. John was 
off to his study early this morning (oh, how his head must throb!) 
in an effort to read a new contract with the Union Paci.c. But 
before he left, he entered my bedroom and left a red rose on the 
pillow next to me, the thorns neatly removed with a penknife, the 
76
smell so luscious and .lling me and my dreams with contentment. 
"What color to-day, Miss Ellen?" Sukeena asked from my 
dressing room. 
"Red," I said back to her, naming the color of the .ower. 
"Rose Red," I repeated more strongly. It has a familiar ring to it, 
though I can't recall from where. And then a realization: my husband 
and I had just named our grand house. 
77
13 march 1909 -- rose red 
I hesitate to put down into words my thoughts on this day, for I 
am vexed indeed by what happened here this afternoon. As I 
write, police are still searching the house. Somehow, by putting 
this down here on paper, it seems I am giving it power. And I 
have no intention to do such a thing, for I fear this power (if it 
exists at all) is formidable indeed. But where else can I express 
myself ? Certainly John will hear none of it, and though I love 
Sukeena as a sister, her limited English rarely allows exchanges 
that go beyond the ordinary mechanics of living or the functions 
of a woman's body. 
I am now two months pregnant with child, and I have never 
been happier. John parades around the house as proud as a peacock, 
barking orders at the servants to take care of my every need. 
He stays home at night and reads to me in the Parlor (the site of 
our unfortunate incident to-day), all the while fretting over me 
and my every squirm. I have just now begun to show ever so 
slightly, and John comes to my rooms at night, lifts my nightgown 
up past my waist and gently rubs my stomach, sometimes with 
lotions, lays his head there and talks to the tiny child growing 
inside me. We have had relations quite often -- he has never been 
more tender -- and I feel closer to him now than at any point in 
our brief marriage. 
My pregnancy -- the news has spread quickly through society --  
was responsible for a teatime visit from my dear friend Melissa 
Ray and her friend, Connie Fauxmanteur. I am less personally 
acquainted with Mrs. Fauxmanteur, although well aware of her 
husband's lumber fortune and their sizable contributions to city 
charity. She is .ve or more years my senior, and as such I never 
knew her in school as I did Melissa, with whom I have enjoyed a 
steady and steadfast companionship. 
78
We discussed John's and my year abroad, me carefully embellishing 
the journey to sound like the ideal honeymoon. There was 
also great discussion of children, both as infants and older, and 
the mood was quite elevated throughout the long afternoon. 
The Parlor is a magni.cent room, just to the left of the front 
door as one enters. Paneled in walnut, with carpets from the 
East, it houses a pipe organ I acquired in Germany during our 
European travels. It is home to landscapes of France, a portrait of 
John commissioned in England and various other minor treasures, 
such as a Chinese vase and a set of German marksman pistols. 
Although a poor cousin to our central Library, the Parlor 
nonetheless houses among the literature on its shelves .ve autographed 
works of Dickens and another half dozen autographed by 
Rudyard Kipling, a clever writer who has focused his works on 
India and is becoming quite popular both here and abroad. 
There is a leather-clad globe of the world, purchased in Oxford, 
England, in the far corner, guarding the door into the Central 
Hall West. Mrs. Fauxmanteur was regarding that globe when I last 
laid eyes on her. Melissa and I were engaged in some gossip at the 
time about rumors of Tina Coleman's brother's addiction to 
opium, and I only made a sideways glance in the direction of the 
visiting Mrs. Fauxmanteur. I felt an urgent need to warn her that 
Sukeena uses that very globe as a kind of prayer wheel and that she 
tells me this globe is since vested with extraordinary powers, 
including the ability to open a portal into the soul of Rose Red. 
(Sukeena claims the house is alive -- that she can feel its presence --  
an opinion with which I have taken great issue and that has been 
the source of argument between us.) Sukeena also believes there 
are many such portals throughout the home and that one must be 
careful where one moves and to guard one's thoughts in certain 
locations or suffer the consequences -- although she has never 
relayed what these consequences might be. All this is communi- 
79
cated between us in such a clipped, uncertain way that I'm not 
even sure I have it right -- although I do know, quite clearly, that 
Sukeena is afraid of Rose Red. Or perhaps cautious is a better 
word. 
At any rate, dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur was in the corner, spinning 
the globe like a small child with her gloved hand. All at 
once, Melissa and I overheard the most astonishing language 
coming from her. She was mumbling as if in prayer, though not 
in any language I have ever heard (and over the course of this last 
year, I have heard many!). The globe spun faster and faster, and 
yet, at least from my angle, Mrs. Fauxmanteur was no longer 
assisting its motion. 
"Connie?" Melissa inquired in a troubled voice. 
"Mrs. Fauxmanteur?" I called out, knowing more about that 
globe than my dear friend Melissa Ray. "You really should not 
handle that globe." 
And now, I swear to you, Dear Diary, did that woman's head 
turn all of its own accord -- as if unattached from the body itself. 
It did rotate toward us, and that woman .xed her maniacal gaze 
on us with reddened eyes and twisted lips. But what most astonished 
us both was the ashen quality of her facial skin. Mrs. 
Fauxmanteur arrived under the burden of a great deal of rouge 
she did not need. And yet, as she turned to face us, none of this 
cosmetic remained. Her skin seemed nearly translucent, the blue 
veins showing like a tangle of knitting yarn, her lips bloodless and 
cracking like ice. 
"Step away please, dear woman," I called out. 
Connie Fauxmanteur did in fact step back and away from that 
globe. And as she did, the globe's rotation began to slow, and for 
the .rst time I noticed a noise, like a single high note of a children's 
choir, dissipating in volume. I had not noticed this music 
until it left the room. Mrs. Fauxmanteur left the room with it, 
81
stepping through to the Central Hall West (I believe). I thought 
perhaps she might be searching for the powder room, and so I 
called out to her that I would be happy to show her the way. At 
this point, Melissa, I suppose because of my pregnancy (everyone 
is making much too much of my condition!), rose herself and 
motioned for me to stay seated. Melissa did not appear in full 
possession of her senses, I must say, clearly taken aback by that 
translucent apparition of our dear friend. For a woman of such 
poise and grace, she did hurry to the door to the gallery through 
which Mrs. Fauxmanteur had just that moment passed. 
I recall quite vividly that I smelled something bitter in the air, 
could almost taste it -- carried as it was with the wind of that swinging 
door to the gallery. Whatever the source of that .avor, it did 
give me chills and rose the hackles on the nape of my neck. I had 
tasted that same air in the Ocean Star when the great wind entered 
our cabin. Despite the admonishment of my friend, I rose from 
my chair and followed upon Melissa's heels. 
"Connie?" I heard Melissa call out. 
A moment later, I too stood in the Central Hall West, alongside 
Melissa. 
The magni.cent room was empty of all but its oil paintings, 
cherry and maple benches and some marble sculpture from 
Rome. Mrs. Fauxmanteur had apparently run to the far end and 
left before Melissa had herself reached the gallery. 
"Mrs. Fauxmanteur," I called out, "I would be pleased to show 
you the way." For she had it all wrong. The nearest toilet was 
through the Banquet Hall and off a small corridor that connected 
the Grand Stair. The far end of the Central Hall West connected 
again with the Entry Hall and would only serve to lead her in a 
circle. That is, unless by chance she had ventured upon one of 
the room's many false panels, one or two of which led to storage, 
and another that offered "secret" passage between the Central 
Hall West and the Kitchen, allowing servants more direct access 
82
during our entertaining. Now that I viewed the Central Hall West 
in this light -- indeed the whole house is a veritable warren of such 
false passages -- I realized what opportunity existed for a person to 
become brie.y lost in its complexity. 
"Connie!" This time Melissa's voice carried the concern that 
already beat in my own heart. 
"You take the Entry Hall," I instructed my friend, pointing to 
a closed door at the end of the long gallery. At the same time, I 
stepped to the wall and pulled on the servants' cord, summoning 
whoever was on duty at this hour. I had my own eye on the door 
to the Banquet Hall, believing it the closest to the Parlor and 
therefore, given that little time had elapsed, the most likely explanation 
for Mrs. Fauxmanteur's quick disappearance. 
As I pulled open the door to the Banquet Hall, I found myself 
face to face with Brian, our day butler, who had responded to my 
summons. But our timing was of such coincidence that I did 
jump back and let out a small scream, of no insigni.cance. This, 
in turn, set John and the rest of the house to motion. By the time 
I reached the Banquet Hall, and found it empty, several others 
had hurried to my assistance. Doors were thrown open, false 
panels too. It seemed that ten or more of us were immediately 
engaged in the search for our Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Yolanda and 
Fredrick hurried up the Grand Stair, believing they had heard 
someone up on the second .oor. 
The louder we called, the more our voices echoed. Mrs. 
Fauxmanteur was nowhere to be found. I felt rather faint at the 
prospect of her disappearance, and I stumbled toward a chair, 
Brian at my elbow. As I sank into its needlepoint and oak, the 
door to the Banquet Hall sagged open, and I could see through 
the Central Hall West and to the door of the Parlor. 
There stood Sukeena, looking vexed and -- dare I say it? -- terri- 
.ed. She stood by the globe, still slowly spinning. She wore the 
same red handkerchief over her head as a scarf, a long blue work 
83
dress with a white apron, her blue-black skin shining in the glow 
of the gas light. She shook her head at me, left to right. She was 
crying. 
This house had claimed a soul, and Sukeena knew better than 
anyone that Connie Fauxmanteur was not coming back. 
84
14 march 1909 -- rose red 
The police were much taken aback by the size of our home. 
Perhaps they had heard the rumors and were surprised to see it 
for themselves. (I hear tell it's called "the palace" and "the statehouse" 
by the people of Seattle.) In terms of the way "the other 
half lives," John and I are the "other half" and at least John makes 
no apologies for it. He was born to success, or so he says, believing 
success a matter of pocketbook, certainly not of character. 
"What do you make of the disappearance?" I ask over the .vecourse 
lunch. (We invited the policemen, but they declined to 
join us. So we eat in the Banquet Hall -- why John insisted on this 
I know not, since we usually dine in the Solarium or one of the 
smaller dining rooms at mid-day.) It is just us, and four servants 
in attendance (all white glove of course). 
"I don't believe it for a minute," John Rimbauer replied. 
"But, John -- !" 
"No, no, Ellen. You mustn't be taken in by it, you see? The 
Fauxmanteur woman simply chose us as her whipping boys, electing 
to stage her little getaway from our house instead of her own. 
It's simply a case of a wife deserting her husband and responsibilities
-- three children, can you imagine?! -- and we are made to suffer 
for it. We are made to bear the brunt of her irresponsibility, 
and I for one am considering bringing charges against the woman 
when they catch her. And mark my word, they will catch her." 
"No, they won't catch her, John. They won't even .nd her. 
And if they do, it shall be in this house, and by now I fear they 
shall .nd her dead." 
"Good God, woman! Whatever's gotten into you?" 
"Rose Red, dear husband. It's gotten into us all." 
"The house? You don't subscribe to that garbage, do you? 
Dear soul, do not fret over this, do not risk your condition in any 
85
way. I am so angry at this Fauxmanteur woman, I cannot tell you! 
You are doing so well of late. Please, my dear Ellen, do not spend 
another minute thinking about it." 
"I want this child most of all." 
"Of course. As do I. Most of all." 
"But I promise you, she never left this house." I added, "Do 
you remember the guests at the inaugural? The ones who said 
how quickly they'd become lost in Rose Red? What of that? What 
do you make of that?" 
"You mean as it relates to Mrs. Fauxmanteur?" 
"Yes, exactly." 
"I see positively no connection between the two. Besides, dear 
woman, let us not forget all of our guests at the inaugural are 
accounted for." 
"You're making light of it." 
"I'm not." 
"At my expense." 
"Never. I assure you, it was not my intention." 
"Guests complain of getting lost and then two months later, 
one does get lost. She disappears. Coincidence?" 
"I hear it in your voice, dear. Do not trouble yourself over 
this. I tell you, it is simply that we've been made to look bad by a 
woman who chose us and our home for her ill-conceived plans. 
The child . . . please . . . do not trouble yourself." 
"The child is .ne." 
"Yes . . . but before . . ." 
"Before I was made seriously ill either by our social calendar 
or by exposure to an unfortunate malady." I left it at that. I might 
as well have taken out my bread knife and thrust it through him. I 
know not why I raised this issue again, so long after we'd both laid 
it to rest. 
John cleaned his chin with his napkin and stood at his end of 
86
the long table. He dismissed the servants. I felt the heat of dread 
and regret. I had awakened the sleeping monster in him. His eyes 
burned with disfavor for me. We had never discussed this directly. 
"At the age of eighteen I joined the Army and remained 
enlisted for six years. I took certain liberties that many young 
men of that age take, and I bear the punishment for those liberties 
even to-day. It is rarely with me, this curse, and I regret terribly 
my misspent youth. I can only hope that you can .nd it in 
your heart to forgive me my past sins, my dear. But I will not have 
my wife speaking to me in this manner. Not ever. And until you 
are prepared to apologize, you shall not see me. Not for meals, 
nor social engagements." 
Though I believed little of his explanation, I apologized to 
him forthwith, before he could leave the room and make even 
more of this by requiring me to chase him down. I explained that 
my visitor's disappearance had greatly upset me and that I had 
misspoken just now. The police wandering the house did nothing 
to make me feel at ease. 
"Then I shall drive them out," John said. 
"No, dear." 
"Of course I shall. Whatever is necessary to your continued 
good health!" 
As I had ascertained back in Africa: the heir meant more to 
John than anything in this life. 
He stormed out of the Banquet Hall shouting commands at 
servants, police and anyone who happened to be in his way. (The 
house is busy with workers day in and day out as the construction 
continues unabated. No one of society can quite believe that the 
Rimbauer Mansion, as it's also known outside these walls, is in a 
constant and continuing state of construction.) Within ten minutes 
or so, John had used his considerable presence, as well as his 
keen sense of negotiation, to arrange for all but two police to 
87
leave Rose Red. These two remained in the hunt for Mrs. 
Fauxmanteur, though I must confess I had already given up hope. 
(Not that I believed John's explanation for even a minute! The 
problem being that neither John nor I would likely understand 
the other's position -- thus is the scourge of marriage, there are 
those points that will never be resolved because opposite opinions 
cannot resolve themselves; they can either be overlooked entirely 
or tolerated, occasionally respected, though if true opposites, 
even this middle ground is unlikely.) 
I telephoned Tina Coleman to consult her on the disappearance 
and embarrassed myself by breaking into tears in the middle 
of our brief discussion. Tina advised me to consult a "seer" in 
hopes of locating Mrs. Fauxmanteur in places that the police were 
unlikely to .nd her. This only served to further upset me, and I 
ended the call as quickly as possible, somewhat concerned the 
woman at the exchange may have been listening in, a practice that 
is rampant these days. Our family was always well off, but John 
Rimbauer can only be said to be wealthy, and as his bride I have 
experienced .rsthand the loss of privacy that accompanies the life 
of the rich. It seems someone is always watching, always listening, 
whether a servant, a maid, a driver or the public. People point at 
John and me as we leave the motorcar for a dinner or to attend a 
performance. They whisper, not bothering to even disguise their 
alarm at having seen us. We live under a magnifying glass, day in 
and day out, and I .nd the overall effect of this close inspection 
exhausting. John, who has lived with it for so many years now, 
seems either not to notice it or not to care. He conducts himself 
the same way, in public or not -- a bit brash yet charming, smooth 
yet easily agitated, a man who takes control of any situation the 
moment he enters it, even parties thrown by our closest friends! 
It is the consistency in him that I believe makes him such a formidable 
businessman. This sense of power he bestows that both men 
and women .nd attractive, even seductive, though for different 
88
reasons. John Rimbauer entertains as he frightens. None would 
dare cross him; few dare challenge him. 
And so it is that he must .nd marriage to me a considerably 
vexing proposition. 
Tina suggested I consult a medium. 
As I hung up from that call, the police collecting outside and 
.nally dispersing some of the press, I came to consider her suggestion 
more thoughtfully. If a medium was what was required, 
then what was holding me back?
89
16 march 1909 -- seattle 
Dare I confess this? (I think I shall order Sukeena to destroy you, 
Dear Diary, if I should pass at childbirth, or in any way for that 
matter, for the secrets I con.de here should never reach another's 
eyes.) I lied to my husband to-day -- for what was, I believe, the 
very .rst time. (There have been little white lies, of course --  
telling him I don't mind his coming home late; pretending to 
enjoy a bedroom encounter when in fact it repulsed me; defending 
some action of his to his face when behind his back I believe 
he handled it incorrectly -- but never a lie of this magnitude!) 
This afternoon I told him that Tina Coleman was taking me 
shopping for the nursery. Sukeena was to accompany me and we 
were to return home well after tea, as we planned to take tea at the 
hotel, or possibly even at the bank with my father. John bid me 
farewell barely taking notice of my mention, consumed as he was 
with problems concerning the construction. I have begged to add 
a central tower onto Rose Red. John has denied me. I will get my 
way someday. (It is to hold an exquisite stained-glass window I 
ordered from an artisan while in London. We received a cable 
earlier this week that the window was put on a ship bound for New 
York and is therefore on its way. Now, to convince John!) 
There was no shopping planned, of course. No nursery in my 
mind. The truth was that my dearest Tina had arranged for me to 
meet Madame Lu -- a Chinese woman who is said to possess 
extraordinary conjuring powers. And oh, what a day! 
Tina sent her carriage at half past one, insisting we accept this 
offer as her driver knew the way into the underbelly of the city 
where we might .nd Madame Lu. Just the thought of this journey 
gave me goose.esh! One hears stories about the China district --  
the use of opium is said to be rampant, the young women available 
for pennies, disease and poverty everywhere for those the 
90
railroads left behind once the laying of railroad track reached the 
ocean. The Chinese ended up here in Seattle, tens of thousands 
of them, without work and desperate. I am well aware that some 
of our husbands "gambled" here -- that perhaps part of that gambling 
was with their pants down -- and that still others took opium, 
or young boys. But I was completely unaware of any Caucasian 
women venturing into the China district, much less the likes of 
Tina Coleman, one of the most respected women in the community. 
Sure enough, the carriage picked up Sukeena and me, 
returned to the Coleman residence where we refreshed ourselves, 
and then the four of us (Tina brought along her maid, Gwen, a 
Swedish girl of astonishing beauty) returned to the carriage and 
set out south of the city. 
The dirt road went quickly to a thick mud as we left the familiar 
part of town, the stone buildings of center city giving way to 
wooden shacks crowded together, mud, crates and trash in evidence. 
Narrow, dark lanes of mud ran between these shacks, 
small children, half naked even in the cold rain, running side by 
side engaged in games with balls and sticks, their small yellow 
bodies so thin from hunger. Plumes of wood smoke rose from 
metal stovepipes and cooking .res open to the air, sheltered from 
the rain by tarpaulins or woven bamboo. It is a world only minutes 
from my own and yet one I have never known existed except 
in places like Egypt and the Indias where John and I have traveled. 
My heart was in my throat by the time the carriage arrived at a 
two-story wooden building deep in the heart of the China district. 
I expected at any moment for a Chinaman to leap out of the 
shadows wielding a double-edged knife with a sinister curved 
blade. (I've read of such people in Kipling.) I expected our 
purses to be robbed, or worse, the one crime any woman dreads 
above all others: violation. But to my surprise, no such deed pre- 
91
sented itself. Instead, the driver helped us down to a boardwalk, 
which we crossed, and we entered the building in question. 
The air smelled of sandalwood incense, a fragrance I recognized 
immediately from our year abroad. This .rst room was 
dark, lit by candle, not gas, as the gas lines do not run this far 
south. It was not a particularly sturdy structure; the wind found 
its way through cracks, moving the small candle .ames and 
throwing shifting shadows across the walls. An eerie and disconcerting 
environment. Sukeena pulled lightly on my elbow and 
shook her blue-black face back and forth indicating her disapproval. 
I trust Sukeena so much in these matters -- she has a prescience 
for anticipating the unexpected. She sensed something 
wrong here -- terribly wrong -- and even I could feel this along with 
her: a dark, foreboding presence. Sinister and unforgiving. 
"Are you sure?" I asked Tina. 
"A bit dramatic, isn't it?" she said. "I tell you, Ellen, Madame 
Lu is nothing like this room, this building. I think it to be a matter 
of commerce. The Chinese, who make up a majority of her 
clientele, expect ambience, and she gives them what they pay for. 
They expect something other-worldly, and Madame Lu is only 
too happy to oblige. I tell you, friend, she is nothing like this. 
You will .nd her to be noble, in.nitely patient and accommodating. 
Gwen was most troubled, the .rst time I brought her." 
The pale young beauty nodded her agreement. I considered the 
stark contrast between her and my Sukeena -- one so pale and 
translucent, one so dark and opaque. And I wondered, had this 
lovely girl's hiring been Tina's idea, or that of her husband? 
Many a housemaid in this city had bastard children to show for 
their service. "But now she is as comfortable as I, for she too has 
met the incomparable madame and knows there is nothing to 
worry about. Remember, dear soul, that these seers are often as 
much show as they are reality. Madame Lu is no phony, I'm 
happy to report. But she must compete with those who are, and 
92
that competition requires her to invest in the show along with the 
best of them." 
I heard her words but was not entirely convinced. (Sukeena, I 
knew, doubted this woman's powers from the start.) This room 
emanated a heaviness, like danger, whether the result of incense 
clouding my breath or the shifting shadows accounting for a certain 
sense of dizziness. Whatever the case, I moved my feet forward 
with caution along with a great deal of excitement, I do 
confess. This was not "the place" for a woman, and just the fact 
that I was here .lled me with a degree of thrill impossible to fully 
explain in these pages. (There was quiet talk among the women of 
my class that a woman's "time" was coming. I think now, here in 
this place, for the .rst time I fully understood that certain 
boundaries were soon to be crossed. In fact, I felt something like 
a pioneer just coming here.) 
We ventured up a .ight of complaining stairs, ensconced in a 
narrow tunnel of wood, completely unlighted, to a stark reception 
room where the formidable Madame Lu occupied a wicker 
chair as fully as a hand occupies a glove. She was easily the size of 
three or four women, an enormous edi.ce of .esh and silk with 
two ebony hairpins containing a curtain of rich black hair that 
might have reached the .oor unbridled. She had a series of chins 
that cascaded down to the upper seam of the red silk gown, and 
pudgy hands that appeared bloated and in.exible. Her voice was 
that of a man's, deep, resonant and .lled with .uid. Her words 
bubbled from her throat. 
"Please, sit." She indicated the .oor, covered only by a woven 
mat. 
I glanced at Tina, my astonishment clearly showing. She simply 
smiled back at me, folded her legs and slowly lowered herself, 
with the help of her maid. (Now I understood her insistence that 
I bring Sukeena along!) Sukeena helped me to the .oor -- honestly, 
I do not believe I have sat upon a .oor since a toddler! -- and 
93
then our two maids stepped to the side and stood alongside two of 
Madame Lu's keepers, thin young women who were not yet fully 
developed. 
"You welcome here again, Miss Tina. You bring friend." 
"It is for my friend that I come, Great Lady." 
"Indeed." 
Those beady black eyes surveyed me and I felt a heat pulse 
through me as if she had reached into me with her fat hot hands. 
94
I felt her robbing my secrets, as if she had opened these pages and 
had begun to read. 
Madame Lu commands a formidable presence. As the smell of 
incense made me light-headed and, indeed, feeling somewhat 
under her "spell," she opened an old tin box from which she 
removed a great handful of ivory white bones, all of them small 
and glistening with the shine of having been handled a thousand 
times. "What question you ask?" she inquired of me, in a voice 
deep enough to be my husband's. 
"How many questions am I allowed?" 
The big woman rolled her eyes and clearly consulted my dear 
friend Tina with an insolent glance. Tina leaned over and whispered 
that as a matter of etiquette, the Chinese will not directly 
discuss business arrangements, and that Madame Lu charged for 
each reading. I could ask as many questions as I wished, as long as 
I understood each reading would cost me an additional .fty 
cents. I considered it a usurious amount of money, but agreed 
nonetheless. "Very well," I said to the Great Lady. I collected 
myself, feeling somewhat indignant about my sitting on a mat on 
a .oor, and said something like, "Is Mrs. Fauxmanteur alive? 
Unharmed?" 
Madame Lu considered me for a long moment, steadied a 
black enamel table in front of her and dropped the handful of 
bones there. They sounded more like stones. She regarded the 
unruly pile in the un.inching fashion of a dog inspecting the 
unknown: a slight cocking of the head left to right. She nodded, 
hummed to herself and dug through the small pile of artifacts. 
Her voice resonated as she spoke. "Many forms to life. Yes? This 
lady's spirit lives. I deal in spirit. Yes? Her body? Maybe not live 
as you think of living." 
I shuddered. Alive, but not alive? Were such things possible? 
95
To my Christian upbringing this reeked of paganism and sinful 
talk -- but I had crossed over long ago in my prayers. Only now was 
the world around me catching up. 
The big woman collected the bones in a greedy hand and 
deposited them back into her tin box, one eye cautiously on me, 
expecting another question. I awaited her. 
"Something else?" she wondered. 
I glanced over at Tina, not wanting her to hear my question 
concerning Rose Red. Could I trust her? I decided I must. "Is 
our home, our house, Rose Red, possessed of spirits?" 
The question won Tina's attention. She stared at me, but I 
would not look over at her. 
The ritual repeated itself. Her puffy, fat .ngers reached into 
the dull gray box and deposited a grip of bones to the shiny 
enamel tabletop. Again, her index .nger prodded through the 
pile, mining it for information. Sukeena let me know with a sigh 
that she clearly put no faith in our hostess. 
Madame Lu said, "You are not alone in this house." 
"Spirits?" I gasped, suddenly very cold and shaken. Perhaps I 
did not want the truth. Perhaps I was not ready for it. 
"A presence," Madame Lu answered. "This much I can tell 
you." 
I did not wish to hear anything more. A presence. Why did 
her con.rmation carry so much signi.cance with me? Why did I 
feel so afraid and chilled to the bone? Worse, Sukeena was nodding 
her agreement. A presence. 
I wanted out of there. I wanted home. That is, until I realized 
that home was Rose Red. 
96
1 april 1909 -- rose red 
I pray with all my heart that someone is playing a practical joke on 
John and me, as this is the day for such tomfoolery, but the 
woman in me knows better, for we have seen this before, have we 
not, Dear Diary? I feel nearly mad, delirious with worry. 
Another woman has disappeared without a trace. 
This time it is a maid by the name of Laura, a dear waif of a 
woman, quite fetching in appearance, who works in our chambers 
changing linens, housecleaning and seeing to the cleanliness of 
our toilets and baths. A colored woman, light-skinned and so 
radiant, she was one of Sukeena's closer acquaintances on the 
staff, rather a younger sister to my African queen. 
When the "Regent" -- a fellow named Thomas -- informed John, 
I thought my husband might faint, an unlikely event for such a 
man as strong as he. "It's Laura, sir," Thomas told John as the 
two of us were just sitting down to tea. (Don't think I didn't take 
notice of the similarity in the time of day!) 
"Laura?" John sputtered. 
"Our chambermaid," I gasped. 
Believing I intended this for him, John snapped at me, "I 
know who Laura is, Ellen. Hush!" 
I felt like slapping him, I was so humiliated. Of course, he 
knows who Laura is; John has had the last say in the hiring of all 
the servants, and despite his claim that this domestic charge is my 
responsibility, it most decidedly is not. 
He bit his lip and chewed, thoughtfully immersed in some 
devilish consideration (of this, I have little doubt given my 
impression of his expression). It was then, for the .rst time, that 
I gave myself open to the possibility that this curse that af.icts us 
might in some way be John's doing, not mine at all. Perhaps it is 
John's prayers, not mine, that have reached the beyond. Perhaps, 
all this time I have prayed to the other side, it has actually been 
97
my husband's voice that has been heard. And if so, then to what 
end was he praying? Certainly he could mean me no harm, not 
before the birth -- the possibility of an heir! Then what? I wondered. 
And still, I have no answer, though evidence presents itself 
to support my theory, for this disappearance has vexed my husband 
greatly, far beyond the vanishing of Mrs. Fauxmanteur. 
Upon the news of the disappearance, John and the Regent 
gathered all thirty-three servants (Laura being the thirty-fourth!) 
in the Grand Ballroom. A hush fell over all, because word travels 
quickly in this house, believe me. (There is no privacy left to my 
life -- all is known.) The Regent and Sukeena, as John's and my 
personal representatives, stood forefront to the rows of attendants. 
John addressed all in a forceful, dare I say, frightened, 
tenor. 
"I must inquire as to the whereabouts of our own Laura 
Hirtson, master's chambermaid, in service to Mrs. Watson. 
Anyone with information about Miss Hirtson, please step forward 
now." 
Thomas is a big man possessing a commanding presence, and 
with a voice that can carry through walls. Some of the girls were 
already crying, though doing their best not to show it. To my surprise, 
a man of eighteen or so, who goes by the name Rodney, 
stepped forward from his line and replied meekly. 
"Sir, if I may . . ." 
"Rodney?" 
The extent of John's memory never ceases to amaze me. I do 
believe he could recall each of the servants by name, perhaps even 
recall their backgrounds, if required to do so. I know many, but 
not all. 
"I saw Laura late this morning in the Solarium. I am not certain, 
but I believe she was headed out toward the Carriage 
House." 
John pursed his lips, looked directly at Daniel, the master of 
98
the Carriage House, and the two exchanged a powerful look. I felt 
for a moment as if a wind swept through the room. "Is that so?" 
John paused. "Daniel?" 
"I never laid eyes on her, sir, and I haven't left the Carriage 
House all morning until this meeting here just now." 
Daniel and John go back years, Daniel having cared for John's 
horse.esh for nearly two decades. I knew, having no need to ask, 
that John trusted Daniel's opinion absolutely. 
"The Solarium," John repeated to Rodney. 
"Yes, sir. And if I may say so, sir, her being there . . . she 
seemed a bit . . . suspicious, like. Surprised to see me, you might 
say. Went about an explanation right off the mark, as if I'd asked. 
And I hadn't! But that's Laura, isn't it? Likes to wag her jaw, that 
one." 
A few of the men nearby Rodney chuckled over the man's 
deliberate delivery. John saw no reason for levity and squared his 
shoulders, sobering the entire staff. 
"Anyone else?" 
No one stepped forward. 
I raised my voice from the side. "It's rather important, to say 
the least. Please, if any of you at all has seen her." I caught an 
expression in Linda's face -- Linda, who is assistant to Mrs. Danby, 
and one of Laura's dorm mates. I believe the two close, though I 
have little to support that belief. Her eyes widened. I thought I 
saw her hand lift, if not imperceptibly. 
"Linda?" I asked. 
"Yes, ma'am?" A tension in her voice. 
"Were you to say something?" 
A quick glance toward me and then John. "No, ma'am." 
"Just now, I thought -- " 
"No, ma'am." 
John put me back to silence with one scalding look. This was 
his summons of the staff, not my own. He divided up the group 
99
and instructed them where to search. By his calculation, the 
thirty-three staff could coordinate to conduct a thorough search 
of premises -- every closet, armoire, storage room, steamer trunk --  
within an hour to an hour and a half. Two hours at most. (It was 
there and then, seeing this army assembled before us, and realizing 
this search would still account for a considerable amount of 
time, that I came to grasp the enormity of this house that was still 
under construction -- a house that even I, the matron, had lost 
track of. By way of example, there is a new wing of the third .oor 
open, completed and decorated over three weeks ago now, that I 
have yet to see for the .rst time.) 
As the staff was dismissed and the search began, my dear John 
showing a color of pale I had never witnessed, I endeavored to 
locate Sukeena and to request she in turn .nd Linda and bring 
her to me in my chambers. 
"But the search, ma'am," Sukeena said in her Kenyan 
singsong, her eyes wide with apprehension. She sounds British at 
times. "Mister John." 
"Never mind John," I instructed. "I wish to talk with Linda 
immediately." 
"Very well, ma'am," Sukeena replied, her determination to 
follow my request apparent. One of Sukeena's many wonderful 
attributes is her ability to remain calm and consistent. Regardless 
of generation, Africans are quite gifted in this regard, able to 
leave the past behind -- an argument, disagreement or other dif.- 
culty -- without the slightest timidity, as if it had never occurred. 
(Despite Mr. Lincoln's intentions, and that awful Civil War 
through which our parents lived, and many fought, I do not 
believe the slaves -- nearly all of them African by descent -- have 
been provided the opportunity to advance socially as once 
claimed. Indeed, I believe that history will record Mr. Lincoln's 
attitudes a result of political pressures rather than philanthropic 
intention. The freemen seem rarely better off, often unem- 
100
ployed, forbidden to buy land and disassociated with regions 
where they lived for generations. There is private talk among the 
women of this city who speak of suffrage that the Negro has as 
much, if not more, claim to .ght for personal freedoms than 
does the American woman!) As to the moment, Sukeena hurried 
off, and it wasn't ten minutes before I retired to my chambers in 
the West Wing to discover both Sukeena and Linda there waiting. 
As I requested a tremulous Linda to sit, Sukeena retreated toward 
the door -- she never presumes, another of her lovely qualities --  
and I bid her to remain with us. I then took a chair in front of 
dear Linda, clasped my cold hands in her own and we spoke. 
"Dear girl, what was it you wished to say to me just now?" 
"Nothing, ma'am." 
"Now, now, dear child, we both know you nearly spoke up. I 
saw it in your eyes. If you know something about Laura's whereabouts 
. . . I cannot tell you how important this is. A matter 
of life and death, perhaps. We cannot forget our dear Mrs. 
Fauxmanteur's ill fate, now can we?" 
The frightened thing looked .rst to Sukeena, then to me, and 
her eyes teared. 
"Go ahead, child. No harm will come to you." 
"I . . . it . . . it is as Rodney said." 
"The Solarium." 
She nodded, lip quivering, head lowered. 
"It's all right, child." 
"No, ma'am," she whispered. 
I looked to Sukeena and her in.nite patience and understanding. 
Sukeena studied the child for several long seconds and 
she said, "You saw Miss Laura in the Solarium?" 
Linda shook her head "no." 
"Leaving the house," Sukeena said. I knew from much discussion 
that Sukeena believed Mrs. Fauxmanteur had never left the 
house, as police had speculated and continued to believe. 
101
Linda nodded faintly. 
Sukeena asked, "How she dressed?" 
The girl looked up with wet, saddened eyes. 
I said, "A wrap? Was she prepared for the outside?" It has 
been cold of late, ocean storms from the north. Not terribly 
unusual for this time of year. 
The girl shook her head. 
Sukeena said, "The Carriage House." 
I felt a shiver, recalling my husband's questioning of Daniel 
and the fraternity of these two men. What were they hiding? 
Linda's eyes widened. She bit down on her lips and sprang 
from the chair, removing herself so quickly from my rooms that 
one could imagine she had never been sitting there before us. 
"Oh, my," I stuttered. 
"This have to do with him, ma'am." 
"Daniel?" I asked, though in fact I knew to whom she did 
refer. 
"No, ma'am," Sukeena said, her black eyes boring into me. 
"Him," she repeated. 
Rose Red was indeed thoroughly searched, top to bottom. Cellar 
to attic. Wing to wing. Floorboard to chimney. I felt a desperation 
in John with each further attempt. He took a keen interest in 
Laura's disappearance, more so, I must say, than with that of our 
dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Perhaps it is the repetition of the event 
that so vexes him. (I prefer this possibility to the other, more 
likely consideration that now occupies my every thought!) He 
became personally possessed with .nding this girl, requesting the 
Regent to reassign the staff to different locations and conduct the 
search again. At the same time, he put his hunting dogs into the 
woods behind the manor, in search of this girl's scent -- a piece of 
underclothing was delivered from the dorms. We are now some 
six hours into searching, and still no sign of our sweet Laura. 
102
What troubles me most is John's decision, only moments ago, 
to not inform the police. With bloodshot eyes, gray skin and an 
eerie, calm stillness to his voice, my husband said, "Servants run 
away all the time." 
"Not from this house, they don't," I said. "We've never had 
one leave. You pay the best in the city, John." 
"There's always a .rst." 
"But what of her possessions? Her clothing? Nothing was 
taken. Nothing so much as disturbed! Who leaves in this manner?" 
"It could involve some young boy on the staff, dear woman. 
Some heartbreak. You know how children are." 
"Laura was no child, John. She is barely three years my junior." 
"A young man. Romance. A broken heart, I'll gamble." 
"But not to involve the police?" 
"There is our standing to consider, my dear. Our position in 
society. The police, twice in the same year? Do you think we 
would survive such a scandal?" 
"If we talk of survival, John, should it not be Laura's whereabouts 
that concern us, rather than the vile tongues of this town? 
I can control the tongues. They will not wag to our disfavor." 
"How can you be so sure? Already there is the difference in 
our age. You know quite well that people talk of this -- they give us 
little chance of enjoying our years together." 
"We have endured much in our .rst year." I let my words 
hang in the air where he could taste them. "We shall prevail, even 
if Laura is never found." 
"Don't say such a thing!" he said, looking nearly dead himself. 
"John?" 
"What is it about this house?" 
"It has nothing to do with this house. Coincidence is all," I 
said. Secretly, I did not believe a word of my own explanation. I 
103
believed either my husband responsible or that the two disappearances 
were somehow related to the child I carried in my 
womb. Fear kept me from examining my husband's possible role, 
so I focused on the latter possibility. Sacri.ces. My prayers to the 
dark side were being answered, but I had yet to understand the 
language being spoken. Privately, I wondered if another visit to 
Madame Lu was in order. Or, conversely, had my recent visit with 
the Great Lady been heard? One thing is for certain, prayer is a 
powerful weapon, and when wishing one's husband ill will, one 
must be terribly careful. 
"Coincidence?" he scoffed. Spittle .ew from his lips as he 
hollered at me, "She was right here, and now she is gone." 
I have never felt so calm. I spoke with reserve. "Right where, 
John? Did you see her yourself to-day?" 
My words .ustered him. "What!?" he barked, sounding like 
one of his hounds. "What kind of accusation is that?" 
"I accuse you of nothing. Observation is all. I asked merely if 
you had seen the poor woman yourself?" 
"And if I had?" he roared. 
"A question is all." 
"And you, so calm, so collected. What of you, Ellen? Did you 
not see Laura to-day?" His large head jerked left to right, and I 
thought it might sever from his body. "She is employed in this 
very wing. Our chambers. She is practically underfoot, this 
woman. At our call, day and night. She serves us both, equally." 
Oh, Dear Diary, the look in his eyes! The terror this man felt. 
The guilt. A woman knows. A wife, better than anyone. "At our 
call, day and night." I, for one, have not once called Laura to my 
rooms in the night. Sukeena, of course -- more times than I can 
count. But little Laura? I barely knew she existed, except to note 
her unusual beauty. The translucent skin. The noble nose. I realize 
now that my husband did not overlook this beauty either, and 
I made a point of it. 
104
"A fetching girl, wasn't she, John?" 
"You speak of her in the past?" 
"I speak of her looks. So innocent. So young and . . . fetching." 
I said, "Or maybe not so innocent. Looks can be deceiving." 
I saw pure panic in my husband's eyes. There, it was done. We 
both knew. 
Perhaps I will have an "accident." Perhaps I shall call upon 
Sukeena to mix her herbs for me and dislodge the future heir 
from where it lies curled inside me. This is the only true punishment 
I can conceive for him. Accident that it may be, Laura's disappearance 
is not entirely innocent. I will not ask Sukeena if she 
knows what happened to the girl if she, Sukeena, is protecting 
me. Perhaps Laura did leave Rose Red of her own accord. 
Perhaps Sukeena intervened and sent the girl packing without so 
much as a visit to her dormitory to retrieve her belongings. 
Increasingly, I am convinced that my dear handmaid has powers 
far beyond insight and herbs. She is prescient and clairvoyant and 
somehow divines the thoughts of others. I do not ask, because I 
do not wish to know. If innocent Laura was not so innocent, then 
her departure in any form is welcome. I have said so in my 
prayers before. "Curse the woman who takes my husband for her 
own." I shall repeat it again to-night as I retire, as I do each and 
every night. If Sukeena has perhaps overheard this prayer, 
through her substantial powers or a slip of my own tongue, if she 
is controlling my destiny in some manner -- protecting me -- then 
who am I to complain? Who am I to inquire? Laura has left us. 
The police are not to know. Many a latch will be locked in this 
house to-night. 
Many a question remains. 
105
9 september 1909 -- rose red 
I write with weak hand, but I will not be denied the opportunity 
of recording the most important day in my brief life. Eleven 
hours ago, in the wee hours of the morning, I gave birth to a son. 
I have called him Adam, for he is the .rst. I am told by the 
women who attended me that it was "an easy birth." Three hours 
of labor and a swift delivery. But if that was easy, I never hope to 
experience otherwise! I have never felt such pain, have never 
experienced that part of my body that is only a woman's in such a 
way that I did not know myself at all. Muscles and cramps and 
contractions, in and out of consciousness, screams of pain, cries 
of joy, and then that damp, pink creature laid atop my bosom 
and already moving for my breast, some primeval instinct overcoming 
him before the cord was even cut from our connection. 
He now lies swaddled in the .nest linens in a bassinet alongside 
my bed, his small blue eyes closed in peaceful sleep, his tiny 
hands clenched tightly, as if deep in thought. Oh, what a treasure! 
What joy! I'm told Rose Red is abuzz with joy, that all the 
servants are smiling and the master has been heard singing from 
his rooms and has twice ordered champagne to his chambers. A 
son! When Adam had been delivered, his father kissed me as tenderly 
as I can ever remember. He thanked me with tears .owing 
from his eyes and promised me -- us -- a life of joy and prosperity, 
and that as a family -- "a family!" he roared -- we should never know 
pain, loss or sadness. (He must have been drunk, even then, but 
his little speech brought me to tears just the same.) 
Sukeena acted as midwife, sat by my side through the long 
night of "warnings" as she called the early cramping, the early 
morning hours of severe pain, and it was into her sure hands that 
I pushed for the last time and felt that relief that is only a childbearing 
woman's. My nine long months were done. For this 
alone I would have celebrated. 
106
Now I contend with milk bubbling from my breasts, a discharge 
from between my legs that Sukeena assures me is normal 
and an abundance of unnatural amounts of skin where my stomach 
should be. I am not hungry, and yet I am starved. I drink the 
coldest water they can bring me, and in amounts I would not have 
thought possible. I sleep for hours at a time, I'm told, and yet it 
feels like only minutes. All this is so new. So much a miracle. I 
look down at his peaceful face and marvel that he was inside me, 
without air, less than a day earlier. This little boy, this breathing 
creature. This Rimbauer. 
I heard music from the general direction of the servants' 
quarters, and Sukeena tells me there is much celebration -- food 
and dancing -- in that part of the house. John has provided the 
staff spirits and wine. There is much revelry on my account. (I 
fear Rose Red will barely operate to-morrow, given the condition 
of our staff to-night, but no matter.) Word has spread quickly 
around society. Tina Coleman's coach delivered a card requesting 
a visit, and I fear I shall be much besieged with such inquiries. 
I have asked Sukeena to prepare a bath, and for my girls to assist 
me in washing my hair, but she tells me it is too soon. A sponge 
bath is all she will allow me until my recovery is better contained. 
My hair may be washed, though in a bowl. In the morning, we 
shall make the most of me we can. 
Little Adam is so precious. When he drinks of me, I feel so 
good, so bursting with happiness, that I want to laugh for no reason 
at all. His hunger comes as great relief as my bosom nearly 
bursts at times with mother's milk. Already we have found a 
rhythm of sleep and feeding and sleep again. He has not relieved 
himself, and Sukeena waits for this event as anxiously as I did my 
delivery. I don't believe she has slept in the last two days, always by 
my side when I wake, always holding my hand as I slip back off to 
sleep. What a dear friend she has become. How did I ever exist 
without her as a sister? Those hands of hers, inside me, ensuring 
107
a proper delivery. So gentle, so kind. So careful and understanding 
of my pain. Some day perhaps I shall dare to ask for the 
details, but not now. Now, I drift in and out of sleep, Adam at my 
breast, in the bassinet, at my breast. Sukeena's blue-black face 
glowing in the gas .ame. I see love in her eyes. I feel her love. I 
see hope and goodness. I shall remember this day forever -- the 
passing of life from life, generation to generation. My husband is 
back in the hall outside my rooms. He is shouting, "I have a son! 
I have a son!" There is joy in this house at last. I only can hope 
and pray that it will last. 
108
23 september 1909 -- rose red 
Good God in Heaven, I fear this house has a mind of its own. 
For the past two weeks I have strolled with Adam and Sukeena 
down the long halls of this grand house, just today revisiting the 
East Wing, an area I feel I have scarcely seen before. Here is 
located the Grand Ballroom, last used during the inaugural but 
kept wonderfully fresh and white-glove clean by our dedicated 
staff. I can still see the dancing, hear the orchestra (thankfully, I 
cannot smell the liquor, for since Adam's birth my senses are 
severely heightened -- I can hear at great distances and detect my 
husband's cigar from opposite ends of this enormous Rose Red), 
recall the dashing band leader, and I am able to envision the 
women's gowns in all their glory. While Sukeena held Adam I 
strolled the great room, reliving that wonderful party and beginning 
to anticipate the second of its kind, now only a few months 
off. Full preparations will begin in just a week or two, as I will 
organize the staff and we will begin to conceive decorations, 
entertainment, cuisine, invitations and all the details that must 
be attended to prior to this January the .fteenth. This was, in 
fact, the basis for my visit today: to get a feel for the room again, 
the walnut-paneled walls of the hallway leading to the Ballroom, 
the grand oil paintings -- portraits and landscapes -- that John and I 
purchased in Paris and London while on honeymoon. I would 
like fresh-cut .owers in the Mediterranean urns, and this will 
require our gardeners to work months ahead, as the only .owers 
available will be forced bulbs, and I shall want them in quantities 
of many hundreds. (This climate seems especially favorable to 
bulbs, and I can foresee the day when farmers raise great quantities 
of them. I have already encouraged John to buy and clear 
land north of the city for this purpose, and he is considering 
working a deal with the lumber barons to take over the ground 
109
they clear-cut, as this ground is virtually worthless to them once 
the trees have been taken.) 
After walking this wonderful room several times and explaining 
aloud to Adam where I envisioned the drinks, the seating and 
the entertainment, Sukeena and I (and Adam, in Sukeena's arms) 
left the great room and reentered the impressive hall of the East 
Wing. 
That I fainted and Sukeena screamed is the only reason Adam 
remains unhurt, for if I had been holding him he would have 
fallen with me. 
There at the end of the hall, just prior to the top of the staircase, 
stood lovely Laura, our missing housemaid. Missing these 
many months! Her blouse hung open, partially exposing her bare 
breasts and dark skin. Her skirt was missing altogether, her ruf- 
.ed underclothes untied and hanging open at the junction of her 
legs, her womanhood exposed, as I imagine some street whore 
presenting herself. She looked so terribly saddened -- a woman 
recently ravaged -- her hair tousled and her skin blotchy. I did not 
hear her voice, but I saw her lips move and understood clearly her 
words, nonetheless. "My skirt," she said, looking at me and then 
down at herself and making the motions as if tying it back around 
herself. So pathetic. So ghastly! 
It was then I lost consciousness and fell to the .oor. Then that 
Sukeena screamed -- less from fear than it was calling for someone 
to help me. By the time I regained my strength, Laura was gone. 
Lost to this house -- or taken by it -- as she had been before. 
Leaving young Adam with a chambermaid behind locked doors, I 
ventured outside of Rose Red this evening for the .rst time since 
the birth. John had gone off on "business," which meant downtown, 
either to a poker game, to a business dinner or to places I 
had no desire to think about. With Sukeena at my side, we struck 
out for adventure, following a train of logic so easily seen: if 
110
Laura had indeed been spotted in the Carriage House, and if she 
was now missing her skirt, then what were the chances Sukeena 
and I might .nd this piece of evidence and help the poor creature? 
Perhaps it was that skirt, and that skirt only, that kept her 
locked in the netherworld in which we had witnessed her. (For I 
swear it was so: that woman at the end of the hall was a ghost, not 
any kind of .esh and blood. Do not ask me how this is possible, 
for I know not. But it is with absolute certainty that I write this!) 
I must confess to feeling a bit like a teenager, my heart in my 
throat, as Sukeena and I elected to .ee unseen from the West 
Wing via the narrow servants' staircase that deposited on the 
ground .oor between the Parlor and the Central Hall West. 
From there, with Sukeena as lookout, we crossed to the Gun 
Room, out to the exterior hall, between the Tapestry Gallery and 
the structural south wall, and down a long, stone corridor and 
through a door to the spiral stairs that access the west end of the 
West Wing, off John's chambers. (I swear he uses this hidden 
stairwell to enter and leave the house without my knowledge.) We 
passed through the Bowling Alley to the swimming pool, and 
around the pool to the east doors that face Rose Red's rear gardens. 
Sukeena is capable of moving without any sound. My 
African queen seems to .oat above the stone, move .uidly 
around corners and remain unseen, almost invisible. Upon 
reaching the garden, we both stopped to catch our breaths (me, 
far more than her) and waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. 
Oh my, but my chest hurt with the tension! Our ears 
clouded with the sound of the fountain, only a matter of yards 
away -- directly between us and the Carriage House -- we remained 
in shadow along the wall of the Pool House, well off the perfectly 
laid stone paths, electing a circuitous route through the plants, 
shrubs and .owers. 
"I'll have at it later!" came a male voice I did not recognize. 
One of the Carriage House staff, no doubt, preparing either to 
111
leave the property for a beer or to retire to one of the dormitories 
we provide. 
Sukeena and I had chosen our timing carefully, as the 
Carriage House staff is usually dismissed and done for the day an 
hour or so after the return of the last horse or team. John having 
taken the motorcar to his "business," it followed that the Carriage 
House would be quiet for the night (although John does park the 
motorcar in a modi.ed stall in the Carriage House and would be 
returning at a later hour). I assumed that Daniel, as head of the 
Carriage House, would make himself available upon my husband's 
return, but Sukeena had it on good report that Daniel had 
a game of dice planned at this same hour, said to be under way in 
the skeet room of the basement -- a room designed to launch the 
clay pigeons for skeet shooting from the Loggia on the north side 
of the ground .oor, just off the Billiard Room. If true, Daniel 
would be hard pressed to .nd himself any farther away from the 
Carriage House and still be on the property. That said, I thought 
it in the man's nature to have a young scout placed somewhere 
about, keeping an eye out for the master's premature return. 
Probably a son of one of his workers -- someone paid by a piece of 
sausage or a few coins for his time. It was this scout that Sukeena 
and I sought to avoid. 
We settled in the shadow of a well-kept rhododendron on the 
northwest corner of the garden, only a piece of the rose garden 
between the fountain and our hiding spot. Directly across from 
us was the dark, looming structure of the Carriage House, now all 
but quiet, given its four-legged residents. (The pool, the west wall 
of the house, and the Carriage House combine to form an enormous 
courtyard, the only escape from the west where we were now 
.rmly entrenched.) We waited for what felt like an eternity, my 
muscles complaining from the childbirth I had performed, 
Sukeena as still as a black rock. When we ascertained that all 
human voice was gone from the place, we sneaked ahead and 
112
rushed across a small clearing of mowed grass, making for the 
Carriage House's west entrance -- its only entrance entirely 
screened from the rest of the house. If we were to confront anyone, 
it would be someone inside the Carriage House. (I had several 
rather clever excuses for the two of us showing up at the 
Carriage House unannounced like this, and even one or two that 
might help cover that fact so my husband would not .nd out. As 
it turned out, we didn't need them. At least not right away . . . ) 
Sukeena led the way across the short open space and into the 
shadow of the Carriage House. I tell you, my heart felt ready to 
burst as I ducked and hurried through the garden and out across 
the short expanse of crushed stone driveway that accessed the 
Carriage House. We pressed our trembling bodies up to the 
building's cool wall and tried to catch our breath. I glanced at 
Sukeena and nearly burst out laughing, I was so nervous. She 
remained stoic and impassive -- hard to read. I don't know if she 
enjoyed it half as much as I. Perhaps she feared losing her job --  
and it was only then I saw the dif.cult position I had put her in. 
She would not refuse me -- not ever, I'm sure of it -- and I had 
placed her in the awkward position of leading me into the mouth 
of the lion. (It is not that I am forbidden to visit the Carriage 
House, but to search it for a woman's missing garment is another 
matter entirely!) 
After a moment of collecting our courage, together Sukeena 
and I calmly turned and entered through the massive open doors 
at the west end of the Carriage House, as if we had not a care in 
the world. The doors had been left open, presumably to allow for 
the return of John's motorcar later this same night. It afforded us 
easy access as we stepped onto the wide redwood planks, a dusting 
of straw beneath our feet, the gorgeous Carriage House .ooded 
in dim electric light, not a soul in sight. I have always loved the 
smell of horses, and entering the Carriage House brought me 
back to my childhood. The stall doors are made of wrought iron 
113
and carved redwood and operate nearly soundlessly. (Daniel is 
the .nest stable master in the state, by some accounts.) It is a 
two-story barn, the bottom occupied by horse stalls, room for 
several carriages, a tack room and a saddle room and Daniel's 
of.ce. The upstairs loft is primarily for straw and hay storage, 
though several large rooms were constructed here for cold storage 
as well. I assumed most of these to be empty, as we had occupied 
Rose Red for less than a year, and these rooms were intended for 
"over.ow" storage. (Mind you, I can't imagine ever running out 
of basement storage in Rose Red -- it's the size of a school playing 
.eld.) 
Sukeena and I stopped many times, trying to discern the 
sounds and to separate man from animal. Thankfully, we heard 
no one, and so continued into the depths of this large barn. I will 
admit here, where I share my innermost secrets, that I was imagining 
the worst. If Laura was missing her skirt, I feared a man 
responsible. Need I say more? I feared Daniel's participation in 
this matter -- his allegiance to my husband is unquestionable. I did 
not forget Daniel's disclaimer concerning Laura, made in front 
of all the staff. He had not seen Laura -- or so he said. 
We passed stall after stall of some of the .nest horses in this 
part of the country: Summertime and Rex are my favorites for I 
helped buy them, but all the horses here are extremely ridable 
and elegant examples of their breeds. John knows his horse.esh. 
In the middle of the building, we found the tack room and the 
saddle room locked up tightly. Disappointed, we continued on. 
Daniel's of.ce was locked as well. We moved silently down the 
center hall, Sukeena careful to check behind us every few seconds, 
looking back toward those wide open doors at the west end, fearing 
someone might .nd us out and beg an explanation. The stalls 
were bigger in this east end of the Carriage House, large sliding 
doors accessing one carriage after another -- six in all, three to a 
side. The .rst two were ornamental carriages -- one a single-pull; 
114
the other intended for a pair. We peered inside through the 
wrought iron. The pony carriage and the sleigh were next, followed 
by two large hay wagons, the last of which was rigged to hold 
a .re-.ghting pump, if ever needed. 
I can offer no explanation for why Sukeena stopped in front 
of the door to the second to last storage area, no reason for her 
choosing the hay wagon, except to say that she is a woman of 
uncanny perceptions, an almost magical ability to "see" beyond 
where we mere mortals see. She stopped there as if striking an 
invisible wall, her head angled on her shoulders in a most 
unusual way, her eyes locked intently on the darkness beyond that 
door. "Is here, miss," she whispered, in a nerve-grinding monotone 
she elects for only the most dire of discussions. That tone 
alone won my full attention. 
"Sukeena?" 
"I think we look here. This place here." 
"All right." 
I helped her to roll the large door open on its tracks. 
Intended to double as breeding stalls, these east stalls are substantially 
larger than those on the west end of the Carriage House. 
One learns not to question a sister's instincts, and I had 
absolutely no intention of engaging my dear Sukeena in any such 
debate. The door opened nearly silently, and we stood facing a 
hay wagon that I knew well, for it was of sentimental value to 
John, having been in his family many years. I found myself trans- 
.xed by the realization that this was also the wagon that had been 
driven by Mr. Corbin the day he shot and killed the foreman. It 
still carried bloodstains from that gruesome event. I shuddered as 
the door ran on its track again, and Sukeena pulled it shut 
behind us. Only the small viewing window, barred by wrought 
iron, communicated to the stable's central aisle. I wanted out. I 
wanted to run from there. John spoke of this wagon often -- it 
seemed many a childhood event surrounded the cart, including 
115
the .rst few dollars he ever earned, won from a neighbor for 
hauling away refuse. ( John entertained dinner guests with the 
story of how he'd started out as a garbage collector and ended up 
an oil tycoon!) 
Sukeena moved closely around the wagon as if it possessed 
some power over her. She touched it, closed her eyes, and I saw 
the hair on her arms stand on end, as if she'd thrown a window 
open to the cold. When her eyes reopened, .xed now on me 
instead, I felt a wave of fear .ush through me to my toes. 
"What?" I gasped. 
"We in the right place, Miss Ellen," was all she said. Moving 
around the wagon, she came to the back where one could load or 
unload its .atbed. She laid her wide, black hand down onto the 
neatly .tted planks there and I believe for a moment the entire 
wagon trembled beneath her touch. Her face broke out in a shine 
as fast as anything I've ever seen, as if a fever now possessed her. 
Her jaw hung down. From her mouth came the unmistakable 
groans of a woman in pain. And I swear this is true: it was not 
Sukeena's voice at all, but that of another woman entirely. I covered 
my ears against that cunning agony, for it is nothing a 
woman should ever be made to hear. Sukeena -- or whoever she 
had become -- snapped her head so quickly then I feared her 
unreal, for it was with the degree of movement an owl might 
demonstrate, and it turned straight back behind her. 
There, hanging from a stout hook, was a thick horse blanket, 
or perhaps a quilted throw used to separate delicate cargo while in 
the back of the wagon. A deep forest green, that blanket was 
stained darkly. Sukeena moved toward it as if in a trance, grabbing 
its bulk in both hands and jerking it away from the wall. As 
she did so, the bed of the wagon began to move again behind us 
all of its own -- up and down, up and down. 
There, beneath the blanket, hung a woman's black skirt. 
116
With the squeaking of the wagon, we both turned around at 
once -- and I for one was paralyzed by fear. There, on the wagon's 
wooden .atbed, vulgarly exposed to us, a spectral image of young 
Laura lay, her blouse torn open, her breasts exposed, her arms 
held back as if pinned, her legs spread wide, rocking her hips in a 
most ungainly and ugly manner that was not to be mistaken. She 
was being attacked -- forced into this act -- though her assailant 
remained invisible to us. 
Sukeena, God bless her, kept her wits about her. She snatched 
the black skirt from the hook on the wall and threw it toward the 
wraithlike creature undulating there on the bed of the wagon, a 
grotesque expression of pain plastered on the girl's face. She 
threw the skirt as if covering an open .re. As the skirt landed, 
both it and this poor girl vanished and the wagon came to rest. I 
swear I saw this with my own eyes! A moment later we heard voices 
approaching, male voices, deep and foreboding, and I do believe 
that this was when I fainted, the rumbling of a motorcar also 
approaching from far off in the distance. 
Sukeena shook me awake, having caught me as I fell, one hand 
clasped gently over my mouth to keep me from speaking and 
revealing us. It immediately became apparent that Daniel and one 
of his Carriage House staff had witnessed the approach of John's 
motorcar and had returned to the Carriage House to help secure 
the vehicle for the evening and to greet the master of the house, 
my husband. All this occurred nearly simultaneously -- the boisterous, 
lively discussion between the two men who argued over a 
dice game, the soft putt-putt and clatter of John's motorcar 
pulling down the long drive and past Rose Red and into the center 
hall of the Carriage House, the oily stench of the car's 
exhaust. The sudden silence. 
"Hello there, Daniel." 
117
"Sir. Earlier than expected." 
"A visit to the docks and a brandy is all. I tell you, Daniel, 
there's nothing as satisfying as seeing those barrels of oil safely 
put to bed and on their way to the Paci.c Isles. Money in the 
bank for little Adam is what they are. Money in the bank. 
Providing she has safe passage." 
"I'm sure she will, sir." 
"Expecting any 'visitors,' Daniel? Should I stay?" 
"You might .nd the view from the tack room entertaining, 
sir. If I do say so." 
"Who is she?" 
"A blonde, sir. A new one. Kitchen hand. As young as a green 
apple, sir. But lured to my company by the offer of pure Irish 
whiskey. Be along any moment, sir." 
"Very well." 
I overheard the exchange between the two men, and I knew 
Daniel had been the one atop Laura in the back of the wagon. 
Perhaps my husband had watched -- for I know so well how he 
enjoys voyeurism. (Sukeena has found two mirrors in the house 
that, from hidden spaces, one can use to look in on both the 
women's dormitory and the baths attached to it. Needless to say, 
these hidden chambers were not in the house plans that my husband 
shared with me over the course of our honeymoon!) How 
desperately I clung to the notion that it had been Daniel with 
young Laura, not my John. These were Daniel's stables after all. 
Perhaps my husband knew -- perhaps he was attempting to protect 
one of his most loyal employees. 
Sukeena moved us to the rear of the wagon as the voices drew 
closer. John and Daniel stopped immediately in front of the door 
to our room. In the dim light before us, the ghost of Laura reappeared. 
She had redressed herself, though her clothes remained 
torn and tattered. She stood at the driver's bench, pointing in 
118
the direction of the two men as if accusing them. She could see us! 
She wanted our help! 
John looked up, sensing something. And I swear he looked 
right at me, right into my eyes. Right through that ephemeral 
girl. He looked right at me, but not expecting me, did not see 
me. Or if he did, convinced himself it was illusion. 
I felt hot with anger -- this waif of a girl used up, her disappearance 
lied about. That awful spectral image from the bed of 
the wagon haunted me. Perhaps he had intended to throw her a 
few coins for her service. Perhaps he had promised promotion. 
No matter. She was gone now. Swallowed by Rose Red, the same 
as Mrs. Fauxmanteur. It was then that I understood for the .rst 
time not only what I would come to know for certain but what I 
intended to take advantage of for many, many years to come. 
Rose Red was on my side. 
Rose Red was my friend. 
119
24 september 1909 -- rose red 
I take comfort in my dear child, Adam, his sweet innocence. So 
new is his existence in the world. What a blessing to start with a 
clean slate. I .nd myself thinking about Mrs. Fauxmanteur and 
the beguiling Laura almost to the point of torment. Mr. Corbin's 
.irtation with murder and insanity. What kind of place is this? 
Rose Red, it would seem, discards men while stealing women. 
Sukeena and I talk often of it now, as she worries for me. (I am 
troubled to the point of nervosa -- my hand shook so badly at supper 
to-night that I returned the soup saying I didn't care for it, 
when in truth I couldn't hold my spoon steady. John catches 
none of this; Sukeena sees all.) 
We wonder aloud, Sukeena and I, why and how the grand 
house makes its choices. Why have Sukeena and I been passed 
over in favor of our two sisters? Why not take all the maids of the 
house -- there are some twenty of them? Why not "accidentally" 
kill a gardener or a groomer? Why the construction foreman and 
some of the workers? I look for a message in all this while 
Sukeena states very de.nitely her own beliefs. 
Rose Red, according to Sukeena earlier to-day: 
The house is inhabited by the souls of the Indians whose 
graves were disturbed during its construction. The foreman and 
others were held responsible for this atrocity, but now that the 
house is built and here to stay in all its enormity, its inhabitants 
shall pay, and pay dearly. It looks kindly upon me and Sukeena 
because we are victims of the men who built it as much as Rose 
Red herself. The truth of Mrs. Fauxmanteur may not yet be 
known, but Sukeena believes Laura was chosen because of her 
indiscretion with either Daniel or my husband. Rose Red has 
chosen sides in the age-old war of husband and wife. It does not 
dare kill John because he is the engine behind its continuing 
growth -- he is making it bigger and stronger; it will not claim me 
120
because I am the one demanding this construction of my husband. 
Together, John and I represent its only chance at life -- that 
is, according to Sukeena, its continued expansion. The souls of 
the departed Indians have no room for warriors -- and men, 
according to Sukeena, are all seen as warriors in the eyes of tribal 
leaders. Women, on the other hand, represent little threat, and 
few would dispute that a tribe's true history is known only by the 
women, for they survive much longer than the warriors. Sukeena 
says Rose Red is not only punishing John and his mistresses but 
capturing the women to learn from them, to have them as company. 
She believes that as long as the construction continues, as 
long as John and I live here together, Rose Red will gain strength 
and that more men shall die, more women disappear. She advises 
me to order my husband to stop the construction and to sell the 
home. "No good can come of dis place, Miss Ellen. A woman 
should not raise her children here." 
Over the course of the past two years, Sukeena and I have 
rarely argued. Our occasional disagreements have instead taken 
the form of informal debate, one point following another, with 
no raised voices or harsh expressions. But when she put forward 
her theory of Rose Red earlier this morning I expressed my 
anger in the form of a tantrum (which I now regret!). I told her 
she was meddling in African witchcraft, and I left her and the 
Drawing Room abruptly, without explanation. Since then, I have 
not seen her. 
Dear Diary, what a fool I have been! To risk my friendship 
with the one person on this earth who understands me, when 
deep in my heart I know my resistance comes more from a fear 
that she speaks the truth. Each part of her explanation haunts me, 
for it makes so much sense. And yet for it to make sense, I must 
concede that a house -- a structure of brick, stone, wood and 
glass -- can somehow be possessed of spirit, and this is a leap of 
faith that perplexes me, for though the eye does see, the heart will 
121
not accept. A living house? Even one of this size, even built upon 
a hallowed graveyard, can surely not exist in the spiritual realm! 
Or does it? I ask, feeling myself haunted and without stability. My 
mind wanders. I am unable to hold a single thought for very long. 
Is this motherhood, or does Rose Red own me even now, while I 
remain unaware? 
My temptation is to call upon my dear friend Tina Coleman 
and to arrange another consultation with Madame Lu, and to 
present this possibility to the Great Lady (in ambiguous terms, of 
course) in hopes of establishing her opinions and guidance. 
Madame Lu's connection to "the other side" could, quite possibly, 
provide me insight as to the validity of Sukeena's suggestions. 
(Without mentioning Sukeena! The Chinese do not look kindly 
upon the Africans, of this there can be little doubt.) 
Underlying all this suspicion of reason on my part is the consummate 
belief that Sukeena possesses a wealth of knowledge that 
even Madame Lu may not match. Sukeena is my dark angel. She 
not only nursed me back to life in the African bush but in the 
process became part of me, a friend, a sister. There are times -- I 
must confess here in the privacy of my writing -- that I glimpse the 
small of her back or the curve of her hips, and I am taken back to 
my shameful lust for my Indonesian chambermaid. She rubs my 
tummy with oils in an effort to return it to its former shape 
before the birth, and I long for her strong hands to wander my 
body. (My husband and I have not been with each other in 
months, and since the birth I am loath to even think of our joining.) 
So sinful are these thoughts that I hardly dare write them 
here. But if not put down here, they are left to linger inside my 
thoughts, and that is far more destructive. (You will never know, 
Dear Diary, what a help you are to me. Once my thoughts .nd 
their way into your pages I am free to start over. I am purged. I 
am certain, for instance, that once I lay my pen down by your side 
here to-night, I shall call for Sukeena and she shall come, and all 
122
shall be forgiven. There is much talk in society of this foreigner 
Freud, and his formidable insight to the human condition -- but I 
see no need to share with others that which I can place in your 
pages. You save me with your listening!) So it is with Sukeena and 
I -- a mystery that has yet to fully unfold, not so unlike this house 
and the people who inhabit it. 
I return to your pages now after a brief and wonderful reunion 
with Sukeena. She made no objections to my suggestion of visiting 
Madame Lu, and to my relief will make the arrangements 
herself, having struck up something of a friendship with Tina's 
handmaid, the woman named Gwen who joined us before. 
123
27 september 1909 -- madame lu's 
I can see now that John's fascination with his heir is fading. He 
.nds the smells, the crying, the spit-up, even the breast-feeding a 
bit too much to take. (This, despite the two nannies -- one, a wet 
nurse who feeds Adam at night.) I suspect that when Adam is 
eight or nine -- an age for hunting and .shing and the like -- my 
husband's affections may rekindle, but for the time being he is 
absent, showing no interest in the boy whatsoever. His dawdling 
attentions lavished on me during my pregnancy are a thing of the 
past as well. I have carried his child. His .rstborn was a boy. My 
purpose is served, I fear. Were I to have known that this was the 
life destined for me, I might have expressed reservations in consummating 
this marriage. Now, however, it is far too late for such 
decisions. I can only make the best -- or the worst -- of the situation. 
I labor for the higher ground, fearing the results if John 
and I entrench ourselves for a protracted battle. 
I will ask my husband back to my bed as soon as I feel my body 
recovers fully from childbirth. I see now that my joy and happiness 
in life is to come from the children. (Adam gives me more 
joy in my heart than I have ever felt. He is nothing short of a 
miracle. I have reason to live. Reason to love!) If I am here to 
make babies, make babies I shall, even though I alternate between 
loving my husband and despising him. Adam Rimbauer holds a 
place special and dear in my heart that no other person shall ever 
come close to occupying. I can't imagine this feeling multiplied 
by four or .ve! I can't wait! I long for the sound of many small 
feet scurrying about this house! Damn John Rimbauer. I shall 
make a life for myself in spite of his womanizing ways. 
My arrival at Madame Lu's felt considerably different today than 
it did when I viewed this part of town for the .rst time. I will not 
go as far as to say I'm comfortable with Chinatown, but I am at 
124
least familiar with this area of it, thus reducing my anxiety. 
Madame Lu, for her part, was most welcoming and accommodating. 
Again, I was in the company of Tina Coleman, and again 
Tina was responsible for much of the social talk to introduce us 
(the Chinese insist on this social exchange before any business is 
discussed). Finally Madame Lu glanced in my direction and spoke 
to me. 
"You wish 'nother visit, child?" 
"Yes, Great Lady." (I follow Tina's lead wherever possible.) 
She looked me over. "Something much troubling you." 
"Our home," I answered. "Our house." 
She nodded. That enormous head falling forward like a stone. 
She wore a good deal of her hair in a bun at the back of her head, 
and yet the tail that spilled out of this nest was easily two feet long. 
All told, her hair must run .ve feet or longer -- as tall, or taller, 
than she is herself. "I in contact with people, child, not houses." 
"Two women have disappeared in our house. One, a chambermaid. 
A young girl. She's there still, but no longer .esh and 
blood. I saw her with my own eyes. My handmaid saw her as well," 
I said, indicating Sukeena. But the Great Lady would hardly 
acknowledge Sukeena's presence. 
Tina Coleman gasped. Until that moment I believe she 
thought my entreaty might concern my marriage or my childbirth
-- at worst, the disappearance of Mrs. Fauxmanteur. A second 
disappearance (previously unknown to her) and subsequent 
ghost sighting appeared too much for her to bear. She engaged 
her fan, swiping the air with such force that some of her hair 
stood up on end. 
The big woman said, "I be little help to you, child. Not in 
house. Need be in house, speak to missing women." 
"A séance?" 
"Need be in house. Not for me. Madame Lu never leave 
neighborhood. Dangerous outside neighborhood." 
125
"But I could send a carriage," I said, immediately protesting. 
Tina leaned over and whispered, supplying quickly that 
Madame Lu would never leave this place -- any of the powerful 
Chinese caught outside their own .efdoms were subject to the 
whims of city police. Madame Lu knew better than to challenge 
these long-held principles. The city's political structure is said to 
be rife with corruption, favor-peddling and nepotism. The city 
runs exceptionally well for its businessmen, and no one is prepared 
to challenge its structure. I didn't like hearing any of this --  
I wanted to understand the goings-on at Rose Red -- but I also 
recognized that despite the in.uence of my husband's name in 
some circles, in the world of Madame Lu we barely existed. 
Tina spoke to the Great Lady, inquiring after someone who 
might perform the séance. 
"There is one I know," Lu said. "Madame Stravinski. Only 
one. No other. Come Seattle not often. I write letter and see." 
"I would be most appreciative," I said. 
"You suspect husband," she said bluntly. 
I felt my breath catch in my throat. 
"Tell me why," Madame Lu said. 
I glanced at Sukeena, who looked as surprised as I did. Tina 
would not look in my direction. I wondered if I could speak 
freely in front of my friend. I saw no other course to take. I told 
Madame Lu about our recent experience in the barn and young 
Laura in that awful state of undress, legs spread on the bed of that 
wagon. Sukeena throwing the skirt. Laura gesturing at my husband 
and his stable master. 
Madame Lu's face never changed. She looked at me impassively. 
"Has been dancing or celebration at house of late?" 
"My husband is generous with the dispensation of spirit, at 
week's-end, there is often music heard in the servants' quarters." 
"Place where husband or stable hand might seen young girl 
dancing like this?" 
126
"The servants celebrate. It sometimes goes on all night, I'm 
told." Again, I checked with Sukeena. Again, Madame Lu did not 
let on that Sukeena even existed. My throat constricted. 
"Other lady missing. She know husband or stable hand?" 
"Mrs. Fauxmanteur?" I said. "Certainly not. She was a friend 
of Melissa Ray's," I said, pointing to my dear friend to my left. 
"Tea, was all." 
Tina Coleman looked over at me with a face I took for the 
dead. It held no color whatsoever. Her lips looked yellow despite 
her application of color there. 
"Dear friend?" I asked. 
"I wish to contradict this notion of yours, sweet Ellen." 
"Tina?" 
"As to the nature of the friendship between your .ne husband, 
John, and my dear friend Melissa Ray." 
"They knew each other?" 
She found her color as she blushed. "John . . . well, he's 
been to the house on business, you see. Many times. My husband 
is an investor with your John. Did you know that?" 
My head was spinning. "Perhaps," I mumbled. It seemed to 
me I did know this, though I still did not make the connection 
that I should have made. 
"They had met, several times. Mrs. Ray and the widow, Fauxmanteur. 
Your husband." 
"Widow!?" I exclaimed. 
"They make friendship," Madame Lu informed me, as if 
reading Tina's mind. "Your husband understanding man, yes? 
Feel badly woman lost husband. Make friendship." 
Tina confessed, "There were several dinners . . . while you 
were with child, and not feeling well . . . dinners John attended 
without you." 
Madame Lu closed her eyes and added, "Husband offer his 
carriage." 
127
"And Melissa's visit to our house?" I asked, my whole body 
numb. "For tea. It was her idea to bring along her friend. Tell 
me it was so." 
Tina's lips quivered. She looked to the .oor. "Connie 
Fauxmanteur asked Melissa to arrange it. John . . . it seems John 
would not return Connie's notes . . . and since it seemed unjust 
to Melissa that he should . . . for you see, she had con.ded in 
me the nature of their . . . their friendship." 
"My husband and Mrs. Fauxmanteur?" I gasped. "Are you 
saying what I think you are saying?" 
Tina was in tears. Madame Lu looked carved from stone. The 
Great Lady said, "One must not look for that which one does not 
wish to see." It sounded to me as if she were quoting. I'd never 
heard such a complete statement spoken by her. 
"I . . . want . . . the truth," I said. I swear I heard my words 
echo in that room. 
"Madame Stravinski," Madame Lu said without hesitation. "In 
Europe. I write note. I call for her." 
"Do we wait weeks?" I asked. "Months?" 
"Years," Lu answered. "Patience, my dear. In matters of the 
spirit, time is of little consequence." 
128
16 january 1910 -- rose red 
This day follows another extraordinary celebration at Rose Red, 
this time marking the second anniversary of our inaugural. To 
my great delight, the grand house remains under construction, at 
great cost to my husband. The facade of the house is much the 
same as a year ago, and so to the casual visitor little would appear 
different than during the inaugural a year ago, but in fact much 
has changed. I have ordered the complete remodel of the East 
Wing of the third .oor, an area of some six thousand square feet, 
now designated "Adam's Wing." Once complete, there shall be a 
child's library holding some two thousand volumes, a recreation 
room, a train room ( John's contribution), a small gymnasium 
and a classroom. 
I wore the same gown as last year -- repaired to look like new --  
and hope to make this a tradition. (I was so pleased to show the 
other women that I had recovered my form a scant four months 
following Adam's birth! Some women never recover at all!) The 
gowns were among the most beautiful I've ever seen, blue velvet 
being the most popular. We served nearly seventy-.ve more couples 
than last year, the invitation list growing with the popularity 
of the event. Thankfully no one got lost or disappeared -- how 
ridiculous that looks on your pages, Dear Diary, but oh, how I 
worried! I was in a frightful state all night, pacing the halls, escorting 
guests on tours, believing Rose Red might spoil our fun, and 
although the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, it required three 
tall .utes of champagne before I fully relaxed. Alas, our grand 
house allowed us to enjoy its existence. (I wonder if it feels the 
presence of all the guests, if it celebrates along with us?) 
There is little to tell, other than the usual rumors of mistresses 
and misconduct. What ills society spawns! Our head chambermaid, 
Mrs. Watson, reported to me this morning that a 
129
woman's full set of underclothes was found kicked under the bed 
of one of the guest rooms in the East Wing. (She apparently left 
the party with nothing beneath her gown but that she was born 
with!) Such stories abound at all the best parties. John stayed by 
my side most of the night, and I know even he is not rogue 
enough to attempt such a tryst at his own party, so I'm greatly 
relieved to know he had no part in this, or any other such assignation. 
In fact, after the guests were gone (nearly four in the morning), 
my husband -- a bit tipsy -- found his way into my chambers 
and occupied us both until the sun skimmed the horizon. He is 
quite the spectacular lover, my husband, and I must say it was 
time we came together as husband and wife once again. I know 
that he harbors certain reservations about my womanhood, well 
aware of the suffering I underwent at childbirth, and since then 
he seems to .nd it even a bit repulsive to think of touching me as 
a husband touches a wife, but the brandy apparently did the trick. 
He showed no reservation last night, and I returned a great deal 
of enthusiasm for the rite so that I might indicate my own satisfaction 
with his decision to visit my bed. Hopefully another four 
months will not pass before he elects to do so again. I will admit 
here to your pages that I am ready this instant. Just the thought of 
John's embrace .lls me with ardor. (I detest myself for succumbing 
to this power he lords over me. After all his transgressions, 
and there I lie in my bed hoping -- dare I say it? trembling! -- to 
hear his knock at my door! What kind of sickness accounts for 
such behavior in a woman? I dare not broach the subject with my 
friends, although Tina would be safe now that she knows so 
much!) 
Our party was perfect. Following that, our time in my chambers 
was perfect. I wonder if things are on track again. I wonder if 
whatever force brought tragedy into this home is suddenly gone. 
Perhaps Rose Red is a house, a building, and nothing more. 
130
There is nothing to be afraid of. I repeat this phrase in my prayers 
and yet do not fully believe the words, the memory of Laura's 
ghost lingers so boldly in my imagination. 
I want so badly to believe: Nothing to be afraid of. If only I could! 
131
10 july 1910 -- rose red 
John's partner in Omicron Oil, Douglas Posey, and his wife, 
Phillis, attended dinner to-night. We hosted six other guests, but 
they were inconsequential to the telling of this story. Our guests 
were invited, in part, to help us celebrate the amending of the 
state constitution in support of the suffrage movement. This 
week, Washington became the .rst state in the land to allow 
women the right to vote. It has been a hard-fought campaign, led 
by many of my friends on the hospital board, and John has 
brought out the champagne to lift our spirits! We dressed the 
table in American .ags and will eat off red plates (from the Far 
East) set on blue linen, with white napkins. It's all very festive! 
I sensed tension between John and Douglas from the moment the 
Poseys arrived. (Douglas has purchased a splendid new motorcar 
that I know incites some envy on John's part.) Within moments 
of the arrival, John took Douglas rather forcibly by the arm and 
escorted him into the Gun Room off the Central Hall West. I 
heard raised voices -- as did all the guests. The Gun Room is a small, 
masculine space, wood-paneled with long glass displays containing 
John's collection of ri.es. They started in the Gun Room, 
but within minutes their voices were coming from the Smoking 
Room. One passes through a stair landing to reach the Smoking 
Room from the Gun Room, and John must have taken Douglas 
by this route, or Phillis and I would have seen them pass through 
the Parlor. Our other guests were being served smoked salmon, 
Wisconsin cheese and drinks in the Tapestry Gallery. Phillis, as it 
turned out, wanted my ear as badly as John wanted his partner's. 
I believed the tension between Douglas and John arose from a 
European contract that John had approved but Douglas had tied 
up in legal negotiations. Spain, it might have been. By delaying 
the contracts, another .rm -- Standard Oil, of all companies! --  
132
had negotiated a separate deal, essentially reducing Omicron's 
share of that market from eighty percent to less than .ve, and 
costing John and the company tens of thousands a year. It is 
funny how you can be so sure of something only to .nd out how 
wrong you are. I could not have been more wrong about the cause 
of their squabble. Yes, Douglas Posey had delayed the contracts; 
yes, it had cost John plenty; but the source of their disagreement 
was to come out in my secret and heated meeting with Phillis, 
Douglas's distraught wife. 
She is a wife in name only, being some .fteen years her husband's 
senior. (In some ways they, as a couple, are a direct opposite 
of John and me. While Phillis has the business acumen, 
Douglas is the socialite. Phillis, previously married and the 
mother of .ve grown adults, knows the ways of the world. Douglas 
is new to marriage and parenthood, just as I am. Beyond that, all 
comparison stops.) 
Phillis is a homely woman, wide of girth, deep of voice. Her 
black dress could have .t me twice over. She is in the habit of 
cupping her hand behind her left ear when one speaks to her on 
this side, the result of a childhood injury when a young boy struck 
her with a snowball that proved more ice than snow. She smelled 
too strongly of perfume, and though a pleasant enough perfume, 
I'm sure, it played bitter in her company -- tangy and sharp on the 
back of the throat. (She would have done better without it.) 
"I am vexed," she said, a big gush of wind as from a bellows. 
"And I have no one to speak with, excepting you, dear child, for I 
do believe we are quite good friends." 
I hardly knew the woman at all. This told me quite a bit about 
her social skills. Her husband was the one with the smooth tongue. 
She should have been business partner with my John. If society 
had allowed it, John might have considered this possibility. 
"What is it?" I asked, somewhat anxious to get back to my 
guests in the Tapestry Gallery. 
133
"Did John tell you? Oh, my, I can see he did not . . ." She is 
a bit frightening when worked up -- I think it's her size. "John . . . 
It's Douglas, you see. Perhaps my fault, when you get right down 
to it." She looked at me, blushed and looked away. "Oh, dear." 
Agitated to be kept from my guests, I was more forward than I 
might have otherwise been. "If there's nothing to discuss . . ." 
"Oh, but there is!" She produced a handkerchief from inside 
her sleeve. Dabbing her eyes, although I saw no tears, she continued, 
"It's our ages, I'm sure." 
"You're a young woman, Phillis," I said as kindly as possible. 
She looks a bit homely. 
"Boarding school, when you get right down to it." 
"I beg your pardon?" 
"Douglas . . . well . . . you see. He's always preferred the 
boys' locker room to the girls' -- if you follow me, dear." 
I did follow her. I hope I didn't turn too grave a shade of red. 
There had been talk. This was the .rst Phillis had ever mentioned 
it. 
She said, "It was a young man in the company." John, 
Douglas, everyone associated with Omicron calls it "the company." 
"An accountant," she said. "A bookkeeper." She lowered 
her voice to where even I, as close as I was, could barely hear her. 
"John walked in on them, you see? Compromised, as they were. 
Douglas's of.ce, of all places." She adjusted to her confession 
rather quickly, suddenly quite herself again. "I've known since 
before we were married. He was quite up front about it, dear 
man. Needed a wife to make the social circles, to be your husband's 
partner. I .t the bill quite nicely, despite the years I have 
on him. For my part, I don't ask much. I take a young man myself 
every now and again." She winked, and I found myself about to 
laugh. The idea of this woman with anyone was laughable. "An 
experienced woman knows to marry for position. One's more 
134
physical desires are quite manageable outside the con.nes of that 
agreement." 
Was this how my own husband felt about it? Was our marriage 
made to suit the situation, while his appetites were another matter 
entirely? I did not share this attitude with my robust friend, but I 
kept thoughts on the matter to myself. "Go on," I said. 
"Well, it's just that. John caught him. Them! This very day." 
It explained John's foul mood. Usually, on the advent of a 
dinner party, he is quite entertaining and enjoyable company. 
To-night he had been snarly and gruff. 
"I do believe he has a mind to punish my Douglas," she said, 
her jowls quivering. "And what I've come to say to you . . . to ask 
you . . . to explain . . . is that Douglas is quite helpless in all of 
this. It's a bit like me and the gardener," she said with another of 
those disturbing winks. "I hope John isn't too hard on him . . . 
in terms of the business, Ellen. Douglas works so very hard." 
"To let him go?" I blurted out. 
"They're partners. He cannot .re him!" she protested. "Not 
for walking the other side of the street." 
I can tell you this, Dear Diary, my mother and her friends 
would have never discussed such things. Not ever. Not even 
cousins would discuss such transgressions. A man taking a boy was 
nothing new -- except when he walked in your front door. They 
were stories, is all. Your friends did not do such things. But having 
had my own devilish temptations with the dark-skinned 
chambermaid, I knew that such lusts surfaced. I knew that fervent 
prayer was the only lasting answer. (I knew that I still secretly 
looked at Sukeena in ways and at times that were more appropriate 
for a man.) 
When Phillis laughed at her own jokes, she looked pitiful. I 
reached out and held her hand. I assured her I would talk to 
John. 
135
"You are a dear." 
"But I warn you, John's his own man." I doubted this was news 
to Phillis Posey. "Especially when it comes to business. And as to 
this other matter . . . the accountant. I rather suspect John will 
be more upset that it involved an employee, and that it was . . . 
that they were in the of.ce . . . and all." I didn't need these 
images in my head. "More that than whatever choices Douglas has 
made." 
"But it isn't a choice. Not for Dougie, it isn't. He's been this 
way since he was a young boy. He took to swimming, diving . . . 
The suits, you see?" she said, as if this explained anything. I did 
not want to think about it. "All that bare skin." I assumed her 
amusement stemmed from anxiety, from her nervousness about 
approaching the subject, for she dealt with this problem of her 
husband's in a most unusual way. 
For me, the conversation was far more revealing of my own 
situation than that of Douglas Posey. I could not in.uence John 
in this matter, nor would I try to do so. John is outspoken about 
homosexuals and has told me so often. He seems less troubled 
with women .nding mutual romance than men. He has expressed 
openly to me the "indecency of one man touching another in any 
such intimate manner." This, from a man who installs hidden 
mirrors in the lady-servants' quarters. I can just imagine him 
lustily looking on as one girl soaps the back of another! 
But Phillis's explanation of their marriage of convenience 
re.ected foully on my mood. Had I, in fact, been viewed as nothing 
but a brood mare -- a fear that had lingered in my heart for far 
too long already? Had John justi.ed his unfaithfulness by qualifying 
our marriage as one of convenience: good family, good 
pedigree, breed her and keep her on to raise the children while 
he takes to the streets to satisfy his more pressing needs? Disgust 
welled in my heart, a bitter taste at the back of my throat. 
I spent the dinner as something less than a gracious hostess, as 
136
preoccupied by these new concerns. I drank a little too much 
wine. 
John and Douglas Posey had emerged from the Smoking 
Room with their contempt barely disguised. I don't believe they 
shared another word all evening -- not even so much as a handshake 
good-bye. I retired to my room where Sukeena helped me 
get ready for bed, and I nursed dear Adam. (I think he may walk 
any day! He crawls -- he's fast as lightning -- and pulls himself up 
and looks at me with the sweetest face as if to say, "Do I dare, 
Mama?" Sukeena and I encourage him: if there's one thing a 
Rimbauer needs, it's independence and strength!) 
The air was still, the night terribly hot. I lay naked on my bed, 
debating whether to wear a nightgown on such a sti.ing night. 
(The night nurse had returned Adam to his room.) Sukeena had 
gone to my dressing room to put away my silk hosiery and the 
black heels I'd worn to dinner. I felt the wine as a penetrating 
heat. 
John knocked and opened the door before I answered, and he 
saw me exposed there on the bed. It is odd, but rarely does John 
see me without my clothes. On those nights he comes to my bed, 
it is already dark as he slips in beside me. During our honeymoon 
he afforded me privacy, believing me modest, I suppose (and 
indeed I did blush quite a bit in those .rst few days with my husband). 
But last night he threw open the door and saw me there, 
fully exposed as I was, and something came over him. He has 
rarely shown me the level of interest as he did in the moments 
after his discovery. He locked the door behind himself and was 
half undressed by the time he reached my bedside. I opened my 
mouth to warn him of Sukeena's presence, but his mouth was on 
mine before those words found their way out. My God was he 
excited! 
I must confess my attention was not fully on my husband, 
knowing that my handmaid was basically in the room with us, and 
137
the electric lights still on! Sukeena had no escape, for there is no 
exit from the dressing rooms other than through my chambers. 
She could not have escaped our union if she had wanted to (and 
I'm sure she did!). As John unleashed more ardor toward me 
than perhaps ever before, we had a witness. Was he trying to erase 
the thoughts of Douglas Posey's fascination with boys? Was he 
drunk to the point that a naked woman prone on fresh linen was 
too much to bear? (Even if it was his wife!) Whatever the case, his 
advances . . . the lengths to which he went (which will certainly 
not be discussed here!) reminded me that a man and a woman 
can still make discoveries about each other well into a marriage. I 
bit down on my wrist and .nally took to stuf.ng a corner of a 
pillow into my mouth before I woke half the city. In the midst of 
our most excited moment, I glanced over John's shoulder only to 
see Sukeena's dark face staring out from the doorway to the dressing 
rooms. Sukeena, smiling back at me. And though I cannot 
explain it, the knowledge of her there looking on drove me to a 
heightened passion. Finally, I slumped back to the headboard, 
sweating and panting, and .ushed from my chest to my knees. 
Without a word, John redressed, kissed my forehead, and left 
my chambers. 
A moment later, Sukeena slunk from the shadows of the 
dressing room and made for the door. 
"Don't go," I said. 
"Sukeena sorry, Miss Ellen." 
"I'm not, dear friend." 
"I should not have looked." 
"I don't mind that you did." 
She looked at me timidly. "Sukeena sorry," she repeated. 
"It isn't always like that." 
"The heat, Miss Ellen. The heat do strange thing to a man." 
She moved toward the bed cautiously, for though she had seen me 
fully undressed a hundred times, never quite in the state I was. "A 
138
pillow, Miss." She indicated my bottom. "Use the pillow, you 
want the child." 
Another child . . . My heart skipped little beats. Use the pillow 
you want a child. I used two pillows, though I suspected none 
was needed. Never had my husband been quite like that. I imagined 
that if ever there was cause for a woman to be with child, I 
had just experienced such a moment. 
And I know that I am right. I am with child. If true, it will be a 
spring baby. 
139
9 april 1911 -- rose red 
We will call her April, for that is the month of her birth, but the 
Devil delivered this child and the Devil's she is. The childbirth 
was unbearable, the doctor working at my bedside for nearly 
seven hours to save my life and that of my child. She has been 
born with a withered arm, and I'm told that arm would not allow 
a proper birth, and so they cut me, and then cut me some more 
and .nally took the baby by a means only ranchers use -- but 
thankfully my doctor was raised on a sheep ranch. She lives -- little 
April with bright blue eyes and John's sturdy looks. She will be 
my last child, I'm told, and I've been sick with grief over it. They 
saved my life, but not my womanhood. Whatever accounts for a 
woman having babies, I am now without. Barren. Just the thought 
of it prevents me from getting out of bed. I have not left my bed 
in a week (April was born on the .rst day of the month -- the second 
anniversary of Laura's disappearance!), not that the doctor 
would let me get up, but I wouldn't have even if he had allowed it. 
No more children. No more reason to be in this family with this 
man whose seed is so foul as to wither the arms of his young -- for 
Sukeena explained that my illness in Africa is to blame for April's 
deformity. I hate my husband. I hate my life. I hate this house 
that holds us all like prisoners. I shall stop writing now, for I hate 
even you, Dear Diary. I hate reading back and seeing a time where 
a choice still existed in my life. What have I done? Who is this 
creature I have married who would -- intentionally or not -- poison 
our children in conception!? Who are these whores he takes up 
with that their venom ends up in the roots of our family tree? I 
hate them all. You, them, everything. 
140
21 may 1911 -- rose red 
My mood has improved in the weeks since my last entry. I could 
not even look at these pages for so long. Could not review the 
decline of my life and the tragedy of my marriage. Today, in the 
blossoms of spring and the music of the songbirds, I sit in the 
garden with Adam playing ringtoss with his nanny, with April at 
my side, your pages open on my lap, a pen in hand. 
I am delighted to say another maid has gone missing. Giddy 
even. It is a girl identi.ed by Sukeena as having had intimate 
relations with John prior to that hot July night when April was 
conceived. It is a girl I wanted .red, but one whom Sukeena suggested 
remain in our employ. And then I understood. It was then 
I .xed my prayers to this girl. Prayers made to the other side. I 
begged for her demise. I offered my April's withered arm as 
example of evil. And I waited patiently for a response. Sukeena 
made a doll. She covered it in black paper and hid it in a drawer. 
To-day, we have our answer. While John and the rest of the 
house mill about anxiously searching for the young waif, I sit 
proudly quiet in the sunlight of the garden, a wry grin allowed 
upon my lips. Let them bring on the police. Let them bring on 
the dogs. They will not .nd her. Let them ask all the questions 
they like -- they cannot conceive of the truth (ah! there's that word 
"conceive" again, appropriate as ever!). The police have no idea 
of the spirit that inhabits this place -- if they did, they would burn 
her to the ground. Burn her like a witch. Rose Red has claimed 
another disloyal subject. And I swear she feeds off it! She looks 
bigger to-day. She does! More impressive than ever. Or perhaps 
it's just me. 
Such a .ne, .ne day is this. I mark it here in your pages for 
little April to someday know that her arm has been avenged. At 
least partly. 
I'm not sure I'm done with my prayers just yet. 
141
I laugh into the sunshine. Little Adam looks up and laughs 
along with me. The nanny looks slightly disturbed at this levity, 
given the disappearance. But I laugh just the same. Let them call 
me crazy if they want. I've connected to Rose Red. 
I do believe that I'm beginning to understand her. 
142
23 june 1912 -- rose red 
With dear little April over a year old, and young Adam growing 
like a weed, I re.ect on the year just past and how our lives here at 
Rose Red have .nally settled down. Perhaps this can be attributed 
to the fact that John took nearly four months in Europe and the 
Far East, opening up new business for the oil company. (His 
geologists believe there is oil to be found under the deserts of 
Saudi Arabia -- of all places! -- and John has put this and neighboring 
countries under contract to allow Omicron to explore.) With 
John gone, the house seemed to take a rest, and once again I 
found myself discounting my suspicions that Rose Red could be 
thought of as a person. 
To-day I have dreamed a horrible thing. Just how it will affect 
those of us at Rose Red, I have not the slightest. In my dream, a 
bridge collapsed. It was very high, spanning a torrent of water not 
unlike Niagara Falls, where John and I visited following our 
return to New York from our year abroad. This bridge fell into 
that torrent and killed dozens of people, their screams swallowed 
by the roar that engulfed them. It is not my .rst vision. It shall 
not be my last. 
I admit to you, Dear Diary, that I have not felt terribly stable 
since praying that young tart into the clutches of this grand 
house. Sukeena, God bless her, has gotten to the truth of the 
young vixen, Delora (the Christian name of the girl), and it was 
nothing like I thought it was. (I bear the burden of a tremendous 
guilt over my prayers now!) 
According to one of our Oriental maids, a girl named Kathy, 
Delora White had complained to her about her situation with the 
carriage master, not knowing what to do. It seems that like young 
Laura, one of her assignments took her to the Carriage House at 
least once a week, sometimes twice. It was here that Daniel began 
to ask questions -- often just following a visit (an arrival or depar- 
143
ture) by my husband, in motorcar or on horseback. The questions 
seemed peculiar to Delora -- how often she got out, whether 
or not she had boyfriends on the staff, where she came from, how 
often she spoke to her family. But the real questions that stung 
her were about loyalty to "the family," the Rimbauers. To John 
and me. To John. She reportedly replied that she owed the family 
everything and would do anything for us. 
This is as much as Sukeena knows, but I fear I have done this 
child wrong by my prayers to remove her. It sounds to me as if 
Daniel, at the very least, and quite possibly John himself, has 
been working with the minds of the young housemaids, testing 
how far their loyalty will carry them. To what end, I need not 
guess. What else could Daniel be asking of girls like Delora, but 
to submit to a man's needs? Theft? This house does not need 
money. Deceit? To what end? No, I think it is quite clear what 
Daniel asked of her. 
What intrigues me now, however, is my mistaken assumption 
that my prayers were responsible for Delora's disappearance. 
Perhaps not. Perhaps I do not know this house as well as I 
thought. Perhaps Rose Red herself feels sorry for these young 
girls, holding them in her arms, as she does, while they are in the 
midst of unspeakable acts demanded of them by their employers. 
Perhaps these disappearances are missions of mercy, not of condemnation! 
What if she is protecting them from within? What if 
their blind loyalty to this house later causes guilt on the part of 
the very house to which they've sworn their loyalty? What choice 
would Rose Red have but to save them from themselves, to transport 
them through her walls to rooms where they will live safely 
forever? This might further explain why men die and women disappear 
in these halls. 
Now, more than ever, I wish to commune with Rose Red, to 
enter within her and divine answers to these outstanding questions. 
Madame Lu once offered to put me in touch with Madame 
144
Stravinski, and I am remiss for not following up on this offer. 
Whether a month or a year away, I feel the absolute necessity for a 
séance. Here. On this property. With my husband in attendance. 
(I am amazed that John has expressed an interest in both he and 
Douglas Posey attending. He's openly curious about the event.) 
Perhaps Laura is there and can speak. Delora? Maybe the grand 
house, the lady herself, would condescend to communicate with 
those of us responsible for her birth and growth. 
I feel light-headed with just the thought! A séance. The 
chance to hear the voice that lurks behind the walls of this enormous 
edi.ce. Rose Red. Here. In person. 
I shall not make another note in these pages until that day 
does come! 
145
24 june 1912 -- rose red 
Reading back, I see I lied! (Here I am writing again already! I 
can't leave your pages!) 
Oh, Dear Diary, tell me this isn't happening to me! First, my 
daydream about the bridge, during yesterday's nap. Then, to-day 
in the paper, front-page news that the bridge at Niagara Falls collapsed 
yesterday. Forty-seven people fell to their deaths. How did 
I know? How did I see this as it was happening? What power lurks 
inside me? What is happening to me? 
I know the answer: Rose Red has found her ways into my 
dreams . . . into my soul . . . and I am powerless to stop her. 
146
23 july 1912 -- rose red 
John is quite excited by the possibility of war. I will never understand 
men, except to say that John believes it will expand his oil 
business considerably, and if there's a way to gain riches, John 
Rimbauer is ever aware. There are reports to-day that the Brits 
have ordered their powerful Navy into the North Sea, in a 
buildup against the Germans. These same reports say that the 
Germans attempted to corner the Brits into signing a mutual 
declaration of neutrality, but the Brits would have none of it. 
John believes a business trip to Europe is imminent, perhaps for 
as long as six months or so, and has asked that the children and I 
join him! To be free of Rose Red!! I accepted his offer immediately, 
until he informed me that Sukeena would have to stay, to 
make room for the children's nannies. 
I am unsure how to interpret his request. Is it that he has 
come to fear Sukeena and her insights? Does he know about her 
questioning some of the staff about Delora's disappearance? Does 
he wish to leave her behind, with me away, so that harm can come 
to her? Or is it that he's lifting the skirt of one of the nannies, 
with me unaware? I withdrew my acceptance immediately, and 
John stood his ground: the offer for a European trip stands, but 
Sukeena is to remain behind. 
I postponed my answer for a day or two. Meanwhile, I must 
make Sukeena busy. There is more here than meets the eye. 
147
10 november 1912 -- rose red 
I write with little Adam about to fall asleep on my lap, pressed 
against my bosom, his small face warm, his little hands twitching 
as he can't decide whether to sleep or get up and roam the room. 
I have dismissed his nanny, Miss Susan McConnell, for the present, 
content to be alone with my child, the heir to Rose Red. Oh, 
heart, how can I love so? My children .ll and occupy a place in 
me that sings of contentment and satisfaction. If only I had 
known life could be so ful.lling and whole! I fear I married for 
all the wrong reasons -- society and wealth -- when in fact one 
should marry for family and love I know now. 
I am driven to these thoughts, no doubt, because John is still 
away in Europe. I considered taking the children, traveling with 
him, but used the excuse of an epidemic in.uenza in that part of 
the world to remain at home (in protest of his refusal to allow 
Sukeena to attend me on the voyage). I pray for my husband's 
health. I have had a letter or two. He writes of business and the 
likely expansion of war, one of a very few who might bene.t by 
that prospect. I hear little of his social activities beyond the mention 
of the occasional dinner with a few of our acquaintances, 
and my wife's heart fears the worst. I know the man he is. Live 
and learn. It troubles my imagination to think of him alone in 
his .ve-room hotel suite, his chauffeur-driven motorcars, his 
late dinners and his brandies. 
As to events here at Rose Red, I am saddened to report the 
death of our stable master, Daniel -- one of my husband's most 
devoted employees. I have written John of our loss (I know this 
news will devastate him!), but he will not receive the post for 
another several weeks at the earliest, and by then Daniel will be 
buried and all but forgotten. 
One can imagine such accidents are commonplace enough for 
stable hands, and thanks to some quick thinking on the part of 
148
Daniel's staff, this house was spared another round of scandal. 
But mark my word, this man's horri.c death was no accident! In 
point of fact Rose Red reached down and took another man's 
life -- the fourth such "accidental" death in a little over two years' 
time. 
Of.cially, the police determined he was trampled to death, 
found as he was in the stall of a young stallion who is known to get 
quite high of spirits when fed straight oats -- a misfortune of inexperience 
on the part of one of the stable boys, who fed him a 
bucketful. In point of fact, Daniel was found in the very same 
wagon stall where Sukeena and I witnessed the ghostly specter of 
Laura's misfortune. Mind you, Dear Diary, there is no horse in this stall 
to have trampled poor Daniel to death, and as stated earlier, only 
the sharp wit of a stable hand (who moved Daniel's broken corpse 
to the stall occupied by Black Thunder and then relaid straw in 
the wagon stall to cover the spillage of blood) saved us from the 
undue attention of the police and society. This house and its 
employees have seen so many bizarre events that we have begun to 
protect one another. The fast-thinking stable hand, a boy named 
Dirk, shaken as he was by the events of the evening, was provided 
several bottles of claret, subsequently drinking himself to unconsciousness. 
(Sukeena's remedy, as she wisely suggested I quickly 
buy this boy's silence while formulating a plan. In John's absence 
the running of this house falls .rmly on my shoulders. In the 
morning I plan to offer him a month's wages and promotion to 
stable master for his silence.) 
I once believed trouble comes in threes. Now, I simply believe 
that trouble comes. One learns to get out of its way. Daniel 
invited trouble and was, at least in the opinion of this great 
house, expendable. My husband, who may or may not be guilty 
(all evidence suggests he is!), is too valuable to Rose Red to be 
sacri.ced. No matter what others may believe, it is my conviction 
that Rose Red is behind all of this: she brings out the worst in 
149
men, she gobbles up women -- she judges, sentences and condemns. 
(I am told that Daniel was so badly trampled that only his 
belt and boots lent to his identi.cation. He was not killed, but 
executed.) 
Another life passes through Rose Red. Another life is claimed. 
The scriptures have never been more accurate in their promise of 
Hell for those who sin. Just ask Daniel. Why this pleases me so, I 
do not know. I feel guilt over the pleasure I take in such matters. 
Yet whatever force did spirit Mrs. Fauxmanteur and the others 
away (to points unknown) also left the corpses of four men 
behind (.ve, if you count poor Mr. Corbin who will rot in jail!) 
to pay for their part in whatever activities occupy the long nights 
at Rose Red. 
She is watching us all. And though John may claim the title, or 
even pass the mantle to me in his absence, we would all be well to 
acknowledge that there is only one master of this house. It is a 
mistress, indeed. It is the house itself. She governs all. No one 
leaves without her permission. 
150
4 september 1914 -- rose red 
The events of the past several years are too numerous to recall. 
Concerned that my writing this diary somehow contributed to the 
disappearances and deaths here at Rose Red, I have abstained 
from these pages for far too long, especially given that two more 
women have vanished from our grounds -- one a gardener, the 
second a "gypsy" child whose very presence here is questionable. 
This second disappearance brought the police once again -- this 
time at John's urging, since accusations included that John had 
been seen with the woman in the docklands the night before 
(thankfully this rumor was put to rest!). John was nowhere near 
the docklands that night -- he and I had attended a hospital dinner, 
not returning home by motorcar until well after midnight, 
both of us retiring to our chambers. 
Now, with the war raging in Europe, with John away more 
than he is home, with Sukeena claiming that several times she has 
seen all the missing women dancing together in the Grand Ballroom, I 
.nd I must pick up my pen and write. You, Dear Diary, were 
never the cause of any of this, and I was a fool to think so. Once 
again, I entrust my most private thoughts to your pages, con.- 
dent that only my eyes shall ever read these words. (Woe be to 
anyone, anywhere, at any time who violates the privacy of these 
pages! May a curse be upon you. If you have read any of this, you 
know these pages are for me, and me alone.) 
They picked a new Pope yesterday in Rome. Benedict XV. I 
am Protestant, as is John, but I wish the Pope would visit our 
grand house and explain what or whose spirit it is that possesses 
it. The Indians? I fear it is them. They have graves to .ll -- graves 
that we dug up. Surrogates will do, I suppose. "Please form a 
line . . ." Like a ticket box of.ce for a show. 
Sukeena tells me that the staff thinks I am crazy, that I have 
lost my mind (we chuckle at this together). I do spend a good deal 
151
of time in my chambers, for my African fevers reoccur, sometimes 
for days or even weeks at a time. The rest of my time is 
spent in the gardens or alone with the children -- rarely taking 
dinner with John or showing myself around the house. The children 
occupy my every well moment, my every well thought -- and 
let the servants think what they think. No person should be made 
to endure such fevers -- and I fear my April, who also suffers horrible 
ills, shall die of my husband's vile poison if I don't seek a 
solution outside of what medicine can offer. 
For her part, Sukeena is my sister now -- having taken the place 
of your pages these past several years, listening for hours on end 
to my complaints, my fears and my loves. It has brought us closer 
than I ever imagined two people could come. She knows my every 
thought before I think it, anticipates my every need before I voice 
it. If I did not know better, I should think this dear woman is 
reading my mind. 
The reason for my taking up my pen, the news that I write of 
here is this: after nearly three years of waiting, three years of 
repeated appeals, my wishes have been heard. Madame Stravinski 
is to hold a séance, in this house, this very evening. I am so excited! 
We have invited eight guests including the Poseys. John has 
resigned himself to participation (I believe the curiosity is killing 
him). Needless to say, of those invited, all women save John and 
Douglas, some may believe such an endeavor foolish -- a necessity, 
in my opinion, for I wish to judge their reactions. Should 
Madame Stravinski connect with the other side, I wish to measure 
my own beliefs against those around me. Sukeena has openly 
expressed her hostility for the Madame Stravinskis and the 
Madame Lus of this world. (Sukeena's powers and abilities in this 
regard are beyond question.) Partly because of Sukeena's distrust, 
I have invited only dear friends whose opinions I can rely upon, 
whether believers in the supernatural or not. Time will tell how 
we judge this enterprise. Excitement .lls the air. All but four ser- 
152
vants have been asked to remain in the dorms or dwellings. 
(Madame Stravinski does not want any human disturbance inside 
this house when she attempts to make contact.) 
I await this evening in the way April or Adam awaits what lies 
beneath the Christmas tree. 
153
4 september 1914 -- rose red, evening . . . 
I had to run back upstairs and jot down this note because I do not 
want to lose these thoughts to the séance that is scheduled to start 
momentarily. The event is to take place in the Ladies Library, to 
the north of the Grand Stair, beyond which lies the Billiard 
Room (we should have never designed such a feminine space to 
adjoin any such male haven, even if not connected by a doorway!). 
Sukeena and I were checking up on Madame Stravinski, a 
withered old woman dressed in colorful silks and shawls and 
wearing excessive jewelry about her wrists that clatters with every 
twitch of the hand, as she had asked to spend time in the room 
alone "preparing" herself for the séance. (Sukeena suggests she is 
"preparing" the room as well, the implication of fraud apparent.) 
As we reentered to check up on her, I did overhear my husband's 
shrill complaints to Douglas Posey through the bookshelves and 
wall that are shared with the Billiard Room. John made it quite 
clear to Posey that their "interests" were no longer the same, that 
war presented unparalleled opportunities, and that not to exploit 
such times out of a fear of being seen as ruthless was to miss the 
point of war entirely. "War is born of pro.t and loss," he thundered, 
"in varying degrees, whether speaking economically or in 
terms of human life. Pro.t and loss! Which side of the equation 
would you suggest we fall on? Yes, we're strangling the competition. 
Yes, we've cut deals with the Europeans. But not the 
Germans, Douglas. We are not turncoats! We are businessmen. 
Holding down supply, on the one hand, while pro.ting greatly in 
the other." 
"And costing our own military in the process," Posey complained. 
"Pro.ting by denying a free market, pro.ting from government 
war money while controlling that market for ourselves. I 
won't have it. I won't be a part of it." 
154
"Business! Pro.t and loss. An oil company is in business to 
make money." 
"I want out. I'm going to sell my shares." 
"No." 
"I have every right. Read the partnership papers." 
"You sell your shares now, and people will question the stability 
of the company. It's always the case. Now, of all times. No, 
Douglas. You mustn't." 
"You can't stop me." 
"I'll buy them from you." 
"What?" Posey's shock registered. 
"The partnership also provides for that." 
"With what? We have every cent into that Texas pipeline." 
"Leave that to me," my husband said. I confess, I feel John is 
making a huge mistake. Douglas Posey's shares have to be worth 
millions. John will have to go to every banker he knows. He might 
bankrupt us. "I will pay cash, and though we must report the sale 
to regulators, we will make nothing of it in the press. Neither 
you, nor I. You owe me that, Douglas. Where would you be without 
Omicron?" 
"A good deal happier, I expect," Posey said. "I owe you nothing." 
"You owe me your shares," my husband said in a voice that 
brought chills even to me, a room, a world away. I expect had it 
been the Gun Room instead of the Billiard Room, one or both 
would have laid dead on the .oor. 
"And you shall have them," Douglas Posey said. 
With haste, Sukeena and I made it into the Central Hall East 
in advance of my husband and his partner leaving the Billiard 
Room, the click of the door opening behind us. We hurried the 
length of that splendid corridor and ducked into the Grand 
Ballroom instead of allowing ourselves to be spotted loitering at 
155
the base of the Grand Stair. John would not take kindly to even 
the possibility of eavesdropping -- he guarded his business dealings 
in the cloak of extreme secrecy and attributed his success in part 
to this. 
Winded, and out of breath, Sukeena and I pressed our backs 
alongside the great oil paintings that dominate the Grand 
Ballroom. We could reach the Entry Hall to our right, and the 
Parlor just beyond, where my guests were waiting the commencement 
of our séance. 
I have sneaked up just now "to powder my nose" to make note 
of this encounter in your pages. I shall now return to the Ladies 
Library to meet our guests and our guest of honor. 
I know not what lies in store, but it has been an eventful 
evening already -- and it hasn't of.cially started! 
156
5 september 1914 -- rose red 
I could not wait until the light of morning to put to pen the 
events of this evening! I shudder with fear and delight at what I 
have just experienced and shall endeavor to put it down here just 
as it happened, from start to .nish. 
Madame Stravinski is seated when my guests and I are summoned 
to the Ladies Library. A little giddy, perhaps apprehensive, as it 
were, we were directed into our seats by the wizened woman and 
told to remain silent. Only Sukeena stays standing in de.ance of 
the instructions (directly behind our guest of honor). The two 
exchange furtive glances, Sukeena winning the day, and Madame 
Stravinski makes no more of it. At this point, not to be outdone, 
my husband stands from his chair and starts an energetic pacing 
that continues from this point forward. Madame Stravinski, 
understanding from whose pocket her hefty fee was to come, 
proves in no mood to challenge John, and a good thing too, 
given his obvious agitation and disapproving nature. This leaves 
Douglas Posey the only man at the table. I sit facing her, at the 
opposing head of the table. Between us, in the center of the great 
oval table, rests her crystal sphere, a glass object the size of a 
human head, which sits upon a jeweled base of gold, or similar 
metal, and proves to be within the extended reach of the 
medium. 
She calls for the lighting of candles and the extinguishing of 
all electric lights in the grand house. Thankfully, she made these 
instructions earlier, upon her arrival, for it required three of our 
four staff on hand and nearly forty minutes to render the house 
in darkness. Alas, it is but a minute or two to secure the various 
rooms of the ground .oor and for our staff to return to light the 
candles and dim this room's electric lamp for good. At that time, 
157
our medium calls for total silence. Only our breathing and 
John's impatient footfalls disturb this peaceful blanket. 
Next, Madame Stravinski calls upon us all to connect by hand. 
Only Sukeena refuses this instruction. Even John joins in the 
fun, moving his chair between me and Tina, taking my hand, but 
interlacing his .ngers in hers. (This was my .rst experience with 
jealousy where Tina is concerned. What was it I sensed between 
my husband and my best friend? Dare I think such a thought? 
Are such suspicions founded, or do I see deceit and deception 
around every corner now?) 
With all of us holding hands, and only the dim .icker of candlelight 
shifting shadows on the walls of books, Madame 
Stravinski closes her eyes, asks us to bow our heads and speaks in a 
chilling, unvarying tone. "Great house that does surround us, 
open your doors to a visitor who has come to greet you." She 
speaks in Russian or German next, perhaps repeating herself, I 
cannot be sure. My husband speaks a little of both, perhaps he 
understood her mumblings. 
I must admit to a certain degree of awe. Whether it was just my 
own body or an effect divined by Madame Stravinski, I swear to 
your pages that the temperature of the room did drop substantially. 
I also swear that the .ickering .ames of those candles did 
dance from the wicks as if a door had been thrown quickly open 
and a gust of wind had entered the room. 
Madame Stravinski is, by now, locked in something of a 
trance, her head bowed slightly, her eyes closed. I see across the 
table to my guests, my friends, and observe their astonishment --  
for clearly they expected a hoax, not the events we have just witnessed. 
The medium's mutterings gain volume and clarity as she 
speaks to no one, her words gaining speed to where they pour 
from her mouth in a waterfall of syllables and half-formed sen- 
158
tences. She is calling upon the house, the "grand house," and 
requesting she be allowed through its doors, through its walls. In 
the midst of this chanting, she opens her eyes at half-mast and 
reaches out for the glass orb before her on the table. She looks 
different, not at all herself, younger perhaps, yet frozen in time. 
Again a great gust of cold .lls the room and runs up my legs. 
That glass orb begins to glow -- I swear it! -- and tendrils of light, like 
a goo, climb up out of it and stretch for the ceiling. At once, the 
candles are extinguished by this wind, the only light from the 
swirling blue and green tendrils overhead and that glowing specimen 
of glass held between her withered hands. I think of my 
daughter, April, and her poor withered right arm, I think back to 
my prayers so many years ago as I was forming the children's hospital 
that I would never know what to do if one of my own children 
was born deformed. Did I bring this upon April? Or did 
my husband, by passing me the African curse? Can I save my 
children? Mustn't my husband pay for his sins? Question after 
question is running through my head, as I sit perfectly still while 
confronted with the agitations of my guests. Only Madame 
Stravinski, Sukeena and I remain unmoving and un.inching. 
Even John is visibly upset as he breaks his handhold with me and 
jumps to his feet. 
As he does, there is great chaos in the room. The shelves rattle 
and books start slipping to the .oor. Only one or two at .rst, 
then a score or more. The next score of books take .ight, sailing 
across the room, aiming themselves at John and careening into 
the opposing wall of letters. 
"Sit down, please." It is from my throat that my husband 
receives his instructions, and yet it is not of me. This voice, dark 
and clouded, jumps from me to Madame Stravinski, and then 
back to me again. "Sin is where it starts, sin is where it stops. 
Build me to the heavens, or the next man drops." First from my 
159
mouth, then Madame Stravinski's. A moment later, everyone at 
the table is chanting in unison, and my husband shakes in his 
chair, to which he has returned. Douglas Posey stands to leave the 
room, and a volley of .ying books strike the door and push it 
shut before he can escape. I tell you, Dear Diary: all that I write is 
true, as far as it is from any experience on my part. 
The room's twin electric lamps begin to swing. Slowly at .rst. 
Then huge sweeping arcs, back and forth, back and forth. And 
there's that wind again. 
"Build me to the heavens or the next man drops." We are 
shouting now, loudly, all of us. Even John, whose jaw appears to 
move independently of him, to move in spite of him. 
Without warning, Madame Stravinski seems to shed a skin of 
dark shadow, like a snake in season. This darkness rises out of 
her, and over her, part ghost (like that I saw in the barn, only 
black not white), part alive. It looms over the table, and we all 
stop chanting at once, for it seems about to do something, to 
attempt something, and it's quite clear that whatever it intends 
involves those of us surrounding the table. "Come to me . . . ," 
says that darkness in a dry, deep voice that raises my hackles. 
Sukeena steps forward and grabs Madame Stravinski's glass 
globe, attempting to wrench it from the table. She is consumed in 
a sudden burst of light, she appears to be nothing but a vague 
shadow as she strains to remove it. 
In an instant, Sukeena is thrown back off her feet, sailing 
through the air like the books only moments earlier. Crashing 
into the closed door, she sinks to the .oor, out of breath and 
dazed. I leap from my chair -- ducking from the books I expect to 
attack me, and am surprised when none .ies. 
If this wasn't enough, it is only as I break from the séance to 
rescue my dear friend that the wind and the sound of it stops --  
stops as if a window were shut -- and, here's the impossible part to 
160
believe, the candles reignite themselves. Silence settles over us all. 
That dark shadow that loomed above our medium is gone. 
Madame Stravinski is awake. Eyes wide open, she stares directly at 
John Rimbauer. 
"What?" my husband calls out, dangerously loud, for his ears 
have not yet lost the singing of that cold wind. 
The medium merely stares at him. 
"What?" 
She does not answer. 
John storms from the room, Douglas Posey immediately on 
his heels. "Rubbish," Posey says, though not terribly convincingly. 
He's as wide-eyed as the rest of us. 
"My God!" I exclaim, feeling the knot on Sukeena's skull. 
"What have you done to her?" 
"Everyone out!" Madame Stravinski declared. "You two stay," 
she added, indicating Sukeena and me. "The door," she said, once 
the room was cleared (the guests were only too happy to oblige). 
"You've hurt her!" I complained. 
"She interfered," Madame Stravinski explained without 
remorse. "But I heard the message just the same." 
"What message?" 
"The message for you, child. The message from Rose Red." 
I glanced around the room at the devastation. A full half of 
the books were now on the .oor -- the wind had driven droplets of 
wax from the candles, spilled them onto the bookshelves. I shuddered. 
That spilled wax made the wind very real to me. 
"What message?" I asked, though more weakly this time. 
"It has promised you life. Life forever. Life without fear of 
death. Life without fear of illness. Your fevers will never return. 
As long as you keep building, so you shall live. This, I believe, 
answers a prayer once made by you. Your prayers are answered 
now. Life without death. Life . . . without . . . fear." 
161
The medium collapsed in her chair, sagged across an arm, half 
on the table, half on the chair. She appeared unconscious. 
"No listen, Miss Ellen." Sukeena muttered her .rst words. 
"No listen to this evil." 
"Life without fear," I whispered. "Life without death." I 
looked around the tossed room again, held my friend tightly in 
my arms and squeezed. "Rose Red has answered my prayers!" 
162
10 october 1914 -- rose red 
To-day, as Lyman C. Smith, of Smith-Corona typewriter fame, 
dedicated the tallest of.ce building in all of Seattle, the Smith 
Tower, construction on the newest wing of the largest private 
home began. (I often think Lyman and others are jealous or 
envious of John and challenge him with these engineering 
accomplishments!) Here at the house, horse-drawn teams 
dragged plows and broke the earth while hordes of Chinamen 
shoveled furiously, .lling wagons by the score. It is as if my former 
fevers -- I have not taken ill since the séance -- have spread to 
the project itself. I have hardly slept in the last month, working 
tirelessly around the clock on the plans and the arrangements to 
continue the construction of Rose Red. I fear I am leaving the 
children a bit too much to the governesses -- I am told that April 
will sit for hours sometimes in front of the great working model 
of Rose Red and talk to the house in words that no one but she 
understands. They have called this state a trance, though I am 
loath to accept that. All children spend time in their makebelieve 
worlds, April just a bit more than most. She's an unusual 
girl. Nothing wrong with that. More important now is that I live 
on for my children, that I live to help them through this life, and 
Rose Red has made her promise, and I am not inclined to dismiss 
it as lightly as my dear Sukeena. (She remains infuriated with my 
acceptance of the séance and Madame Stravinski's "performance" 
as she refers to that captivating evening. We were the talk of the 
town for weeks!) 
Hour after hour the workers outside the window toil. The new 
wing is to extend beyond the Pool House and Bowling Alley so as 
to not be seen from the approach, to not damage the continuity 
of the look of the grand house. It will add some six thousand 
square feet on two .oors, twelve thousand square feet in all. A 
163
pittance of what is to come! We are adding three visitor suites, a 
four-room home for Sukeena, complete with her own kitchen, a 
Bird Room, a Map Room and more schooling facilities for the 
children, as well as a Projection Room so that we might view 
motion pictures in the comfort of our home. There is to be 
another pool -- a hot pool this time, with salts from Europe, for 
cleansing of the spirit and treatment of arthritis, from which I 
suffer since the birth of our second child. This pool will be made 
available to my women friends -- women only! -- for those who wish 
to purge the ills of city living. John has no doubt arranged for 
another of his viewing closets to overlook this women's pool, and 
though loath to accept it, I see no way to stop its construction, 
given that the .nal say with the foreman is John's and John's 
alone. (This condition I could not negotiate with my husband.) I 
know such a room will be built and that I shall never .nd its 
entrance. I can imagine my husband enclosed there, my dear 
friends without garments (for the salt will harm the fabric), seen 
as God will have them. My husband leering. And him not knowing 
that I know. (If possible, I may try to arrange an act or two to 
stun his curiosity! I am not without a sense of prank when it 
comes to John.) I will not blame him for these transgressions. I 
have brought it upon myself by denying him any access to my 
chambers. Those days are over. With motherhood prevented by 
April's unfortunate birth, I see no reason for union with this 
horrible man. He can .nd his pleasure elsewhere. (And he does, 
I'm sure!) I take my pleasure from motherhood. It suf.ces for 
me. It .lls me as a man never could. As a man never will again. 
The new wing shall rise from this hole in the ground now 
being dug. It shall rise and give me extended life, as promised by 
Rose Red herself. I swear at times I hear her. Not just the creaking 
of an old house but the voice that inhabits it. A woman's 
voice, low and foreboding. A voice I heard utter from my own 
164
mouth. A voice that perhaps my little April hears too as she sits 
playing with her model. 
As to that, take note, Dear Diary. With these complaints of my 
daughter's continuing meditation on the brilliant model of Rose 
Red, I elected to take tea on the upper Loggia. I instructed for 
April to join me, and that her model be placed there as well, so 
that I might see her playing with it, might come to understand the 
nature of these complaints from the governess. 
Daughter and mother did spend a lovely afternoon basking in 
the fall sunlight, warm and pleasant on the skin. I had tea and 
scones, and April ate a scone or two herself, a rare treat for me 
since it is dif.cult to get April to eat anything at all. She played 
with the large working model of the home while her mother 
angled her wicker chair to face west, where the new wing's excavation 
was partly to be seen. I must have spent the hour there, April 
just behind me and to my right, explaining to my child the construction 
yet to come, how the new wing would rise from where 
once only lawn existed, would rise to ful.ll our dreams and to 
hold our love, one to the other. 
Finally, the sun cooling and my fever beginning to rise again 
as it does so many late afternoons, I turned to instruct my little 
wonder with her withered arm that it was time to move inside for 
the day. I turned to offer my hand to her, to help her stand. I 
turned, my voice catching in my throat. 
There on the red Italian tile of the Loggia's .oor, I looked 
down upon the architect's model that April had so long ago 
claimed as her dollhouse. I reached out for my daughter's one 
good hand. And I gasped at what I saw beneath my child's pointed 
.nger, a devilish grin owning her face. 
The working model of Rose Red had a new addition, complete 
and perfect, every window, every chimney in its place. The new 
wing, exactly as I imagined it in my mind. 
165
That wing had not been there on that model when our tea 
began. Under my daughter's care, that model had grown the wing 
all of its own. The model of Rose Red is alive, and the grand 
house along with it. 
166
12 october 1914 -- rose red 
It is with heavy heart that I report the latest tragedy. As wife and 
mother of his children, I appreciate John Rimbauer's business 
acumen, the wealth he has accumulated, and I avoid, as much as 
possible, contradicting him in this regard or offering unsolicited 
advice; this, despite the fact that I do not hold the man himself in 
much regard. Today, however, I am desperate with dread over his 
treatment of his former partner, Douglas Posey, a man whom 
others continue to view as his partner despite secret negotiations 
that have reduced Douglas to an employee (though a rich one at 
that!), for I fear my husband's actions were motivated by disapproval 
of Douglas's private choices rather than the man's business 
wherewithal. Oh, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black! 
While John lifts the skirts of his dockside whores he condemns 
Douglas for taking up with his pale young men. 
This morning Douglas appeared at the front door of Rose Red 
and was announced by his footman there. A butler hurried 
through the house searching out John and found him in the vast 
library and study off his chambers, where my husband puts in 
much time. John took his time responding, .nally descending 
the Grand Stair in a slow procession that I am certain was 
intended both to make Douglas wait as well as to indicate John's 
regal attitude as concerns his former partner. 
I had made a rare visit to the Kitchen, just beyond the Grand 
Stair, to sample a soup to be served at a ladies' luncheon (I am 
hosting the board of the children's hospital lunch) and so was in a 
position to overhear the Lord and Master of Rose Red as he 
greeted our guest. 
"What is it, Posey?" John Rimbauer called out, still sixty feet 
down the Entry Hall. Lined with his African game trophies, the 
Entry Hall is a very masculine, very ominous place, all those glass 
eyes bearing down on one. The dead heads of former predators. 
167
Dead souls. I hate the place at night -- being watched like that. 
Teeth glaring. The architect's working model of Rose Red has a 
home on a corner table by the front door and is only moved at 
April's request, shuttled around the house by butlers each day for 
her entertainment. We keep a bouquet (nine dozen fresh .owers) 
on a sideboard in an Egyptian urn halfway down the Entry Hall, a 
new bouquet every three days, and the .owers throw color into 
the hall where much is needed. I bought that urn the same day the 
bandits tried to rob us in the market, the same day Sukeena 
reduced them to cries of abdominal pain as we walked past to our 
safety. That urn serves as a reminder to me that to pass by it is to 
acknowledge such powers as Sukeena possesses. Nothing is as it 
seems. The African maid is a witch doctor. The house is alive. 
The lady of the house is half crazy -- or more than half, depending 
on the day. 
My husband stops halfway down that long hall, his eyes as dead 
as those of the beasts overhead. "Servants' entrance is in the 
back." 
"I've made some mistakes, John," a quivering voice acknowledged. 
"I would like to talk to you about coming back on." 
"Not possible. I've a company to run. I'm busy." 
"You cheated me!" 
"Nonsense!" 
"You convinced me to sell my stock. And now, in just six 
months -- " 
"You threatened to sell your stock, Douglas. Is your memory 
so poor? I offered to buy it from you -- above market value, you 
may recall -- in order to keep that transaction, those shares, from 
.ooding the market and setting off a selling spree. You were only 
too happy to sell. That our shares have doubled in six months is 
tribute to a good product and .rm management -- management of 
which, as of today, you are no longer a part. This, because of 
your own despicable actions and promises made that were bro- 
168
ken. End of discussion. Walter!?" John summoned our doorman, 
who appeared miraculously through the doors of the Grand 
Ballroom. "Show our guest out." 
Walter obediently opened the door. It is cold this October. 
Colder than I remember. 
Douglas did not move. "I've gambled some in the market, 
John. I could use some help." 
"Our guest will be leaving." 
"Please." 
"Now!" John said sharply. 
"Go to hell," Douglas Posey mumbled, not really meaning it, 
I fear. 
169
thanksgiving day, 1914 -- rose red 
Young Adam is .ve years old, April three, and for the .rst year 
both children understood the signi.cance of Thanksgiving. John 
was delightful with the children, telling the story of the Pilgrims 
and the .rst Thanksgiving. The sun blessed us with a fall day to 
remember. It had been cold of late, but not today. 
The servants had their own gathering in the Carriage House --  
nearly .fty for Thanksgiving dinner. John provided them seven 
fresh turkeys and bushels of yams, carrots and peas. Cases of 
wine. The day was one of much celebration and served to remind 
me how peaceful a place this can be when in high spirits. I think 
that John's break with Douglas Posey has proved to be a wise 
move. He has been much calmer these past several weeks, less 
given to unexpected outbursts of temper. He even played with 
Adam -- something unheard of these past several months. (He has 
arranged for the construction of a giant toy train to occupy an 
entire room in the children's wing. Complete with mountains, 
forests, bridges and stations, it is to be an exact replica of the 
Seattle area and to utilize some nine hundred feet of toy railroad 
track, a quarter ton of modeling clay, a dozen gallons of paint 
and six thousand toothpicks -- in one bridge alone. Adam is to 
have the Christmas of his life!) 
Oh, Dear Diary, thank you for the good times that outweigh 
the troubled. Thank you for Sukeena, for the children, for our 
good fortune. Bless those who have gone missing when inside 
these walls, and give them rest. 
We have had no grave tragedy within this house for some time 
now. I hope and pray it shall stay this way. Perhaps Madame 
Stravinski saved us. Construction continues unabated. This 
house is growing daily. 
170
20 february 1915 -- rose red 
This family continues to pay for the sins of its father. I fear my 
children may never recover from this latest incident, and I am 
loath to prevent it, to stop it now for it has already happened. 
The events of this story were not personally witnessed. Instead, 
they are put here in ink through my own interpretation of 
Sukeena's having spoken in con.dence with young Adam. (He 
would only speak to Sukeena, and no one else.) 
This afternoon, Douglas Posey came to visit. He did not 
announce himself at the front door, was not greeted by one of the 
doormen. In fact, if the events of this day are to be explained --  
sawdust was found on his shoes -- it would appear that Douglas 
entered the house via the new construction to the west. His 
motorcar was found parked alongside the main road, pulled off 
into the trees. From there, he hiked the hill and crested to the 
west of the new construction, approaching Rose Red from a side 
where he might go unnoticed, as alas, he must have so done. His 
next accomplishment baf.es me, as mother to our children, for 
we employ no fewer than two governesses, Miss Crenshaw and 
Miss Dunn, and three other dedicated nannies, including April's 
wet nurse, Miss Helms, whom we held over to care for the children 
when her primary purpose had been served. The sole 
responsibility of all these women is to watch over the children. 
Nonetheless, for reasons that are not immediately explained, the 
children went unattended on this day, at the particular hour that 
I now relate here to your pages. 
Somehow Douglas managed to make his way from the new 
construction through the Pool House and the Bowling Alley to 
the south stairs. If one goes down these stone stairs, one is led to 
the Game Room, where John butchers and hangs his deer and elk 
after a hunt. Up these same stairs leads one to the West Wing and 
our chambers -- John with .ve rooms including his private study, 
171
and me with seven, including my dressing and .tting rooms. It 
was a cunning move on the part of Douglas Posey, for excepting 
the chambermaids who clean and service the linens, and the butlers 
who attend our .replaces and chimneys, these rooms and 
hallways go unoccupied -- except when I am in.rmed, of course, 
more often than not these days, but as it happens, not on this day 
when I felt quite well. 
Particularly vexing is that had any of those under our employ 
encountered Mr. Posey, he or she is not in the position to report 
it. John has long had installed in this house a strict rule of con.- 
dentiality, as he carries on secret business meetings (or at least 
that's the reason he gives!) and can't have word getting out. (He 
is, in fact, said to be investing in an aero company with his good 
friend Bill Boeing. I think it's a waste of money, personally, but 
John says aeroplanes will be important to the military.) So had 
any of the servants seen or encountered Douglas Posey, they 
would not have mentioned it anyway. They would be loath to do 
so. Whether anyone did see Douglas as he entered remains 
unclear. We all saw him leave. 
It is no easy feat to reach the Parlor undetected, especially from 
where Douglas Posey began his surreptitious entrance into our 
grand home. He understood the house well enough, and its 
internal politics, to increase his chances. The Parlor's window 
looks out on the U-shaped pebble driveway, the Fountain 
Garden, which offers a welcoming splash of color year-round, 
thanks to our busy staff. He has been to the second .oor plenty of 
times himself, to partake in one or another of John's many secret 
business meetings, and even knows several of the staff by name. 
One can only imagine why a person would go to such lengths as 
did Douglas Posey, but if there is one thing I have learned from 
my time in the company of John Rimbauer, it is that there is no 
predicting the human condition. The man Freud can make all 
172
the claims he wants (he is said to attribute nearly every phobia and 
fear to the physical intimacies between man and woman -- sex! --  
disregarding in the process the drive for sustenance, survival and 
power). I trust someday his .ndings will be disproved, despite 
their apparent accuracy where my husband is concerned. What I 
will never understand, since I once imagined Douglas took a keen 
liking to the children, is why and how he chose the Parlor, knowing 
how fond Adam is of playing there. Perhaps his decision 
stemmed from the presence there of an oil portrait of John that 
hangs over the .replace. My portrait hangs in the Entry Hall, 
along with John's game trophies -- the similarity of our situations 
has not escaped me. These portraits were commissioned while we 
were in London at the end of our honeymoon, and I must say 
they seem lifelike, the work skillful though unimaginative. 
Indeed, John's portrait -- looking so digni.ed -- hangs with a view 
across the Parlor and out an opposing window toward the drive, 
as if surveying his domain and contemplating his dominion over 
same. 
I can scarcely write the words, and without the high spirits that 
.ll my glass would feel helpless to do so, but the story must be 
told, and so, what I have been told of it follows. 
Adam was the .rst to enter the Parlor, on one of his "safaris" 
where he encourages his sister, April, to forage ahead of him in 
the great hallways and make like game, as Adam attempts to track 
her. (Little does poor Adam see or understand the signi.cance of 
this practice to Sukeena and me -- like his father, the game he 
stalks is a young girl! He must wonder why we discourage it so.) 
He had missed a cue and lost April as she dodged into the 
Smoking Room -- a room she is forbidden to enter, but girls will 
be girls. Adam swung open the door, his popgun held at shoulder 
height and ready to ".re," and apparently looked down that ri.e 
barrel at Douglas Posey, who was himself halfway up a small 
wooden stepladder that is kept in a closet off the gallery to assist 
173
in the positioning and hanging of the artwork. Around the man's 
neck was a length of hemp rope fashioned as a noose. He stared at 
young Adam, the boy's physical similarity to his father impossible 
to miss. 
A moment later, dear April with her withered arm clutched 
tightly to her spare frame ran in behind her brother, in anticipation 
of surprising him and winning their little game. She too was 
confronted with the sight of John's former partner up that ladder. 
Douglas Posey tossed his hat to the boy (for he had come to 
our house dressed head-to-toe as a cowboy!). Then he saw the 
girl and made a gesture toward her as well. Through the air 
.oated a long-stemmed red rose. (Douglas is very much aware of 
the nickname of our grand house.) April's one good hand swiped 
the air and stole the rose from its descent, the thorns tearing her 
.esh and eliciting from her a sharp cry of pain. 
Douglas Posey stepped off the ladder and bounced in the air, 
his eyes never leaving my little girl until they bulged from his .orid 
head, a blue pallor overcoming him. Adam claims he heard a loud 
snap, like a limb succumbing to the wind of a northwesterly blow. 
He pulled the trigger of his popgun and its cork .ew through the 
air and struck Douglas square in the chest, for Adam is a crack 
shot like his father before him. Adam said Douglas "danced," his 
legs "jumping like when the Negros do the tap at their parties." 
His tongue sprang from his mouth, a swollen stiff mass, which 
was when both children screamed at the top of their lungs. 
April was found with her hand bleeding slightly, the rose still 
clutched .rmly in her grip. Her eyes had never left the body. 
Adam was called back from his hands and knees where he tried 
unsuccessfully to retrieve his cork from just beneath the body, 
fearing he had somehow killed Douglas himself and not wanting 
anyone to .nd the evidence. 
Across the Parlor from where Douglas swung from the hemp, 
his distorted eyeballs nearly bursting from their sockets, he stared 
174
(if the word is appropriate here) at the life-sized portrait of his 
former partner, my husband, who, it just so happens (and some 
say that Douglas surely knew this), was at that very moment 
pulling into the driveway and up to the house returning home. 
From his vantage point in his motorcar, John saw Douglas 
Posey, his stated enemy, swinging from his neck in the large 
expanse of window that .lls the center of the Parlor. Douglas 
offered him only his backside, stained as it was with life's .nal 
excretion. 
I think every servant on the property heard April's scream. 
She hasn't spoken a word since. 
175
26 february 1915 -- rose red 
For the last week I have devoted every waking hour to my children, 
dividing my energies between Adam and April, though 
spending far more of my time with my daughter. I do not know 
how the male mind works, but suf.ce it to say Adam's recovery 
seemed almost immediate. Whether there will be longer-lasting 
effects of his witnessing the suicide I do not know, and I do confess 
to these pages that I am fearful Douglas Posey's death will 
linger within him and surface for some time to come. Little April 
is another matter altogether. Neither John nor I, nor the governesses, 
nor Sukeena, can get her to utter a single word. She sits, 
for endless hours at a time, staring at the architect's model of 
Rose Red. She dragged it in front of the .replace in the Parlor 
and there she sits. She screams wildly if anyone attempts to move 
it, or her, for that matter. The staff has been directed to work 
around her, to leave her alone, and not to address her unless 
instructed, for her outbursts are paralyzing. I am apparently the 
only one she will tolerate even near her. So, mother and child 
occupy the Parlor, the hissing of the logs, the sharp popping of 
the pine sap combusting the only sounds. I have taken to knitting, 
for I .nd reading impossible in this state. In truth, I stare at my 
daughter's back, awaiting some sign of a return to normal. Twice 
I have lost my temper, though not for several days now, .nding 
her silence insolent and enormously frustrating. I also, for a 
time, felt her prisoner, as if she had concocted this state of hers, 
taking advantage of the poor man's suicide as a means of capturing 
me into her web. I have spent more time with her in this week 
than in the previous six months combined. (I fear this re.ects on 
me poorly when viewed in the written word, but one must be 
reminded of my own in.rmity.) 
I have secretly ordered Abigail, one of the children's understudy 
nannies, to photograph the Rose Red model each night 
176
before retiring to bed. This, on account of my troubling impression 
that it is subtly changing in appearance. I could swear that 
wings appear and disappear from one day to the next, and that 
the degree of these changes directly re.ects the amount of time 
April sits staring. (I fear, Dear Diary, that she is, in fact, not 
"staring" so much as "sharing" herself with the model, with Rose 
Red. As absurd as this sounds, I tell you it is true: she enters a 
kind of trance in the company of that model and does not come 
out until the .re dies and the room goes cold.) 
This leads me to another entry here in your pages that I have 
resisted putting to ink for several nights now. It is time, for I fear 
the results if I keep such things locked inside me: 
My dear Sukeena came to me the other night with a look of 
pure fright on her deep blue face. I inquired immediately what 
was ever the matter, and she would not speak to me until we 
found ourselves sequestered in my chambers, with the door fully 
bolted. Our conversation went something like this: 
"Sukeena! What is it?" 
"It's her, Miss Ellen." 
"April?" 
"The house. Her! Rose Red." 
I awaited her, expecting to hear more. When she was not 
forthcoming, I prodded her, compelling her to speak. She 
appeared spooked -- there is no other word for it. "Please," I 
.nally obliged her. 
"Maybe not the Indians," she said. 
"What is not the Indians?" I asked. 
"Me thinking, miss. Me listening. Listening to April, miss." 
"But April has not spoken for nearly a week." 
"Not to us, miss." 
"Sukeena?" 
"It like a wind, miss. A wind all 'round that child. A wind like 
a voice . . . like many voices. Whenever she 'round that toy . . . 
177
that Rose Red dollhouse. It why she no want me near. She knows I 
hear." 
"What are you saying?" I felt exasperated. "My daughter is . . . 
is, what? . . . speaking to this house?" 
"The house speaks to her, miss. Me think maybe not the 
Indians." 
"You're speaking of the disappearances." 
She nodded, still afraid. It is not often I have seen her afraid. 
Not Sukeena. 
"What if . . . miss. If you think of it as .re. Fire, miss. Fire 
on our insides, Miss Ellen. Like that." 
"Life?" I gasped. 
"The power of life, miss. Yes. The .re. And what if . . . what 
if the house needs this .re for itself ? The way you and me need 
our food. Like that. Fire, like that." 
"Not Indians." 
"No, miss." 
"Not the burial ground." 
"Not saying the Indians aren't here as well, miss. This place 
feels crowded at times." 
She was right about that. We'd all felt it. Even the servants. We 
weren't alone in this house. The occasional, unexplained Indian 
artifact surfacing in our collection seemed to support this spectral 
presence. 
"Are you saying . . . ?" I found myself grinning nervously. I 
felt terribly uncomfortable. I did not want to express what I was 
thinking, but we had come too far for such reservations. No walls 
exist between Sukeena and me. "Are you saying the disappearances 
. . . ?" She nodded, knowing exactly where I was taking us. 
"That Rose Red is feeding on these disappearances?" 
"Sucking the .re out of them, miss." She nodded solemnly. 
I sputtered a little laugh, not at all comfortable now. 
She said ominously, "I think it has to do with you, miss. No 
178
question about that. This house loves you. But I think it takes 
them others for the .re that's inside them. It living off that .re, 
Miss Ellen." She added, "And the bigger she gets, the more she 
need to eat." 
I shuddered. "But we're building her bigger," I reminded her, 
willful of Madame Stravinski's decree. 
"Maybe that woman," Sukeena said, meaning Madame 
Stravinski, "she working for the house. Maybe that was the house 
talking, not her." 
"I don't believe that," I whispered. Construction on the house 
is scheduled years ahead. "As long as I keep building . . ." I did 
not say it, but I was thinking: then I'm immortal! What I did say was, 
"I trust Madame Stravinski and what she told us about Rose Red." 
I added, "My fevers are gone." 
Sukeena knows me well enough to leave it at that. I suppose I 
should not have been so heavy-handed as I was, for I fear I put to 
an end any further discussion on the subject. Sukeena rarely 
glares at me, but on this occasion she did just that: a wide-eyed 
leer of contained anger. I attempted to begin again. 
I asked, "It's living off the life of the girls that have disappeared?" 
She would not answer me. 
"And what of the men who have died?" I inquired. 
"That between you and the house, miss." 
"Me and the house," I echoed, feeling a chill. A window 
open? I wondered. 
"The house protecting you." 
"Mr. Corbin was not protecting me," I objected. "We had 
never met." 
"That man done shot the one man running the construction, 
Miss Ellen. That man Corbin -- he been sent by the gods to stop 
this house being built, stop her before she ever started." She 
added, "He done his best." 
179
It was true: Corbin had shot Williamson on the day the .rst 
stones had been laid. Coincidence? It added fuel to Sukeena's 
theories. "Maybe that was the Indians," I suggested, knowing full 
well Sukeena remained suspicious of the Indians' involvement in 
the goings-on. 
She did not look pleased. "It sucking the .re out a them 
young girls, ma'am. The bigger she grow . . . the more girls be 
disappearing. Sukeena know this . . . in here." She placed a wide 
hand across her bosom. 
I experienced another spike of cold -- like a draft. Sukeena 
rarely committed to her convictions with such words. She had 
done so when she had been convinced I was pregnant, and again 
when convinced young Laura would never be found. And now 
this. 
I fear I have grown susceptible to such suggestions, and I wonder 
at the woman I have become. Would the girl of nineteen have 
believed a house could be alive? Could she have envisioned her 
closest friend being an African high priestess capable of divining 
truths where no others could? A mother of two: one mute, with a 
withered arm, one admiring and emulating a man of questionable 
convictions? In just seven short years my life has so drastically 
changed to where even I do not recognize it. I cannot discuss 
such matters with my mother, for she is certain to misunderstand
-- to label me intemperate and harebrained. It leaves me in 
the care of my dearest Sukeena and her keen observations, her 
frequent connections with the "other side." It leaves me wanting. 
I want my April back. I want her arm to be right. I want 
Douglas Posey to die someplace else, to leave this poor house and 
all of us in it alone. 
What if that model of Rose Red is growing? What if my daughter's 
voice has been lost to its greed? What if April is trapped, half 
in, half out of these walls that surround us? What is to be done 
about that? How do I return her to her mother, her family? 
180
I feel the need to shower even more love and attention upon 
the poor girl. I have ordered that she is to sleep in my bed alongside 
of me. I want her to .nd her mother's warmth when she 
seeks it. To hear her mother's voice when she awakes. If I am 
made to .ght for her, I will. (If you are reading these words, Rose 
Red, mark my word on that!) 
I want to leave, but I know that is not possible. You will never 
let me go. Any of us, for that matter. We are your captives here. 
Immortal captives, but captives nonetheless. Whatsoever does it 
all mean? How long can I tolerate being under this roof with 
John Rimbauer? As powerful as he is, as rich as he is, I feel none 
of his love anymore. Adam has replaced me in his eyes. He brings 
presents for Adam. Builds rooms for Adam's train. Takes Adam 
on his business trips (along with the prettiest nanny! This does 
not escape a wife's eye!). I am condemned. Rose Red owns me, 
not the other way around. I am a prisoner here. I must get April 
out at all costs. Her grandparents, perhaps. Ah . . . why had I 
not thought of this? 
What have I waited for? 
181
13 march 1915 -- rose red 
The cruelty of marriage! It has been several weeks now since I 
mentioned to my husband my desire to get April out of this 
house. This morning I intercepted a letter delivered by a most 
unusual postman: well over six feet tall, a bum right leg that 
caused him to limp and the thickest of glasses! He came to the 
front door, mumbling something about a town in Italy . . . 
Florence, was it? No, Pisa. That was it! He said something like, 
"Pisa for Rimbauer." I have no idea where the postal of.ce 
obtains its deliverymen! (I hope our regular man, Floyd, returns 
to our service.) The letter was posted three days hence from the 
Cheshire Academy, Portland, Oregon. I opened it immediately 
(with steam, so that I might reseal it) and saw it to be a letter of 
acceptance -- for Adam. It appears John is far more interested in 
protecting his precious lineage, his heir, than his daughter with 
the withered arm and silent tongue. (He believes April's "dif.- 
culty with the language" to be a re.ection upon her intelligence, 
and probably her gender, if truth be known; John suffers behind 
a single-minded, simpleton view of a woman's purpose on this 
earth -- to provide men certain unspeakable pleasures and to bear 
children. Nothing more.) I am a tangle of anger and grief, for I 
know my arguments will be lost on his ears. April will remain. 
Adam will leave us to attend the .rst grade. April is condemned 
with the rest of us; Adam is to be saved. 
I prepare myself to defend my precious daughter, but I know 
in advance it is not an argument I shall win. Nonetheless it is a 
.ght I shall give him. And if he ever returns to my bed with other 
matters in mind -- which he's bound to do at some point -- he shall 
.nd young April under the covers with me. So it shall remain, 
until he entertains a change of heart. 
Two can play this game. Three, if one counts Rose Red. And 
woe be to him who discounts her. Woe, indeed. 
182
9 september 1915 -- rose red 
It is with heavy heart that to-day I said good-bye to little Adam as 
he and his father left to deliver him to the Cheshire Academy. A 
mother's heart cannot bear such loss, especially in the face of my 
increased (and failed) efforts to evoke some manner of speech 
from my daughter, who remains in her nearly comatose state. 
To my horror, any attempt we have made to photograph the 
model of Rose Red has failed, as the images that are developed 
show a glowing white light where the model should be. It is as if 
the model itself were emanating some energy, some light, that 
spoils the photographs. (In one, dear April was captured as well --  
these same white clouds extended from her hands and fully surrounded 
her head. If a trick of the people developing these 
photographs, it is no laughing matter, and I pray for them to 
stop. John blames it on "dodging" the images while they are being 
developed and claims they are nothing but a practical joke. 
April's "condition" is known all over town.) 
The European war is all anyone can talk about. John travels 
incessantly: Denver, Portland, San Francisco -- even Cleveland 
and New York, his exports growing rapidly. The more he is away, 
the easier life is at Rose Red. (So much of the tension here arises 
out of John's presence and the staff 's fear of the man.) The newspaper's 
front page is covered in worldly events: Germany offers 
not to sink ocean liners, a little too late for the Lusitania; another 
city in Poland falls to the Austro-German army; Haiti is in rebellion; 
Switzerland hosts a meeting of the European Socialists. Our 
lives here at home seem to have such little purpose any longer. 
There is war everywhere. The German submarines sink dozens of 
ships every week. President Wilson is under pressure to join the 
.ght. I know not where any of this might lead, but none of it 
looks promising. In terms of our lives, there are fewer social 
events, as so many of our husbands seem overworked by the run- 
183
up to war. Although the heads of staff and I have had our .rst 
meeting concerning the annual January Ball, there is less excitement 
this year. The guest list is much larger, as John has added 
dozens of business contacts to the list. I have used my friendship 
with the Mastersons in order to arrange the invitation of a 
famous opera singer, Elizabeth Paige, who will be in the city at 
that time. Miss Paige, along with the .lm star Charlie Chaplin, 
should make it an interesting evening. John says William 
Randolph Hearst may attend. But he is most excited about some 
general he plans on inviting (this general has business with Mr. 
Boeing, and John, being a major investor with Boeing, is 
attempting to connect the two men socially prior to any discussion 
of business). 
My larger concern is Rose Red herself. She has been "quiet" 
for many months now, content, I suppose, to use her energies to 
grow with the construction. ( Just listen to me! How foolish this 
sounds!) This construction, however, is scheduled to slow substantially, 
though not stop completely, this winter, as John 
believes the winter will be particularly severe (he reads the 
almanac and believes every word!) and sees no reason "to .ght 
old man Winter." What, if any, effect this may have on Rose Red I 
cannot be sure, but my instincts tell me that a woman in want of 
attention will attention receive, and after all this frantic building 
these many months, how will she react to her workers leaving her, 
her men deserting her? 
How will her mood affect our annual inaugural? Will she leave 
well enough alone, or will she seek some company? With John 
gone so much, a part of me says that Rose Red has nothing to 
.ght for, that her dormancy results from the lack of a need to 
protect me; but if Sukeena is right -- and who am I to challenge 
her understanding of such matters? -- then it seems possible our 
house may .nd herself in need of substance, the subsiding construction 
no longer stealing her attentions. If so, to whom will 
184
she turn, and when? I am reluctant to invite a soul into this 
house. I am of a mind to call off the party altogether for fear of 
guests disappearing. But never mind, Dear Diary, my attentions, 
my energies remain focused on my sweet child April and my 
attempts to win her back from wherever she has gone since 
Douglas Posey's cruel departure from this earth. 
Why has it taken me until this very moment to realize what 
must be done? How could I be so blind? Why must I write my 
heart to these pages in order to see clearly the way of it all? 
Sukeena would never suggest it, for she doubts the powers so, but 
where have I been that I did not see this sooner? I must call Tina 
at once! For I now understand the course of action required to 
free my dear daughter from the slavery of her silence: Madame 
Lu! Madame Lu! If anyone can unlock this mystery, it is the 
Great Lady herself. 
We must go at once! 
185
12 september 1915 -- rose red 
With John still in Portland getting Adam settled at Cheshire, I 
took advantage of my independence, and telling the staff we were 
headed to Sunday church, we were off. Sukeena snuck through 
the back forest and out to the road where, with me driving a twohorse, 
the three of us squeezed onto the carriage and headed off 
for Chinatown! Sukeena, God bless her, had made the arrangements 
in advance, delivering a letter for me that was posted to 
Madame Lu. This morning, by return post, I welcomed con.rmation 
that we would be received by the Great Lady at our earliest 
convenience. The wording of Madame Lu's note, and the steady 
hand that did write it, implied a translation, for the English was 
most correct and sound. (I am under the assumption that one of 
her young, lithe attendants is also quite versed in the English language 
and came to her assistance in this matter. This, in turn, 
warned me that the conversations taken between Tina and me in 
this woman's presence were probably better understood than we 
believed possible or likely. I made note to myself not to say anything 
to Sukeena that I didn't want overheard.) 
I must say that fear is entirely connected to familiarity. That 
is, when I .rst arrived at the door of Madame Lu's establishment, 
I can remember nearly shaking from vexation, given the condition 
of the place, and feeling intimidated and more than a little 
afraid. On this, my third visit, I felt no such apprehension whatsoever. 
To the contrary, I found myself excited, enthralled even, 
at the prospect of seeing the Great Lady again. Now it is that I can 
understand Tina's calm that day, the almost perverse peace she 
demonstrated upon our arrival. 
For her part, April demonstrated no enthusiasm for the 
change of environment (something I'd secretly hoped for!). I 
suspect the condition of Chinatown must have registered in her 
186
to some degree, but this failed to manifest itself in any facial 
expression or noticeable change. Sukeena, April and I (hand in 
hand) climbed the dimly lighted stairs to the pungent odors of 
incense, ginger and tea. The Great Lady occupied her throne like 
a monarch and bid us to take rest upon her woven straw mat. As 
before, Sukeena remained standing, slightly behind the two of us. 
A level of formality had developed between her and Madame Lu, 
if not outward respect. 
"So this is child," Madame Lu said. 
"April," I said. 
"Pretty name. Pretty child." 
"We . . . I -- " 
She cut me off. "Come here, child. Sit with Lu." She 
extended her pudgy, swollen hands behind stiff arms that looked 
like tubular balloons knotted at the elbow. To my complete surprise, 
my daughter stood, walked the distance and scooted up into 
the large woman's lap. For a moment, she seemed to get lost in 
the Great Lady's garment, like stepping behind a curtain and 
then peering out again. I smiled at her. Then my heart stopped: 
my daughter smiled back at me. It was the .rst such expression 
since Douglas Posey's suicide, and it brought tears to this 
mother's eyes. (I am softened by the simplest gifts!) 
The bearing of the Great Lady was formidable. She seemed to 
.ll the entire room all of a sudden. The .ames of the candles in 
the room (and I swear this is true!) all bent toward that throne as 
if victims of a dozen simultaneous winds, as if water were running 
past them and down a drain directly beneath the Great Lady's lacquered 
chair. The room .lled with added light, and for a 
moment my heart danced in my chest, and I thought I might be 
faint. She said, "Mother tell me child, that you seen a man take 
his life." No beating around the bush for Madame Lu -- this was 
the .rst that anyone, to my knowledge, had spoken so openly 
187
about Douglas's tragedy, and I feared repercussions. Again to my 
surprise, April nodded. "Madame Lu understand you no talk 
since this day. You hold your tongue. Madame Lu think smart 
child. Good girl, little April." April looked up at the woman's 
swollen cheeks and beady, slit eyes. "You no talk because the 
question not answered, isn't that right?" 
I bubbled out my surprise and began to sob as my precious little 
girl nodded right along with the Great Lady -- this was, by all 
accounts, a conversation, and as such, nothing short of a miracle. 
Lu said, "No one here answered the question for you, did 
they, Child?" 
April looked over at Sukeena and me and shook her head. 
"Until question answered," the Chinese woman continued, 
"no sense in risking anything and ending up like that man -- dead 
as dead can be. Am I right?" 
April nodded vigorously. 
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes." 
The candle .ames stood straight up again, the wind suddenly 
lessened, or perhaps it was gone completely. I worried immediately 
that Madame Lu had missed her opportunity, and my heart 
sank like a stone. She read me from her chair and .ashed me a 
look that urged I reconsider, and I realized this woman was inside 
me: she heard my every thought. I forced an awkward smile. 
Lu asked, "Do you know the question, Mother?" 
I shook my head no. 
"You, Darkie?" 
Sukeena remained impassive. I wasn't sure where Sukeena was 
at that moment -- I had a feeling that she, too, was inside me, also 
reading my thoughts. Perhaps protecting me, standing sentry at 
my door. I struggled to stay conscious. 
"The question," Madame Lu said privately to April, "is where 
did the man go? Isn't it, Child?" 
April looked shocked. I let out a yelp and again was repri- 
188
manded by the big woman's glance. "If he were no longer, where 
he gone? If still here, why he not talk?" She said quietly, and 
calmly, "So you no talk." 
"Where did he go?" April said, speaking for the .rst time 
since the tragedy and causing me to sob with joy. 
"To the other side, my child," Madame Lu said, still calmly. 
"You seen him there, yes? You talk, you and this man. Talk, with 
no need to use mouth. He the one tell you no talk to others, yes, 
Child?" 
"He said they'd never understand." 
"Ohhhh," I sobbed into my handkerchief, so overcome with 
grief and joy that I failed to hear the rest of what was said. It was 
over quickly, Madame Lu grinning, showing gaps where her teeth 
were missing. April hopped off her lap, cheerful as a bug, and 
scurried over to me. We hugged, and she must have thought me 
queer for my display. 
I waved over Sukeena and requested she complete the business 
with Madame Lu -- I would pay anything, offer anything she 
requested. Sukeena promised to relay the message. April and I 
descended the dark stairs, my sweet, loving child already telling 
me all about the "awful man who jumped from the ladder." 
If ever I doubted the power of the other side, to-day this 
mother's heart was convinced. To-day, I became a convert. 
189
17 february 1917 -- rose red 
For the last eighteen months, suspicious again about your role, 
Dear Diary, in the strange and entangled events of this grand 
house, I have kept thought and soul to myself, never sharing them 
with your pages, no matter how great the temptation. No ghosts 
to look over my shoulder, goes my reasoning, if nothing is being 
put to paper. Alas, my plan has had little consequence. I sit down 
here to write in an act of desperation (this is not one of Poe's 
gory inventions of .ction: no young girl who can set schools 
a.re; no dog that behaves as if possessed; no giant pendulum 
swinging to cut one in half!). If there exists some wraith, some 
bodily spirit here in this room with me, if he or she can hear my 
thoughts as the wet ink travels from my pen to parchment, if in 
fact said entity has any modicum of compassion still held in 
reserve, then you -- it! -- must certainly heed a mother's cry: my 
sweet child has gone missing. Help me! 
I offer anything in return if sign be shown to indicate such an 
exchange. Money? My own soul? My life. My husband's. "What's 
that?" I ask . . . a voice in reply? A wind? (It is at this point I 
notice my east window has slipped open, and I fear the woman's 
voice I did detect was nothing more than nature's idle callings 
from the forest that surrounds these walls.) Nonetheless, Dear 
Diary, I do speak again into the privacy of my room, after securing 
this window shut and locked. "Did you speak to me? Is anyone 
there?" 
Again -- and I swear this on my life -- a rumbling grew from 
beneath my trembling legs and swept through my ears like a whisper. 
"Hello?" I call out. 
Another window open! This time in my reading room, a 
lovely place for meditation and study just off my bedroom chamber, 
opposite the .rst of my two dressing rooms. I hurry 
through, about to shut it against the swirling wind and rain that 
190
engulf this awful tomb, when I think that perhaps this is how you 
speak to me, Rose. A mother's hysterical anguish? I ask myself. 
Or is there reason behind this assumption? As your "voice" grows 
stronger I can picture my sweet April in the bed behind me so 
vividly, her golden curls thrown back against a pillow, her high 
little voice whispering to me: "Whales don't have noses." Or is it 
you? "Are you there?" I call out into my chambers. "Are you with 
me, Rose?" Nothing comes back at me. No sign that I can take to 
heart. No indication that my girl has only been borrowed, not 
stolen instead. 
I tremble, my head unstable. I swear I hear the words return: 
"T . . . h . . . e d . . . o . . . w . . . e . . . r." Though these 
words make no sense to me, I am grateful for any sibilance, any 
sustenance to what previously was discerned as only wind. "The 
dowry?" I wonder, reminded of my marriage. "The dowager?" 
"Help me, I pray." I return again to the empty reading room, 
my head spinning as I turn on my heels, a blur of the books' 
leather bindings .oor to ceiling, the stained-glass lamp I bought 
in Venice, the carpet from Constantinople -- all these and more I 
would trade in a beat of the heart for even a sign that my child has 
been spared, never mind what I would surrender for the child 
herself -- this mother's life in an instant! Just give me a sign! 
I stand now, the window thrown open to the storm, debating 
throwing myself to the slate of the garden path below in sacri.ce. 
All I await is the sign. Give me such a sign, and I am yours! A 
.ash of lightning. A cry from the forest beyond. 
I see instead the unsteady .ickering of the policemen's .ashlights 
as they patrol our woods, and wish it were a sign. I hear the 
thundering voice of my husband, a world away, in the Entry Hall 
below: "Find her! Find my child!" He is in a .t of rage, ordering 
staff and police alike (there are .fty police here searching for my 
April). I fear that like me, John, too, is making his prayers heard 
to your spirits, Rose, making offerings for an exchange. How this 
191
parent's heart breaks at the thought of any harm coming to my 
April. 
The main focus of the search began in the Kitchen, where 
April was last seen playing tea -- the enormous architect's model of 
the grand house just out of reach. Sukeena reports that the child 
was playing by herself and seemed quite content at the time. (I 
fear that John has directed his fears to Sukeena herself, for I am 
told by Millicent that Sukeena has been sequestered in the staff 
kitchen, where she is being questioned by the police. Try as I 
might to intervene, to free her from this unfair suspicion, John 
sent me to my chambers, and this is one time I dare not challenge 
my husband, for his mood is aggressive and even frightening.) 
April was left for a moment as Sukeena neatened the pantry (she 
believes the pantry another of the house's portals). When 
Sukeena turned around April was gone. Oh, how my world is 
turned upside down all of a sudden! (Indeed it has been quite 
askew for some time, but only now do I admit to the full effects of 
such behavior. I would never doubt Sukeena's explanation of 
events whatsoever. I trust my friend beyond any other.) She 
explained also that at no time did April leave the Kitchen nor did 
she call out. Nor was there any cause for alarm, nothing whatsoever 
out of the ordinary. When next she looked the Kitchen stood 
empty, only the tea set and that model, a grotesque representation 
of our grand house, planted .rmly in the center of the 
kitchen table, the house's wings and extensions growing from its 
original form like some tumorous root. Not a lock of hair, not a 
.ber of clothing. Just the empty room and, of course, Sukeena. 
A moment later a scream: John claims it was Sukeena; 
Sukeena says it was the house itself. 
I stand at my window, eyeing it as my escape from this pain. I 
never imagined a heart could endure such torture. I never 
understood the depth of this great love, how encompassing, how 
whole and complete. Dare I say it here? Yes, there were times I 
192
wished the children would go away. Yes, there were times I longed 
for that simplicity of husband and wife in the cabin of the Ocean 
Star with nothing but time between great lavish meals, the best 
wines, and the intrigues of physical discoveries. But now! Just the 
thought of such sel.shness is enough to make me sick! How gladly 
I would recapture the slightest whisper of such wishes! How simple 
that window looks to me. How effortless to end it here. 
I drag the Louis XVI settee to rest before the window and 
think to remove my shoes before stepping onto her pink and 
green silk upholstery, my dress held high around my thighs, and I 
awkwardly squeeze myself into the open frame, looking down 
between my feet at the looming darkness. I teeter there, half in, 
half out, whispering prayers repeatedly, the drumming of my 
blood in my ears, as images of sweet April swirl and .ll the void 
in my chest where once my heart resided. Oh Wind, talk to me 
now. Summon me now! Say but a single word -- J . . . U . . . 
M . . . P -- and you shall own me forever, or what is left of it. I 
can see beyond the slate rooftop of the Pool House, to the rising 
wing I commissioned at the instruction of Madame Stravinski. I 
would haul it all down in a second for the af.rmation of life in 
my precious child. I shudder at the thought of immortality that 
fails to include my children, fails to include those I love: 
Sukeena, my mother and father. Who would wish for the curse of 
the endless extension of a life without family, a life without love? 
If Rose has taken my dear child, is it because I built too slowly, or 
because I built at all? Is it because I have shared my bed with the 
sweet child for nearly two years, or because I allowed my husband 
to send the boy away to school? How much is a product of those 
things I control, and how much those I do not? 
Do I confess my sins now, from the pious mount of this open 
window, the .re.ies of .ashlights blinking in the woods? "He is 
unfaithful!" I shout from my pulpit. "I am unfaithful!" I hesitate. 
I hear a voice. Rose Red? I wonder. I shout, "I live torn by lust, 
193
corrupted by a woman's gentle, loving touch." I want Sukeena to 
hear this. I want her to understand. The guilt has been too much 
to bear. Rose Red has punished us for what we've done in secret 
these many months. She has taken my child to show me the ways 
of such wickedness. Such sweet wickedness it was! Love, as I have 
never known. I want my husband to hear, to pierce his heart the 
way he pierced mine so many years ago. 
Alas, it is not to be. My rumblings from my perch echo from 
the acres of rooftops and I spot Sukeena through the glass roof of 
the Solarium. She has broken free of her interrogators and is 
appealing in cloistered silence to me, with the pained expression 
of the only one who cares. "Don't do it!" her expression calls out. 
"Don't jump!" 
I look on as a uniformed policeman approaches her in the 
Solarium, the policeman not seeing me but me seeing him. I look 
on as Sukeena spots his arrival. She lifts her arms like a musical 
conductor and throws her head back in a haunting display of the 
quiet powers she possesses. He retches, gripped by a pain in the 
stomach, and I am reminded of our encounter in the Cairo market, 
all those years before. I watch, as impossibly the thorny vines 
of Sukeena's remarkable indoor garden, lush as it is with African 
creepers and exotic botanical varieties from our year abroad, 
come alive with alarming speed. I watch as that dense greenery 
runs up the glass as if a thousand snakes, sprouts racing from the 
soil demonically. I watch as that policeman, already halted in his 
approach, is suddenly tangled and overcome by the twisting, 
creeping choke of that instant jungle. As he is consumed. 
Sukeena shaking her hands invitingly. The density of the tangle 
overcoming even my view of the events below as the glass is 
obscured. 
And then, I see the policeman no more. My maid's delicate 
hands fall back to her sides. In stunned amazement I watch as the 
overgrowth recedes as quickly as it came, suddenly alive with color 
194
and bloom -- a paralyzing red of bougainvillea, orchid and, dare I 
admit it, roses. More red roses than I have ever laid eyes upon. 
With that canopy removed from overhead, my friend dares to 
look once again in my direction. We are quite some distance, and 
yet her face is close enough to feel her warm breath, to drink her 
earthy perfume. She shakes her head in denial. She will not allow 
me to jump, will not allow me to end it. Will not leave April 
unfound and Adam without a mother, only that monster of a 
father, my husband, to help him fashion a life, to control her 
destiny. I am condemned by my love. Of this blue-skinned 
woman. Of my magical son. Of a driven man I once allowed to 
impregnate me with his seed and thus spoil my fertility forever. 
What a fool I feel, exposed like this in an open window, as several 
of the of.cers break from the forest with their lights, called by my 
shouting and ranting and raving. 
And then I see him. John. Below me and to my left, at one of 
the many doors leading to the garden. Sukeena sees him too, 
195
though he does not take note of her. The three of us. Me on the 
ledge. John, blithering and drunk and terri.ed he has lost his 
daughter to this tomb we call home. Sukeena, surrounded by her 
murderous blush and bloom of a thousand red blossoms. 
I laugh wildly. Hysterically. Maniacally. I laugh for the policemen 
to hear. I laugh for my husband to be sick. I laugh at the 
moon and the clouds, the wind in my ears speaking as Rose Red. 
"She lives," says the wind. "She lives in the dower . . ." 
Only then do my ears forgive me, only then do clarity and 
alacrity impose themselves, a comprehension by the ear prepares 
me for the understanding that is to follow. It is not "dower," as I 
once supposed. The word I am to hear is "tower," and Rose Red 
is whispering clearly that this is where my daughter's future lies --  
where my daughter now resides. 
The Tower. 
A tower not yet built. 
196
3 a.m. -- rose red (sukeena's chambers) 
I shudder to relate to you, Dear Diary, the tragic events of the 
past several hours. 
Not long after the dramatic occurrence in the Solarium, and 
my brief encounter with my husband, did a sense of dread invade 
me that rivaled the disappearance of my dear child only hours 
earlier. I knew in an instant that this dread involved Sukeena and 
that my own intervention was required to spare my sweet friend. I 
have suffered much in.rmity these several years, nearly always 
cautious in my walking about not to lose balance and fall to the 
.oor like some invalid. Yet on this night the eyes I must have 
raised with the staff as I ran down the West Wing's second-story 
halls and .ew down the Grand Stair, my feet barely lighting as I 
descended. Drastic action was required of me -- I knew this without 
so much as a single thought. My response was born from 
within me, having little or nothing to do with any kind of thought 
process -- and for this reason I trusted it, I suppose, or at least I 
followed it without question. 
"No, John!" I heard myself calling out in an unfamiliar tone, 
a tone a wife should never use to address her husband. Especially 
in public. (I tell you, Dear Diary, it was not my voice at all, but 
one given to me, just as the quickness of limb was given to me. 
Just as the voice in the séance was given to me. This, in turn, begs 
a greater question upon which I hope to expound at a later date: 
that is, if not my voice, if the voice of Rose Red, as I .rmly 
believe, then why was she speaking through me in an attempt --  
vain, as it turned out -- to save Sukeena? Has this house come to 
listen to my handmaid? To talk to her? Do they share some connection 
about which I am previously unaware?) "You let her go!" 
I roared at him in a voice that was not mine. 
John knew that other voice. He is smarter than other men. 
Wiser. More experienced. He recognized that voice immediately 
197
as being the voice of the grand house. Paralyzed, he stood, .atfooted, 
as I ran -- ran! -- toward him, my dress rising behind me 
like a shadow. Two policemen had Sukeena by the arms and were 
dragging her toward the open door, beyond which I could see a 
car waiting. The police in this city are a model of corruption and 
in.uence peddling. (Mayor Gill, now in his third term, has 
attempted to change our image by closing the bawdy houses and 
198
saloons that people the water frontage. He would not dare touch 
the police, for they control this town, including the actions of the 
mayor!) If Sukeena was placed in that car, I knew well that I might 
never see her again. As I approached my husband at full speed, a 
thought sparked through me: what if April had not disappeared at 
all? What if my husband had ordered her removed brie.y by one 
of the loyal staff ? What if this evening's anxiety was nothing more 
than the result of a deftly scripted act of deceit intended to lay 
blame on my maid and win her forcible removal from our home? 
What if his plans called for her beating, her jailing and the pox or 
other illness that seemed to claim the lives of so many of this city's 
jailed? April is removed for one night, and John reclaims the 
power over his wife and destroys the one person in this house who 
has more power than him. (Discounting the house itself, of 
course!) Had my husband tricked me, tricked us all, including 
the police (whom he may have bought off ) in an effort to regain 
his single authority? 
John caught me unawares. He extended his arms in advance of 
my fast approach and knocked me off my feet, throwing me down 
onto my behind, where I skidded across the polished wood and 
came to rest against the wall, directly beneath my own portrait. 
"She . . . heard . . . her . . . scream!" he roared. "The only 
person to claim to hear anything!" 
"She heard the house scream," I cried, for I was quite aware of 
Sukeena's .rsthand report. 
He snorted derisively at me. "It was our daughter, Ellen. Our 
daughter's last sounds. And this woman must answer for it." 
"Answer for it? This woman? Does she answer for the disappearances? 
For your partner's suicide?" I caught him with my 
de.ance. "It . . . is . . . this . . . house. And you know it!" 
"I know nothing of the sort." 
An of.cer remained in the open doorway. Beyond him, I saw 
Sukeena violently thrown into a police wagon, her head striking 
199
the frame. She glanced back in my direction. It was the last I saw 
of her. I have not seen her since. John nodded toward the of.- 
cer -- my husband clearly giving his okay -- and again my thoughts of 
conspiracy surfaced. John had a greater hand in this than I 
thought. The man pulled the door shut. 
"No!" I cried out. 
"A cop has disappeared, Ellen," my husband said. 
"The woods," I said, making no mention of the sudden bloom 
in the Solarium. "There are dozens of them in the woods. One is 
lost is all." 
"They found a belt -- a policeman's belt -- on the .oor of the 
Solarium. Sukeena was in the Solarium at the time. I think it's 
time you faced up to the fact that your . . . what is she 
exactly? . . . your friend . . . grew jealous of your time with our 
daughter and has brought her harm. Indeed, has removed her 
from the face of this earth." 
"You bastard, John Rimbauer." 
He bent down and slapped me across the cheek. Tears leaped 
from my eyes, like beads of juice from an orange slice. 
"I'm sorry . . . ," he mumbled. In our ten years together, my 
husband had never laid a hand on me in this way. 
Perhaps it was the jarring that this blow caused me -- my husband 
unleashing his anger. Perhaps it was simply the right time 
for me to see the truth, as unadorned as it so often is. For me, 
that slap of his was like sunlight through a magnifying glass --  
directed, .erce and intense. A light so bright as to be blinding. 
Surprisingly, my husband had it half right. He had nailed it 
on the head: jealousy. The clarity of that thought! I thought I 
heard the voices of choirs in my ears. Jealousy. But half right was 
all. He was wrong about the source of that jealousy -- felt over the 
past two years as I focused my every waking moment on the love 
and progression of sweet April. Not Sukeena at all. But Rose Red. 
200
She'd grown jealous. And she'd fed off the substantial life 
force of my child as a way of extending her own longevity and 
striking out at me all at once. Two birds with one stone. Rose Red 
has claimed April. She has removed Sukeena as well. 
She has me all to herself now. And I shudder at what that 
means. 
201
20 february 1917 -- rose red 
Horror of horrors, do I dare relate what I know now about the 
events of the past three days? I know not how much of what has 
happened was the result of my husband's instruction, his determination, 
and how much simply the result of a corrupt and bigoted 
police force. Naturally, I would prefer to believe the latter, 
as I must continue through this lie of a marriage to the former, 
and thereby, perhaps, the blame for it all should be laid at my 
feet, and mine alone. When I think back now to what I might have 
done to save my dear Sukeena . . . Had it not been for fear, had 
it not been for grief over the loss of my sweet April, perhaps I 
would have been in the presence of mind to formulate some plan, 
to articulate my degree of concern, to make demands upon my 
husband and those clearly under his control. 
Sukeena has failed to return from the police station, or wherever 
it is they have taken her. Three full days have passed since 
April's disappearance, and I am teetering on the brink of suicide, 
haunted by my husband's continued stalking of this house like a 
cat after a mouse and his approval when the police hauled off my 
handmaid late that night in a pitiful rainstorm. Finally, about an 
hour ago, I received word, through surreptitious means that I 
dare not go into, not even in your trusted pages, Dear Diary 
(except to say that one of the staff is close friends with a young 
woman whose brother serves on the police department, and that 
through this connection I have been privy to information that 
otherwise should have never reached my ear). The word is this: 
Sukeena has been under lock and key in a basement room in City 
Hall for the past three days and nights. She has been denied food, 
sleep and even the common decency of a toilet. I am of information 
that she has been beaten, berated and quite possibly violated 
in the way only a woman can be violated, while her captors con- 
202
tinue to demand and await her confession–a piece of .ction she 
has quite properly, steadfastly, refused to provide them. I am of a 
state, so wrought with grief and overcome with anxiety that I am 
in one of my fevers, con.ned to bed, and only weakly able to 
make this account in your pages tonight. Immediately upon hearing 
of Sukeena's treatment, her predicament, I wrote my husband 
a brief note upon my personal stationery and had it delivered by 
Yvonne, a woman I trust implicitly. My note read something like 
this: 
Dear Husband, 
It has come to my attention that persons unknown (namely, the 
police, or persons masquerading as the same) are torturing and 
mistreating my dear friend and African handmaid in their pursuit of 
the truth as concerns our dear departed daughter. I am quite aware 
that you continue to attribute the random spirits of this house to 
Sukeena, and to place her in the blame for events here. This, despite 
my many objections to such an attitude. You now apparently harbor 
suspicions that include the disappearance of our dear April. I beg you 
to review the events as they stand. 
What I hope to remind you of is that Mr. Corbin's actions 
predated my even meeting Sukeena by over a year. Furthermore, 
during the séance with Madame Stravinski, it was Sukeena, and only 
Sukeena who attempted to stop the events of that evening -- to 
disconnect us all from Rose Red, not to encourage us to listen. On the 
night of April's disappearance, only Sukeena heard this wretched 
house scream. 
Your suspicions are incorrect and ill founded, and I beseech you 
to use whatever relationships with which you are bestowed to return 
home at once my most senior staff member, be they, these 
relationships, with the police, the politicians, or with her abductors 
themselves. If any more harm, any lasting harm, comes to Sukeena, 
203
I shall hold you personally responsible, John. Any resulting 
investigation will, by necessity, include you and your role in her 
initial removal from this household. 
Your wife, 
I signed it "Ellen Rimbauer," as I have found deliberate use of my 
formal name to be suggestive of a strong attitude on my part and 
quite a successful technique where negotiations with John are 
concerned. I licked the envelope, sealed it and wrote his name on 
the front: Mr. John Rimbauer, all informality gone. 
Since that time I have turned to your pages as a means of escape, 
for I cannot bear the thought of my dear Sukeena in the condition 
in which she presently .nds herself. About the only good any 
of this has done is to distract me from a mother's sorrow, however 
brie.y. Sitting here just now, I have heard John's motorcar 
depart the property. My heart swells with hope that Sukeena is to 
be returned! But there is a second sound as well, which I shall 
now investigate. It comes from inside the walls, and sounds ever 
so much like the sawing of wood. Perhaps not inside the walls, 
exactly, but overhead instead. Guest chambers occupy the space 
directly above my own rooms, and above these, the attic. I shall 
return to your pages, but .rst I must .nd the source of these 
peculiar sounds, if for no other reason than to put my mind at 
rest that little April isn't still to be found here, having been mistakenly 
overlooked while having gotten herself injured. Hope 
clings to every branch. I quiver in the wind. I shall dress in pants 
and a sweater, and I shall explore Rose Red like never before. 
Damn them all! 
4 A.M. 
I have always taken your pages in con.dence, but never so much 
as now, as the darkness of this place makes itself so plainly evi- 
204
dent. My curiosity drove me to the .oor above my own West Wing 
chambers in search of the mechanical noises that sounded to me 
like wood being sawed. To no great surprise, I found the chambers 
above my own unoccupied. However, in a keen search of the 
hallway there, I found a panel that when pressed upon with both 
hands sprang open far enough to admit a person. I slipped 
inside, studied the panel to make sure I knew I could reopen it, 
and deciding I could, pulled it shut. I entered a dark, narrow 
passage, no wider than my slim frame, and moved around a corner 
to where I found myself standing at a cloudy window -- yes, a 
piece of glass, large and substantial -- that looked in on the principal 
dressing room off the guest quarters' master bedroom. Only 
then did I realize this piece of glass was the dressing room's mirror, 
and that I was on the other side of it. I continued on down 
the narrow corridor past the next turn, .nding a panel that 
moved out of the way. Climbing up a step clearly intended for 
same, it allowed me to insert my head into a wooden box and to 
.nd my eyes looking out the mouth of one of John's African 
game trophies -- right at the guest bed itself! Farther down the 
corridor, another back side of a mirror, this time inappropriately 
looking in on the sink, toilet and bath. My husband's fantasies 
might very well include watching women dress and undress, might 
include watching the couples invited to stay the night as they are 
engaged in the most intimate courting rituals. But the idea of my 
husband, or any man, leering at a woman in the privacy of her 
toilet made me sick to my stomach. I had heard of such observation 
stations built into the staff quarters. Having never found 
one, I had not protested. But locating such a nefarious viewing 
platform as the mouth of a dead beast, and another allowing study 
of a woman's toilet habits -- and both directed at our dear guests --  
.lled me with anger. 
Worse, this hall of delight did not stop there. I followed it 
more deeply into Rose's walls, turning left twice, a fraction of 
205
light seeping in through holes I gather were drilled for this purpose. 
A right-hand turn and then, at my feet, a perfect square of 
white lines. Light. I knelt, tried to move the square panel there in 
the .oor, and .nally made it slide open exactly an inch. I put my 
head to it, lying on the .oor as I imagined was intended. 
I was looking down onto my own bed, the electric lamp by my 
pillow strong enough to turn the sheer suspended over my fourposter 
into a transparency. I could see clearly enough to read the 
Holy Bible in gold on the nightstand. I panicked as only a guilty 
person can. First in anger, then in guilt. Not everything in that 
bed had been innocent. Not every moment of tender loving in 
that bed had included my husband. Now I thought I understood 
206
his jealousy and anger toward Sukeena. Now I knew, his fantasies 
aside, he had witnessed me -- us -- there, and that no matter how it 
may have excited him, it had repulsed him as well, and he had 
taken action. For the faintest moment I even allowed myself to 
believe my husband had done something to little April, or (and 
I'd thought this earlier) had hired one of the staff to take her away 
brie.y to allow suspicion to fall upon my maid, to satisfy the convenience 
of the police being in attendance. Perhaps more than 
one of the staff, perhaps his loyal core of servants -- the children's 
young governesses had been acting strangely of late. Conspiracy 
worked hard to replace my own sense of debauchery and unfaithfulness, 
and I managed to turn my own misgiving into a strong 
resentment of my husband in no time. 
I continued on. Shortly thereafter, the corridor did rise and 
climb via a set of steep stairs to a padded trapdoor that led directly 
into the attic. Here were kept many of the dozens and dozens of 
items collected while on our honeymoon and still not put to good 
use. Here were sewing stands, pottery and a second set of stairs 
that, when descended, led directly into the back of the lesser closets 
in my husband's primary changing room. This second set of 
stairs afforded him escape to his rooms if overheard or pursued, 
or a way to reach from his rooms into the attic, back down to the 
guest quarters and out into the hallway. I was guessing already that 
I had missed a secret door leading right into the guest bedroom --  
a way for John to enjoy the pleasures of our single women guests 
while escaping attention. A certain opera star came to mind. For 
a while, a year or so ago, she had lived with us while performing 
downtown. I sensed she had been performing in my house as 
well. (When I look at it this way, there is much for Rose Red to be 
angry about, Dear Diary -- we have abused her repeatedly.) 
I did not return immediately, for what took my breath away, 
what startled me to the point of swooning and nearly fainting, 
had nothing whatsoever to do with John's philandering, or even 
207
his secret passages. I'd come to grips with my husband's perverted 
shortcomings years ago. No, Dear Diary, not my husband! It was 
the fresh board, the steel carpenter's saw, the horses and the fresh 
pile of sawdust that caught my eye. A door that I did not remember. 
I inspected this work. The saw's blade felt warm to the touch! 
The sawdust smelled of fresh cedar. There, a framed door stood 
in the middle of the attic. Alone, and all by itself. A door to 
nowhere. Connected both top and bottom. For unexplainable 
reasons, I picked up the saw, inserted its warm teeth into the 
sawed slot, and put my hand to it. A moment later, the end piece 
of wood broke free and fell with a clatter, for I had neglected to 
hold it, or to catch it. 
Someone had been up here working while I lay in my bed trying 
to pray for Sukeena's release to freedom. Someone had been 
building Rose Red. But who, Dear Diary? Who on our staff works 
this time of night? What carpenter saws in the dark? 
And why did I see that board and that handsaw much more as 
an invitation? Far less mystery than mastery. I am to help build 
this house -- the tower where my captured daughter is said to live 
and from where she will seek her freedom. A tower that has yet to 
be built. 
I am to help build it. I know this with absolute certainty. To 
build it in secrecy. Perhaps Adam will help when he's home from 
school. He, too, will want to reach April as soon as possible. 
Am I losing my mind? As quickly as I'm losing those I love? 
I must schedule my day to make room for this endeavor. I 
must prepare to wear blisters on my hands -- to smuggle lumber 
stolen from our other construction and into the attic late at night 
when no one else suspects. April, I fear, lives on the other side of 
that unbuilt door. April awaits her mother. 
John has just now returned from his journey into town, and I 
could wait no longer. I ran -- yes, ran! -- down the Grand Stair to 
208
that very same spot where he had shoved me days earlier, and I 
pleaded with him for some news of my friend. 
"Your friend?" he asked. 
"Yes, John. She is my friend." I practically dragged him into 
the Parlor, the suit of armor our only eavesdropper. I secured the 
doors shut and beseeched him, "Dear husband, I beg you for 
news of my friend." 
"You call me husband and yet do not allow me into your 
chambers, woman. What kind of husband is that?" 
It had never crossed my mind that the man wanted into my 
chambers. Our child was missing -- how could any other words 
escape his mouth? All these months of not so much as a kiss 
between us, I had assumed his transgressions with the women of 
the night had satis.ed whatever urges a man like John Rimbauer 
has -- substantial urges indeed. But now I saw before me another 
man altogether, pitiful, and I wondered (a deeper, darker 
thought) if some curse had not befallen my husband, some curse 
that is said to af.ict some men, and that if, in his twisted, selfcentered 
way, he had attributed that curse to Sukeena, and that 
this explained her abduction by the police and therefore, quite 
possibly, my missing daughter. Had John not dared to harm 
Sukeena himself, because of her substantial powers? Had he concocted 
the disappearance of our daughter as a means to rid himself 
of my maid with the help of the police? Or had he spent time 
in secret observation of my bedroom and the acts that have taken 
place there between me and my friend? Was jealousy his master 
now? Had I somehow risen to a level of power over him that to 
this moment I had been unaware of? 
"I was unaware you had interest in my bedroom, John. I have 
not heard your knock upon my door for many months." 
Or (I was thinking) had the act of man with woman become 
meaningless without the sense of love? Had the only curse upon 
my husband been a curse he had brought upon himself? Perhaps 
209
he was now incapable of the other kind of love and in need of the 
love he and I had once shared, however brie.y. Perhaps April's 
disappearance had something to do with this -- making John aware 
of external powers that he could not, in fact, control; powers he 
associated with Sukeena, and hence his lashing out at her. 
Perhaps this man was boy again, and in me sought a mother to 
whom he could turn. 
It was everything I could do, Dear Diary, to remain composed 
under the weight of Sukeena's prolonged absence and the disappearance 
of my lovely daughter. For these were the only two subjects 
of my inquiry, and I found John's diversions annoying and 
entirely self-centered, which should not have surprised me one bit. 
"I believe you've had other interests," he said. "You've been 
preoccupied with April and Sukeena." 
And they were both gone. This fact did not escape me. I 
shuddered, head to toe. Had my husband conceived of this 
grand plan to remove my two loves and refocus my ardor upon 
himself ? Had I misread him all these years -- was he, in fact, 
more deeply in love with me than I'd ever understood? I prayed 
for composure, understanding fundamentally that these next 
few minutes were to determine the fate of my maid. In truth, I 
feared the fate of my child had already been decided, and that 
my husband had had nothing to do with it (no matter how my 
mind schemed!). My discovery in the attic, the voice in the wind 
telling me of the tower -- it all made so much sense to me now: 
John was jealous, and so was Rose Red. I swallowed my pride 
and said, "My bedroom door is always open to you, dear husband. 
You will .nd me a most needing and willing partner, in 
this regard." 
"Will I?" 
"Oh, yes." I hated him for this. Me, picturing Sukeena being 
beaten, or worse, while my husband negotiated his visitation 
210
rights -- and my obligations to his depravity. Always the businessman. 
John Rimbauer got what he wanted, and he played any card 
necessary to that end. 
"I know you've been with her," he said. I lowered my head in 
shame. I could not look at him. Why, I wondered, did this man --  
this man in particular -- possess the power to make me feel guilty? 
How could such an exaggeration be allowed? I nodded, acknowledging 
his accusations. 
My lips quivered, my breath drew short. "Your needs are 
physical," I whispered dryly. "I need love, John." 
"And you've found it?" 
I said nothing. I felt afraid. So terribly afraid. Not of him, 
this weak excuse of a man. But afraid of losing both April and 
Sukeena -- afraid of being driven to a place where my only friend 
might turn out to be this witch of a house, Rose Red herself. I 
could see myself driven to torment over her construction -- my 
hands raw, my eyes .lled with sawdust, my clothes dirty and dusty, 
as I worked furiously to build her bigger and stronger. I feared 
the future. I wished then -- wished with all my heart -- that I had 
been brave enough to jump those several nights earlier. Only 
death would offer silence. Sanctuary. I knew this absolutely. 
I said, "I've found companionship. Solace. I'm at peace, 
John." I lied. 
"I will taste this peace as well," he said, stepping up to me. 
He'd been drinking. Heavily, I thought. Another consideration 
entered me, .ooded me with possibility: he was tormented himself. 
He'd not been sleeping. I knew this. Had been drinking too 
much of late. Perhaps his past sins had .nally caught up to this 
man in the late stages of middle age. Perhaps he saw that the end 
was near -- at least nearer than the beginning -- and that he had isolated 
himself in a place where peace was only a word, not a form 
of existence, a concept, not a reality. Mistakenly (as always) he 
211
thought this peace could now be negotiated -- bought, instead of 
earned. "You, and this woman," he said. He could rarely bring 
himself to say her name. "I will join you in your chambers." 
The rumblings of a drunken man? I wondered. Or had he 
witnessed the affection, the kindness, the pure love that transpired 
between my maid and me and believed he could include 
himself in this exchange? 
Shaking from fear, I stepped even closer, my voice now more 
like that wind I'd heard whispering in my ear. "Whatever you 
want, John. It's yours for the asking." I felt nauseous. I wasn't 
going to make the mistake Douglas Posey had made. I said, "I am 
here to serve you." 
He took his hands and placed them on my shoulders. His .ngers 
extended like antennae, they gently rained down my body, 
lingering over my breasts, my waist, and hugging the curve of my 
hips. He let his hands once again hang at his side. He looked 
pale, and quite frightened. Later, I would realize it was excitement 
at the thought of his proposal. His touch was eerily electric
-- I felt it like a poison running through my veins. 
"I believe I can help her," he said. 
He stormed from the room and back out the house. I heard 
his car sputtering toward the gates. I fell to my knees, and I 
retched. 
Regardless of the price I had just paid, my Sukeena was coming 
home. 
212
22 february 1917 -- rose red 
John has worked tirelessly to free Sukeena and at last has brought 
her home. To see her, my dear friend, in such a state as this 
brought me to tears and for a time threatened to return me to 
fever and the echo of my African illness, but to my credit I held 
these symptoms at bay, determined to be of help. Part of the long 
delay in my receiving her was John's delivering her to the hospital 
for the setting of bones and the mending of wounds. She is missing 
three front teeth and has a broken left wrist and a bandaged 
nose. In the privacy of her room, as Donna and I help her out of 
her bloodied and torn clothes and into a nightdress, we are 
painfully aware of the other atrocities that did befall her -- atrocities 
that a woman readily recognizes and that need no detailed 
explanation here in these pages. Suf.ce it to say her black skin is 
deeply bruised from ribs to loin, from her breasts to the soles of 
her feet, and there is tearing and bleeding in places that make 
childbirth appear tame. I weep openly at the sight of what they've 
done to her, the uniformed men assigned to protect us. What 
cowards. They should all be made to hang for these crimes. 
Instead, they will return home to their wives, a bit weary, explaining 
away their fatigue as just another day on the beat. 
For her part, Sukeena is sanguine as usual. She stops short of 
making jokes about her condition but manages to impress us with 
a wincing smile, half pain, half delight, at her return to those who 
care for her. Donna is eventually replaced by Carol, a nurse that 
John has hired speci.cally to care for my maid in her weeks of 
recovery. Carol changes dressings on Sukeena's wounds, applies 
ointments and feeds her medicines. Sukeena tolerates these 
efforts but bids me to prepare her own herbal treatments, which 
include the burning of ropelike grasses, teas and salves made 
from a variety of herbs she keeps in a rosewood chest in her 
changing room. I try to follow her instructions, requiring her to 
213
repeat them several times. I touch her all over, applying these 
African remedies, and reel when she winces in pain. There are 
clearly broken ribs and, I fear, the bruising of internal organs, 
for her abdomen is quite enlarged on her right side, and she is 
refusing all food. 
Hours on end I pray for her, reading scripture aloud. She 
seems soothed by this, and we've talked about how Christian 
scripture can heal given devotion and faith behind the words. 
Morning comes, another day passes. 
214
13 march 1917 -- rose red 
There is little doubt that April (whose month approaches with 
great sorrow) is not coming home. John did not hide her in some 
pretense or scheme. She is gone, lost to the walls of this place. 
Her residence here ensures that I shall never leave this place, 
never leave my child, not for more than a luncheon or dinner in 
town. (I wonder if Rose intended this fate for me, thinking back 
to Sukeena's claims that the house was jealous of my devotion to 
my daughter, and knowing that a mother would never leave her 
child when distant hope is held that my April may someday walk 
right out of the walls that have apparently claimed her. If, indeed, 
there was method to this house's madness, it has won that battle: I 
am here to stay!) 
Sukeena's recovery impresses me greatly, and I attribute that 
recovery in no small part to both her herbs and my prayer. Some 
of the bruising remains. Bandages have been removed from her 
nose, and other areas as well, and she is able to spend some time 
on her feet now and to tend to her toilet herself. Her wrist 
remains in plaster, her breathing shallow and quite evidently 
painful. She chants herself to sleep in that singing language of 
hers, almost like humming as it resonates inside her. I brush her 
hair and pat her head and rub her limbs when her legs go numb. 
She smiles and climbs to her feet and struggles around the room 
slightly bowlegged. I wince, unable to conceive of the awful things 
they did to her during her days in captivity. 
A policeman, a detective, returned to our home, ostensibly to 
follow up on April's disappearance, and upon sight of him, I 
ordered him from our home. I shouted, quite undigni.ed, until 
the man, paralyzed with fear, .ed from this place, hat in hand. 
No policeman shall ever set foot in this house again. Not without 
proper paperwork and the order of a judge. I've had quite 
enough of the "protection" the police provide us. If they think 
215
they'll ever .gure out Rose Red, they are fooling themselves. 
There is no earthly explanation for the events of this place. I have 
lived within these walls more than eight years now, day in and day 
out, I have consulted Madame Lu and Madame Stravinski, and I 
am wont to explain the goings-on. Young women disappearing. 
Men, dead of everything from suicide to murder. My daughter 
claimed. My husband now tortured with sexual inadequacy. 
I shudder with this last thought, recalling my negotiations to 
win Sukeena's release, and dreading the day I must report to my 
maid the price we both must pay for her freedom. Dreading even 
more the moment of payment itself. When will my husband come 
to my chambers? When will that demand be met? 
216
19 april 1917 -- rose red 
A grim mood envelops us all as we mourn the loss of my dear 
daughter on this, her day. The staff feels this loss as painfully as 
John and I. (The house maids elected to forgo their white aprons 
today, leaving them in all black as they mourn.) For the most part 
the house is quiet and the only activities amount to the bare 
necessities to keep it operating. Construction, for the .rst day 
since Christmas, has been suspended. About the only occurrence 
of note was a shuddering growl heard by all sometime around 1 
P.M. this afternoon. There was no mistaking the source: this 
house. 
This same time of day -- 1 P.M. -- has lately been the hour of my 
retiring after lunch for "rest." In fact, I have used these two hours 
to tend to my carpentry in the attic, making good headway on the 
stairs that are to lead to the Tower. Only Sukeena has noticed the 
splinters and callouses on my hands -- and in typical fashion has 
thought better than to ask me their source. I wonder now, has 
this sound we all heard anything to do with my absence from the 
attic on this day? Is Rose Red so "alive" that she can even sense 
time and absence? If so, what is it she demands of me, and what 
am I to do to appease her? 
I take a late tea at four o'clock in the Parlor, at .rst made 
weary by the unexpected arrival of Tina Coleman, but then made 
happier as I realized how badly I needed this distraction. Tina is 
very much aware of the signi.cance of this day and comes to help 
me forget. (She even brings a .ask of alcohol, and laces my tea 
with same!) As our discussion wanes, I note that she can't take her 
eyes off the large leather globe in the corner of the room, recalling 
perhaps the stories of one of our .rst disappearances here. 
Do I see temptation in her eyes? Does she too want to spin this 
globe and see if Rose Red will claim her? (She could try if she 
liked, but the truth is I had one of the staff place a screw into the 
217
globe to prevent its spinning many years ago. Each and every time 
Sukeena identi.es what she believes to be a portal into this house, 
I order it closed or shuttered. The stall in the Carriage House, 
for instance, had been nailed shut following Daniel's brutal 
stomping.) 
I must admit to a sense of melancholy and distress as the afternoon 
wore on. All the small talk in the world could not rid me of 
memories of my sweet little girl, and I fear the alcohol only served 
to increase my unease. Finally, too late, I'm afraid, Tina excused 
herself and took her leave, returning home by chauffeured 
motorcar. 
I skipped dinner, .lled with scones, and headed to my rooms 
to write here in your pages. 
2 A.M. 
Do I dare write openly and honestly of the events of this evening --  
the evening anniversary of the birth of my missing child? If I do 
not, I fear that I shall carry this with me to my detriment, for I 
experience such relief when applying my pen to your pages. But 
oh, Dear Diary, so private are these words, so frightening, that I 
scarcely dare repeat what has happened. Unable to sleep, unable, 
barely, to sit down, I have paced my chambers for the last hour 
debating whether to share here in your pages the events of the 
past several hours, and now, alas, I take to your pages like the sinful 
to the confessional. 
It was shortly after eleven o'clock when I heard a knock on the 
outer door to my chambers. I had already let the staff go and so 
was made to answer this inquiry myself. Believing it to be 
Sukeena, who has found it dif.cult to sleep since her ordeal with 
the police, I approached in my nightgown, not bothering with a 
robe. 
To my great surprise it was my husband. Further to my surprise 
was his apparent sobriety. I had not seen him since before 
218
tea, and had presumed him to be drinking quite heavily on this 
day.
"Ellen," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "the pain is too 
great." I admitted him and we embraced -- hugged each other in a 
way we have not done in years. I cried. My husband remained 
stalwart, though was visibly shaken. As we hugged, his large hands 
held me from behind, rubbing me and pressing me to him, and I 
sensed immediately he had turned his grief into need -- he wanted 
physical soothing. 
He kissed my neck, my throat, and I confess I shuddered with 
apprehension. I, too, needed this expression of love, needed 
some escape from my grief. He stopped my heart with his next 
words. "Send for her." 
I stammered, unable to draw a breath. There was no question 
to whom my husband referred. "John . . . ," I pleaded, but he 
pressed his .nger to my lips and repeated himself, and I knew 
there was to be no arguing. 
I approached the door, preparing to summon one of my staff. 
I turned to him again, one .nal attempt to win favor. "John, dear 
husband, I offer myself in whatever regard you do wish. You may 
dress, undress me. Position me any way you like, ask anything of 
me you so choose -- but do not ask this. I have yet to inform her of 
our . . . negotiations. I dare not tell her this way." 
Clearly, he considered my offer thoughtfully. He touched 
me -- touched me as only a husband may touch a wife. Then he 
stopped abruptly and bid me to summon her. "Send for her," he 
repeated. 
I knew better than to challenge him, especially in the face of 
his rescue, which may have saved Sukeena's life. "Very well," I 
said. "But leave my chambers for a time. Let me speak to her in 
private. Grant me this favor, my only request. Return in thirty 
minutes. You shall have what you wish." 
Sukeena arrived quite promptly -- never one to dismiss a sum- 
219
mons from her mistress. I sat her down and spoke quite plainly of 
the arrangements I had made to secure her release from jail and 
torture. I informed her of my discovering of John's viewing hallway, 
and how I believed he watched every woman in this house 
from similar vantage points. I had no doubt whatsoever that he'd 
visited Sukeena in this regard for several years now. 
"You ask me to do this thing for you, ma'am, you know I do." 
"You loathe him, I know, sweet friend." 
"He bad man, Miss. Not bad in soul, but bad in action. Bad 
for the children, bad for you, Miss Ellen." 
"We must do this thing," I bid her. "We must grant him this 
whenever he asks, and he has asked for to-night to help rid him 
of the haunting that results from the loss of sweet April." 
"You ask me do dis, I do dis." 
I kissed her, kissed her on the lips long and tenderly. "I had 
hoped nothing might ever spoil our privacy, dear friend." Her 
eyes burned into mine and I felt her displeasure with me -- perhaps 
she would rather have died in jail than take to bed with my 
husband. I didn't blame her for this. 
"This one night, he never forget," she said. "Sukeena make 
sure of that." 
"It's a night none of us shall forget," I said. 
"Oh, no," she contradicted. "Me, ma'am? I forget this before 
I return to my own room." And she smiled. 
When Sukeena smiled -- missing teeth and all -- the whole room 
grew brighter. She slipped out of her robe and nightdress and 
stood before me naked, a powerful and wildly attractive female 
form. "Take off the nightie, miss." She stepped forward and 
helped me out of my nightgown. "You say he coming," she said. 
"Then we give him an eyeful." With that, she took my hand and 
led me toward my bed. 
220
editor's note: as arbiter of these entries, after 
much discussion with my publisher, it was decided 
that the speciFIc references (1 april 1917) were far 
too graphic and disturbing to be printed here, 
where readers more interested in the history of 
rose red should not be made to be burdened with 
the personal exploits (and exploitation!) of the 
author. we have, as a concession, made this, and (a 
few) other excerpts available on the world wide 
web at the following address: www.beaumontuniversity.
net. users familiar with the web will note 
there is no "link" to these excerpts from any of the 
web-published pages. you must therefore type in the 
url given here (exactly as it is written) in order to 
reach this private library of ellen's most personal 
moments. a further warning: some of the content 
therein is explicitly sexual, and is not intended for 
persons under the age of eighteen. 
in point of fact, ellen rimbauer apparently 
became obsessed with recounting her nearly 
nightly bedroom activities over the next several 
months, writing almost exclusively about her husband's 
increased addiction to these events and the 
elaborate acts he conceived for both his wife and 
his wife's best friend and servant. there are virtually 
no entries other than these (often repugnant 
and degrading) until early in 1918, an editorial 
time jump i readily make in order to spare you, the 
reader, the sordid descriptions of the debauchery 
to which john rimbauer stooped. the only element 
you lose because of my red pencil is the growing 
frustration on the part of ellen and sukeena at 
221
being used in this way, to have what was once a pure 
love between them corrupted and poisoned by a man 
who could no longer FInd any satisfaction in life. 
even physical pleasure now robbed him of any victory 
over the senses. he was consumed in grief, he 
felt himself a failure, and the deeper he sank, the 
more bizarre his requests, the more desperate the 
two women become. (there is even an account of a 
late night spent in the barn!) by the time we join 
back up with ellen in the pages to come, there have 
been hints of a conspiracy FIrst forming, and then 
growing, between the mistress of the house and her 
maid. ellen will not allow the speciFIcs of this conspiracy 
to reach her pages, for fear of her diary's 
discovery, but it is quite evident that john rimbauer 
is the target and that plans have already 
formed to set into motion john rimbauer's demise. 
-- joyce reardon 
222
9 march 1918 -- rose red 
To look back at the entries herein, it is quite obvious to me how 
nothing has affected me quite so much as the late-night encounters 
with John and the disturbing nature of his demands upon the 
women of this house. The events of this day .nally are cause for 
re.ection on the larger nature of the problems with Rose Red 
and her apparent need of "fuel," both in terms of her physical 
expansion (her continued construction) and whatever spiritual 
needs she has. 
To-day, she killed again. 
The coroner will put the death of George Meader down as an 
allergic reaction to a bee sting. But that bee sting came inside the 
Health Room [Editor's note: Health Room = Ellen's term for the 
Solarium, post 1917] and that room did burst with color upon his 
death, the same way it exploded with color on the tragic night of 
April's disappearance and Sukeena's confrontation with the 
policeman there. 
Meader, a railroad executive who has stayed the week with us, 
was a big drinker, and clearly a womanizer. He .irted with many 
of the staff and may have had relations with more than one. It was 
the attention he paid poor Sukeena that may have led to his 
untimely demise. More than once he cornered her. (For she tells 
me everything that happens in this house.) More than once he 
attempted to grope her. (Who knows if John had a part in any of 
this? I cannot see John sharing stories of our "alliance," our 
triad, but I put little past the man.) For her part, Sukeena .nally 
arranged for George to meet her in the Health Room at the 
stroke of midnight. 
George appeared, quite drunk, but on time. Alerted to 
Sukeena's plans, I kept watch of the Health Room from above, 
alert to any lights coming on in various hallways or the Kitchen. 
223
If I saw any such activity, I was to switch the lights of my room 
repeatedly. Sukeena would be able to see my chamber's windows 
from inside the Health Room. 
All went according to plan. 
George showed up in the Health Room, and Sukeena immediately 
began dancing in a most .uid, provocative and suggestive 
manner. Even distanced as I was, I felt the power of that dance. 
No man could fail to respond to those hips, the loose-jointed 
nature of her body as it expressed itself. I could see George 
Meader reach for his collar (for the Health Room is considerably 
warmer than the rest of the house, even without Sukeena dancing) 
and attempt to unbutton it. He slipped off his coat -- perhaps 
at Sukeena's instruction. Only moments after he had removed his 
coat, Sukeena sank to the .oor, her legs crossed, and apparently 
set her mind to prayer, or whatever it is she does exactly. Barely 
seconds passed before I saw George Meader swat his arm -- the bee 
had stung him, summoned, I remain convinced, by Sukeena's 
substantial meditative powers. Sukeena waited only brie.y for 
George to sink to his knees. Then she slipped quietly into the 
garden, and through the Pool House returned by the south stairs 
to her rooms. 
Meader died without so much as a sound. Upon his death, the 
.rst blooms of red roses appeared, vines wandering and growing 
and extending themselves before my eyes. Within minutes, I 
could no longer see inside the Health Room, overgrown as it was 
by the wandering vines. 
Nothing was found of George Meader for several hours, 
except that coat he had removed. Only the next day, as the vines 
impossibly receded and returned to their previous state, was the 
body found. (The .esh was torn by thorns as if he'd been rolled 
in a bed of roses.) 
John instructed the stable boys to cart the body downtown, 
224
knowing I would refuse the police entrance into my home for 
anything but outright murder, and even then only with the 
proper documents. 
Was it Rose or Sukeena who took George Meader from this 
world? Does it matter any longer? I feel half crazy with it all. 
(More than half, if you believe the staff.) I have nearly abandoned 
my own suspicions of the Indian burial ground, and yet Indian 
artifacts continue to surface in the house -- and one, an earthen 
ceramic bowl shaped as a beehive, did .nd its way into the Health 
Room, as I recall! 
Perhaps the mysteries of this place will never be solved. 
Perhaps some scientist will come along in future generations to 
explain what I, sadly, cannot. Who's to tell? One thing is for certain: 
I will continue to build Rose Red until the day I die -- or 
until I myself am claimed -- even with my own hands when necessary 
(as I continue to construct the Tower). I will continue to 
attempt to negotiate a longer life for myself that I might outlive 
my husband -- this I pray for more than anything. That I might 
.nd my child still alive. (Adam is barely a part of my life, as John 
will not allow him to return to this place -- I know my son only 
through letters, and these letters are less frequent each year.) 
Another has died. I barely mourn the loss. Rose Red has her 
needs. Sukeena and I must protect ourselves. Arthritis has found 
my .ngers, I am in excruciating pain, and I fear my entries here 
in your pages, Dear Diary, shall be fewer and farther between. 
What more is to be said? I live in a world, condemned. Made 
into someone I am not by night, in my husband's desperate 
attempts to .nd satisfaction, reduced to prayer and silence by day. 
Sneaking off to build with my hands what this house demands of 
me. "The Tower," she whispers at night. My little April. 
Soon, our reunion, as I have ordered the exterior of the 
Tower to be built, my stairway nearing completion. A year or two 
225
at most, I'm told, following on the heels of projects already 
planned. A golden cherub has been ordered, cast in Italy by artisans 
in Florence. This cherub will stand high atop Rose Red and 
lord over our property. Perhaps over Rose Red herself. 
Plans are taking shape. My daughter is coming home. 
226
editor's note: although the subsequent lack of 
diary entries is attributed to ellen rimbauer's 
arthritis, there is some evidence that this period 
proved traumatic to her and that she suffered at 
least one breakdown. with the doctor's recommendation 
she attend "a clinic" (see 16 november 1921) 
in switzerland, ellen rimbauer refused to leave 
rose red and her beloved sukeena. recently recovered 
documents (the diary of tina coleman, for 
one) promote the idea that john was behind ellen's 
"illness," and that switzerland was his attempt to 
remove her from rose red once and for all. this 
plan failed, regardless of its source. on 17 october 
1920, a serious FIre claimed an entire wing of rose 
red. the cause of that FIre has never been named. it 
must be considered as a possibility that ellen set 
that FIre herself in protest to john's attempts to be 
rid of her. 
a study of the contractor's notes and plans 
show no work on the tower scheduled for nearly 
twenty months. another theory behind the FIre and 
all their relationship problems was that ellen 
found out john was purposely delaying work on the 
tower. regardless of disagreements, construction 
on the tower began in earnest in early november 
1920. to this day, three important questions remain 
surrounding the period 1918–1920: (1) ellen's mental 
state; (2) the "activity" of the house (e.g., there 
are reports of nearly a dozen disappearances in this 
twenty-four-month period); and (3) john's growing 
fear of his wife; his wife's maid, sukeena; and the 
house that together the rimbauers continued to 
build, and remodel, at an alarming pace. 
227
there are writings (though no substantial evidence) 
that suggest it was john, not ellen, who had 
lost touch with reality, and that during this time 
he became badly addicted to laudanum, spending 
days at a time in the opium dens south of the city 
and away from the monstrosity of a house he had 
come to fear. 
-- joyce reardon 
228
19 june 1921 -- rose red 
Sparks. I see robins outside my window. Twiddle-dee, twiddledum, 
I smell smoke in the auditorium. Where have I been? I ask 
myself, looking back at your pages. Is it possible I have not written 
my thoughts down here, except once in a blue moon? I feel as if I 
write here every day, but perhaps that is just my imaginings. I 
have been overcome with fever quite regularly. In truth these 
fevers always seem to follow my nights spent in the company of my 
husband -- a pleasant way to write down here what is not often 
pleasant at all. For several years now he has included Sukeena in 
our . . . participation. I'd rather not say. Twiddle-dee, twiddledum. 
Sparks. The servants are out testing explosives for our 
annual Fourth of July party. I watch from my window, singing 
songs I recall from my childhood. How can childhood seem so far 
away, a part of another person's life, surely not mine? Sparks. 
Boom, boom, boom. If once I held any innocence, it has burned 
away like the gunpowder in these displays I watch. No innocence 
in the bedroom. No innocence at the window (at least not the 
night I helped Sukeena wrap George Meader in thorny vines). No 
innocence inside my head, where I spend an increasing amount 
of time trying to foresee my husband's maneuvers to remove me 
from this place. I've hidden from him -- up in the attic, still working 
on the stairs to the Tower -- for days at a time. John wandering 
the house calling out, perhaps secretly hoping Rose has claimed 
me once and for all. Me, waiting. Waiting. Letting him wet his 
whistle on this notion, letting his heart beat with excitement at 
the possibility I'm gone forever. And then I waltz into the 
Breakfast Room, as if not away from him for more than a few 
minutes. I watch his face sag. I smile enormously and greet him 
with bright, rested eyes and good humor. Later, he stews. Angry. 
Alone. I like him that way: angry and alone. I want him to pay for 
all the innocence he has taken from me. From us. 
229
I talk to Rose openly now. No longer afraid. I tell her I want 
to see my daughter. I offer myself to her walls. But she asks 
strange things of me. We have remodeled an upstairs hall to 
become the Perspective Hallway: it diminishes in the same fashion 
as train tracks, one end to the other. It's in honor of the late 
George Meader and his rail company, but this is a hall -- and the 
deeper you enter it, the lower the ceiling, the tighter the walls. It 
is not unlike my life itself -- the longer I have lived, the more con- 
.ned I feel by my surroundings. (At thirty-four, I feel more like 
eighty years of age.) I have hidden doors off the Perspective 
Hallway, in the same manner my husband has hidden his viewing 
rooms throughout this palace. Some go nowhere. Others lead to 
mazes of hallways. (In one such secreted hallway I hung a great 
nude on the other side of glass, just to annoy my husband should 
he stray inside. Life imitates art, they say. Or is it the other way 
around?) 
To-day marks the grand opening of the Tower. (Our friends, 
I hear tell, are referring to my endeavor as "the tower folly." Be 
that as it may, I'm quite proud of the addition.) It includes the 
stairs that lead from the attic to a single room of generous proportions 
offering a full, panoramic view of all of Rose's wings, 
our property and its forests, as well as the commanding sight of 
the city and Elliott Bay beyond. It is the most beautiful, most 
important addition to our grand home, and is certain to take its 
place as one of my favorite spots. Now that it is open -- complete 
with the lovely Venetian glass window and the twenty-four-karat 
gold-plated Italian cherub that adorns the peak of its roof -- I feel 
as if I have a retreat of sorts, a place to hide, a place to pray, a 
place to seek my missing daughter. 
John has not been in favor of the Tower. (He fears I put too 
much faith in the Tower helping me to locate April, and I admit 
here that he is quite right about that -- my faith, that is -- but our 
beliefs differ so greatly that John also trusts that there is little or 
230
no hope of any such physical structure providing a conduit, a 
medium that might reconnect us with our missing April, a fallacy 
in him I strive to correct!) 
My mind wanders so frequently now, led as I am in so many 
directions. My "wonderings" come with more frequency and last 
longer. I see the staff steer clear of me in the hallways, shaken by 
my pale face, no doubt, or my unsteady walk. They have never lost 
a child, as I have. They have never compromised their existence as 
I have, obeying my husband and tolerating untold embarrassments 
in order to remain in the house of my child's disappearance. 
(To leave John would certainly mean leaving Rose -- and that 
is even more unthinkable now than it was before.) Sukeena and I 
have agreed to meet at midnight (providing John does not call for 
our services) and, with the completion of the Tower, attempt to 
summon sweet April. We will climb and listen for the winds that 
have instructed me for these past several years, my hands bloodied 
with my efforts as a carpenter. It seems to me I shall always be 
putting .nishing touches on my attic stairway, which ascends, 
through three turns, to the Tower. It will never be perfect, will 
always require attention -- but so does a child, of course. This 
Tower is my child, just as my child is this Tower. How could I 
ever neglect it for even a single day? But alas, I am late for my 
rendezvous with my maid. 
Sukeena and I meet in the upstairs hallway, alongside the panel 
that I had discovered previously, and let ourselves in. I carry a 
battery-powered .ashlight, heavy as it is, and lead the way along 
the now familiar route, past the guests' quarters, up and into the 
attic. We stand at the base of my stairs, where the early work of my 
carpentry is seen for what it is: crude and poorly done. Through 
the door, the bottom stair is crooked, as are the next three, those 
in lessening proportions. The wood is still raw and untreated, as I 
231
have much work yet to do and will not allow any of the workers to 
touch a thing here. We climb slowly, to cries and complaints of 
the poorly assembled stairs, and I shine the light on Sukeena as 
she lags behind. Even she appears frightened. I take this as a good 
sign and encourage her on. I certainly must look a bit ghostly 
myself, drained of color as I am of late, standing there in my 
sheer nightgown, the yellow light .ashing around unsteadily as I 
wave the .ashlight unintentionally in my right hand, directing 
her. Perhaps Sukeena is more afraid of me than this Tower. I 
shouldn't be surprised, everyone else seems to fear me and my 
condition. 
Now, as we approach the second turn, I .nally hear what it is 
that has frightened my dear friend, what she has heard that I did 
not -- the creaking of the stairs no longer sounds like lumber rubbing 
on lumber, nails straining against nails -- increasingly it 
sounds like a voice, a familiar voice, a child's voice. April! The 
higher we climb, the more the creaking goes to wind, the wind to 
voice: "Ma-ma . . ." it calls, and I hurry my ascent, climbing all 
the faster. Sukeena, protective perhaps, is nearly running to keep 
up with me. "Miss Ellen!" she calls, the condition of warning carried 
in her tone. It is as if she fears that the door at the very top 
of these stairs, a door that grows larger by the moment, will lead 
not to the panoramic view I anticipate but to some dark, foreboding 
place, where young April is kept hidden. And those who 
enter, along with it. 
Alas, as I burst through the upper door and out into the brisk 
night chill (the Tower is not heated) I am bathed in colorful 
light. For a moment, I feel as if I'm in the "light of God," and I 
wonder if indeed Rose Red has not claimed me and is in the 
process of transporting me to wherever April lives. (I always think 
of April as alive, but in another place; my motherly ways will allow 
no other consideration.) Then I see Sukeena circling the Tower 
232
in front of me. It is the moon and the stained-glass window that 
have poured this light across me. 
"April," I call out, the wind rushing up the stairs below and 
encompassing me: "Ma-ma, ma-ma." I feel dizzy. My child is so 
very close. I can smell her. Taste her sweet cheeks as I kiss away 
her tears. I fall to my knees, trembling. I am pointing. Sukeena 
misunderstands, believing I am pointing to her. Then, she slowly 
looks around behind her, in the same direction as my .nger is 
aimed. 
She, too, falls down onto her knees. She lowers her head and 
kisses the boards we kneel upon -- the .oor to the Tower. The 
Temple, I shall think of it from now on. I ordered that stainedglass 
window of the rose more than a decade earlier, while on my 
honeymoon with my husband, before the birth of Adam, before 
the birth of April. And yet here, backlit by the full moon as it is, 
the sound of my daughter's voice swirling through the rotunda, 
so clear, and crisp and young, this multicolored window does not 
depict a rose at all. The tones and patterns have shifted in this 
shimmering light, the moon playing tricks on the eyes -- or so 
some would say. 
Instead of a rose in that window, it is a face that Sukeena and I 
now see. As clear and as apparent as if I'd instructed the artisans 
to fashion it in this regard so many years ago. But how could they 
have? She wasn't born yet. For you see, Dear Diary, the image in 
that lovely window is not a rose at all, but a portrait. It is the face 
of my child, April. Just as she looked the day she disappeared. As 
the wind blows eerily in our ears, her lips move. And she talks 
to me. 
233
16 november 1921 
I return to your pages after too long an absence. John's proclivity 
toward moodiness has increased with each month. He seems tired 
so much of the time. He returns from the city late, late at night 
with odd smells on his clothing. (The closest I have come to experiencing 
these same odors was while visiting Madame Lu.) His 
husbandly appetites have subsided. He has not visited my chambers 
in nearly three months. I cannot speak of my fears on these 
pages, but I imagine the worst for poor John. While his fortune 
continued to grow, his partnership dissolved, a good friend had 
"an unfortunate accident" in his Health Room, his daughter disappeared 
and his home began building itself without him. (A 
protracted battle erupted between John and our contractor when 
the contractor accused my husband of shopping out work to a 
moonlighting crew, for a great deal of carpentry work is often 
accomplished overnight within the walls of Rose Red. No explanation 
has been given, but the contractor has been replaced by 
one who asks no such questions.) 
In the midst of his "depression" (what the doctors are calling 
it) John has twice tried to force me to travel to Switzerland (once, 
this summer, and again, in late September) to attend a health 
clinic where he hoped I might .nd peace from my af.iction with 
fever. Reunited with my daughter as I am in my late-night visits 
(wisely, I have told John nothing of this), I refuse to budge. 
Nothing can take me from Rose Red now. (Sukeena believes this 
was the intention of the house all along. Perhaps a bit jealous 
herself, my maid believes this rambling palace is somehow in love 
with me and wants me all to herself.) 
The reason for this entry in your pages, the cause of my 
alarm, is that to-day John issued an ultimatum that I was not to 
visit the Tower any longer. He ordered it boarded up and padlocked. 
Although I long to understand his reasoning -- does he 
234
sense a change in me? -- I cannot, of course, allow him to make 
such impossible demands. I wonder if John himself did not stray 
up to that lofty place late one night and see the face, hear the 
voice himself? Perhaps it proved too much for him. Perhaps he 
snapped and has slid downhill ever since. Perhaps, only now, can 
he begin to come to grips with what happens in that magic place 
and strive to prevent me from experiencing it myself. I have never 
understood John Rimbauer, and I understand him even less now, 
but we have had a conversation about this demand of his, and for 
the .rst time in our marriage, I threatened my husband with his 
life.
I suggested that poison might .nd its way into his food, a 
mechanical failure might befall his motorcar, a dockside whore 
might run him through with a knife. The biggest threat of all, I 
saved for last. I offered to reinvite his recent houseguests -- we've 
entertained a series of prominent bankers of late as John negotiates 
a pipeline deal -- and to parade them down the back hallways 
that afford my husband the opportunity to regard their wives in a 
full state of undress and while taking their toilet. (I dare say the 
loans would dry up quite quickly!) After a brief consideration, 
John removed his ultimatum, but the look he gave me chilled me 
to the bone. 
I fear what little peace still exists in this house is now destined 
as a part of our past. 
235
9 june 1922 -- rose red 
My husband has taken a turn for the worse. Violence surrounds 
him, follows him like a shadow. He eats alone, leaves the house 
early in the morning and sometimes stays away for days at a time. 
I'm told by those who should know that he has been seen gambling 
(quite heavily) in the Chinese district south of the city, that 
he has lost a considerable amount of money and that a certain 
intemperance has left him in need of regular visits to that community, 
sometimes several times a day. 
To-night, he threatened our headwaiter with a carving knife, 
ostensibly because the beef was prepared too rare. (I don't see the 
problem -- John is hardly eating at all any longer.) He then threw a 
tureen on the .oor, shattering it, and causing the girls who work 
in the Dining Room to .ee and not return. Our headwaiter 
quit -- walked out. We will need to replace him to-morrow -- that is, 
if news of John's temper has not reached everywhere in this city, 
which I fear has resulted in a protracted dif.culty in Mr. 
Tammerman securing domestics of any quality. Rose Red has 
turned. She is in a season of decline. I attribute this to John's 
reduction of the construction budget -- he has cut building by 
half. And whereas our .ne home now accommodates over thirty- 
.ve thousand square feet of living space, can sleep forty-two and 
feed several hundred in grand style, she could have been more 
grand, more luxurious had John not started pinching his pennies. 
To-night, Sukeena and I spoke of this at length -- for even she 
now acknowledges that we have seen less of April during this time 
of slow growth. Rose Red must be allowed to expand. The faster 
the construction, the more visits from my daughter. My husband 
and I vary greatly in our opinions on this matter. I do not know if 
my maid suggested it, or if perhaps it was I, but a very clear need 
236
exists for the departure of John Rimbauer. He is in my way, in 
Sukeena's and the staff 's way and is now in the way of the house 
herself. 
Something must be done. I fear it is up to me to decide exactly 
what. 
237
AFTERWORD 
my great-grandmother's diary ended here, and were 
it not for the work of joyce reardon's recent expedition 
into rose red, it might have ended here forever. 
however, i was a part of that expedition and 
had the good fortune to discover in the attic a 
second installment to the diary, hidden in the wall 
of the tower, ironically, on the other side of a 
false door installed behind an old discolored 
watercolor of a red rose hanging on the wall. (i 
believe great-grandma may have painted that 
watercolor herself.) 
the entries that follow are disturbing to say the 
least, but they do conFIrm some of what was discovered 
during the reardon expedition, the intention 
of which was to psychically awaken the slumbering 
beast of rose red. as the old sage has said, "be careful 
what you ask for . . ." we know now, through 
this conFIrmation, the cause of at least one fatality, 
and perhaps in the years to follow we shall 
uncover more. much of the late diary is written in a 
"code," an encryption that has yet to be broken. my 
great-grandmother had either unspoken talents or 
a connection to a place that few, if any, of us will 
ever access. what follows are excerpts from the 
second diary. 
-- steven rimbauer 
seattle, washington, september 2000 
(joyce reardon's FInal editorial was respectfully 
moved to conclude the diary.) 
238
19 february 1923 -- rose red 
4 P.M. 
Winter has proved especially vexing and tiresome. I put into your 
pages now what never must be revealed to any living person. I 
have, for this reason, made amendments to my last will and testament, 
ensuring your destruction, Dear Diary, should anything 
happen to me. 
For the past several months, and more so, in recent weeks, 
Sukeena and I have conspired -- yes, I choose my words carefully --  
on some way to do away with John Rimbauer. Try as I have to 
drive him from this home in recent months, my efforts have been 
to no avail, in part because my husband is no longer the man he 
once was. His trips to the Chinese sector are more a part of his 
life than anything here. He returns disoriented and confused, 
and he strikes out in terror at anyone in his way. He has become 
far more than a nuisance. Last week, when he violently took liberties 
with Julie, the .fteen-year-old-daughter of Mrs. Cruthers, 
our housemaid, I promised an end to it. This very evening, my 
maid and I shall deliver on our promise. 
8 P.M. 
I am told by Sukeena that the .rst part of our devious plan is now 
in place. She visited my husband in his upstairs of.ce at teatime --  
a visit she had never made once in all her years in our service --  
and I'm told the conversation went something like this: 
(To give you the bene.t of imagination, Dear Diary, I should 
tell you that Sukeena's full black form when clothed loosely in 
white Egyptian cotton is so provocative that my husband banned 
her from this dress early on in her service. I should also add that 
during the days of John's visits to my chambers with my maid "in 
attendance," he never "knew" her, in the biblical sense. He 
watched. He leered. But he never knew her. As odd as this may 
239
sound -- and it does so to me even here on your pages -- I believe 
this omission of the act has been out of respect to me, and I also 
believe it has thrown him into internal turmoil that has, these 
many months, resulted in a string of self-destructive acts.) 
"Evening, sir." 
"Sukeena." 
She says he was seated behind his great English partners desk, 
a .re burning in the .replace, a brandy held in hand. His dark 
blue velvet and black satin smoking jacket. Charcoal gray trousers. 
Ascot. Cigar. The snifter of brandy. 
"Is there anything you are needing, sir?" Sukeena is my maid, 
not his. Surely her approach -- this arrival in his private chambers
-- must have struck him oddly. 
"Such as?" 
"Anything at all." I can just imagine her lilting tone, the shifting 
from one broad hip to the other, the way she does. When 
Sukeena moves, it is like a cheetah. John has always been slightly 
afraid of the big cats. 
"Anything?" 
"Anything, sir." She added, "Miss Ellen, she asleep, sir. Took 
some bourbon with milk not an hour ago." 
I am prone to .nding my sleep quickly when under the in.uence 
of spirits. No one is more aware of this than my husband. 
He looked at her with a cocked head and curious eye. 
"I be wondering, sir. About things. About you. About you and 
me, sir. A woman can't help but wonder." 
"You've been wondering about . . . ?" Astonishment. I imagine 
the laudanum must dull my husband's good senses. (He has 
not shown any such senses in many months.) Lull him. Fool him. 
How else could others trick him into parting with his money so 
easily? This man who amassed a fortune only to squander it away. 
I wish, Dear Diary, I could summon even a modicum of sympathy 
for my dear John, but reason does not allow me such luxury. 
240
Except for a brief period of courting, I have known him to be a 
sel.sh man. I served a purpose in his life -- the same way a railroad 
tycoon can provide his oil transportation -- I offered legitimacy of 
his offspring. He poisoned my womanhood with his dalliances, 
made me barren and robbed me of the one thing I could offer. 
He takes women like he takes meals -- often and hungrily. He lavished 
no love upon his daughter and yet offered his son anything 
he desired, including a way out of this house. With his good looks 
and winning smile, he has cajoled many a businessman and every 
woman into surrendering whatever it is they hold dearest, all the 
while believing John Rimbauer was doing them a favor. The only 
thing I've ever see frighten him is this house -- my dear Rose -- and 
so it was to Rose I turned in my hour of need. 
"I . . . I told you not to wear that clothing around this house, 
woman! It's not proper." 
"I be having a problem sleeping, sir. Thinking about . . . 
Sukeena sorry if my dressing gown does not please you." 
"Please me?" 
"Yes, sir." 
He rose slowly out of his chair, the .re crackling. "Please 
me?" he repeated. 
"It's not something I ever speak to the Miss about. You can see 
that, sir." 
"Indeed." 
"Something I got-to know. A woman got-to know." She paused, 
then turned for the door. "Was thinking about da Tower, sir. Put 
a quilt in the Tower, I did. Heavy quilt. The one from Sveden. 
You know the one. Maybe Sukeena take her sleep in the Tower." 
She left his study then, fully con.dent that behind the haze of 
the laudanum and the brandy, the cigar and that ruddy con.- 
dence of his, my husband would follow like a puppy to its mother. 
Sure enough, he did just that. 
She walked luxuriously, strolling down the great wide halls of 
241
Rose Red as if in a processional, my husband trailing a few yards 
behind. Down the hall, she turned into his own changing room, 
and this must certainly have shocked him. She walked straight 
into his closet, opened the secret panel at the back and entered 
the narrow hallway that led directly to the attic. By now he must 
have thought her possessed of black magic, for he never missed a 
step, ducking through his own clothing and following that path 
he had followed so many times before. Even then with lurid 
thoughts occupying him. 
I see it in my mind's eye as a spectacle: Sukeena in front of 
him by a few steps, my husband's slightly drunken gait following a 
few paces behind. His heart racing with anticipation -- this cherished 
prize that has remained out of reach all these years. In our 
African camp, I got to Sukeena before John did, as she was 
assigned to me as my handmaid. I can only imagine the frustration 
this caused in him now that I know what was always on my 
husband's mind. Now that I know it was there in that camp that 
he exposed himself to sinful disease. I have wondered many times 
what our lives might be like had I taken to God the way so many 
women do. Would we now be blessed? Why did I choose to pray 
to the dark side, make alliances with powers beyond my understanding? 
God, too, is beyond my understanding, so why not 
God? How much better this might have all turned out. 
Forgiveness instead of revenge, faith instead of accusation and 
hardship. (Perhaps now is the time. I hear it is never too late to 
turn to the Christ. Just think: all that I have imagined, all that I 
have suffered through, and yet still a chance for salvation!) 
Up my twisting and complaining staircase did they come, 
Sukeena now leading my frightened husband by the hand. The 
winds began calling behind the creaking of that lumber, "Da . . . 
da. Da . . . da." My husband's blood ran cold; despite the 
brandy, his eyes grew large with fear. He stopped his ascent, 
nearly pulling Sukeena over, who had the lead. 
242
"Come," she said. 
"I can't. Do you hear that?" 
"Hear only the wind, sir," she lied. "Mustn't be afraid of the 
wind." 
"Is that all it is?" 
"Oh, yes, sir. The Tower get all sort of the winds." She 
reminded him, "The quilt, sir. When we to lie down, the wind no 
longer make the sound." She tugged on his arm. "The master not 
afraid of a little wind?" 
When one needs John to budge, one resorts to his playing 
against his own impressions of himself. This trick worked. He 
.uffed himself up, expanded his chest and took after my maid 
once again, slowing ascending the misshapen staircase leading to 
the Tower. 
She threw the door open. 
It had to be the right night. We knew that in our early stages of 
planning. First, a full moon -- for these are the nights that April 
will visit. Second, that time of night when the moon sits just 
above the horizon, fully lighting the stained-glass window there. 
We knew what would be said. The stress of an in.rm wife. His 
daughter disappearing like that. The gambling. The visits to 
Chinatown. The social pressures that wealth can bring. 
Sukeena entered the Tower .rst. The voice was so clearly 
April's now. "Da . . . da . . . ," it said. John stepped in behind, 
and the door gently swung shut behind him. In the stained-glass 
window, the lovely rose changed before our eyes into a ghostly 
specter of my daughter's misshapen and withered arm. The wind 
asked, "These are your gifts to your children?" My husband stood 
as if his shoes had been nailed to the .ooring. The hand in the 
window, my daughter's hand, plain as day, beckoned him, her 
.nger waving him toward her. "Da . . . da. Come . . . 
Look . . ." 
If all those years ago in Africa a person had told me that 
243
someday the spirits would join me in the ful.llment of my wishes, 
I might have imagined pure love between husband and wife --  
worldly travel and long sumptuous meals that added not a pound 
to my frame. A family of six children. Songs by the .re in the 
evenings and a game of whist with friends after supper. I might 
never have imagined this. 
John took one .nal step closer to the window. He looked to 
his feet: no quilt. He looked up and saw me hovering behind the 
door, for it had been me who had shut it, closing him in. 
The power of two women can be formidable, especially when 
combined with the determination of years of struggle and anger 
that had steeped inside both Sukeena and me. She took an arm 
and yanked, spinning him. I charged with all my strength. But in 
the end it was neither Sukeena nor me. I only wish it were so. It 
was April -- that enormous wind -- that did the job for us. I threw 
my weight into John, certainly. Sukeena pulled with all her substantial 
strength. A look of shock and surprise -- the hunter 
hunted -- my husband lifted off his feet in an ungainly and weightless 
manner. There, he faced our daughter in the stained-glass 
window. April smiled and blinked and repeated one last time, 
"Da . . . da." (At that moment I wondered, had it been 
Sukeena's and my idea, or had it been April's all along?) 
John Rimbauer planted his feet. He skidded across the 
wooden planks, and I swear I smelled burning wood as his heels 
dragged. He .ew up and through the window, exploding it into a 
thousand pieces, and plunged down and off the slate roof from 
some .fty feet above the .agstone terrace. I recall him insisting 
upon the construction of that abysmal front terrace. I had never 
cared for it. 
I like it a lot better now that it's rose red. 
244
26 february 1923 
My son came home to-day and together we buried his father. 
Hundreds attended, from women whose names I did not want to 
know, to the dockhands who thought of him as a personal friend, 
to the bankers, businessmen and public of.cials who have made 
their careers off him. I stood in all black, crying real tears, holding 
my son .rmly by the shoulder -- the .rst time I have seen him 
in nearly three years. 
It is dif.cult to express in these pages the acute sense of loss, 
of grief that I am experiencing. Despite all the atrocious things 
John Rimbauer did to me, the pain he brought to my life, I 
admired him greatly, loved him at times and marveled at his success. 
Even with the gambling losses he leaves behind a dynasty, a 
king's fortune as it turns out. 
Adam and I spent the later part of the afternoon walking the 
woods where he and his father hunted squirrels and rabbit. After 
some reminiscing and retelling of stories about his father, Adam 
.nally brought up the subject he had avoided for years. 
"Is it haunted?" he asked, looking not at me but at his own 
boots in the wet leaves. 
"It's possessed," I answered honestly. "That's the best way I 
can put it." 
"As in 'ghosts'?" 
"Spirits." 
We stopped on the trail, overlooking Lasky Pond. 
"And April?" 
Here was the discussion I had so longed to have with my son. I 
knew that John had colored his opinion. The newspaper, perhaps 
at John's bidding, had reported a day or two later that the ice on 
Lasky Pond was found broken, and that April might have fallen 
through. (I wonder, then, that we never found the body!) This 
became the generally accepted view: an accident on the pond; a 
245
bear who had gotten close to the city; a mountain lion. Anything 
but the truth. 
"She's in the house, Adam." 
"That's preposterous, Mother!" It was my husband's voice, 
though carried in my son's body, and the effect was disarming. 
How quickly they learn. 
"Why do you think your father found ways all these years to 
keep you from returning to the house? You think he was afraid of 
the woods? This pond? He was afraid of the walls." 
"Father was afraid of nothing." 
"We're all afraid of something, dear. Your father was a great 
man. But he was afraid of the truth. He .red Douglas Posey to 
avoid facing the truth; he kept you from this house, your home. 
Never fear the truth, Adam. It's the only real passport you have to 
reach new levels of understanding. You may .nd it corny, but the 
truth can set you free." 
"It is corny." He toed the fallen leaves, burrowing a wet hole 
into the forest .oor and overturning a small, shiny rock. 
"If you stay long enough, it may be possible for you to hear 
her voice." 
"Mother . . ." 
"What? I'm crazy? You can tell me, Adam. You tell me." 
246
1 march 1923 
So it was that on a perfectly still night, three days later, my son 
and I climbed the creaking Tower steps toward that place where 
his father had met his death. Adam is a good-looking, strong boy 
of thirteen, with wide shoulders and thoughtful eyes. Despite his 
adolescent strength, he moved cautiously and nervously up those 
stairs, the wind rising in our ears. Wind, at .rst. Then the soft 
calling of his sister's voice. 
As their mother I had forgotten how close these two had 
been -- nearly inseparable, until Adam was shuttled off to boarding 
school. They had grown up nearly as twins -- Adam helping his 
slightly incapacitated sister; April as foil for his games and test 
subject for his inventions. 
My young boy, whom this school had developed prematurely 
into a young man, collapsed down onto the steps and wept 
openly, falling into his mother's arms, and knowing this was no 
trick. He was afraid, and I should have thought about his tender 
age and realized it was too soon for him. There would be plenty 
of time for all this. Why had I insisted on rushing it? Why had I 
felt nearly desperate to prove my sanity to my child? (Is such a 
thing provable anyway?) 
As it was, mother and son eventually reached the Tower, sitting 
on its wooden .oor. The open hole that had been the 
stained-glass window was now boarded up. Someday I will manage 
to replace that window. We huddled together, crying, laughing. 
Adam tried to talk back to that whispering voice, and though I did 
not understand the exchange, I would swear here on these pages 
that he spoke with his sister. I know for a fact that he returned to 
the Tower each and every night and spent hours up there. 
He is back at school now. But he's writing me, nearly daily --  
this son who had been virtually absent from my life. I feel whole 
247
again. Woman. Mother. John's absence is more tolerable each 
passing day. Peace has returned to Rose Red. Adam and I are a 
family again. 
Nothing so sweet. 
248
19 february 1928 
Dear God in Heaven! Give her back to me! 
Sukeena has gone missing! Last seen in the Health Room! No 
sign of her anywhere, I wander this tomb's endless hallways wondering 
why everyone who becomes so close to me ends up stolen 
from my life. Robbed from me. I hate this house. Despise it! I 
will never invite Adam back again. 
The staff is nearly sick with looking for my maid, so many 
hours -- days now! -- have we been at it. The house is impossibly 
large. Believe this or not, Dear Diary, we all have witnessed physical 
transformations. Hallways change structure and appearance 
behind your back. Rooms disappear! What is going on? How can 
it be? A physical structure, a building, and yet .uid as water. A 
chameleon. She no longer requires growing larger -- she reinvents 
herself internally. Once a hallway, now a ballroom; once a basement, 
now a dungeon! 
I ordered all Sukeena's plants uprooted from the Health 
Room (for upon her disappearance, it bloomed more richly than 
I have ever seen -- every plant at once in full blossom!). I watched 
that task carried out -- watched it with my own eyes from up in my 
chambers, recalling my past observation of other events down 
there as well. Seven workers took three hours to clear the room 
down to bare soil. By the time they reached the west end, the east 
had sprouted new plants. By the following morning, the plants 
were six feet tall -- taller than they'd ever been, and in full bloom. 
That is Sukeena providing that bloom -- her love, her energy, her 
powers. 
We all -- every one of us! -- heard Rose Red laugh last night. 
Laugh at me. At us. It was the most frightening sound I've ever 
heard. 
If there is a game to this, she has clearly won. They are all 
249
gone. My loved ones. I am alone. Alone in my thoughts, alone in 
my silence, alone in this house. 
I shall .re the entire staff (before she gets another of them!). 
I shall dwell in this place alone for a time. Let her suffer. Let 
her fail. Perhaps then we can strike a bargain, this house and me. 
Perhaps then she'll allow me to visit Sukeena as I do April. My 
husband taught me well: everything is negotiable. 
250
editor's note: bookkeeping records substantiate 
ellen rimbauer's claim of FIring the thirty-four 
staff members for a period of four months. during 
that time it is believed she lived in rose red completely 
alone and without a single visitor. whatever 
her mental state going into this solitude, she 
came out the worse for wear. over the subsequent 
two months, she reinstated a staff of twenty. she 
threw parties. at the last, 1946's annual inaugural 
ball, one of that period's greatest FIlm actresses, 
deanna petrie, disappeared in rose red (there are 
unconFIrmed rumors that her friendship with ellen 
went beyond the norm). this was the last great 
party thrown in rose red. the staff was reduced to 
FIfteen at the start of the u.s. involvement in 
world war ii. by 1950 ellen rimbauer had disappeared. 
in 1950, as she was approaching the age of seventy, a 
nearly blind ellen rimbauer is said to have entered 
the perspective hallway never to return. staff 
there claim to have since heard sawing and hammering 
in the attic. 
at the time of her death, ellen rimbauer, once 
the most beautiful and envied woman in seattle's 
high society, was a wizened old lady, feverish, half 
blind and slightly mad. it is said that from time to 
time rose red can be heard laughing or crying -- that 
the sound carries for miles and is often mistaken 
for either a wild animal or a ship's horn. 
251
• • • 
soon i shall venture inside rose red, armed with 
sophisticated detection equipment; steven rimbauer, 
a descendant of ellen and john rimbauer; 
and some of the most powerful "perceptionists" --  
psychics -- in this part of the country. we hope to 
awaken the "soul" of this enormous structure, the 
being that lies within the walls, and to open communication 
with either april, sukeena, ellen or 
rose red herself. it is this last option that i fear 
most of all. this diary conFIrms a formidable presence. 
as always in the study of psychic phenomena, 
one accepts a certain amount of the unknown, the 
uncharted. spin a globe, open a door and who 
knows what may happen? we shall see. life is an 
adventure. rose red offers the research opportunity 
of a lifetime. who, in my FIeld, would turn 
down such an opportunity? and so i go forward, 
uncertain and yet excited. we cannot discover the 
psychic boundaries that exist if we don't dare look 
for them. what we FInd is ours for a moment, science's 
forever. it is that moment i cherish -- that 
singular moment when whatever is out there is 
mine, and mine alone. in that winking of an eye, the 
world is limitless, and i along with it. 
-- joyce reardon, p.p.a., m.d., ph.d. 
252