Secrets of Foxworth (3 page)

“I'm a hands-on man,” he would tell me proudly. “Your mother wasn't above bragging to her friends about me, making me out to be Mr. Fix-It. But that's how she was.”

Our house was on a side road next to a working horse and cattle farm. We were nearly twelve miles outside the city of Charlottesville in the eastern foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. All of my friends
were within what Dad called “striking distance,” so I never felt any more isolated than anyone else, although I did especially enjoy spending time with Missy Meyer, whose father, Justin Anthony Meyer, was an important attorney and who lived in a classic 1900s brick Victorian home in the Belmont neighborhood of Charlottesville. It was only a block away from the Pedestrian Mall. Dad had done some renovation work for Mr. Meyer, laying down new pine floors and later redoing a bathroom.

“How many people died in the first Foxworth fire, Dad?” I asked once we were on our way, hoping to get him to start talking more about it.

“Far as I know, only two, the old lady and her son-in-law.”

“That attorney who had an affair with one of the granddaughters?”

He looked at me. I could see he was making a decision. Until now, it was clear that he didn't want to contribute any more to the dark details that surrounded my mother's cousins and the events that had occurred in that grand old mansion. He had scared me when he'd said that just thinking about them could poison my mind, but now that I was older, maybe it wasn't as dangerous.

“That's what I was told,” he said, “but I don't consider anyone I know to be anything of an authority on it. The Foxworths were very private people, and when people are that private, the only way you get to know anything about them is second- or thirdhand. Worthless.”

“Did you really believe that the children's grandmother wanted her own grandchildren dead and was somehow responsible for the little boy dying?”

“No one as far as I know proved anything like that,” he said. “It's a nasty story, Kristin. Why harp on it?”

“I know, but probably not much nastier than what they're showing at the movie theater.”

He nodded. “I'll give you that.”

“There are lots of stories like it on the news today also, Dad.”

“Look, I'm like most people around here, Kristin. What I know about the Foxworth tragedies I know from little more than gossip, and gossip is just an empty head looking to exercise a fat tongue.”

“Do you think the little boy's body is buried somewhere on the property? You must have some thought about that.”

“Not going to venture a guess on that, and I'm not going to be one to spread that story, Kristin. You know how hard it is to sell a house in which someone died? People get spooked. Look how long it's taken to move this property, and there's no reason for that, even though the house on it burned down twice. It's prime land.”

“How did it burn the second time? I heard an electric wire problem.”

“That's it,” he said. “It was abandoned, so no one noticed until it was too late.”

“I also heard the man who lived in it burned it because he believed it had the devil inside it.”

Dad smirked. “There was no proof of arson. All that just adds to the rumor mill.”

“The same house burns down twice?” I said.

He looked at me and then looked ahead and said, “Lightning can strike twice in the same place. No big mystery.”

He made a turn and started us on the now-infamous road to Foxworth, passing cow farms along the way. There had been a number of times when I was tempted to use my new driver's license and take myself and one or two of my friends out to Foxworth, but somehow the aura of dark terror hovered ahead of me when I considered it, even in broad daylight. And I didn't want any of my friends to know I had an interest in the Foxworth legends. That would only encourage their insinuations that I might have inherited madness.

“Did Mom ever talk about what happened, Dad?”

“You mean the first fire?”

“No, all of it, especially the children in the attic.”

“Her girlfriends were always trying to bring it up, I know, but she would say something like, ‘It's not right to talk about the dead,' as if it was some Grimms' fairy tale or something, and that would usually end it. But that didn't mean they didn't keep trying. A busybody has got to keep busy.”

“Did she talk about it with you?”

He gave me that look again, the expression that told me he was considering my age and what he should say. “I told you, Kristin, it's all hearsay, even what your mother knew and what we were told years later.”

“I'm all ears,” I replied.

He shook his head. “I'm going to regret this conversation.”

“No, you won't, Dad. I won't be the one to tell stories out of school,” I added, which was another one of his favorite expressions. I knew he loved that I used them, remembered them.

“Your uncle Tommy once claimed he had met someone who said he had known one of the servants in the original house at the time the children were supposedly locked in the attic. He went out to Hollywood to pitch the story for a movie, and Tommy heard it. He called us immediately afterward.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the man claimed it was true that they were up there for more than three years, a girl who was about twelve when they were first locked up, a boy who was about fourteen, and the twin boy and girl about four. Their father was killed in a car accident and supposedly didn't leave them enough money to fix the heels on their shoes. Malcolm Foxworth was pretty sick by then, but he hung on for a few years more. The story was that he wouldn't put his daughter back in his will if she had children with her husband.”

“Do you know why? Did he say?”

“He was vague about it. Tommy, who hears lots of stories, said he was sure the man was making most of it up as he went along just to season his story enough to sell it for a movie.”

“Did it fit with anything you had heard or knew already?”

“I told you, I never really knew what was true and what wasn't. What I do know from what the old-timers tell me is that Malcolm Foxworth was a real Bible thumper, one of those who believed Satan was everywhere, and so he was very strict. Whatever his daughter did to anger him, forgiveness was a part of his Christianity that he neglected. That's what your mother would say. She didn't even like being known as a distant relative, and to tell you the truth, she would cringe whenever anyone brought that up. She'd be angry at me for telling you this much hearsay.”

“So?” I asked, ignoring him. “At least tell me what else Uncle Tommy told you.” Despite his reluctance, I thought I had him on a roll. He had already said ten times as much as he had ever said before about the Foxworth family story.

“According to the story the man pitched, the kids were hidden up there so Malcolm wouldn't know they existed.”

“So that part is really true?”

“I told you. The guy was trying to sell a story for a movie.”

“But even in his story, why did that matter, not knowing they existed?”

“I guess Malcolm thought they were the devil's children. Anyway, your uncle says that this servant who was the main source for the story swears the old man knew and enjoyed that they were suffering.”

“Their own grandfather? Ugh,” I said.

“Yeah, right, ugh. So let's not talk about it anymore. It's full of distortions, lies, and plenty of ugh.”

I was quiet. How did the truth get so twisted? Why was no one sure about any of it? “What a mess,” I finally muttered.

“Yeah, what a mess. So forget it.” He smiled. “You're getting to look more like your mother every day, Kristin. You lucked out. I have a mug for a face.”

“You do not, Dad. Besides, if you did, would Mom have married you?”

He smiled. “Someday I'll tell you how I got that woman to say ‘I do.' ”

“I already know. She married you because she knew you could fix a leaky faucet. And that's just the way she was.”

He laughed. If he could, he would have leaned over and kissed me, but he didn't want to show me any poor driving habits, especially now that I was driving.

We rode on. It was right ahead of us now, and I could feel my breath quicken.

It was like opening a door locked for centuries.

Behind it lay the answers to all the secrets.

Or possibly . . . new curses.

Somehow I sensed that I was finally on the edge of finding out.

I was disappointed as we approached what was left of the second Foxworth Hall, which supposedly was a duplicate of the first. It looked more like a pile of rubble than the skeleton of a once proud and impressive mansion full of mystery and secrets. There were weeds growing in and around the charred boards and stones. Shards of broken glass polished by rain, snow, and
wind glittered. Anything of any color was faded and dull. Rusted pipes hung precariously, and the remains of one large fireplace looked like they were crumbling constantly, even now right before our eyes.

Most of the grounds were unkempt and overrun, bushes growing wild, weeds sprouting through the crumbled driveway, and the fading grass long ready to cut as hay. Four large crows were perched on the stone walls, looking as if they had laid claim to the place. They burst into a flurry of wings and, looking and sounding angry, flew off as we drew closer. They, along with rodents and insects, surely had staked title to all of it years ago. Otherwise, it looked as quiet and frozen in time as any rarely visited graveyard.

Another truck was already parked near the wrecked mansion. I recognized Todd Winston, one of the men who had been with Dad for years. Todd had married his high school sweetheart, Lisa Carson, after she had gotten her teaching certificate and begun to teach fifth grade. Three years later, they had their first child, a girl named Brandy, and two years later, they had Josh. Dad was only about ten years older than Todd, but Todd treated him more like a father than an older brother. He was always looking for Dad's approval. He had a full strawberry-blond beard and a matching head of hair that looked like it was allergic to a brush most of the time.

“The property has a lake on it fed from underground mountain streams,” Dad told me. “It's off to the left there, about a fifteen-, twenty-minute walk, if you want to see it,” he said. “We're going to be here
a good two hours or so. No complaints about it,” he warned. “You wanted to come along.”

“I won't complain. I've canceled all my important appointments for the day, including tea with the governor.”

“Wise guy,” Dad muttered, clenching his teeth but smiling.

“I've already seen two raccoon families who won't appreciate us bulldozing all this away, not to mention those crows,” Todd said as soon as we got out of the truck. “Hi, Kristin. Your dad putting you to work in construction already?”

“No. I'm just along for the ride.”

“The ride?”

I nodded at the wreckage. “I just want to see it all close up,” I told him, and he nodded and looked back at what was left of the mansion.

“Hard to believe it was once the place people describe, with a ballroom and all, magnificent chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, and stained-glass windows. People who live in houses like this usually don't get burned out. The rich don't die in fires.”

“Hogwash. Fire and water don't discriminate,” Dad said. “Besides, that's how the world will end if we don't find a better way, and goodness knows, we're working on it.”

“Thanks for the cheery news, Burt,” Todd said. “Where do you want to start?”

“We'll begin on the east end here.” He stared at it all a moment and then nodded. “They don't build
foundations like this anymore. It's the original one. Who'd build one like it now? It's the instant gratification generation, including instant house slapped together with spit and polish.”

“Amen to that,” Todd said.

He'd say amen to anything Dad uttered, I thought. He didn't have much of a mentor in his own father, who Dad said was as useless as a screw without a head. He spent most of his time nursing like a baby on a bottle of beer and was one of the fixtures at Hymie's Bar and Grill just southeast of the city.

Dad looked at me with those expectant eyes. Now that I was here, he was anticipating my disappointment. There was nothing sensational to see, no clues to what had happened here either the first or the second time. There was no way to understand how elaborate the mansion had once been. I saw legs of tables and chairs and crumbled elaborate stonework, but remnants of beautiful pictures, statues, curtains, and chandeliers were burned up or so charred that they were unrecognizable. There was certainly not much for me to do.

“I'll be fine,” I said. “I'll take that walk to the lake.”

“You be careful,” he said.

“Watch out for ghosts,” Todd called.

“Mind yourself,” Dad told him, and Todd laughed.

They started toward the foundation, and I walked around it all first. I kept looking up, trying to imagine the way the mansion stood, how high it really was, and where exactly the attic loft in which the children spent most of three years would be. Would they have
had any view? Maybe they could have seen the lake. And if they had, would that have made things easier or harder, looking at places they couldn't go to and enjoy? The surrounding forest was thick, the trees so tall that from my position, I could barely make out some of the hills in the distance, and only the very tops of them at that. But it had been decades since they had been here. The trees weren't so high back then.

I saw Dad and Todd begin measuring parts of the remaining structure, moving charred wood, and inspecting the walls of the foundation carefully, as if they anticipated something grotesque jumping out at them. Right now, it was difficult to imagine anything frightening about Foxworth. It looked like one of the structures devastated in bombings during the Second World War that we saw in films in history class. However, I knew there were even adults who believed that if they stood inside the wreckage at night, they could hear screams and cries, even laughter and whispers.