An Inheritance of Silence

An Inheritance of Silence

Trigger warning: involuntary psychiatric commitment and medical abuse.

Some inheritances came with passed-down wealth, family heirlooms, or stacks of photo albums that fell apart when you touched them. Millicent’s came with warped floors, rotting plaster, and a secret that had waited over a century to be found.

Danvers, Massachusetts was never a place she had imagined herself settling down, but when Millicent Blythe received a certified letter stating she was the sole inheritor of the Blythe Estate, curiosity nudged her to make the move from Texas all the way across the country. 

Blythe Estate had sounded grand and mysterious, a picture straight out of a gothic fairytale. Millicent had imagined a stately old home with a wraparound porch perfect for afternoon tea. Maybe even a large iron fence curling around the property. But the house before her was no fairytale. It was in ruins, with warped floors, peeling paint, and a roof in desperate need of replacing.

The only thing that stood out to her was the marvelous view out back, overlooking the Crane River.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting for a house built in 1801, but this was not it,” she said to herself before stepping onto the porch.

Millicent stepped wearily through the front door with the keys clutched tightly between her fingers. She glanced up at the ceiling as though it might cave at any moment. Dust danced in the air as she pushed the door open. Yellowing sheets lay draped over antique furniture. Faded wallpaper curled down the walls where it had begun peeling away. 

She glanced up at the enormous staircase in front of her. The banister seemed intact beneath the grime, dark wood carved by hand and polished smooth in places by generations of Blythes who had climbed those very stairs before her.

She felt a hollow ache at never knowing any of her family. 

Her father left Massachusetts long before she was born, trading the New England coast for the Texas heat. He died when she was six, and since her mother refused to speak about his family, stating they were difficult people that she’d rather leave in the past, any family knowledge died with him.

“Okay, this is not entirely hopeless,” she murmured to herself.

She took a step and the floor creaked under her weight. 

She winced.

“Mostly hopeless, then.”

She continued up the stairs, taking each one as if it might cave at any moment. At the top, a narrow hallway stretched in both directions, lined with closed doors and faded portraits barely visible beneath the dust.

“Oh. Well hello, y'all. I’m Millie, and I’m apparently going to be staying with y'all now. So please be kind and don’t haunt me at night,” she joked with one of the portraits.

Millicent chose the room at the end of the hall to assess the damage first. The door stuck against the frame but with a few nudges from her shoulder, it opened. A four-poster bed sat against the wall toward the center of the room and an old vanity sat beside it. Of all the rooms so far, this one felt least abandoned, as if someone had left it exactly as it was and expected to return.

Millicent stepped further inside when her foot caught, causing her to pitch forward and grab onto the bedpost.

“Shit, this is worse than I thought.”

She turned and looked down to notice one of the floorboards sat slightly higher than the rest.

Millicent crouched down, brushing away a layer of dust. Then she noticed the marks on the sides of the board, not really noticeable unless you were actually looking for them.

Pry marks.

“Well, that's not suspicious at all,” she said sarcastically.

She slipped her fingers beneath the raised edge and pulled. The board lifted easily, revealing something hidden inside.

Of course.

Millicent reached into the narrow space pulling out what appeared to be a small, leather journal. Its cover was cracked and worn and coated in years of dust. She sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the cover.

“Let’s see why you were hiding in the floor.”

On the first yellowed page, a woman’s handwriting stretched across in dark, elegant strokes

-Elizabeth Blythe

April 1901.

Millicent ran her fingers over the surname. “Blythe? Interesting. Wonder who you were.”

April 5, 1901

Mother says I have far too vivid an imagination, and I ought to put some of my thoughts onto paper rather than rambling on about them all day. She advised that it was in my best interest to keep my lips sealed and don’t tell anyone my silly notions. So that is precisely what I intend to do. 

I also plan on hiding this somewhere no one would think to look. 

I might have a few secrets worth keeping as well. 

For now.

My lips are sealed,

Beth.

“Okay, Beth. I see you girl.” Millicent turned the page.

April 10, 1901

Father said I spend far too much time with my head in the clouds. He observed me staring out the parlor window again and asked me if I had heard a single word he had said.

Sadly, I had not.

He said daydreaming was unbecoming of a young woman, especially one of seventeen. And that no suitable husband will tolerate such peculiar behavior. He also says if I continue, he will have no other choice but to take me to Dr. Cotton. 

I told him I am not ill and I definitely do not want a husband. 

Father said my insistence that I am well only gives him further cause to worry.

I don’t like Dr. Cotton, though I have never met him.

My lips are sealed,

Beth

Millicent frowned. “Well damn. That escalated quickly.” She quickly turned to the next entry.

April 18, 1901

Father has made the appointment.

He says Dr. Cotton is a respected physician and will know exactly what to do with a girl who cannot keep her mind where it belongs.

Mother says not to worry, that Father only wants the best for me. 

How can I convince them there is nothing wrong with me?

My lips are sealed,

Beth.

Millicent lowered the journal. “Beth, you officially have my attention. What kind of prison were your parents running that daydreaming got you a trip to the doctor?”

Her stomach let out an annoying growl. 

“Okay, I’ll get up and feed you. Geez.” 

Millicent tucked the journal beneath her arm and stepped back into the hallway. On the way toward the staircase, the family portraits caught her attention once more. Judging by the small brass plaques that bore the family name and date, they appeared to be in chronological order.

She took her sleeve and brushed the dust from the first portrait. 

The Blythe Family, 1870.

No one smiled. The men stood stiffly in dark suits, while the women wore Victorian dresses with high collars, their hair pulled neatly away from their faces. Even the children looked painfully serious. 

“What a lively group,” Millicent muttered.

She moved to the next.

The Blythe Family, 1884.

The family had grown by a few members. The dresses were fuller, hairstyles softer, and several children had joined and were now crowded around the seated couple in the center. One man and woman stood to the side, her hand resting on her rounded belly.

She reached the next frame.

The Blythe Family, 1899.

Millicent paused.  

This portrait was slightly different. The younger women wore high-neck dresses with narrow waists, the men a bit more relaxed. Near the edge was the same couple, but they now stood with a girl who looked to be fourteen or fifteen. Her expression was noticeably less severe than the others, almost amused.

Millicent looked down at the journal beneath her arm.

“Ah, the infamous Beth, I bet,” Millicent whispered, stepping closer.

She moved to the next portrait, anticipating what an older Beth might look like. 

The Blythe Family, 1909.

Millicent scanned the faces.

“What the hell?” 

Beth was gone.

The couple she assumed were Beth’s parents remained in the portrait, older now, but Beth was nowhere among them. 

Millicent moved to the next portrait.

The Blythe Family, 1920.

Again, she searched every face.

Nothing.

Not one person resembled the amused young girl from the 1899 portrait.

“Okay, Beth. Where the hell did you go?”

Her stomach growled again, louder this time.

“Right, food first. Disturbing family history second.”

She hurried downstairs and stepped back outside to retrieve her packed lunch that was sitting in the passenger seat of her car. Rather than run back into the dusty, almost condemned house, Millicent carried the journal and her lunch to a patch of grass overlooking the river. This view alone made this place worth saving, almost. She unwrapped her sandwich, took a bite to satisfy her rumbling stomach, and opened the journal once more.

“All right, Beth. You're about to tell me what happened.”

April 22, 1901

I met with Dr. Cotton today. 

He was not at all what I expected. He was courteous and well dressed. His voice was so calming that I nearly felt foolish for ever fearing him.

He asked how often I seemed to lose my thoughts. If I slept well at night. If I hear things others do not. Whether I feel frightened or frustrated for no apparent reason.

I answered him plainly, but he seemed to write far more than I said. I do not think I like to be observed in such a manner. 

My lips are sealed,

Beth

May 1, 1901

Father insisted that I return to Dr. Cotton, despite my efforts to keep my so-called daydreaming at bay. 

There was a woman in the waiting room with me. She was beautiful, with brown hair and blue eyes and a lovely shade of rouge upon her lips. Father prohibits me from wearing such things on my face, but I admired her all the same.

When the appointment ended, I passed a room further down the hall. The door had been left partially opened. I shouldn't have looked, but the woman from the waiting room caught my eye. 

She was lying on a narrow table. Wires ran from a peculiar apparatus to damp pads pressed to the back of her neck and brow. She was crying.

Dr. Cotton advised her to remain still. She begged him to stop, but he did not. He turned a knob on the machine and her body jerked so violently that her heel struck the side of the table. 

I nearly cried out. I do not know what he was doing to her, I only knew I wished he would not do it to me.

I don’t think she wanted him to do it to her either.

My lips are sealed,

Beth

“Holy shit,” Millicent gasped. 

What on earth had she just uncovered from the floorboards? A bead of sweat formed at Millicent’s temple as she eagerly turned the page.

May 4, 1901

The beautiful woman from Dr. Cotton's office is dead. Her photograph was in the newspaper this morning. The notice said she died unexpectedly after a brief illness.

I told Father what I had seen at Dr. Cotton’s office. He became outraged and accused me of allowing my imagination to turn something perfectly ordinary into something utterly wicked. 

Mother refused to even look at me. 

Father said Dr. Cotton is a very respected physician and I should be ashamed of such nonsense. 

But I know what I saw. 

And I know she’s now dead. 

My lips are sealed,

Beth

“That motherfucker.” Millicent ground her teeth together. “Are you kidding me right now?”

She lowered the journal slowly, listening to the river moving quietly in front of her, completely indifferent to the fact that a seventeen-year-old girl had once tried to tell the truth and no one believed her. 

“Beth, you need to get away from that doctor.”

Maybe, just maybe, she got away from that doctor and her family. Perhaps that's why she was not pictured in the next portraits, she had escaped them. Millicent stared at the 1901 date at top of the page and hopefully turned to the next entry.

May 7,1901

Father spoke with Dr. Cotton today.

He says the doctor is concerned that my imagination is becoming more serious than he initially suspected. Apparently, my insistence that I witnessed something horrific in his office is now being considered a delusion.

Dr. Cotton wished to see me again tomorrow. He believes he can help me understand that what I saw was not real.

But I know better.

My lips are sealed,

Beth

May 8, 1901

I will never go back to that dreadful place again.

Dr. Cotton suggested that my delusions required treatment. He sought to calm my mind and rid me of my terrible thoughts.

Then I saw the machine.

The same machine I saw him use on the beautiful lady who was now deceased.

He advised me to sit still while he placed one of the wired pads against my neck.

I pushed him away from me and ran. I did not stop until I reached my house.

Father was furious.

He called me an embarrassment.

I do not care. I know what I saw and what Dr. Cotton did to that lady. And he was attempting to do it to me.

I will not allow it.

My lips are sealed,

Beth.

Millicent stared at the page in disbelief, anger causing her to grip the journal a little tighter.

“You ran, Beth. I’m so proud of you.”

But the relief she felt only lasted a second as Millicent remembered that Beth had vanished from every family portrait dated after 1899.

“I hope you got away,” Millicent said as she turned the page.

May 10, 1901

This will be my last entry.

Father believes I am unstable. Dr. Cotton has convinced him that my condition has progressed far beyond anything he can treat and has suggested I require further care.

They are coming for me tomorrow.

I have pleaded with Mother and Father that I’m not ill, but they refuse to believe me.

If someone should find this journal someday, perhaps you will believe me.

You may find me at the Danvers Insane Hospital, on Hathorne Hill in Danvers, Massachusetts.

Please come find me.

I know what I saw.

I’m not crazy.

My lips are sealed,

Beth

Millicent snapped the journal shut and shot to her feet. “Oh my God. No. No. No. Please tell me you're kidding.” 

She eyed Blythe Estate. “You. You kept this secret all these years?” Millicent narrowed her eyes in the dilapidated structure. “Now, I’m going to find out what happened to her.”

She gathered the remainder of her lunch and hurried back to her car. She suddenly lost her appetite. She typed in Danvers Insane Hospital into her phone.

The results made her pause.

Closed.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Still, she followed the directions. Less than twenty minutes later, Millicent drove arrived at the former hospital grounds, the journal resting on the passenger seat beside her. But there was no sprawling Victorian asylum waiting on the hill. 

There were… apartments.

Millicent parked and stepped out, clutching Beth’s journal against her chest. It had been Beth’s final plea for help, and no one ever came.

People lived here now. Cars filled the parking lot. A man walked his dog along the sidewalk. A girl sat on a bench playing on her phone.

More than a century ago, Beth had been brought here because no one believed her. Whatever happened after that had been erased by time, buried beneath demolished walls, and a family who had gone on without her.

“I believe you, Beth.”