The Tower
When a father takes his daughter for a walk, he discovers a mysterious castle that hides a deeply buried secret.
A few days before Halloween I took my daughter for a walk. I bundled her in a little pink coat over a blue onesie patterned with stars and tied a yellow ribbon around her head. Though it was still early in the evening, the sun hung low in the sky and threw slanted beams of light through the brown, barren trees.
We walked our neighborhood—taking the same route we always take—but this time I noticed a path between two large houses I had never seen before. It could be a shortcut to Echo Lake. “What do you think, shall we go on an adventure?” I said to my daughter. She smiled up at me from her stroller, her eyes a piercing, deep green.
The path took us past the two houses and their sprawling backyards and cut deep through the woods near Purgatory Creek. Many of the trees were bare, but others clung stubbornly to their few remaining leaves, as though reticent to accept the coming cold and darkness. With twilight coming on, I couldn’t see too far ahead on the path, but I expected the lake to appear at any moment. The trees pressed close, forming a tunnel around us.
We turned a sharp corner, passing a grove of ancient oak trees, and there I saw it, only a few hundred yards ahead of us: an enormous castle surrounded by dense wood. It was made of stone, its parapets and turrets rising over the trees, a lone tower jutting into the dark sky. It looked ancient, older than any structure in Minnesota. A strange historical curiosity. The castle’s stone was dark gray, lacking in color or ornamentation, beautiful in its harsh simplicity. The single tower—which had a dark aura about it—rose from a jagged rectangular fort; what appeared to be the oldest part of the structure. Despite its grand size, the castle looked shy, as if it were hiding amongst the trees, crumbling alone, aging away from the prying eyes of the world.
“Would you look at that?” I said to my daughter who gurgled happily in reply. “I wonder who made this—and when?”
As I approached the gate, I followed the path up a steep set of stone stairs. I left my daughter’s stroller at the bottom, and, carrying her in my arms, ascended to the main entrance. The door opened before our approach, and a small, old man peered through the crack.
“Ah yes, come in, come in,” he said, as if he had been expecting us, the door opening wide.
I stepped into the grand hall and the door swung shut behind us with a solemn, heavy thud.
“You must be tired from your journey,” the man said. “And grieved.” I noticed he was about the same height as me, but he stooped slightly in his old age.
“Not really,” I said. “Our house is not far from here. We didn’t know this place existed. Is it a museum?”
The man looked at me with curiosity, as if not really believing I was there. He glanced behind me at the door, as if he was expecting someone else to appear. “Come,” he said. “We shouldn’t linger in the hall.” I detected in his tone a note of fear—a fear tinged with sadness.
He lead us across the hall, its marble floors inlaid with an intricate design of black and white flowers. It reminded me of the pattern on the wallpaper in my old childhood bedroom. I remembered, sick with chicken pox, trying to count all the black flowers on the wall, but I couldn’t keep track of them, the flowers blurring together, the numbers in my head turning into a nauseous, meaningless mental soup.
I followed the old man through a series of rooms. Here was a dining room, whose enormous table could easily seat thirty guests, stretching beneath a giant gold and crystal chandelier. We passed through another hall, larger than the first; it boasted six hearths, with a roaring fire in each. We crossed through a room filled with paintings. Each one depicted the same landscape: a cold, weather-beaten moor at night, the moon blazing in the dark sky. Every painting was the same, except the moon was in a different phase in each one. I felt unnerved by the painting with the new moon. The darkness was absolute, the moor disappearing beneath a totality of heavy black paint.
I shifted my daughter to my other arm. She was so little, weighing almost nothing. She smiled at me, her green eyes reflecting the castle’s dim light.
At last the old man brought us to his intended destination: a small library in a circular shape. There were shelves full of old books set into the curved stone walls. The old man sat in one of two wingback chairs pulled close to the fire. Next to him was a small table piled with books. Above us hung a circular wooden chandelier with flickering candles set into the wood by metal fasteners. The room had a single small window through which I could see the back half of the castle and the dark woods beyond.
“Thank you for the tour,” I said. “But it’s late, and we really must be going.”
“Going where?” The man’s dark, sunken eyes glittered in the firelight. I noticed he had a prominent chin, not unlike my own. “What is your name?” he said.
“It’s Michael. And my daughter’s name is—” but I suddenly couldn’t remember her name. How strange. “We really must be going,” I repeated.
“You have nowhere else to be,” the man said. “For isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”
I looked at the room, at the walls filled with books, many of them old and lost pieces of lore dredged out of the dark sea of time. I saw the Sibylline Books, Homer’s Margites, a collection of Aristotle’s work I had never seen before, the complete poetry of Sappho. The fire and the chandelier projected a soft light, just enough for reading, dim enough for dreams and rumination. It began to rain, thick drops falling against the single window pane. Thunder rolled across the room. I thought dimly of my daughter’s stroller, left out by the steps. But the sound of the rain on the roof, the warm, smoky fire, the recovered, time-lost books, invited me to linger. “I suppose I could sit for a bit,” I said.
I took the chair next to the old man and rocked my daughter back and forth. Her eyes were wide open which I knew meant she was sleepy. It was lucky that she never cried. “Is there somewhere I can put her?” I said. “A crib or a bassinet?”
The old man gave me a strange look and said, “nothing like that here.”
Lightning flashed outside the window and I heard a deep rumbling noise. At first I thought it was thunder, but the terrible sound continued, growing in volume and until it intensified into a violent shriek of metal tearing into metal. There was a loud crash and the old man leapt out of his chair, his face pale. “Leanne,” he whispered. I heard a woman scream from somewhere within the castle. “Leanne!” the man shouted, and, as though pulled by the woman’s cries, bolted through the library’s single door.
The name Leanne conjured a bizarre feeling in me, like there was a creature scratching behind my heart. Lightning flashed again, and in its sudden illumination, the library appeared unreal, a thing of smoke and memory. I needed to leave. I needed to find my way back to the main entrance, grab the stroller, make our way home. Holding my daughter close, I followed the old man out of the library.
I found myself in a hall I did not remember. It was full of closed doors and stretched out of sight in both directions. Beside each door stood a tall black suit of armor. I ran down the hall and opened one of the doors. As I stepped through, I thought I saw one of the suits of armor turn its helmet to watch me as I passed.
Through the door was a long, wide hall of mirrors. Had we come through here on our way to the library? I couldn’t remember.
The woman screamed again, her voice ragged with pain. I heard the old man shouting, “Leanne, Leanne!” But their voices sounded far away.
As I rushed through the hall of mirrors, my reflections twisted and danced around the room. I caught a glimpse of my face contorted into an exaggerated caricature, my ears like flapping sails, my chin a cliff jutting over the sea. Some of the mirrors showed me not as I was in the present, but younger and older versions of myself. In a few of the mirrors, I caught a glimpse of the old man. Others showed me as alternative versions—as a knight, a sorcerer, a minstrel. Echoes of laughter, cries, and conversations past, present and future filled the room.
Instead of a door, the hall ended in another mirror. It was taller than the others and took up the entire wall. It showed me exactly as I was. I saw myself standing there, my arms hanging at my side, my coat hung open. With a jolt of horror, I realized that my daughter was not in the reflection. She wasn’t in my arms either! She wasn’t on the floor or anywhere in the hall of mirrors. I thought to shout for her but I still could not remember her name.
I rushed through the halls, through door after door, searching for her. I went through endless rooms, each one stranger than the last, until I found myself, through a torturous and circuitous route, back in the library.
The old man was seated in his chair, casually smoking a pipe, a large book open on his lap.
“I’ve lost my daughter,” I said. “You must help me find her.”
The man looked up from his book. “Who?”
“My daughter,” I said, trying to remain calm, trying to steady my voice against the wave of surging panic. “My baby. I was carrying her in my arms when we arrived.”
He gave me a strange look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “There was no baby. When you came to this castle, you came alone. There was no one else.”
The next morning I insisted that the old man help me search the castle.
He shrugged. “It would be nice to stretch my legs.”
We spent the morning wandering the castle’s strange halls, passing through room after room. There were rooms filled with paintings, one with nothing but cherubs, another filled with clowns. There were rooms lined with ancient statues, cozy sitting rooms with dark, thickly cushioned furniture and heavy drapes. We found a room where everything—from the furniture to the chandeliers—was upside down. The ceiling was a perfectly detailed replica of the room’s floor, complete with a rug, a coffee table, and chairs. It felt uncanny, to walk across the ceiling, defying gravity. Shadowy figures walked the floor above us, and I shuddered at what expressions we might find if we could see their faces.
We found a room of seasons, a vast circular chamber that changed weather as you circled its quadrants. In the winter zone, snowflakes fell gently upon a marble floor, melting in a crackling fire; in spring, flowers bloomed beneath our steps, filling the air with a fresh fragrance; in summer, the sun beat down us and we could hear the distant sound of ocean waves; and in autumn leaves swirled and danced in a wind redolent with apple and pumpkin spice.
At the back of the castle we found an observatory. In the center of the dark, dome-shaped room was a large ornate telescope. Peering through it I couldn’t see the stars of our universe, but rather, a fantastical view of galaxies and cosmic events from another dimension. Nebulas of vibrant hues, floating islands of stars, celestial creatures dancing through the night skies. The walls were alive with unfamiliar constellations, telling a story I could not understand, their soft lights illuminating the room with an ethereal glow.
But we did not find my daughter anywhere.
In each room, I listened closely, hoping to hear a child’s cry. But the house met my attentive ear with only silence. I didn’t even detect a phantom cry; it was as if my imagination had also expunged her from memory.
As we walked, I caught glimpses of something following us. If I happened to glance behind us as we passed from one room to the next, I would catch sight of a black suit of armor standing in the middle of the room we had just vacated.
I asked the old man about the castle, but he didn’t know anything of its origin or purpose. “I mostly stay in the library,” he told me. “But the castle is hinted at in some of the books there. Some suggest that the castle was invented by a sorcerer and alchemist to hold the spirits of all his family that had passed, and that each room was the soul of one of his ancestors. Another that the castle had been constructed by an old heiress. Alone and in grief at the death of her only child, she built these strange and elaborate rooms so that her child’s ghost would get lost on their way to the afterlife, forced to remain in the mundane, material world until she, too, died, and they could both move on together.”
On the third day we went outside to search the grounds. It was a cold autumn day. Sharp winds came down from the trees and scattered the dried, dead leaves. We walked along the stone path that crossed the grounds and came to a large courtyard beneath high stained windows. Near the wall beneath the windows was a tall statue of an angel carrying a small child in her arms. Beneath her eyes were marble tears the size of my fingernails. The old man shuddered when he saw the statue.
As we circled the castle, we found a dirt path that lead into the woods. The wind appeared to die as soon as we entered the close-knit crop of trees. Everything was still and silent, the world holding its breath. I looked back to the castle, the dark shadow of its tower looming over the trees. I saw the black knight had followed us into the woods.
We walked for some time until we came to a clearing. At the edge of the trees was a lone gravestone, with a single name engraved on its side: Michael Palmer.
“That’s my name,” I said, and I looked to the old man for an explanation. But he was gone. I looked back at the grave and saw two dates chiseled in the stone. The first was my birthday, and the second—it must be the day of my death. I realized, with a shudder, that it was only a few days away.
Next to the gravestone, someone had dug a small rectangular hole. The wind picked up again, and I stood there and listened to the breeze rattling the bare trees. It would not be a terrible place to rest, I thought. I climbed into the vacant grave and laid down in the dirt. I could hear nothing there—no wind, no trees—nor feel anything, not even the dirt beneath my fingers. In the patch of sky above me, I could see nothing either, only a seamless, unending blue cut short by the rectangular framing of my grave.
I’m not sure how long I stayed there. An instant? An eternity? But I rose and returned to the castle. I found the old man near the crying angel. He was looking up at the tower which rose above all the other features of the castle. I could see a light burning in its lone window. “Who lives in the tower?” I said.
“No one,” the old man replied. I could detect a hint of sadness in his answer.
From that moment the old man no longer joined me in my searching. He remained in the library reading—or staring out the window. He said almost nothing to me. He was like a dog that knew its time has come and retreats quietly, without pomp, to a small shady place to die alone.
At night I joined him in the library to read, and during the day I searched the castle.
One night, we heard again the terrible screech of metal against metal, two iron beasts crashing into one another, and the old man, his eyes blazing with fear, shouted for Leanne and tore out of the room like a madman.
I followed him as he roamed from room to room, roaring for Leanne. We passed through the hall of armor and the room of painted evenings, through the upside-down room and the celestial observatory, through the room of painted cherubs, and came, at last, to the hall of mirrors. I realized then, that it was not a hall but a great ballroom. Its floors were polished wood, and at the end of the hall were not more mirrors, but large painted glass windows that reflected the room. Moonlight streamed through the windows in vibrant colors, reflected off the mirrors, and danced around the room in a kaleidoscope of light.
But I saw, near the windows, bathed in soft purple moonlight, a pale, ghostly woman.
“Leanne,” the man whispered. He rushed toward her, but as he reached out his arms, I saw his hands pass through the woman and strike the mirror in which her reflection shimmered. I saw her again, at the other end of the hall, and again, near the windows, and again, reflected repeatedly in the many mirrors.
The old man rushed at her phantom reflections, groping at moon-shadow and glass. “Leanne!” he shouted, his voice a mixture of panic and fear. He ran at another reflection, grasping at air. “I won’t let you suffer. I promised to protect you!”
He ran again and again at her mirage; faster and faster, as if he could catch her with more speed, hold her again in his arms. But she eluded him, and he passed through each time, hitting the mirrors harder and harder.
“Leanne, my love!” he cried, reaching for her. But she was not there. He tripped and fell with great speed into the colored glass window, breaking it with a terrible crash, and falling through, disappearing into the night. I heard a sickening thud.
Looking down through the broken glass, I saw the old man sprawled on the courtyard stone. Next to him stood the angel, her marble tears frozen in place.
I found my way outside to the courtyard. The black knight was standing over the old man’s body. His dark armor drank the moonlight, reflecting only the void.
The knight bent down to one knee and scooped up the old man as if he were a child and carried him into the forest. I followed them through the woods to the clearing, to the grave with my name on its face. The black knight placed the man into the grave, took an old shovel, and silently, diligently covered him with dirt.
I looked into the knight’s face, and in the tree-strewn moonlight, saw blood pooling beneath his visor.
He disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone with my grave. The gravestone had changed, however, and I realized that the date of death was different. It was no longer approaching—no longer today—but instead indicated a date many, many years in the future.
I remained in the castle alone, in the library reading. I devoured many of the old books there. It was exactly what I was looking for, as if the room had been specifically catered to my tastes. I lost track of the days, I read so much. In the library it did not matter if it was night or day, for the fire burned the same as ever. My searches through the castle became shorter and shorter and less and less frequent until, at last, they ceased altogether.
Periodically, with the regularity of the moon’s changing, I would hear the horrible screeching metal and the painful wailing of Leanne. Out of loyalty to the old man—and with the vague understanding of a distant, repressed memory—I followed Leanne’s cries through the castle, coming to the ballroom where I could watch her dance among moonlight and mirrors.
Somehow I knew I was growing older. There were no mirrors in the castle outside of the hall of mirrors—which reflections I knew I could not trust. But had I been able to see myself, I would have known that my appearance grew more and more to resemble the old man’s. I knew, too, that one day, a stranger would appear at the door, and for a brief spell, I would not be alone.
I visited the old man at his grave—to the stone which bore both our names—and left him autumn flowers that I had found near the forest’s edge. When I returned to the castle, I would look upon the high tower and wonder at the light that glimmered from its single window.
Until one day, I chose to remember, and on that day, I resumed my search, knowing I would find what I was looking for. After a short walk through strange, unfamiliar halls, I came to the tower.
It was blocked by an ancient door of heavy oak studded with iron. I passed through it and up winding steps that kept leading higher and higher.
I came upon a little girl, maybe five or six, seated at a small table. A stuffed tiger and bear were seated beside her, with teacups and a matching tea kettle arranged on a tablecloth of red fringed silk.
The girl smiled at me. Her feet did not reach the floor but dangled beneath her chair. She wore a dark blue dress covered in stars, a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
“I couldn’t find you.”
She gestured at a fourth tea set on the table, and I seated myself, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“It’s a very lovely room,” I said. Its walls were painted blue, the same shade as the girl’s dress. There was a canopied bed, its quilt and pillows pink and white. Along the walls were books, but unlike those in my library, these were full of children’s books. The floor was carpeted with wool the color of night.
“Yes, the tower fashions exactly what you need,” she said.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “There is a library that contains all the books I’ve ever wanted to read.” I took a sip from the cup but there was only air. “What is your name?”
She smiled at me, her green eyes shining with tears. “Many years ago, children were not named until they were two. It was supposed to help with the grief—if they did not survive.”
“I know,” I said. “But in this case, we couldn’t decide. We still had a few weeks to make our choice. We wanted to meet you, see which name fit you best.”
“Well, now you’ve met me,” the nameless girl said. “Which name suits me best?”
“Not without Leanne. She gets to choose.”
The girl nodded, her feet kicking beneath the chair. She poured more tea for her tiger. “Leanne already knows me. We shared the same body. Now we are always together.”
I felt comforted by those words. “It’s hard to know that,” I said.
“You can believe it or not,” the girl said. “But you have to decide if you want to stay here. The tower has everything you want, but it is also your prison. You’ve already seen what happens if you stay here.”
I knew she was talking about the old man, the one who shared my name, who was already in my grave. “Where did this castle come from?” I said.
“This castle is built out of grief. It is the shape of grief, a terrible choking sadness made manifest in stone and glass.”
“Who built the castle.”
“You built it. You started with the tower.”
I finished my tea and thanked her.
“You’ll come visit me again?” she said.
“Yes, now that I know the way.”
I left the tower and followed the path through the woods to my grave. I noticed, for the first time, another grave next to it, with Leanne’s name on it, and next to that one, a third. It had no birthday on it, only a single date etched in the smooth stone. A day of death—the same as Leanne’s.
I walked back to the castle and saw that the tower had gone dark. I went back inside and found my old library, but the fire had gone out and the room was cold. The library is the tower, I realized, looking at the circular walls, the lone window. It would be up to me, I knew, whether I would light another fire or if I would leave. Walk back outside, return home.
Return to an empty home—for there would be no stroller waiting for me by the stairs. Only an empty crib in a half-finished nursery. An empty master bed.
I remembered the girl’s words. “The tower is a prison.” But also, “the tower is built of grief.” It is protection from grief, I realized, a grief too unbearable to live with.
I heard the terrible crashing sound, but this time I knew what it was. It was the sound of a car hitting another. Hitting the driver’s seat head on, striking Leanne. And inside Leanne—
I walked through the castle halls until I came to the room of mirrors. I saw the little girl in the starry dress and she danced with the pale, ghostly figure of Leanne. I knew I could leave the castle at any moment, that I did not need to stay there until my death.
But I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
I went back to the tower and restarted the fire. Through its single window I could see into the hall of mirrors. There I could watch Leanne—my love—dance with our little girl for all eternity. I watched them as they spun and swirled through the prismatic moonlight, the light breaking into a million colors, their bodies blending together as they danced, separating for a brief spell and then merging into one.