glacier from the Cretaceous Period, which was approximately
a really, really long time ago.
Mrs. Wellington’s estate, Summerstone, acted as a beacon in the Lost Forest. Upon hearing the name Lost Forest, one might
wonder how a forest could get lost. It doesn’t walk, run, or skip, and one would assume it’s too large for a park ranger to
miss. In this case,
lost
does not refer to the forest itself, but rather to anyone or anything that enters it.
The townsfolk in Farmington referred to the Lost Forest as their very own Bermuda Triangle. At the request of park rangers,
it was long closed with many NO TRESPASSING signs posted around the perimeter. The only two things that dared cross the forest were the Moon River and a scarcely used
cobblestone road, which led straight to the base of Summerstone’s Mountain.
Harold Wellington built Summerstone in 1952 as an isolated retreat for his wife, Edith. The eight-bedroom manor surrounded
by persimmon, fig, orange, and cherry trees was located squarely in the center of the grounds. Mr. Wellington had spared no
expense in the construction of Summerstone or its lavish decoration.
Rumors abounded of golden latrines and platinum light switches resting beside Renoirs or Monets, but none of it was true.
Mrs. Wellington was far too eclectic and peculiar to indulge in such noticeably grand items. She much preferred to commission
one-of-kind pieces such as tortoiseshell tables and portraits of her pets. Regardless of Mrs. Wellington’s offbeat taste,
Summerstone was the grandest structure Farmington had ever seen. Unfortunately, the locals were only able to admire the architecturally
mesmerizing building from a distance, as Mrs. Wellington did not take kindly to visitors.
CHAPTER 5
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Ablutophobia is the fear of washing or bathing.
J ohn F. Kennedy Airport in New York City was in for quite a surprise the night the Mastersons arrived from London. Weary travelers
wheeling suitcases, holding children’s hands, and generally trying to make it through the maze of gates stopped in their tracks.
They paused mid-sentence, mid-gait, mid-look, mid-breath to stare at Madeleine Masterson, her parents, and a plume of repellent.
Quite literally, a cloud of bug repellent lingered over Madeleine’s veil-covered head, causing strangers to cough vociferously.
Madeleine plowed through the highly congested terminal without batting an eyelash. Madeleine had long ago made peace with
the price of spider protection.
The Masterson clan rushed through the terminal to catch their flight to Pittsfield, or as Farmingtonians called it, “the Pitts.”
While the Mastersons expected the plane to be little, they certainly never thought it would be
that little
. The plane was approximately the size and color of a New York City cab, only much more run-down. If the Mastersons hadn’t
been told otherwise, they would have thought the plane was en route to a demolition yard. Its wings were lopsided, leaning
strongly to the left, and the windows were secured with silver duct tape.
Mr. Masterson felt a definite somersault in his stomach while looking over the plane. He wondered how any reasonable person
could NOT be afraid of the aircraft, yet Madeleine wasn’t. She wouldn’t have minded if the plane had been called
Certain Death
. For Madeleine, the comprehensive fumigation of the plane’s interior was far more important to worry about than a little
thing like safety — although, it should be noted that Mrs. Masterson only allowed Madeleine access to non-flammable repellent.
The entire Masterson clan remained silent throughout the fifty-seven-minute flight. Madeleine was much too frantic worrying
that School of Fear would confiscate her repellents and netted veil to be bothered with idle chitchat. The veil and repellents
had been with her so long they had become extensions of her own limbs. In fact, Madeleine
a really, really long time ago.
Mrs. Wellington’s estate, Summerstone, acted as a beacon in the Lost Forest. Upon hearing the name Lost Forest, one might
wonder how a forest could get lost. It doesn’t walk, run, or skip, and one would assume it’s too large for a park ranger to
miss. In this case,
lost
does not refer to the forest itself, but rather to anyone or anything that enters it.
The townsfolk in Farmington referred to the Lost Forest as their very own Bermuda Triangle. At the request of park rangers,
it was long closed with many NO TRESPASSING signs posted around the perimeter. The only two things that dared cross the forest were the Moon River and a scarcely used
cobblestone road, which led straight to the base of Summerstone’s Mountain.
Harold Wellington built Summerstone in 1952 as an isolated retreat for his wife, Edith. The eight-bedroom manor surrounded
by persimmon, fig, orange, and cherry trees was located squarely in the center of the grounds. Mr. Wellington had spared no
expense in the construction of Summerstone or its lavish decoration.
Rumors abounded of golden latrines and platinum light switches resting beside Renoirs or Monets, but none of it was true.
Mrs. Wellington was far too eclectic and peculiar to indulge in such noticeably grand items. She much preferred to commission
one-of-kind pieces such as tortoiseshell tables and portraits of her pets. Regardless of Mrs. Wellington’s offbeat taste,
Summerstone was the grandest structure Farmington had ever seen. Unfortunately, the locals were only able to admire the architecturally
mesmerizing building from a distance, as Mrs. Wellington did not take kindly to visitors.
CHAPTER 5
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Ablutophobia is the fear of washing or bathing.
J ohn F. Kennedy Airport in New York City was in for quite a surprise the night the Mastersons arrived from London. Weary travelers
wheeling suitcases, holding children’s hands, and generally trying to make it through the maze of gates stopped in their tracks.
They paused mid-sentence, mid-gait, mid-look, mid-breath to stare at Madeleine Masterson, her parents, and a plume of repellent.
Quite literally, a cloud of bug repellent lingered over Madeleine’s veil-covered head, causing strangers to cough vociferously.
Madeleine plowed through the highly congested terminal without batting an eyelash. Madeleine had long ago made peace with
the price of spider protection.
The Masterson clan rushed through the terminal to catch their flight to Pittsfield, or as Farmingtonians called it, “the Pitts.”
While the Mastersons expected the plane to be little, they certainly never thought it would be
that little
. The plane was approximately the size and color of a New York City cab, only much more run-down. If the Mastersons hadn’t
been told otherwise, they would have thought the plane was en route to a demolition yard. Its wings were lopsided, leaning
strongly to the left, and the windows were secured with silver duct tape.
Mr. Masterson felt a definite somersault in his stomach while looking over the plane. He wondered how any reasonable person
could NOT be afraid of the aircraft, yet Madeleine wasn’t. She wouldn’t have minded if the plane had been called
Certain Death
. For Madeleine, the comprehensive fumigation of the plane’s interior was far more important to worry about than a little
thing like safety — although, it should be noted that Mrs. Masterson only allowed Madeleine access to non-flammable repellent.
The entire Masterson clan remained silent throughout the fifty-seven-minute flight. Madeleine was much too frantic worrying
that School of Fear would confiscate her repellents and netted veil to be bothered with idle chitchat. The veil and repellents
had been with her so long they had become extensions of her own limbs. In fact, Madeleine
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