Johnny Mandrel sat straight-backed and expectant in the only good wooden rocker on the front porch of the Collinswood Nursing Home. The day was unseasonably warm and he was dressed in his best bib overalls, starched white collared shirt buttoned up to his neck and the good cane with a brass head, polished to a dull shine for the occasion and resting under his right hand. His beard had been trimmed, as well as the sparse hairs on his head; his nose and ear hairs plucked, and his spectacles were polished to a sharp gleam by the time the blue news truck pulled up the driveway of the home.
Mildred Mandrel, Johnny’s youngest and only surviving sister, stood behind him and moved her hands gently over his shoulders. Looking down at the top of his head and spying one hair gone awry, she was momentarily tempted to smooth it down with spit. As she licked her thumb in preparation she decided instead to pluck it out, which she did without warning her brother. Johnny jumped in his seat and winced, momentarily losing focus on the task ahead of him.
“Stop fussing!” he barked unkindly at her. She backed away with a small smile playing across her lips, as if she was retreating from royalty, head slightly bowed, hands clasped and folded into her apron. She knew he would apologize later for his sharp tone, and thank her for the hundredth time for the ironed shirt and beard trim. In turn, she would apologize for plucking the hair out at that particular moment.
Johnny Mandrel, reportedly born John Jacob Mandrel in 1905 in the town of Collinswood, Pennsylvania, first child of the Mandrel clan and oldest sibling to Mildred Martha Mandrel, was about to experience his fifteen minutes of fame. Mildred was still waiting for hers, but then she was only ninety-nine. In the eleven years between their births, there had been nine other siblings, who had all left Johnny and Mildred behind to torment one another.
A pencil-thin but attractive young women in a navy blue suit emerged from the passenger’s side of the SUV. She walked with a smart step toward the porch as if unaware of being immediately surrounded by a group of young men who, in contrast, were universal in their baggy attire. She kept her focus on the person she had come to interview. The gaggle around her also sported electronic equipment, cameras of different sizes, folded tripods, headsets, etc., all things that Johnny had had no use for in his entire life, until now.
“Good morning, Mr. Mandrel!” Pencil woman yelled across the yard to Johnny.
“No need to shout, girl, I can hear just fine,” he responded. Mildred noticed with humor that her brother spoke in a voice much softer than what he would use to speak to someone standing right in front of him.
The newswoman, who had the unusually provocative name of Fancy Smart, reached the bottom of the porch steps and began extending her hand toward Johnny as she climbed them. He dismissed her offer, however, and abruptly indicated with his cane that he wanted her to sit on the wooden stool next to him. Mildred was impressed that Ms. Smart did not skip a beat and immediately plopped herself down on the low seat, bringing her knees nearly to her chin. The seat was intentionally several inches shorter than her brother’s good wooden rocker.
The equipment was arranged and finally plugged in, all of it facing Johnny. A contraption was placed on his head, with a mouthpiece extending in front of his face. Mildred prayed he would leave the dang thing alone. And, she thought, if Ms. Smart was under any idea that this was going to be a question and answer session, she was very mistaken. There was only one question her brother was waiting to hear. From them on, it was his show.
“So, Mr. Mandrel, I think we are ready. Can you tell us what you know about the Collinswood mansion?” Johnny cleared his throat and the monologue began.
“The house has been landlocked for many, many years. It stands abandoned and in disrepair and is thought by some to be haunted. No one from the town ever goes there. At night the mist that comes from the canal envelopes the house and all one can see from a distance are the chimneys and an occasional pinpoint of light that permeates the gloom. The light doesn’t illuminate, but simply passes from window to window, moving as if on wings, to where, no one could imagine.”
Thinking this was the end of his answer, Fancy opened her mouth to ask what he meant by “land locked,” but she needn’t have bothered.
“The only way to reach the front gates of the house is over someone else’s land, or by water. As I said, no one from town ever really wants to go to the old mansion, even to explore. It’s about ten miles into the Allegheny Forest, and was built at a time when there was little else dotting the landscape. Today it stands isolated still, but there is an eerie mystique that keeps outsiders away.” At this point, Johnny turned and faced Ms. Smart, leaning close to her in an attitude of an aside and whispered, in a heavy wave of Old Spice and mouthwash, “By ‘outsiders’ I mean anyone other than the original owners of the property.” Fancy Smart nodded her understanding with a smile.
Johnny then turned back to the crowd in the yard and continued speaking in his monotone and without appearing to even take a breath, his blue eyes sharp and eager behind the clear lenses. He stared straight ahead into the forest, and didn’t look at Ms. Smart again. His tone was steady and his words extremely lucid as if he had rehearsed the story many times before, which only Mildred knew he had.
“It’s not always been this way, of course. It had once been a great estate, bearing sculptured hedges and perfumed gardens with many different types of flowers and shrubs, some imported from Europe. At that time, one person owned the house and the land that now locks it in. That person was James Collins, the son of a wealthy Englishman who had come over to the Americas in the late 1800’s. Without saying aye, yea, or boo to any of the folks here in this part of the country, he purchased the land, built the monstrous house that still stands on the last of the remaining fourteen acres, and by all accounts, the young Mr. Collins then abruptly disappeared into thin air. This was before I was born, of course. Perhaps, as some locals might believe, it is he who wanders the place with his strange light shining from the windows. Perhaps he is looking for someone or something. In our little town nearby, there’s not a soul alive who could remember for himself, or remember his parents ever speaking of, the owner of that abandoned property, except maybe me and Millie here.” He nodded condescendingly toward his sister at that point, who opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it just as quickly. This was, after all, John’s show and there would be hell to pay if she said even so much as an “aye, yea, or boo” in response to his acknowledging nod.
“Mr. Collins could have died in his bed, for all anyone knew, and surely by the time parts of the property were being sold off, it was assumed by everyone in town that he had done just that.” Fancy was beginning to squirm on her low seat, and tried to adjust her body so that she was sitting more on her hip than her bottom. Mildred only smiled from the comfort of her own rocker, padded as it was, but she was impressed again with the young woman’s stamina. Johnny’s voice droned on as if he was all alone on the porch and talking to the trees.
“At that time, the only way to get to the estate was by way of a two-lane country road that was seldom traveled. An abandoned farmhouse on that road, now with peeling green paint and a caved in roof, serves as a marker of the spot where one must begin the cross country trek on the way to the mansion, and it’s at least a mile from that marker, over land of course, that the gated entrance can be found. The farmhouse had been built long before James Collins bought the land originally and since he did not destroy it at the time, it was included in that particular parcel of land when the last three acres of the property were offered and sold by the Collins estate in 1940. The family who bought that parcel worked hard to make the old farmhouse a home and they planned to stay on and make it a go as far as anyone knew. In the end, however, they just put it up for sale shortly after they finished the renovations. They weren’t from around these parts, so had no real compulsion to stay anywhere they didn’t want to. They would never say specifically what it was that made them want to get out, except that the solitude was too much and it had a creepy, unnatural feeling, like someone else was living in the home with them. Sounds like a poor reason to just up and go, but they said they wanted it sold as quickly as possible. No one would buy it, though, even with all the renovations, and since there was no interest, they eventually had to cut their losses and give it back to the bank. They didn’t tell anyone where they were going when they left. No soul ever lived there again, and it has been falling into disrepair ever since. Hobos and transients, sure, would often camp out in the yard over the years, but never stayed long and never stayed in the house itself. They took what they wanted; leftover canned goods, bits and pieces of wood, anything they could find, and the house deteriorated more and more. The bank had no money for more repairs and so it was left, abandoned and condemned, to sit by the side of the road as a monument to fear, I guess. Something must have happened in that place long ago, maybe a ghost or two just . . .”
“Mr. Mandrel, can we get back to the Collinswood mansion, please?” Fancy was working her way to standing up as her voice broke into Johnny’s reverie. He shot her a cold look, but went back to his narrative about the mansion as his gaze rested again on the forest in the distance.
“Why James Collins had left England and the home of his father has never been discovered by the locals, but some thought it was the burgeoning railroad that drew him to this country and to Pennsylvania in particular. Until recently, there has been no one who really cared about the house, why it was built, or who it now belongs to. The place itself is a monstrosity. The main structure covers nearly two acres, not including the outbuildings. While few know what it looked like when it was new, the place is now so vine covered and weather beaten that it’s thought to be impossible to live in, even for the neediest of vagrants. It’s just too spooky, too eerie for most folks, with a bad feeling that apparently extended all the way to that farmhouse, afore mentioned, that marks its property line.” Another icy look directed toward Fancy at this last comment.
“A tall, wrought iron fence had been erected around the yard at some point, enclosing all of the structures on the property, except for a little one-room cottage sitting by the front entrance, used for what, no one knows for sure. Perhaps for an anticipated caretaker or guard. The entire place, including the outbuildings, is five or six unkempt acres and the remaining land has long gone to seed and high weeds. Inside the gate, the grounds now show little evidence of a planting plan, and with bushes untrimmed and gone wild over time, it would be hard to imagine that anything of great beauty had ever existed there. Fifty yards from the back of the house is a canal sporting a dilapidated pier, with wooden planks that are rotten or missing all together. There is no boathouse, or boat, for that matter. The canal itself opens up into the river along the southern side of the property and while there were eventually many other homes with well-maintained docks and boats, the Collinswood estate is distinctly lacking. The water reeds have grown tall and forbidding, discouraging any passing fishermen from investigating. The mist from the murky water there seems perpetual, even in the daytime, and would usually hover lowly at the banks, as if waiting for some prey to come by unawares and for darkness to fall. Why, even in my younger days, I . . .” Johnny stopped mid-sentence as he sent a side-long glance over to his interviewer.
“Would you like to stop for a bit, Mr. Mandrel? Have something to drink? You have been talking for some time now.” Mildred saw that as her cue that Fancy and her crew needed something to drink, so she went inside to get the lemonade and sun tea she had already made. She came out with pitchers and paper cups and they were immediately swept out of her hands with smiles and “thank you ma’am.”
“No, not yet,” was all Johnny said in quick response to Fancy’s question, who had moved to sit on the steps. She began fanning herself with a magazine Mildred has given her, as she sipped her tea and rested her back against the porch post. It was becoming an effort to keep her eyes open as Johnny continued with his interminable presentation. Mildred approached her brother with a small cone of lemonade. Even though he had said he didn’t want anything to drink, she knew he did. He gave her a wink and handed back the empty paper cone. Then he continued.
“The land was known to be available by a small announcement in the local newspaper and was being sold quite cheaply, $50 an acre. There was no limit to how many acres any one person could buy, but even still, not everyone could take advantage of it, being located in a rather poor community. There were three-hundred acres sold the first time the notice appeared. The second group of three-hundred acres was offered for sale at the same price nearly thirty years later, and James Collins was represented by a Pennsylvania law firm both times. According to the lawyer’s journals, James had contracted with the law firm by registered mail shortly after the Collinswood mansion was built, to dispose of the property if they had not heard otherwise from him by 1940. He had sent a large retainer, but gave no personal information about himself, or how he made his money. The proceeds from the sale were to be used in some way to develop and maintain the town of Collinswood. The lawyers were instructed that the gift was to remain anonymous, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.” Johnny chuckled a little to himself.
“On January 2, 1940, when I was in my thirties, the lawyers began to dispose of the first three hundred acres. The moneys were used to buy property in the center of town and on it they built a library and a community center, as designated in the original letter. I bought a few acres of my own. In 1970, when I was almost sixty five, the second group of three hundred acres was sold in the same manner with the resulting proceeds being used for other needs in Collinswood, at the discretion of the mayor. The law firm was apparently accustomed to dealing with eccentrics, and it did not seem all that unusual to them that their client kept his identity secret. As long as their fee was paid, they saw no need to question his methods. Once the six hundred acres were gone, however, what remained of the property was left untended. There were no instructions to the law firm on how to handle the remaining land and house, and since they never heard from James Collins again, they assumed that he had either taken his business elsewhere or perhaps left the States all together.
“The large mansion remained little more than a curiosity for several years, and as the surrounding property was sold again and again as the first owners died or moved away, less genuine information was known, little as that was to begin with. I gave my own acres to my children. We never knew if James Collins was married, or had a family, but most of the deeds for the purchased parcels had two names on them – James and Diedre Collins – although James was the only one to sign them, by proxy of course. At any rate, to anyone’s knowledge, the Collins couple was left completely alone, and both probably died there, even though there are no records of a death or burial arrangements, or bodies found for that matter. At least as far as I know. There has always been room for speculation, however, and townsfolk told a great number of stories and eerie tales over the years, at least those who seemed to have little more to do with their time.”
Johnny finally stopped talking nearly four hours after the first and only question, had been asked. Mildred remained nearby, amazed as always at her brother’s ability to tell the same story over and over and almost exactly the same way each time. He omitted the aside information when there was no one but Mildred to listen. The news crew members were all sitting on the ground by now, totally enrapt with the tale. Fancy appeared grateful that Johnny seemed to have run out of steam and information, and waved at one of the guys to give instructions to pack up.
To her shock and dismay, however, a voice came from the yard. “What kind of stories do the townsfolk tell, Mr. Mandrel?” Everyone, except Fancy Smart, sat back down. Johnny began again.
“Every now and then, stories beyond whatever happened to the original family will circulate. It usually begins at Rosie’s diner, where someone speculates on this and that and comes up with a new twist on an aspect of the mansion or its original occupants. Beatrice Luckinbill, for example, who has an unnaturally loud and booming voice, ventured a question just the other day, and everyone in the diner heard it.
‘“Whatever happened to all the money that Collins guy must have had? I mean, let’s face it; he must have been worth a bundle to build the mansion in the first place. So, where is it all?’” Everyone in the yard laughed at Johnny’s mock-female voice, falsetto, creaky and loud. Even Johnny managed a grin.
“Beatrice looked around questioningly at those at her table and those at nearby tables, really expecting an answer, I guess, but most of us just shrugged our shoulders and went back to eating our meals. The question, however, was no doubt rolling around in everyone’s head for days.” Again in his Beatrice voice he asked “‘just what did happen to all that money?’” This time Johnny laughed out loud and struck his cane on the floor of the porch once, which made everyone else laugh even harder; even Fancy joined in. Then he quickly composed himself and continued.
“Of course, by the time the ideas came home for supper, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Bea was right; Collins must have been loaded. That was about as far as they would venture.
“One such story came to the ears of eager listeners by way of ‘Old Ben’, as everyone calls him. Old Ben has been a resident of Collinswood for as long as anyone remembers and a good friend of mine since I can remember. Despite that, he is, in himself, an eerie person who is often seen at night roaming the few streets of town, carrying on conversations of sorts with himself, or the trees, or the stars above. No one knows for sure, and no one bothers to ask him. But old Ben does have some lucid moments in which he can be almost profound in his observation of events that have happened in this small community.”
Mildred suspected that Fancy was praying silently that no one spoke up or questioned or wanted the life history of “old Ben.” It was iffy at first; there seemed to be some mumbling going on, but ultimately a silence prevailed. Fancy rose to her feet a bit wobbly, but did not dare to even glance at the crowd behind her. This time she gave no wave or indication of departure. She simply leaned toward Johnny, extended her small sweaty hand and said loudly so everyone could hear her, “Thank you so much, Mr. Mandrel, for that interesting and enlightening story. I’ll be in touch about when we’ll air this piece.”
She gave a nod and a small wave to Mildred as she swung around, focused on the van, the air conditioning within that van and her escape, but not on any one person in her path as she ran. Everyone else got up then, packed up and eventually made their way to their own vehicles and down the road, leaving Johnny Mandrel and his sister Mildred quite alone. The silence was stunning.
“You were wonderful, John, as always,” commented Mildred as she picked up the empty pitchers.
“Thanks, Millie, my dear. But you don’t have to call me ‘John’ when no one else is here.”
Mildred smiled tolerantly and turned back to her brother before she left the porch. While no one had ever questioned how it came to be that Johnny Mandrel was so familiar and knowledgeable about the Collinswood mansion, only Johnny, Old Ben, and Mildred knew the reason.
Mildred Mandrel, Johnny’s youngest and only surviving sister, stood behind him and moved her hands gently over his shoulders. Looking down at the top of his head and spying one hair gone awry, she was momentarily tempted to smooth it down with spit. As she licked her thumb in preparation she decided instead to pluck it out, which she did without warning her brother. Johnny jumped in his seat and winced, momentarily losing focus on the task ahead of him.
“Stop fussing!” he barked unkindly at her. She backed away with a small smile playing across her lips, as if she was retreating from royalty, head slightly bowed, hands clasped and folded into her apron. She knew he would apologize later for his sharp tone, and thank her for the hundredth time for the ironed shirt and beard trim. In turn, she would apologize for plucking the hair out at that particular moment.
Johnny Mandrel, reportedly born John Jacob Mandrel in 1905 in the town of Collinswood, Pennsylvania, first child of the Mandrel clan and oldest sibling to Mildred Martha Mandrel, was about to experience his fifteen minutes of fame. Mildred was still waiting for hers, but then she was only ninety-nine. In the eleven years between their births, there had been nine other siblings, who had all left Johnny and Mildred behind to torment one another.
A pencil-thin but attractive young women in a navy blue suit emerged from the passenger’s side of the SUV. She walked with a smart step toward the porch as if unaware of being immediately surrounded by a group of young men who, in contrast, were universal in their baggy attire. She kept her focus on the person she had come to interview. The gaggle around her also sported electronic equipment, cameras of different sizes, folded tripods, headsets, etc., all things that Johnny had had no use for in his entire life, until now.
“Good morning, Mr. Mandrel!” Pencil woman yelled across the yard to Johnny.
“No need to shout, girl, I can hear just fine,” he responded. Mildred noticed with humor that her brother spoke in a voice much softer than what he would use to speak to someone standing right in front of him.
The newswoman, who had the unusually provocative name of Fancy Smart, reached the bottom of the porch steps and began extending her hand toward Johnny as she climbed them. He dismissed her offer, however, and abruptly indicated with his cane that he wanted her to sit on the wooden stool next to him. Mildred was impressed that Ms. Smart did not skip a beat and immediately plopped herself down on the low seat, bringing her knees nearly to her chin. The seat was intentionally several inches shorter than her brother’s good wooden rocker.
The equipment was arranged and finally plugged in, all of it facing Johnny. A contraption was placed on his head, with a mouthpiece extending in front of his face. Mildred prayed he would leave the dang thing alone. And, she thought, if Ms. Smart was under any idea that this was going to be a question and answer session, she was very mistaken. There was only one question her brother was waiting to hear. From them on, it was his show.
“So, Mr. Mandrel, I think we are ready. Can you tell us what you know about the Collinswood mansion?” Johnny cleared his throat and the monologue began.
“The house has been landlocked for many, many years. It stands abandoned and in disrepair and is thought by some to be haunted. No one from the town ever goes there. At night the mist that comes from the canal envelopes the house and all one can see from a distance are the chimneys and an occasional pinpoint of light that permeates the gloom. The light doesn’t illuminate, but simply passes from window to window, moving as if on wings, to where, no one could imagine.”
Thinking this was the end of his answer, Fancy opened her mouth to ask what he meant by “land locked,” but she needn’t have bothered.
“The only way to reach the front gates of the house is over someone else’s land, or by water. As I said, no one from town ever really wants to go to the old mansion, even to explore. It’s about ten miles into the Allegheny Forest, and was built at a time when there was little else dotting the landscape. Today it stands isolated still, but there is an eerie mystique that keeps outsiders away.” At this point, Johnny turned and faced Ms. Smart, leaning close to her in an attitude of an aside and whispered, in a heavy wave of Old Spice and mouthwash, “By ‘outsiders’ I mean anyone other than the original owners of the property.” Fancy Smart nodded her understanding with a smile.
Johnny then turned back to the crowd in the yard and continued speaking in his monotone and without appearing to even take a breath, his blue eyes sharp and eager behind the clear lenses. He stared straight ahead into the forest, and didn’t look at Ms. Smart again. His tone was steady and his words extremely lucid as if he had rehearsed the story many times before, which only Mildred knew he had.
“It’s not always been this way, of course. It had once been a great estate, bearing sculptured hedges and perfumed gardens with many different types of flowers and shrubs, some imported from Europe. At that time, one person owned the house and the land that now locks it in. That person was James Collins, the son of a wealthy Englishman who had come over to the Americas in the late 1800’s. Without saying aye, yea, or boo to any of the folks here in this part of the country, he purchased the land, built the monstrous house that still stands on the last of the remaining fourteen acres, and by all accounts, the young Mr. Collins then abruptly disappeared into thin air. This was before I was born, of course. Perhaps, as some locals might believe, it is he who wanders the place with his strange light shining from the windows. Perhaps he is looking for someone or something. In our little town nearby, there’s not a soul alive who could remember for himself, or remember his parents ever speaking of, the owner of that abandoned property, except maybe me and Millie here.” He nodded condescendingly toward his sister at that point, who opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it just as quickly. This was, after all, John’s show and there would be hell to pay if she said even so much as an “aye, yea, or boo” in response to his acknowledging nod.
“Mr. Collins could have died in his bed, for all anyone knew, and surely by the time parts of the property were being sold off, it was assumed by everyone in town that he had done just that.” Fancy was beginning to squirm on her low seat, and tried to adjust her body so that she was sitting more on her hip than her bottom. Mildred only smiled from the comfort of her own rocker, padded as it was, but she was impressed again with the young woman’s stamina. Johnny’s voice droned on as if he was all alone on the porch and talking to the trees.
“At that time, the only way to get to the estate was by way of a two-lane country road that was seldom traveled. An abandoned farmhouse on that road, now with peeling green paint and a caved in roof, serves as a marker of the spot where one must begin the cross country trek on the way to the mansion, and it’s at least a mile from that marker, over land of course, that the gated entrance can be found. The farmhouse had been built long before James Collins bought the land originally and since he did not destroy it at the time, it was included in that particular parcel of land when the last three acres of the property were offered and sold by the Collins estate in 1940. The family who bought that parcel worked hard to make the old farmhouse a home and they planned to stay on and make it a go as far as anyone knew. In the end, however, they just put it up for sale shortly after they finished the renovations. They weren’t from around these parts, so had no real compulsion to stay anywhere they didn’t want to. They would never say specifically what it was that made them want to get out, except that the solitude was too much and it had a creepy, unnatural feeling, like someone else was living in the home with them. Sounds like a poor reason to just up and go, but they said they wanted it sold as quickly as possible. No one would buy it, though, even with all the renovations, and since there was no interest, they eventually had to cut their losses and give it back to the bank. They didn’t tell anyone where they were going when they left. No soul ever lived there again, and it has been falling into disrepair ever since. Hobos and transients, sure, would often camp out in the yard over the years, but never stayed long and never stayed in the house itself. They took what they wanted; leftover canned goods, bits and pieces of wood, anything they could find, and the house deteriorated more and more. The bank had no money for more repairs and so it was left, abandoned and condemned, to sit by the side of the road as a monument to fear, I guess. Something must have happened in that place long ago, maybe a ghost or two just . . .”
“Mr. Mandrel, can we get back to the Collinswood mansion, please?” Fancy was working her way to standing up as her voice broke into Johnny’s reverie. He shot her a cold look, but went back to his narrative about the mansion as his gaze rested again on the forest in the distance.
“Why James Collins had left England and the home of his father has never been discovered by the locals, but some thought it was the burgeoning railroad that drew him to this country and to Pennsylvania in particular. Until recently, there has been no one who really cared about the house, why it was built, or who it now belongs to. The place itself is a monstrosity. The main structure covers nearly two acres, not including the outbuildings. While few know what it looked like when it was new, the place is now so vine covered and weather beaten that it’s thought to be impossible to live in, even for the neediest of vagrants. It’s just too spooky, too eerie for most folks, with a bad feeling that apparently extended all the way to that farmhouse, afore mentioned, that marks its property line.” Another icy look directed toward Fancy at this last comment.
“A tall, wrought iron fence had been erected around the yard at some point, enclosing all of the structures on the property, except for a little one-room cottage sitting by the front entrance, used for what, no one knows for sure. Perhaps for an anticipated caretaker or guard. The entire place, including the outbuildings, is five or six unkempt acres and the remaining land has long gone to seed and high weeds. Inside the gate, the grounds now show little evidence of a planting plan, and with bushes untrimmed and gone wild over time, it would be hard to imagine that anything of great beauty had ever existed there. Fifty yards from the back of the house is a canal sporting a dilapidated pier, with wooden planks that are rotten or missing all together. There is no boathouse, or boat, for that matter. The canal itself opens up into the river along the southern side of the property and while there were eventually many other homes with well-maintained docks and boats, the Collinswood estate is distinctly lacking. The water reeds have grown tall and forbidding, discouraging any passing fishermen from investigating. The mist from the murky water there seems perpetual, even in the daytime, and would usually hover lowly at the banks, as if waiting for some prey to come by unawares and for darkness to fall. Why, even in my younger days, I . . .” Johnny stopped mid-sentence as he sent a side-long glance over to his interviewer.
“Would you like to stop for a bit, Mr. Mandrel? Have something to drink? You have been talking for some time now.” Mildred saw that as her cue that Fancy and her crew needed something to drink, so she went inside to get the lemonade and sun tea she had already made. She came out with pitchers and paper cups and they were immediately swept out of her hands with smiles and “thank you ma’am.”
“No, not yet,” was all Johnny said in quick response to Fancy’s question, who had moved to sit on the steps. She began fanning herself with a magazine Mildred has given her, as she sipped her tea and rested her back against the porch post. It was becoming an effort to keep her eyes open as Johnny continued with his interminable presentation. Mildred approached her brother with a small cone of lemonade. Even though he had said he didn’t want anything to drink, she knew he did. He gave her a wink and handed back the empty paper cone. Then he continued.
“The land was known to be available by a small announcement in the local newspaper and was being sold quite cheaply, $50 an acre. There was no limit to how many acres any one person could buy, but even still, not everyone could take advantage of it, being located in a rather poor community. There were three-hundred acres sold the first time the notice appeared. The second group of three-hundred acres was offered for sale at the same price nearly thirty years later, and James Collins was represented by a Pennsylvania law firm both times. According to the lawyer’s journals, James had contracted with the law firm by registered mail shortly after the Collinswood mansion was built, to dispose of the property if they had not heard otherwise from him by 1940. He had sent a large retainer, but gave no personal information about himself, or how he made his money. The proceeds from the sale were to be used in some way to develop and maintain the town of Collinswood. The lawyers were instructed that the gift was to remain anonymous, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.” Johnny chuckled a little to himself.
“On January 2, 1940, when I was in my thirties, the lawyers began to dispose of the first three hundred acres. The moneys were used to buy property in the center of town and on it they built a library and a community center, as designated in the original letter. I bought a few acres of my own. In 1970, when I was almost sixty five, the second group of three hundred acres was sold in the same manner with the resulting proceeds being used for other needs in Collinswood, at the discretion of the mayor. The law firm was apparently accustomed to dealing with eccentrics, and it did not seem all that unusual to them that their client kept his identity secret. As long as their fee was paid, they saw no need to question his methods. Once the six hundred acres were gone, however, what remained of the property was left untended. There were no instructions to the law firm on how to handle the remaining land and house, and since they never heard from James Collins again, they assumed that he had either taken his business elsewhere or perhaps left the States all together.
“The large mansion remained little more than a curiosity for several years, and as the surrounding property was sold again and again as the first owners died or moved away, less genuine information was known, little as that was to begin with. I gave my own acres to my children. We never knew if James Collins was married, or had a family, but most of the deeds for the purchased parcels had two names on them – James and Diedre Collins – although James was the only one to sign them, by proxy of course. At any rate, to anyone’s knowledge, the Collins couple was left completely alone, and both probably died there, even though there are no records of a death or burial arrangements, or bodies found for that matter. At least as far as I know. There has always been room for speculation, however, and townsfolk told a great number of stories and eerie tales over the years, at least those who seemed to have little more to do with their time.”
Johnny finally stopped talking nearly four hours after the first and only question, had been asked. Mildred remained nearby, amazed as always at her brother’s ability to tell the same story over and over and almost exactly the same way each time. He omitted the aside information when there was no one but Mildred to listen. The news crew members were all sitting on the ground by now, totally enrapt with the tale. Fancy appeared grateful that Johnny seemed to have run out of steam and information, and waved at one of the guys to give instructions to pack up.
To her shock and dismay, however, a voice came from the yard. “What kind of stories do the townsfolk tell, Mr. Mandrel?” Everyone, except Fancy Smart, sat back down. Johnny began again.
“Every now and then, stories beyond whatever happened to the original family will circulate. It usually begins at Rosie’s diner, where someone speculates on this and that and comes up with a new twist on an aspect of the mansion or its original occupants. Beatrice Luckinbill, for example, who has an unnaturally loud and booming voice, ventured a question just the other day, and everyone in the diner heard it.
‘“Whatever happened to all the money that Collins guy must have had? I mean, let’s face it; he must have been worth a bundle to build the mansion in the first place. So, where is it all?’” Everyone in the yard laughed at Johnny’s mock-female voice, falsetto, creaky and loud. Even Johnny managed a grin.
“Beatrice looked around questioningly at those at her table and those at nearby tables, really expecting an answer, I guess, but most of us just shrugged our shoulders and went back to eating our meals. The question, however, was no doubt rolling around in everyone’s head for days.” Again in his Beatrice voice he asked “‘just what did happen to all that money?’” This time Johnny laughed out loud and struck his cane on the floor of the porch once, which made everyone else laugh even harder; even Fancy joined in. Then he quickly composed himself and continued.
“Of course, by the time the ideas came home for supper, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Bea was right; Collins must have been loaded. That was about as far as they would venture.
“One such story came to the ears of eager listeners by way of ‘Old Ben’, as everyone calls him. Old Ben has been a resident of Collinswood for as long as anyone remembers and a good friend of mine since I can remember. Despite that, he is, in himself, an eerie person who is often seen at night roaming the few streets of town, carrying on conversations of sorts with himself, or the trees, or the stars above. No one knows for sure, and no one bothers to ask him. But old Ben does have some lucid moments in which he can be almost profound in his observation of events that have happened in this small community.”
Mildred suspected that Fancy was praying silently that no one spoke up or questioned or wanted the life history of “old Ben.” It was iffy at first; there seemed to be some mumbling going on, but ultimately a silence prevailed. Fancy rose to her feet a bit wobbly, but did not dare to even glance at the crowd behind her. This time she gave no wave or indication of departure. She simply leaned toward Johnny, extended her small sweaty hand and said loudly so everyone could hear her, “Thank you so much, Mr. Mandrel, for that interesting and enlightening story. I’ll be in touch about when we’ll air this piece.”
She gave a nod and a small wave to Mildred as she swung around, focused on the van, the air conditioning within that van and her escape, but not on any one person in her path as she ran. Everyone else got up then, packed up and eventually made their way to their own vehicles and down the road, leaving Johnny Mandrel and his sister Mildred quite alone. The silence was stunning.
“You were wonderful, John, as always,” commented Mildred as she picked up the empty pitchers.
“Thanks, Millie, my dear. But you don’t have to call me ‘John’ when no one else is here.”
Mildred smiled tolerantly and turned back to her brother before she left the porch. While no one had ever questioned how it came to be that Johnny Mandrel was so familiar and knowledgeable about the Collinswood mansion, only Johnny, Old Ben, and Mildred knew the reason.
