Gertrude Aldridge (christened Gertrude Grace of God Aldridge) was born the first of four girls. (As soon as she came into the world, her father prayed for a son, but no luck.) Gertrude was always a strange child, a little off, usually wearing a calm, sadistic smile on her face. She blossomed into a young woman in late 1800's New York, under the finest circumstances imaginable.
These circumstances laid the foundation for the horrors to come.
From the time she opened her eyes, Gertrude Aldridge was attended to by servants. (When one has been waited on since the moment of birth, one begins to think they've earned such treatment.) The mansion had two dozen employees—most black and Irish, paid less than the law allowed, even then. At the time of 'the incident', as Sir Aldridge would later call it, the youngest was twelve. Sara had been working (separate from her own parents) for a year. Such things weren't criminal then. She should have been playing with the twelve-year-old Aldridge twins on the parlor rug. Instead, she was working her fingers bloody, scrubbing the kitchen.
Another servant (Millie, an Irish woman who sent every penny she made to her children) caught Gertrude's eye one afternoon. She'd brought the young woman her afternoon snack in the parlor, when Gertrude noticed the wrappings on Millie's hand. Working in the kitchen meant accidents were common, but a slip of the knife the previous day had been particularly nasty. Millie wrapped it tight and was determined to pay it no mind. Suddenly, Gertrude gripped her wrist. Not tight—Millie could've pulled away. But that would've been rude. Gertrude insisted (with a soft voice and a soft smile) to see the cut. Millie told her it wasn't a pretty sight, but then Gertrude's soft fingers were unwrapping the bandages.
Millie couldn't look at the wound, but Gertrude studied it. Her palm throbbed and stung upon exposure to air. Finally, Gertrude spoke.
"Red is such a pretty color on you." She said. That calm smile never left her face.
Millie thanked her and left, quickly as she was able.
Her family openly wished she'd be married. Her parents wanted a good match for her, her extended family waited eagerly for wedding invitations, and her sisters secretly wanted her out of the house. (They loved her dearly, but lived in fear of her.) Gertrude Aldridge had suitors, of course—she was attractive and well-to-do. But an odd pattern emerged with the young men that pursued her. They'd suddenly drop contact with the Aldridge family, traumatized after a little while alone with her. None would say why.
There was only one young man Gertrude Aldridge took a liking to. And he was rightfully terrified of her.
The Aldridge mansion employed a manservant named Silas, who had worked his way up from a stable hand. Gertrude would demand his presence whenever she could. Other servants tried to help by attending Gertrude's needs themselves, but she was adamant—always greeting him with that calm, sadistic smile. To say she played a cat-and-mouse game with him would be too kind. (She often demanded he bring her live mice from the traps, so she could 'play' with them herself.) Silas was trapped by contract and circumstance in the Aldridge mansion. To outright refuse Gertrude (to exercise the human right to say no or get away) would mean severance from his livelihood. He walked the razor's edge for months—until one dreadful night.
When the grandfather clock chimed three times after midnight, when only the streetlamps outside gave any light, Gertrude took a candle and ascended into the servant's quarters. She wore nothing but a nightgown and that smile. [The youngest servant] heard her enter, and make her way through the attic room, to one particular bed. What happened then might've been accidental (set off by the young man's pleas to stop). It might've been a crime of passion—except she'd tucked the knife into the hem of her dress before she went up.
The next morning, Sir Aldridge stormed into the bare servant's quarters. (He'd never actually seen where he condemned his servants to live.) The man shoved open the door, yelling obscenities. He'd turned over one servant, whipped down the sheet that separated the beds, and tore the covers off of the next two before he realized what he was looking at. The next thing the family knew, Sir Aldridge walked calmly downstairs, expensive handkerchief over his mouth.
He walked past his wife and twins (woken by his yelling) and went straight to the carriage boy, telling him to go get the chief of police. While he was gone, Mrs. Aldridge (with two of her daughters clutching her skirt) ascended to peek in at what happened. She couldn't take more than a cursory look. Pale, she took the twins back down.
Shock set in. Mrs. Aldridge fought back nausea, keeping a straight and calm demeanor for her daughters. It was clear, an intruder had broken in and committed these vile acts. A sickening thought crossed her mind—two of her children weren't accounted for.
She didn't think to forbid the twins—she descended to the second floor, where the children's rooms were. With shaking fingers, she opened the door of her youngest's room—and found her woken by the commotion, but still in bed. She softly asked what was going on. Mrs. Aldridge didn't know what to say.
One of the twins called for their mother. They'd gone ahead, down the hall. Mrs. Aldridge left the youngest in her room and attended her other daughter. She saw what had them so frightened—a bloody handprint on Gertrude's doorframe.
The mother sent the girls downstairs, while she (terrified and sure that the intruder had killed Gertrude too), opened the door.
The morning sun lit up the room. There was a washing-basin of pink water on the vanity. Gertrude lay motionless in her bed. The mother was terrified to even step in the room, she couldn't breathe. Seconds ticked by. Was Gertrude's chest rising and falling? Mrs. Aldridge couldn't tell…
Then Gertrude stirred, sat up, stretched (like a woman who'd been sexually satisfied the night before) and wished her mother good morning. There was a rusty spatter left over on her face.
As the bodies were being bustled out (packed into a butcher's cart to be disposed of later), the family sat in wordless horror, while Gertrude calmly got ready for the day upstairs. Her father had talked for a while with the police chief (who was a benefactor of Aldridge's political donations). When Gertrude stepped downstairs, she casually greeted her father's friend and asked her daddy what was going on. Two terrified younger policemen immediately put her in handcuffs.
The chief was adamant on taking her to jail—no one was safe with Gertrude on the loose. She sat in a plush armchair, that calm, sadistic smile on her face. She wasn't protesting anything. She only interrupted the conversation about her fate once: to say, "Even if you throw me in the madhouse, I'll be out soon. Daddy will have your head." Her father, cold and unloving as ever, told her to be silent.
Mr. Aldridge ordered the police to take the cuffs off her. The chief couldn't take her away, because Gertrude's father had a different idea. He dragged her to the basement door, walked her down a few stairs, and threw her on the landing. Without another word, he shut and locked the basement door.
(The basement was where all girls were kept when they disobeyed their father. They were terrified—Gertrude especially.)
Her angry silence turned to demands, turned to sobs, turned to screams. She rattled the door like her life depended on breaking it down. Her mother and sisters could only watch.
Sir Aldridge had his wife write letters to the victim's families, about how they ran away. She detailed affairs and scandals (directed by her husband, who had no knowledge of his servant's personal lives). If anyone came asking, the police turned them away. New staff were hired by the end of the day.
Mrs. Aldridge begged her husband to free their firstborn, their Gertie. There must be a different solution. He wouldn't hear it.
Since the rest of her life would be in the basement, and she was still a woman of noble birth, furniture and pleasantries were moved to the basement. A vanity, a dressmaking mannequin, a fine bed, and even the instruments she was taught to play. Gertrude was handcuffed to the door as workmen moved her things in. Locks were added. She was disheveled, dark circles under her eyes, but she watched the men with that calm smile.
Her sisters couldn't talk about the secret in the basement. Servants were fired if they even asked. Mrs. Aldridge grew silent and gaunt. The first-born Aldridge girl lived below the mansion (a secret) for weeks and weeks.
Then, Gertrude grew angry. She grew desperate.
While one of the twins was talking through the slot in the door (something they should never do), Gertrude softly begged for a blanket. She was sick, and it was so cold down there. Her little sister complied. She fetched a woolen blanket from Gertrude's own room, and knelt down to pass it through the slot. It was a tight fit—probably because the little girl tried to shove it all through at once. Gertrude talked her through feeding it—bit by bit—through the slot, until only a tail corner was left. The little twin's arm was through the slot up to the elbow, when something grabbed and twisted her arm hard, making her cry out in surprise.
Her little face was pressed against the cold iron. Before she even realized what danger she was in, she felt an arm wrapped around her neck, keeping her taught to the door. The first replacement servant was there just in time to see the glint of something pressed against the girl's neck.
Gertrude wasn't allowed anything sharp, so she had to improvise. She held a mirror shard to her little sister's neck.
The twin's screams brought the whole house to her. Gertrude didn't try to stop her—in fact, when she whimpered and fell quiet, she'd adjust the mirror shard and send her screaming all over again. Mrs. Aldridge held back the youngest, tried to make her avert her eyes.
Gertrude screamed and howled louder than the little twin—if the door wasn't unlocked immediately, she'd saw the little girl's neck through. Little lines of blood started to seep from the point of contact. Her life meant nothing to Gertrude. (Perhaps she didn't even want, or expect, freedom…perhaps she just wanted blood again.)
The other twin snuck along the wall. All at once, she grabbed Gertrude's hand. The two fought furiously for just a split second—then an able-bodied servant man jumped in to help. The mirror shard clattered to the floor (breaking into even more pieces). Mrs. Aldridge dove for the endangered twin's legs, and pulled her out of Gertrude's reach.
(The one twin was left with a scarring cut on her neck; the other with scarring cuts on her hands. People could finally tell them apart.)
Gertrude screamed and fought with everything she had (more like a rabid creature than a noblewoman). It was like she knew that incident spelled her death.
The slot on the door was slammed shut. Gertrude wrapped her fingers around the metal edge, pulling back against it with all her strength. She barely avoided breaking them as it was slammed shut anyways. Sir Aldridge sealed it with a heavy padlock; he announced loudly to all the house, that the door was never to be opened again. No food, no water, nothing was to be passed back and forth. He walked away with the keys as his little daughter sobbed.
Mrs. Aldridge refused, at first. Her younger daughters heard her have a screaming fight with their father in the study—the fiercest their mother had ever fought against her tyrant husband. She was silenced then, too.
Gertrude's mother waited for four days by the basement door. She was dressed improperly, in her nightgown, barely eating or drinking herself. Despite her husband's insistence, she didn't budge.
Gertrude herself screamed and protested from the moment her death sentence was passed. When she knew someone (usually her mother) was outside the door, she'd scream anything to make them open it. She faked accidents, said she was bleeding, banged furniture on the walls to make them investigate. She apologized, claimed to see Jesus, claimed to see the ghosts of her victims. Nothing worked.
Soon her fake distress turned real. Four days after her father locked the door, she was dying.
Gertrude sat, speaking in a croak-whisper through the door. (She'd lost her voice after two days). Gertrude told her mother she was cold and thirsty. Her voice faded away all together.
It was an hour since Gertrude fell silent. It felt like eons to her mother, as she waited for her daughter's next sound. Mrs. Aldridge began to cry.
Not even her husband stopped her as she got the keys to the door, gardener's shovel in hand. Sir Aldridge simply asked what she thought she was doing.
"My daughter's going to have a Christian burial." Was all Mrs. Aldridge gave him. It was the first time she'd asserted herself in their marriage. Without a word, without any empathy, Sir Aldridge walked away.
It was late. No one stopped her—it seemed the house was empty. Mrs. Aldridge felt fear constrict her heart as she stood with her hand on the unlocked door. She knew what was inside—a mother's worst fear—but a sense of duty made her continue. The door opened with a grind of metal hinges.
Gertrude was still at the top of the stairs. She'd been leaning against the door, opposite her mother, when her body gave out. She seemed so…small. Mrs. Aldridge remembered her sister (Gertie's aunt) complimenting the child on the roundness of her limbs, the softness of her face. That softness was gone. Setting the shovel down, Mrs. Aldridge took a moment to sit down and hold her…like she had when Gertie was a child. Gertrude would've hated it, but she couldn't help it. Her daughter—her Gertie, her firstborn—was limp in her arms. Like a doll. Mrs. Aldridge brushed curly hair out of her pale face. With her eyes closed (long lashes casting shadows across her gaunt cheekbones), Gertrude could almost be resting.
Then she started dragging her downstairs (awkwardly). Mrs. Aldridge (a small woman) could only support the weight of her daughter's upper body, so her bare feet dragged down the filthy basement stairs. Sir Aldridge decreed she would never leave the basement. So she wouldn't. A few steps down, Mrs. Aldridge glanced up from her daughter, and saw the state of the basement—it had been destroyed. The vanity mirror was shattered, the chamber pot tipped over, shreds of clothes and broken furniture everywhere…It was a scene straight out of a nightmare. A noblewoman couldn't have done this. A wild animal, maybe, but not a noblewoman.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Aldridge continued on. She made it to the bottom landing when a stray nail caught on her nightgown and she stumbled. Landing on the filthy boards, flat on her back with her daughter's weight on top of her, she gasped for breath. It was then she felt hands clutching at the front of her gown. Mrs. Aldridge barely had time to process that when she heard the raspy whisper.
"Mother…"
Her daughter, her daughter was looking up at her, wide-eyed. Gertrude used her grip on her mother's nightgown to pull herself up.
Mrs. Aldridge tried to choke out the first syllable of her daughter's name.
"Mother…"
Gertrude was alive. Mrs. Aldridge's heart skipped a beat. Then she saw her daughter's face was twisting in rage—becoming inhuman, haggard.
"Why did you let them lock me up? Why did you let them lock me up?!"
The claw-like hands released her nightgown, and closed around Mrs. Aldridge's throat.
The mother's confusion turned to panic—she tried to pull her daughter's wrists away, fighting with all the strength in her body. Gertrude was half-starved and feeble—but she had her fingertips dug into her mother's throat. Mrs. Aldridge's face started to turn purple. Spots bloomed on the sides of her vision. She tried to sit up, tried to throw Gertrude. Only when her vision dimmed, and her instincts not to hurt her daughter faded, did she succeed.
With one hand she pried at Gertrude's wrists, and with the other she pushed her daughter's face away. One last forceful shove, and her daughter's weight was off her—she heard one of Gertrude's knees hit a lower stair. But in a second, Gertrude's fingers were back clutching at the neck of Mrs. Aldridge's gown. Her head suddenly collided with a balustrade. Gertrude had bashed her mother's head against the wood beam.
Summoning her remaining strength, Gertrude lunged again. Only this time, Mrs. Aldridge didn't feel the blow she anticipated. Gertrude's hands didn't lock around her throat again. In a split second, Mrs. Aldridge saw what her daughter was aiming for—the open basement door.
Mrs. Aldridge didn't think. She grabbed the tail of her daughter's nightgown—the only thing she could reach—and pulled her back. Unsteady, Gertrude slipped back down the landing, practically in her mother's lap. A frustrated growl escaped her throat. It didn't sound human, either.
Her attention was turned back to Mrs. Aldridge. She grabbed at her mother's hair once more—a grip tight enough to rip out strands—and she pushed the blonde woman up against the balustrade again. Her intent was to tear her mother's eyes out. She didn't get the chance.
Mrs. Aldridge only wanted to get Gertrude off of her. She didn't mean to hurt her eldest daughter. She merely pushed her again—sending Gertrude toppling down the stairs, taking Mrs. Aldridge with her.
It seemed to Mrs. Aldridge that she was being struck on all sides by the edges of the wood planks. Her shoulder collided with a stair (hard) and a fraction of a second later, her wrist was lanced through with pain as it struck the banister. When it finally—FINALLY—stopped, she was crumpled at an odd angle on the debris-strewn dirt floor, one of her daughter's legs resting over her own. She whimpered, and fought for breath. Nothing moved for a while.
Adrenaline kicked back in, and Mrs. Aldridge fought to sit up. She couldn't put weight on her wrist (pain shot up through her shoulder when she tried). Her head was spinning, her vision blurry, but her situation came back to her with a start—Gertrude.
Her daughter. She didn't mean to harm her daughter. Gertrude could be seriously injured…
Thinking that Gertrude's violent spell may have passed (her daughter was still breathing, stirring now and then, but not attacking), Mrs. Aldridge crawled to inspect her. She was cautious. Fearful. But it seemed like her Gertie was in no state to move…
The young woman was crumpled on the floor. She seemed about to cry, like she had when she was desperate and hurting, dying of thirst…like she was a child. Mrs. Aldridge crooned at her. Told her daughter she was going to be all right. Mrs. Aldridge's instincts were crashing through her—she didn't move away when Gertie shakily reached a hand up to touch her face.
It happened too fast for the injured woman to get away. One second her daughter's hands were caressing her cheek, the next she couldn't breathe. Gertrude's arms were locked straight—being longer than her mother's, Mrs. Aldridge couldn't even try to lift herself away from her daughter's grasp. Tears were still stark on her daughter's face in the lamplight. Gertie was saying something, like a mantra—Why did you let them lock me up—but Mrs. Aldridge couldn't hear it.
She struggled. Raked her fingernails down Gertrude's arms. Twisted and kicked. As she bucked wildly, a dying animal in a wrecked basement, she could snatch half-breaths of precious air—but it wasn't enough. Mrs. Aldridge was dying.
Her hands sought anything, anything, in reach. Broken mirror skittered away from her fingers. Splinters pierced her skin. All she could reel in was a soft woolen blanket—and she pressed that, hard, over her daughter's face.
Gertrude snapped her head to the side. She bit at the fabric, let out muffled yelps. But Mrs. Aldridge couldn't let go until Gertrude let go.
Mrs. Aldridge's vision was long since gone. She didn't even notice her daughter's hands slackening, and then falling from her neck. So in shock was she, that she didn't dare move, didn't dare take her weight off the blanket over her daughter's face, for what felt like hours.
Slowly, the feeling in her stiff limbs came back. Her vision too. Her heaving breaths quieted, until the silence in the basement brought her back to her senses, and she started taking her weight off the blanket. Gertrude didn't stir.
The awful weight of the night's events sunk in as Mrs. Aldridge removed the blanket entirely. This time, Gertrude's stillness wasn't an act. Her chest didn't rise and fall, though part of Mrs. Aldridge desperately hoped it would. Her daughter's green eyes stayed open. A bit of something foul dripped from her mouth. Gertrude was gone.
Despite everything, Mrs. Aldridge wiped it away, and tried to close her daughter's eyes. She wouldn't remember if she wept again or not. Later, she'd stand on aching legs, and fetch the shovel to finish her job.
Even though her palms blistered, and her fingers bled, Gertrude Aldridge was given a proper burial.