The Gardens At Winterthur

I have been assured by those with sunnier dispositions than mine that April is the prettiest month. Decked with garlands of fresh lavender, dewy tulips, and the universally-beloved cherry blossom, April begets the annual traditions of stowing the family parkas, greasing the lawnmower bearings, refilling the portable propane tanks, and hanging the snow shovel in its place of honor above the teetering stack of junk mail that you haven’t yet bothered to put out for recycling because they keep changing the day: I know it was Friday last year, but I think now it’s Tuesday and I could find out, but that would mean digging through the teetering stack of junk mail in the garage.

April, despite my protestations, obliterates my last excuses for staying home to putter, to fritter, to lounge, and to loaf. It starts the season of roaming. The beaches may not be sufficiently warmed for sunbathing, nor the mountains properly thawed for hiking. But the gardens are ready for a stroll. And nowhere in the Mid-Atlantic are the gardens more serene and inviting than at Wintherthur.

In 1839, French immigrant Evelina du Pont and her Philadelphian husband Antoine Bidermann staked out 2000 acres for an estate nestled in the low hills north of Wilmington. Over the course of the next 112 years, the family strove to convert these dales into a masterpiece of gardening, showcasing not only the natural beauty of the Delaware terrain, but to display dozens of garden styles from around the world from formal Continental plots to Oriental bowers, fantasy-inspired play areas to intricate terraces that tie together the cyclopean wings of the central manor house. It was a project of generations, and no du Pont scion did more to make the grounds what they are today than Henry Francis.

A lifelong collector of antiquities, oddities, and curios, H.F. hauled so much loot to the Winterthur grounds that monumental additional buildings had to be constructed to contain the heaps of booty transported via rail complete with its own station and still-valid post office (ZIP 19735). To this day, Winterthur remains the foremost repository of American furniture and decorative arts. As if industrial-scale philately were insufficient, H.F. bred an impressive herd of Dutch dairy cattle on the grounds. Hundreds of acres of pasture still dominates the landscape, despite the sale of half the estate acreage to a neighboring country club.

Our drive to the visitor center from Kennett Pike was dominated by orderly, patchwork daffodil plots, arranged as if to mimic H.F.’s beloved Holsteins. The glare of the rising sun was kept in check by the emerald canopy of the forest garden. Trees, shrubs, and ground cover planted early in Winterthur’s history was almost surely stationed on the gentle hill expressly for this reason. The du Pont family was renowned for hosting guests year round, and what better gesture of hospitality than to keep visitors in comfortable shade upon arrival?

Queues were short early in the day. Season ticket holders keen to skip the crowds including a charming German family milled about the bus stop, poring over their maps of the grounds or a mimeograph flyer announcing upcoming events. I found myself leafing through a pamphlet describing the methods employed to plan the gardens and the provenance of many of the exotic species of flora at Winterthur. Only this year did I learn that there are two primary strains of bluebell, one indigenous to a patch of Virginia not far from where Mrs. Bobbitt assaulted her husband (I only mention this because my primary residence at the time was a scant ten minute stroll from where Fairfax County police found the pale parcel of evidence in the case, at the intersection of SR-28 and New Braddock Rd. [VDOT is in the process of widening that section of road to the mixed feelings of local residents]).

Our tour guide was a colorful fellow, keen to describe every point of interest as “lovely.” I reckon we heard that word a good two dozen times by the end of the tour. The tram was comfortable enough, particularly considering the abnormally clement weather. We learned of how H.F. hired meticulous master gardeners to present visitors with breathtaking views no matter the season or angle of observation. We learned that in addition to having a sharp eye for landscaping, he had a remarkable talent for recruiting skilled workers. If the loveliness of the grounds fail to serve as adequate testimony to this, then surely the dominant position of  DuPont de Nemours as the world’s leading chemical, biosciences, electronics, and transportation conglomerate should provide sufficient evidence. The ride to the museum library took no more than twenty minutes, and not even the prattle of our guide could overcome the sense of quiet elegance that suffuses the grounds. In a sense, Winterthur is the antithesis of the gaudy excess of Hurst Castle on the PCH in California.

Before I explain to you the nature of the incident, why I took so long to write of it, and why you probably haven’t caught wind of it in the press, please let me assure you that I am writing none of this under duress. Each word written here is of my own composition. No Large Language Models, Artificial or Composite Intelligences, or Machine Learning Algorithms have contributed to what you are about to read. Any falsehoods, distortions of truth, mis-recollections, or errors are entirely my own. 100% organic, grass-fed, and farm-to-table, as it were.

The main building of Winterthur was built over successive generations. Evelina and Antoine first commissioned a handsome manor home suited to her French tastes. The original architecture keeps with rural chateau styles typical of the Loire Valley. I would hesitate to say that it rips off Versailles, but you can certainly see the architectural pedigree there. In its present form, it sports four floors above ground, and three subterranean. Since it is built on a slope, you have to use your imagination to get a feel for how deep those basement levels are. Adding to the surreal layout of the place is the terraced courtyard and the many outbuildings connected to the central house by breezeways. Students in the American Material Culture program from the University of Delaware enjoy enhanced access to some of the lower levels, as well as archival rooms, classrooms, and storage. I cannot overstate just how colossal H.F.’s collection grew. By some accounts, it has still yet to be completely cataloged.

I mention the girth of the house to help make sense of where I eventually found myself. There was a commotion of sorts shortly after lunch-time. It was unclear to us what prompted the commotion. However, just as we emerged from the museum en route to the library, a group of children appeared to be in distress and were, as we used to say in the old country, raising a din. We sought refuge in one of the aforementioned breezeways, this one housing a perplexing array of novelty soup tureens. To make it past the first layer of security, which I assure you we had no premeditated intent of doing, we ducked through a non-descript door recently opened by a flustered grad student on her way to investigate the ruckus. I aver I had no idea this door wasn’t meant for public use. I have sterile/secure/ops area access at both IAD and DCA; I promise you I take site security seriously. Once inside, I discovered the two-factor card reader needed for egress.

After a brief consultation with my better half, we thought it likely that we would find a security office not too far down the corridor. Instead, we found more corridor. Quite a bit more. My best guess is that it wound generally eastward, though we traversed plenty of Pac-Man maze before we found any unlocked doors. The few rooms we could access were storage closets, vacant classrooms, and one neatly-organized collection of bronze cabinet knobs. After what felt like a quarter mile (but what was probably no more than a few hundred feet) of fruitless searching, we did manage to find what appeared to be an unmanned security desk. Perhaps it was reception; the lack of labels made it difficult to properly identify. Waiting fifteen minutes for someone to return proved unproductive, so we cut our losses and resumed searching for anyone to let us out.

Have you ever been to a Disney property? Did you know that the park layout is arranged to act as something of a human funnel? Well-designed livestock pens perform much the same function: to herd cattle to the abattoir such that the animals experience little stress along the way. Imagineers found that over the decades of park operations, humans can be herded just as effectively. Gates that look like scenery, imperceptible barricades at exit rides, and circuitous paths act as reorientation mind tricks, environmentally ushering park visitors toward the next attraction, or to a park exit closer to closing time.

Before we knew it we found ourselves in a study that wouldn’t have felt out of place in a Colonial land baron’s estate. Though the decor was at odds with the adjacent sterile corridors, the most immediate striking feature of the room was the stench. A gust of bituminous aldehyde assailed us as we approached the ponderous ebonwood escritoire to see if someone were seated in the Chesterfield whose top peeked just above the crown of the writing-desk.

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“What is this stink?” My wife’s non-native command of English universally cuts to the marrow of the question at hand.

I shrugged and brought a finger to my nose. “Smells like someone’s paving the road in front of a meth lab.”

She glared at me and started to walk around the desk. “Excuse me. We took wrong turn and want to go back for tour.” She stopped abruptly and I saw a look of horror conquer her normally serene countenance.

Please bear in mind that my lovely bride was a hospital nurse for most of her career. For nigh on two decades, she dealt with trauma cases that would turn your hair white. All apologies to my cherished readers blessed with that particular dignified hue already. Her flinch suggested that something unspeakably ghastly occupied the chair.

I would like you to recall that the DuPont family of companies was founded two hundred and twenty some-odd years ago. It was first registered three years after the death of George Washington. On the typical timescale of US corporations, it is downright venerable. It is also incomprehensively diverse. Dow Chemical (no relation to Dow Jones Industrial Average) split off in 2019, but the market cap of DuPont is still pretty close to $46B. Mostly known for plastics and polymers, DuPont has close ties with the Departments of Agriculture, Transportation, Energy, and Defense, inter alia. Many of their space age products are now found in today’s homes: Mylar, Teflon, Lycra, Corfam, Kevlar, and if you’ve ever driven past a construction site, you’ve surely seen vapor barrier bearing the name Tyvek. It’s a big business, and the skunkworks at the home plant in Wilmington is legendary to anyone even remotely associated with the field of chemical engineering. They have had a considerable amount of time, resources, and talent to pour into the lucrative field of materials production. I urge you to consider the possibility that the countless products that have made their way out the gates of Chestnut Run Plaza account for a mere fraction of the total discoveries and inventions brewed up in their many laboratories.

I heard the voice before I beheld its appearance. Have you ever tried playing music from a speaker that has a little rip in the membrane? There’s this annoying little buzz there as the fabric rustles together. That susurrus combined with a moist flapping sound accompanying the speech. I could detect a hint of a Northern European accent, but the odd distortions made it hard to place.

“Thank you for coming.” I write quotation marks here for ease of following the conversation, but please forgive me if this transcript is not perfectly faithful. This was not an ordinary conversation, even by my peculiar standards.

[CONSTRUCT DEVICES]

I could only stammer a piteous, “you’re welcome” as I joined my wife’s side and beheld what had painted her face with the hues of distress. A nearly-silent “dude” escaped my reverent lips as I laid eyes on this objectionable arrangement of facsimile facial features.

Months later, and I am still not entirely sure how to describe what I saw. Imagine an animal turned inside out and coated in tiny plastic filaments like synthetic fur. The voice seemed to come from muscled fundibular tubes on the upper part of the thorax, and the whole glistening, pulsating mess was fused to the chair and the desk by dozens, perhaps hundreds of cables and cords of varying thickness. “Forgive my appearance,” the thing rasped, “I am told that the apotheotic process is being refined. Subsequent generations of operators should more closely resemble natural organisms.”

I averted my gaze partly out of respect for this profoundly naked abomination, but more to keep myself from vomiting. “I’m so sorry. I think we’re lost.”

My wife backed away toward the door, grabbing my sleeve as she retreated. “We took us wrong turn and accidentally locked down here ourselves. Sorry for intrusion.” I have noticed that her syntax drifts during moments of stress, shifting toward the grammar of her native tongue. This was one such instance.

“Oh, this was no accident, Mrs. [W]. I need your help.” The creature said. “More specifically, your husband’s help. Though you have seen The Enemy as well, if his stories are true.”

I felt my blood run cold. She planted her feet to impale me with a familiar gaze of disapproval. “This is about your nerd shit.”

Let it be known that I truly cherish each and every one of you who takes the time to read my silly little tales posted here and occasionally elsewhere. It is deeply flattering that people seem to enjoy my writing, usually for reasons that elude me. I must confess, however that my wife does not share your tastes in literature. She finds me verbose, preposterous, and frequently offensive. She has little patience for made-up or even embellished stories, and she is not shy about sharing her opinions on the subject. “Nerd shit” is one of the more gentle epithets she deploys toward my lurid tales.

My curiosity was sadly piqued, and as it appeared as if the door to the study had locked shut behind us, I made the foolish decision to continue the conversation. “What enemy?” I asked, hoping I did not already know the answer.

“I believe you already know the answer,” said the Thing in the Desk. “You have been there. Both of you.”

I felt a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach. It could only be one place. The town that doesn’t exist. “I invented that place. We were driving at night on an unfamiliar, unlit backcountry road. I got a little spooked and made up a story about it. That’s all it is.”

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This is the lie I tell myself when the subject arises.

“Apocolothoth is coming,” the thing said. “We here at DuPont have known about the existence of the Moon Lord since the early days of the Apollo Program. Our Washington Works site in West Virginia lies near the Brainbash Hazard Zone. We know you have seen it. You have seen them.” The rasp grew more ragged, more gravelly. “Your assistance is required.”

I suppose I suspended my incredulity at the demand in part because of the absurdity of the situation. “What sort of assistance?” I asked, wondering if I had inhaled some sort of hallucinogenic gas at some point during the day.

“We need samples. Tissue samples as well as endometic brain scans.” A soft light switched on and drew my gaze to another table and chair, this one with EEG-style machines and a blood draw kit. “I believe [Mrs. W] is familiar with the necessary procedures.”

She was, and as anyone might expect, she rather resolutely refused to cooperate. She was determined to escape, and intent upon commandeering my assistance to that end. She evinced no curiosity about what this creature was, where it came from, how it could so convincingly mimic the attributes of a living creature, or anything else about this peculiar encounter. It was not until the thing mentioned the Brainbash-related memory lapses that still persist to this day, aching like a sore tooth did she relent.

It was not until we were given certain assurances about the recovery of certain missing persons that she agreed to obtain the requested samples. For the life of me, I still cannot endeavor to recall our child’s name.

Thankfully, the procedures were quick and relatively painless. Additional questions mostly went unanswered, and I was issued one final set of instructions. They were as follows:

1. Do not write anything of the day’s visit to Winterthur until receipt of a passphrase I was to memorize.
2. Solve no riddles, nor puzzles. Encourage others to similarly refrain.
3. Should I find, or be sent, or otherwise discover components or parts that could be combined to form a more complex object, do not do so. Construct no devices.
4. CONSTRUCT NO DEVICES

I still do not understand the purpose of these instructions. I gather it has something to do with the sort of influence that The Enemy can exert from the town that isn’t there or from some lunar stronghold, but the Thing in the Study would entertain no further questions bar one.

When I asked about how it was that I, the one person he needed for these samples, just happened to stumble into his room in Delaware, he issued a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh and explained at length of easily-exploitable behavioral blind spots. Imperceptible nudges on social media sites put Winterthur at the top of overnight trip destinations. Creating a disturbance and mobilizing site employees, none of which knew of the existence of this study or its eldritch resident, was trivial. Indeed, there was nothing accidental whatsoever about our presence in that study on that gorgeous April day with the cherry blossoms in full bloom. I shiver when I imagine the implications.

As you might surmise, the embargo is now lifted. I can relate my unusual little encounter, and I can assure you that if you are not part of the conflict between Apolcolothoth and DuPont, then you will most assuredly enjoy the grand and wonderful gardens and estate of Winterthur. I urge you to visit.

Parking was adequate.