by R. J. Bonett
Copyright # 1-6055176521 Dec. 2017 By R.J. Bonett
ISBN: 978-1-54397-658-8 eBook: 978-1-54397-659-5
Cover design drawn by: Ronald J. Bonett
Grateful appreciation to: Marie Bonett, Mary Morris, Bonnie Bell Hilfiger for content approval.
Kandace Rollman Wortz: Editor.
Karen Delise: Assistant for front cover.
New York Camera & Video Photo restoration
1139 Street Road
Southampton, Pa. 18966
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are purely fictional. Businesses, locations and organizations while real, are used in a way that is purely fictional.
Contents
Forward
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Forward
Ray Bishop, a 35 year old high end insurance underwriter for Keystone, buys an abandoned 100 acre farm in Bradford County Pennsylvania.
Arriving on a stormy night the first weekend in October, he was confronted by a horse and wagon coming in his direction. As the wagon passed he noticed the driver appeared to be staring angrily at him. The woman with him was looking straight ahead seemingly in a catatonic state. Why was he angry? Perhaps the man had wanted to buy this farm?
The dash across the muddy road to the shelter of the front porch would only add to the mystery. When he turns to look, a flash of lightning reveals the carriage was gone. Could it have gone that far in such a short time?
Entering the house gave him an eerie feeling of foreboding. He knew old houses were drafty, but the feeling of cool breezes across his face seemed to follow him from room to room. Then there’s the closet on the second floor at the top of the stairs that defies logic. Who would build a closet with a window?
Being awaken from a deep sleep by a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning reveals an image of a woman gliding across the living room. As she passes the front window, another flash of lightening reveals she’s transparent. Startled by the event, he gets out of his sleeping bag and watches as she climbs the stairs entering the closet with the window. Hesitatingly; he climbs the stairs too. Slowly opening the door, there’s nothing in the room.
But wait: Did he hear the moaning wail of a crying child? Only with the help of a psychic friend and a series of séances, will the house reveal the deep dark secrets it harbors.
Chapter 1
It was beginning to get dark early for mid-October that damp rainy Thursday afternoon. I was standing at the window of my fourth floor office at the insurance company, looking out over the city. It had been raining all day with a heavy cloud cover in place that hung over the city like a shroud. The rain was an all day miserable rain, a rain that would normally on your day off, give you second thoughts about getting out of a warm bed.
I was anxiously awaiting a phone call from a client about his commercial liability policy. The only sound in the room breaking the silence was the clicking of the pen against my chin as I leaned against the wall in deep thought. I was concentrating on what problems my client might encounter, problems that might give my boss second thoughts about me writing the policy.
Had I missed anything? Had I connected all the dots in the event of a civil action? Maybe there was a problem I haven’t thought of? Will he be underinsured? He’s building a five- story building in center city. He’s built other structures before without difficulty so there shouldn’t be a problem.
Whenever I worked on a policy of this magnitude, a little voice would come forward from the back of my mind and constantly torment me with the same questions. It was there every time. It was my own voice disembodied and repeating. Are you sure? Are you sure? Silencing that voice always required an overpowering force pushing it to the back of my mind, and it was always a challenge.
At 35, with almost 11 years in the company, I didn’t need to prove anything. I had considered every imaginable scenario he might encounter, and yes, I was satisfied.
“Yes damn it! I’m sure!”
Had I said that aloud? I looked toward the door, expecting a knock or a buzz from our receptionist on the extension, asking if there was any problem. Suddenly, my mind changed gears, and I found myself looking down on the business signs across the street. With the fog and misty rain, the signs had a hazy appearance, and only being familiar with the different stores could I identify what they were. I had done a lot of thinking, planning and even second-guessing looking out that window.
I watched as the rain began to come down harder and its impact on the street below. People were moving faster, scurrying up and down the sidewalk, trying to protect themselves from the rain. Most were hidden under umbrellas that were unfurled and moving in a frenetic pace. The sea of canopies was occasionally broken by the few without umbrellas, wading out into the sea- holding newspapers over their heads as their only protection. Looking down on them, they resembled a mass state of confusion, weaving in and out of each other in no organized manner. I also took note that the street traffic was quickly building up, even at this early hour.
Just then the phone rang. “Hello, Ray Bishop, Keystone Insurance. How can I help you?”
It was Ted Arnold, my reason for staying late that rainy afternoon. All he needed was my reassurance that his risk was covered, and I was suddenly relieved that I had done my homework; and as the insurance slogan goes, he was in good hands. There was some small talk about the lousy weather, carefully avoiding the business rhetoric, and then the pause. Time to get to the point!
“Yes Ted, thanks for getting back to me. I’ve gone over your current coverage thoroughly, and I’m sorry to say,” hesitating intentionally for effect, then laughed to put him at ease. “That as much as I tried to raise your premium on this renewal, it looks like your coverage should be sufficient for another year.”
Now it was his turn to laugh, and I sensed his relief.
“So you’re good to go, and good luck on that project.” I said, knowing I could have pumped up the price of his coverage as he apparently expected, padding my own commission. “Thanks for your business.”
Hanging up the phone as he signed off, I hurriedly tried to organize the paperwork strewn on my desk, returning them to their relevant folders. Periodically, my boss, Mr. Johnson, would wander in the room, and I didn’t want him to see anything out of place or policies not put back into file cabinets.
Mr. Johnson has been my overseer since I advanced to writing higher- end policies about eight years ago. I believe he was grooming me for his position when he retires in the not -to- distant future. The responsibility is considerably more, but the pay increase was well worth it and the reason I could afford the farm.
He’s been a fixture in the company for over 40 years and keeps it running like the fine movement of a Swiss clock. His wife passed away three years ago, and he seemed to try making up the hollow feeling by burying himself in his work. He was always the first to arrive each morning and the last to leave every night. Always making sure the coffee pot was on every morning, and the aroma was always much welcomed. Yes, he was the last of the old guard when wearing a suit with a white shirt and bowtie were fashionable.
But today, my schedule was clear, and I was hoping I wouldn’t get another client’s phone call- or an assignment from him be
fore I could leave.
If I could only get out of the office a little sooner, I could beat the traffic onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Grabbing my jacket and umbrella, I made a quick survey of the room before turning out the light and closing the door behind me. The fourth floor is where most of the larger business transactions took place, and the hall outside the elevator was crowded.
“Hi, Ray, why the rush?” It was Les Walton, a friend from underwriting who was also waiting for the elevator.
“I’m off tomorrow, Les. I want to get ahead of traffic,” I said, looking around nervously like a shoplifter trying to get away from the scene of a crime. “I’m going to the farm.”
The conversations of the people waiting for the elevator dissipated as I uttered those words, and several people turned to look at me with interest.
“What’s this with a farm? Are you leaving us?” He looked familiar I’d seen him in the building, but he didn’t work on the fourth floor.
“No, I’m not leaving. I bought a farm in Bradford County during the summer.” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m heading up there now.”
“What’s this with a farm?” asked another person I knew.
“I bought a farm in Bradford County during the summer for my retirement. It’s northwest of Scranton, beautiful country; and the view from my front porch is spectacular.” Repeating my words, “I’m heading up there now.”
Walton jerked his head back over his right shoulder. “You better take the stairs. I saw your boss, Mr. Johnson, looking for you.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said with a wink.
I ducked down, looking between the heads of the people waiting, and saw Mr. Johnson standing on his toes in the doorway of my office, stretching his short frame, examining the group waiting for the elevator to see if I was among them.
He just missed catching me leaving the office by only a few minutes. Turning up my collar, and bending slightly at the knees trying not to be noticed, I pushed open the fire escape door, and hurriedly went down the four flights of stairs to the lobby of the building.
A man I knew, Warren Simmons from property and casualty- who can only be classified as the ultimate office nerd, was walking through the lobby. Slight of frame and always wearing clothes that somehow seemed to be too big, his appearance was complimented by wearing thick glasses.
Warren always seemed to go from office to office, deeply engrossed in reading a contract, and more than once collided with a water fountain or missed a doorway by several feet. Everyone that knew Warren always gave him a wide berth.
People would often chide him about his poor navigational skills and say, “Warren, if you drove like you walk through this building, there isn’t an insurance company in the country that would insure you.” He always looked at them as though he was trying to figure out whether it was something he should really be concerned with. He was walking toward the bank of elevators when he suddenly looked up. “Hey, Ray, Mr. Johnson’s looking for you.”
“Do you know why, Warren? It isn’t something I forgot, is it?” I asked, my heart sinking but making an effort to appear nonchalant. “Do you know whether it was something urgent?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s about a customer he wants you to handle.”
“Look, if he sees me, it’ll tie me up for at least an hour. I’m off tomorrow, and I’m trying to get an early start for a long weekend. Do me a favor. Don’t tell him you saw me, Ok? I’ll owe you one.”
“That’s a deal. Going to that farm?”
I realized I probably told a dozen people max, but word sure got around fast. It was the same way when I got a divorce. It seemed like keeping a secret in the company was a monumental task, if you didn’t want it out, you couldn’t trust telling anyone.
“Yeah, it’s the first weekend I’ll be able to stay at the house.”
“Be careful driving,” he said, looking over his shoulder walking toward the bank of elevators. “The weather looks pretty crappy.”
“You bet. Thanks again for the warning.”
The 240- mile drive that late in the afternoon wasn’t something I was looking forward to, especially with the rain. Yet, I was excited about getting away and being able to spend the weekend there offset the misery of the long journey.
Dealing with some customers in the insurance business isn’t physical, but sometimes mentally demanding, especially when they hear a price for a certain type of policy. You’re actually selling something they may never use- that neither one of you want to have to use- and at a considerable price.
I was responsible for writing the high end policies of the company. Most of the people I dealt with were wheeler dealers who knew how to negotiate and get the most from their investments. A great deal of responsibility goes with it, but the financial end is more rewarding and the reason I was able to purchase the farm.
With a light rain, traffic getting to the turnpike would be slower than normal, but with the rain coming down at this rate, it would only make things worse. I thought, “If I could only beat the rush hour traffic.” I waited in the doorway for the traffic on the street to stop, then popped open my umbrella and darted between the cars to the parking garage across the street.
Shaking the water off my umbrella then closing it, I threw it in the back seat. I already had my sleeping bag and overnight bag in the car and was ready to go.
After the first two exits from the city where most of the population lived, the traffic would be a little lighter, and I could be a little more relaxed, listening to classical music on the radio. I pulled out onto the street and successfully navigated my way through it to the turnpike.
Finally getting past the rush hour traffic, I settled comfortably back in my seat, tuning the radio to a station that catered to the light classical listeners.
About a hundred miles from the city, the radio signal began to fade and was slowly being replaced by static. I thought… ‘I wish someone, someday, will invent a radio signal that goes farther than a hundred miles.’ I switched the radio off, silencing the static. To break the monotony of the windshield wipers clearing the rain, I entertained myself by thinking about the farm and the initial reason why I bought it.
Even though I dealt with high rollers on occasion, I had never been big on financial planning. I just decided that it’s never too early to begin investing in something besides a retirement account- especially an investment for the future when I retire in about 30 years. I knew I didn’t want to live in the city after retirement, but how would I handle a complete reversal of 180 degrees from what I had become accustomed to?
I knew it was a gamble, and just like any other gamble, there’s no such thing as a sure bet. After all, the business I’m in; the insurance business; is actually a gamble: a risk that a customer won’t need the policy he’s paying for.
For the present, the farm’s a hobby I know I’ll enjoy, and with the condition it’s in, the hobby would probably take a few years to complete.
To say it was a fixer upper would be an exaggeration, a severe understatement. It would put my natural talents as a handyman to the test, as well as taxing my energy and patience. And yet, it could prove rehabilitative too, and the source of a great deal of satisfaction. I definitely needed my life rehabilitated, and I hadn’t been satisfied in anything I’d done in a long time.
I don’t know for sure, but I guess that’s the reason Jennifer, my ex, divorced me. She wanted a house at the New Jersey shore, but when I bought the farm, she became irritable. When I began to get gardening books in the mail and books on how to raise chickens and beef cows, I guess that was the last straw, Straw. I laughed to myself. Now that’s funny. Straw, another association with a farm, something she absolutely hated.
At the end of our marriage, I used to really get under her skin humming the theme song from an old television series, Green Acres. The plot was a sophisticated woman w
ho marries a common guy who buys a farm- wanting to return to his roots. Exactly our situation, with one exception, she sticks it out through thick and thin.
I began laughing out loud, alone in the car. As I laughed, I began to sing: “You are my wife. Goodbye, city life. Green Acres we are there…” As I thought of the times I used to sing it to irritate her, I began to hum the theme song as I laughed. “Da… Da… Da... Dunt Dunt. Dant, Dant.”
As hard as I tried, I could never quite picture her dressed in bib coveralls with a straw hat, gathering eggs in a hen house or working in a garden.
She was beautiful enough to be a model for a sensual picture on a calendar, with her long blond hair and shapely figure. She could have been a great advertising poster, like Betty Grable with her bent- over pose that lifted the spirits of so many men during the war, adorning many aircraft, ships, submarines and tanks.
Come to think about it, maybe I wasn’t totally fair about the purchase of the property. But, oh well, I don’t think either one of us would have fit in the others world of tomorrow. There’s no sense hashing it out any longer- as they say, that’s water under the bridge. Even if she would have given it a try for my sake, she still would need to have her nails painted and high heels. She could never in her life go completely “country.”
I didn’t understand why she didn’t have any confidence in my ability to restore the place. I wasn’t like some men who couldn’t repair things and I proved it many times on different projects in the house she now owns. Yes, she now owns. She never had to call a plumber, carpenter or an electrician for anything she needed done.
Luckily, I learned everything I knew about tools and how to use them from my father. He was a patient, talented man who taught me so much. I had the natural talent too, thanks to his genes, and I could have been a hell of a contractor. He was wrong about one thing as I look back on it now. He was convinced I should go to college, and from there it was a business degree and then the job with Keystone. The security and money is great, but I don’t really enjoy my work. My real satisfaction came from taking most of that money I earned and putting it into my house- I mean her house. But, despite the regrets, I’m glad she’s gone.
