My breath catches again when I hear voices downstairs. Angry voices: a man and a woman arguing. The words are too muddled to understand, but the hostility is real and dangerous.
I try to get up, but my stomach won’t cooperate– not until I smell burning. The blanket is smoldering from the smudge stick. My heart is throbbing in my head. A flame starts to flicker. Mojo is no longer beside me. My will to live and not burn the house down is stronger than Alexander’s intent.
I pound my fist on the blanket. The voices grow louder. When I’m sure the fire is out, I crawl to the door. Before I can reach it, it slams shut. I struggle to stand without falling and nearly get knocked back again by the sound of the wolfdog’s howl and a bloodcurdling scream of the human kind. Unbelievable, someone is in the house again.
The attic door is old, warped in its frame. I fight to get it open, then I make my way down a few steps. All the lights have been turned off. Mojo’s growl is soft but determined. A living, breathing woman is yelling and swearing at him to get away.
Something pushes me from behind, and I tumble to the second floor landing. My hip hits something harder than the floor. The thought of attempting to go down the main stairs to see what’s going on is unnerving and probably impossible because of the pain.
“Who’s down there? Who are you?” My voice is weak and barely audible. The house goes silent as if we are all listening for each other.
I’m about to call out for Mojo when the crying starts again. The cries echo over each other making it sound as if there are hundreds of children. There’s another bloodcurdling scream from the woman downstairs. A door slams just before my head is slammed against the floor.
∞
Wet tongue kisses wake me. I’m still lying on the second floor landing. Light streams in through the windows. Except for Mojo, I hear nothing but my ears ringing. Carefully, I push myself up.
My left hip feels like it took a trip out of its socket before slamming back into place. The room isn’t spinning anymore and my stomach isn’t about to lurch from my throat. The house is quiet, but not that eerie silence from last night. Things are back to as normal as they can be here.
I check Mojo for injuries then myself. As I start to get up to go check on the house and see what damage my late night visitor did, I see a chain beside me. It’s a necklace with a beautiful gold heart pendant, a ruby, and fancy gold script: two letters: EJ.
Jenningsworth? One of the children perhaps… or Etta Jane?
Chapter Twenty One
§
After I make my way downstairs, one cautious step after the other, I see the house is in perfect order except for the back door, which is once again open. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d move the kitchen table so that whoever gets in next will have to climb over it.
On closer exam now, I see that the necklace isn’t an antique. Whether it’s Etta Jane’s or not, I can’t take the time to figure out. I don’t know how she or anyone else keeps getting in the house or why, but I’m not here for them. I’ll leave it to Hayley to figure out– Hayley and Boyd who have keys.
Between the children’s disembodied crying and the wolfdog, I just hope whoever’s getting in has finally been persuaded to stay out. For that reason, I’m not calling the police so they can bar me from the house while they do another investigation. Instead, I’m having a triple strength coffee, two aspirins, and going to soak in the bathtub. Then I’m climbing into bed and sleeping off a bruised hip and an even more bruised ego.
Alexander’s not just unwilling to let go, his spirit is clinging to this place like a big wad of gum on the bottom of a shoe. That replayed argument with, I’m assuming, Carmela proves that his desire to set things right is tormenting him, and he plans on going nowhere. Since I have a money back guarantee, his uncompromising position isn’t an option.
I’m going to rethink my approach with this spirit, but first I need to call Acker and tell him he can’t come over tonight. I’m hoping he regrets accepting my invitation but either way, I’m not going to offer up an explanation.
Telling a tough Texan detective a séance may be too dangerous for him is just unkind. But it is dangerous, and I don’t need any distractions from the likes of him. Tonight, I’ll need all my focus and strength, and then some.
Limping to the stairs, I climb halfway to the third floor. “Alexander, what you did last night was wrong. I’m trying to help you here, and I’m not leaving until I’m done. Tonight, we finish this for the good of all.”
I go to the bathroom to fill the tub. It’s Christmas Eve and being all alone makes my heart ache almost as much as my bruised body. While the water runs, I flop on the bed and call my dad.
“Hey, Jack. You on your way home?”
“Not yet, Dad. Still finishing up.”
“Spooks getting the best of you?”
I can hear the clanking of dishes in the diner, the sizzling of food on the grill. He’s stopped listening to me to yell to some customers. The man knows everyone in town, he’s been feeding everyone in town for the past fourteen years.
Arthur the short-order cook, my mom used to call him. She opened Lacey’s diner and a year later, my dad quit his job at the plastics factory to flip burgers, as he put it. Three years after that my mother died of cancer and without Lacey, Dad made Lacey’s Diner his home away from home. He’s known to sleep in the little office where he hauled in a cot, and work twelve hour days, seven days a week.
“What do I have to go home for?” he’d asked when I complained once. “Nobody there. Everybody’s at your mom’s place and that’s where I want to be too.”
“So when you coming home, Jack?”
“Soon,” I say with an unexpected lump in my throat.
“You’ve got to be home by tomorrow. You promised to wait table so Piper could have the day off. She’s got kids, you know?”
The kid dig again. “I know she does, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it. Why don’t you close for Christmas?”
“People got to eat. Hey, but that’s not the only reason you’ve got to get back tomorrow. I got a big surprise waiting for you, and I’m not telling you what it is until you walk in the door. But boy, are you going to be surprised.”
“What? You finally got me that pony I always wanted for Christmas?”
“Even better, and that’s the only hint you’re getting. Seriously though, I need a waitress.”
“I’ll try to make it in time for the dinner crowd, but you might want to put up a self-serve sign.”
Arthur’s back talking to the customers. “Gotta go, Dad. I’ll call you in the morning to let you know how things are going. Give my love to Maybelle.”
“Hey, Jack. You got that amulet with you?”
I touch my mom’s turquoise necklace that I’m never without. “Got it,” I say.
∞
After soaking and nearly drowning in the bathtub when I fell asleep and then waking up in frigid water, I grab a late breakfast and set to work on discovering what I can about the house that Alexander built.
I’d nearly forgotten the home’s library I saw the day I moved in. The thought of it popped in my head as soon as I got to the entryway. I doubt it has anything belonging to the Jenningsworth family, but I could sure use some help here.
A hundred years ago, it was common for people to keep diaries and everyone exchanged letters with family and friends. Carmela had only lived a few years in the house, but Alexander spent most of his life here. Seems reasonable that he at least kept in touch with his sister.
Without a spouse or children to collect his things, some items may have been left behind; hopefully, a few that Dorothy didn’t throw out. I decide to check every nook and cranny for secret panels or hiding places for treasures… or a dying man’s last confession.
When my phone rings, I’m reminded that I’m putting off calling Acker. I’m glad when I see it’s Hayley. She’s just the person who can help me with my treasure hunt.
“Jack, hi. Where
are you?”
“I’m at your mom’s house,” I say, wondering why she keeps asking me that question.
“Great. Is that dang ghost gone yet?”
Hayley is surprisingly chipper, apparently now spell-free and past her overwhelming grief. “Not yet, but we’re closer. I have some questions for you though.”
“Fire away. Anything I can do to help.”
I go through the information I found on Alexander and Carmela and let her know again that Alexander is her man, seeing as she passed out on me when I tried to tell her before. She’s thrilled to know his name and shocked to hear about the children– I leave out the bits and pieces about their crying.
After I explain that I need to know more about what happened in the house that’s keeping Alexander from leaving, she says she doesn’t know a thing about the house’s history. Her parents moved in before she was born, and she never thought about it. That seems a little odd, but I have to consider the source.
“How about anyone in town who might have known Jenningsworth?” I ask.
She doesn’t know a single person who ever so much as mentioned the name. As far as she’s concerned, it was always their house. As for ever seeing anything belonging to the prior owners, all she can offer is a half-hearted, Nope.
Then as a seeming afterthought, she says I might want to check in the basement.
Chapter Twenty Two
§
“The basement?” My voice gets stuck in the back of my throat when I repeat what Hayley just told me. I hiccup and have to stop for a drink of water.
I’d already gone over the ghost’s activity locations when I’d talked to Dorothy on the phone. She’d mentioned all the usual rooms: kitchen, bedrooms, living room. Then she got stuck on the man’s rude bathroom behavior, and we never got any further on the subject.
Since I had that vibe of a little bungalow, the thought of a basement escaped me until I moved into the house. In my smudging ritual, it had crossed my mind but I’d opened every door and none led under the house. With all the nighttime activity: both living and dead, I’d forgotten all about it.
“Where’s the entrance?” I ask.
“There’s a door behind the shelves in the pantry. Daddy put them up years ago. You’ll have to pull some down to get to it. Just try not to tear things up too much.”
Great, I want to say. Why do people keep such things to themselves? I brace myself and ask, “Why did your father block off access to the basement?”
Hayley’s brain is slowly sorting through the question. “You know, he never said. I guess I always figured Momma just needed extra shelves in there, but that don’t make much sense now does it?”
Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. I just agree and thank her for the information. Then I try not to sound as frustrated as I am when she says that as far as she knows, her dad was the only one who had ever gone down there.
Since I plan on going down there myself and don’t want anything changing my mind, I don’t bother asking why.
She wishes me a merry Christmas Eve and tells me to call as soon as I’ve kicked that dang man out the door.
I track down a claw hammer in the barn. I’m excited and uneasy about checking out what lies beneath the house. Before I start though, I’ve got to get the call to Acker over and done. With any luck, I’ll get his voice mail.
When I start to call, I see I have a message from, who else but Acker. My finger hovers as I pray he’s the one canceling. Not even close. He’s planning on having dinner too, which he’s bringing from some restaurant, along with a nice bottle of Merlot. He says he can’t wait to see me in action.
In action? What’s that supposed to mean? Alcohol and a séance? The man’s a fool. I don’t know whether to be flattered or mad or scared. I’m a little bit of all three.
I consider calling him back, but he sounded as excited as a kid on his first trip to Disneyland. Who’s got the heart to dash those kind of plans? Hopefully, he likes roller coasters.
I toss my phone to the kitchen table and head to the pantry.
Dorothy’s racked up enough can food to feed an army. After I remove them and find the door, it takes me over an hour to pry off the shelves that block it. I’m trying to convince myself Harold thought it was easier to close off the basement than put the time and money into making it usable.
That makes perfect sense. A basement as old as this one likely doesn’t have flooring and the brick walls are probably crumbling or… maybe there’s something down there that Harold thought it best to board up and forget.
It wouldn’t be the first old house I’d come across with wicked secrets, including an indoor burial plot. Weird, but oddly true. Dead in their beds at noon, in a hole in the basement before dinner.
That would explain why I didn’t find anything on the children’s deaths or their graves at the cemetery. If they’re down there, I’m guessing the children’s bones are the reason Alexander didn’t take kindly to me telling him it was time to leave.
With the shelves removed, I ease the door open and steady my flashlight while standing on the first step. Mojo’s eager to join me, but I’m not sure it’s safe for either one of us. I lead him to the kitchen where I bribe him with a treat and shut the door. Then I make my way down to Alexander’s dungeon.
The light from the pantry shines on the first half dozen steep and rotted wooden steps, which I seriously fear won’t hold my weight. I shine my flashlight at the ceiling; there’s no overhead light. The stairs, wedged between two stone walls, can’t be more than two feet wide. My hand trails one side, while my shoulder brushes the other.
It’s colder than a polar bear’s nose, and I can hear single drops of water echoing every few seconds. Except for the steps not rotted in two, I test each before proceeding. The effort spent gives my eyes time to adjust to the blackest of black below, which is getting poorly lit by my flashlight. When I get near the bottom, I inhale choking mold spores and something dead, or a lot of things dead that I hope are no more than mice and rats.
I was right about no flooring and crumbling walls. Harold was right about blocking access to this death trap.
The last step buckles under me, and I stagger like a one-legged drunk into the mud just as the pantry door above me slams shut.
Chapter Twenty Three
§
I should have guessed the door would slam shut the minute I was in this pit of doom. At least I was smart enough to put on my work boots, seeing as I’m standing in about six inches of mud.
I scan the area with my flashlight; the space is massive. There’s some metal racks attached to a wall with prison bar panels, empty wooden crates that if in better condition could be worth a small fortune, the usual discarded household items left to disintegrate decade by decade, and of course, the tiny carcasses of once furry creatures, along with the scamper of those still breathing.
“Anyone down here?” I call out and get a mouth full of cobwebs that forces me to shatter the eerie silence. This isn’t a place even the dead would choose to hangout.
I trudge through the mud, sweeping the light over the opposite walls. Unless the records I want so badly are stored in moisture proof containers, there’s no hope of finding any useful information down here.
It seems as though the basement is one large room until my light hits an arched doorway. As I get closer to it, I see it’s one of three arches. The space between each appears no more than ten feet and less than half that wide.
Although they are decaying one brick at a time, the architecture is precise and oddly ornate in what is clearly no more than a dungeon. I can’t imagine this space was once anything more. Even if structural, the arches are too lavish and they only support a narrow strip of the house.
Each time I’m past one arch, three more appear in front of me. When I turn around, there’s the same three visible arches. “What’s going on with the optical illusion trick, Alexander?”
I think I’m under the rear of the house somewhere in t
he area of the study, parlor, servant’s quarters, second floor bedrooms, and the attic. The farther I go, the more I shiver and limp. I consider turning around and hobbling up the stairs, but I’m curious and even mesmerized by where these arches might take me.
I don’t have to wait long to find out. Not until I get to it, do I realize the twelfth arch is the last one– an even stranger engineering ruse.
I steady my light on a room, maybe twenty feet square. The thick musty mold has been replaced by something resembling old nail polish remover. The flooring is large stones embedded in cracking concrete, otherwise, the room is in surprisingly good condition. The air is dry and almost warm.
I check the ceiling for air ducks or heating vents. It’s the same brick as the arches. In one corner, there’s the tip of a tiny metal pipe. This would be the perfect place to hide records but there are no cabinets.
I turn in all directions, shining the light from the floor to the ceiling. Bingo. There are old wooden boxes covered with bricks and debris in the far corner. I’ve found the Jenningsworth records, I’m sure. Stored safely and preserved with help from the vent in the ceiling.
Alexander must have hidden them down here to be discovered after his death. It could be a historical find for the town.
I’m so excited to know every detail Alexander thought important enough to store in this special room. Perhaps not just records, but his most important possessions. A wealthy man’s jewelry and gold.
I grip the flashlight between my knees and carefully remove the bricks on the first box. I need my pocket knife to work the old wood free of the nails. My fingers are raw when I finally lift the lid, grab the flashlight from my knees, and shine it onto the… decomposed face of a child.
Before my brain has a chance to process the horror of my find, I drop the flashlight and run through a few arches to stand in darkness as thick as tar. My heart is beating out of my chest.
The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1) Page 8
