by Wendy Webb
PRAISE FOR WENDY WEBB
The Tale of Halcyon Crane
MINNESOTA BOOK AWARD, 2011, AND INDIE NEXT PICK
“Webb offers an engaging modern gothic tale with a strong female protagonist and well-done suspense. Fans of Mary Higgins Clark and Barbara Michaels and readers who like supernatural elements in their fiction will enjoy this debut.”
—Library Journal
“Debut novelist Wendy Webb gives both Bram Stoker and Stephen King a run for their travel budget, inventing an island in the Great Lakes that can’t be matched for pristine natural beauty, richness of history, touristic amenities . . . and sheer supernatural terror. . . . The novel . . . gives a more generous account of how the spirit of a beautiful place can complexly affect a human being, for both good and ill. Wendy Webb is a professional journalist, first and foremost. Like those journalistic masters Dickens and Twain before her, she knows that to write good travel prose, you must give a vivid account of both the demons you find along the way and the demons you bring along with you.”
—Michael Alec Rose, BookPage
“This thrilling, modern ghost story will keep you reading straight through to the surprising end!”
—Midwest Independent Booksellers Association
“Entertaining to say the least. Sensational . . . Webb’s page-turner is a guilty pleasure best suited for a lakeside cabin’s bedstand.”
—Megan Doll, The Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Booksellers are loving Halcyon Crane, which has been selected by three Independent Booksellers’ associations—national and Midwestern—as worthy of special promotion. . . . Webb includes all the classic ghostly elements in her novel, but she gives the book a contemporary spin with a strong female protagonist.”
—Mary Ann Grossman, St. Paul Pioneer Press
“This is what reading is supposed to be like: A story that comes across so well, so seamlessly that it is like a brain movie, that reminds you of the first books that kidnapped your attention. Webb has crazy chops as a storyteller, and plays this one exactly right. And there are scenes that are so, so visual that it is like someone is reading the book to you while you lie there with your eyes closed. This is one of my favorites this year.”
—Minnesota Reads
“Although not usually a fan of ghost stories, I immensely enjoyed ‘The Tale of Halcyon Crane.’ With intriguing characters, a vivid setting and gripping storytelling, this novel contains the ideal blend of sinister and charm.”
—Cityview, Iowa’s Independent Weekly
“I love a good, spooky ghost story that carries you deep into the darkest night and raises goose bumps and neck hair. First-time novelist Wendy Webb’s book, The Tale of Halcyon Crane, does all those things with the seamless intricacy of a clockmaker and the silky smoothness of a baby’s cheek. Webb hits every note just right. It’s hard to read a story like this and not compare the author to Stephen King, so I’m not going to do much of that, other than to say Webb carries a lot of the same power in her words.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“The Tale of Halcyon Crane is a wonderful gothic complete with ghosts and witches, graveyards and dreams. It whisks the reader up and into its magic from the first page. Captivating and haunting, this debut proves Wendy Webb is a very gifted storyteller.”
—New York Times bestselling author MJ Rose
“Wendy Webb immediately captured my attention with her amazingly descriptive language. I could envision exactly what Hallie was seeing, experiencing, and even feeling. The description of the fog and the effect it had on Hallie was simply chilling and set the tone for the whole story to come.”
—LibraryGirl Reads
“The Tale of Halcyon Crane throbs with the threat of menace; this is an atmospheric, gothic story reminiscent of The Turn of the Screw and had me racing to the finish late into the night to find out what happens next. Read this book.”
—Misfit Salon
“Wendy Webb has created a wonderful gothic mystery in this novel, full of secrets and betrayals. It’s definitely creepy—this is not a book I would want to read late at night, during a thunderstorm. I found it to be deliciously haunting with incredible atmosphere. I thoroughly enjoyed the process of reading this book, of watching this meticulously crafted tale unfold. I had to battle dueling impulses while reading—part of me wanted to rush through it, to get to the end, while the other wanted to savor every carefully drawn word. This is a book that you’ll really want to experience. I’m very sad that it’s over, and that Webb doesn’t have an extensive gothic mystery backlist I can immediately devour. All I can say is I’ll be watching Wendy Webb’s future career with a lot of interest.”
—S. Krishna’s Books
The Fate of Mercy Alban
BOOK-OF-THE-MONTH CLUB, INDIENEXT PICK, FIVE WEEKS ON THE HEARTLAND INDIE BESTSELLER LIST
“Webb has cooked up another confection filled with family secrets coming to light in the Midwest. . . . Magic and mystery intertwine in Webb’s engaging Midwestern gothic.”
—Kristine Huntley, Booklist
“If Stephen King and Sarah Waters had a love child, it would be Wendy Webb.”
—New York Times bestselling author MJ Rose
“This second novel by Minnesota Book Award-winning writer Wendy Webb has all the elements of a downright haunting story—and it is. Be prepared to be scared—and entertained.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“If you’re craving a good old-fashioned ghost story to scare you on these cold nights, this is it. There’s a big house with secret passages (think Glensheen in Duluth), a body that may have left the crypt, a beautiful apparition dancing on the lakeshore in the moonlight, a hidden manuscript, a book of curses and an old relative who may be insane.”
—St. Paul Pioneer Press
“I haven’t picked up a thriller/horror novel this good in ages. This is the kind of book that gets your pulse racing as you frantically flip to the next chapter to find out what happens.”
—No Map Provided
“Webb is amazing at writing a spooky, gothic atmosphere that will chill you to the bone. This is definitely a novel you don’t want to read late at night while you’re alone.”
—S. Krishna’s Books
“Ghosts, witchcraft, family secrets, money and power, and pure evil run through this book. I certainly enjoyed it! A fun read and sure to keep you turning the pages. And you just have to keep reading to find out who the heck Mercy Alban is—you’ll be fascinated by the story this author weaves.”
—Bookalicious Book Reviews
“This is a first by Wendy Webb for me, but if anything else she writes is even remotely like this book then she has a devoted reader and fan in me. I was hooked from the very first page and I refused to let go. Honestly, by the time I reached the final page I did not want it to be over. I felt like I hadn’t explored every hidden passageway and secret tunnel that Alban House held, and I wanted to spend more time there. I honestly have not read a book that kept my attention like this in a long time.”
—Dwell in Possibility Books
“I was spellbound. Webb’s novel had me hooked from the get-go and I would not put it down until I had finished the last page.”
—A Bookish Way of Life
“Webb has crafted a modern take on a classic genre—the Gothic ghost story. Family secrets, haunted houses, family curses with a little witchcraft thrown in as well. Webb’s plotting is intricate and keeps us guessing with many red herrings and switchbacks on the way.”
—A Bookworm’s World
“Filled with multiple plot lines including a budding romance, family secrets, and a hint of the supernatural, it is
hard to put this book down once you start reading. The ending to this tale almost leaves you to think there might be a sequel . . . and I would love that!!!”
—Always With a Book
“The Fate of Mercy Alban is a chilling, good read! This book just might make you glad you don’t live in an old, haunted mansion.”
—Cheryl’s Book Nook
The Vanishing
“Webb once again mines the secrets of an old mansion for an effective contemporary supernatural thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A brisk thriller tinged with gothic elements. . . . Careening through séances and ghostly encounters leaves the reader breathless.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Webb expertly builds suspense and offers a thought-provoking tease in the final pages.”
—Booklist
“[The] opening line of Wendy Webb’s contemporary Gothic thriller, The Vanishing, pays homage to du Maurier’s classic [Rebecca]. But Webb infuses her narrator, Julia Bishop, with modern sensibilities, and manipulates the genre’s melodrama skillfully.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A deliciously complex blend of psychological suspense and ghost story, The Vanishing is pitch-perfect on every note, from its mansion setting in the pine-scented northern wilderness, to the secrets and specters lurking around every corner.”
—Erin Hart, author of The Book of Killowen
“The haunting twists and turns of The Vanishing left me as breathless as the beautiful setting of Havenwood itself. Reminiscent of the classics The Haunting of Hill House and Rebecca, this novel grabbed me on the first page and didn’t let go. A compelling, frightening, deeply satisfying tale that is as rich in setting as it is in storytelling.”
—Suzanne Palmieri, author of The Witch of Little Italy
OTHER TITLES BY WENDY WEBB
The Tale of Halcyon Crane
The Fate of Mercy Alban
The Vanishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 Wendy Webb
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477824115
ISBN-10: 1477824111
Cover design by Emily Mahon
For Joan Marie Maki Webb
I miss you every day, Mom.
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.
—Aristotle
PROLOGUE
CLIFFSIDE TUBERCULOSIS SANATORIUM, 1952
They gave her the bed by the window, the one closest to the toy box. That was something, at least. But the very fact that she was there at all, away from home, away from her father, her sisters, her dolls, terrified the girl. Other children were there; she wasn’t the only one. But this did little to soothe her.
Father didn’t tell her he was leaving her here, that she’d be staying. She thought they were on an outing together, just the two of them, something rare and wonderful. But it wasn’t an outing. He had brought her here to leave her in this place, with all of these sick and dying people. She’d clutched his hand as they walked through the foyer to the doctor’s office, past patients with sunken eyes and ashen skin, their robes hanging loosely around them, living skeletons who had been nearly consumed by their illnesses. She watched as one man coughed into a handkerchief, staining it bright red with blood. She turned her face toward her father’s trousers, not wanting to see any more. Death lived within these walls; she could feel it hanging in the air, as tangible as the fog outside.
As she sat on the table in the doctor’s office, Father had explained to her that she had contracted a deadly disease, the disease this place was built to treat. As his daughter, she would receive the best care in the world here, he said, she shouldn’t worry about that. She cried, telling him she wasn’t sick at all, that she didn’t belong here, begging him to take her home. But he wouldn’t listen, convinced, no doubt, by the doctor and nurses that she had to remain.
She’d watched from her window as her father got into their black car and drove out of sight. She wondered if she’d ever see him again or if she was doomed to stay here, at Cliffside, for the rest of her life.
The coughing at night was among the worst of it. She’d awaken in an inky black room and hear the rustling of the other children in the ward, barking like seals and crying out for their mothers. She’d put her head under the covers and curl into a ball, trying to make those sounds go away. And when she set her mind to it, she could make them go away. She had learned this in her few short years on this earth.
It was there, in the dark under the covers, that she got an idea. If she didn’t feel sick, maybe some of the other children didn’t, either. She had stayed away from everyone when she first arrived, cowering by herself, not wanting contact with these terrible people and their sunken eyes. But now, after so many days of inactivity, being forced to lie on her bed for hours on end, she was bored and restless. Maybe she could get one or two of the other children to go outside to play. Maybe they could sneak, undetected, into the yard. She had spied a ball there earlier in the day, as she peered out from her window.
She reached out and poked the girl in the bed next to hers, one of the ones who wasn’t coughing.
“Come on,” she whispered to her. “Let’s go outside.”
The girl scowled. “But we’re supposed to stay in bed.”
“Do you do everything you’re supposed to do?”
The girl shook her head.
“Then come with me and we’ll go have a little fun. I’m bored silly and I’ll bet you are, too. We won’t get in trouble. My father owns this place.”
The girl smiled and slipped out of bed.
Soon five children were stealing their way down the third-floor stairs, then through the hallway where the adults’ rooms were, and then down the grand staircase to the main floor. It was dark, but the children could see the wall of windows leading out to the veranda and the lawn beyond. They crept toward it, not making a sound. They were almost there.
When she opened the door leading outside and got a faceful of the pure lake air, she knew this had been the right thing to do. They all ran into the grass, laughing quietly.
She took the hand of the girl next to her, who took another child’s hand, and so on, and soon they
had made a ring and were dancing.
“Ring around the rosy,” they sang, bright smiles on their faces, their eyes lit up with the thrill of their illicit nighttime adventure, “pocket full of posy, ashes, ashes, we all fall down!”
And she smiled as they fell into the sweet-smelling grass. She lay there for a bit, looking up at the millions of stars in the sky. The moon was full and bright, shining down on her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
But in a moment, when she scrambled to her feet, she saw that the others didn’t get up with her. They just lay in the grass, lifeless as dolls, their limbs askew, their faces frozen. She nudged one of them with her foot. Nothing. She sighed. Not this again.
Oh, well. She’d find some new playmates tomorrow.
CHAPTER 1
As we turned off the main highway and made our way down a meandering road lined with massive pines, the rain tapered off and fog crept in, enveloping the car so heavily that it nearly erased the trees from view. I could just make out a bough here and there, reaching toward me out of the whiteness.
“My goodness,” I said to the driver, my voice wavering a bit. “This fog . . .”
“It’s nothing to worry about, miss,” he said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “We get a lot of it here on the shore. Makes the drive a bit tricky. Fog can send people right over the edge of the cliff, and has. But I’ve driven this road so many times, I could drive it blind. I’ll deliver you there, safe and sound.”
I rested my head against the back of the seat and exhaled, glad I couldn’t see exactly how closely the road followed the shoreline, which, on this part of the lake, was a rocky cliff higher than I wanted to think about. I was in no danger here, I told myself. No danger at all.
I had been clutching my purse in my lap for the entire trip, and I opened it yet again to check for the letter. Yes, there it was.
I was in this car on this foggy road because I was headed to a new job. Director of Cliffside Manor, a Retreat for Artists and Writers, founded in the 1950s by local philanthropist and patron of the arts Chester Dare. Of all the things I ever imagined doing with my life, this was not one of them. Yet, here I was, taking the reins of this venerable institution because its longtime director, Penelope Dare, Chester’s daughter, was retiring. I somehow managed to beat out hundreds of other applicants and land this job.
