The Living Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Coast

by Albemont, L. I.

  Sean now wore the standard issue, orange, prison jumpsuit, a painful contrast to the tailored suits he had worn throughout the trial, In spite of her determination to remain detached, her heart ached for him, imagining the humiliation he must be feeling right now. Some tiny, conjugal, sympathetic spark must still exist between them because he turned and their eyes met just as she slipped through the door and sat down in the back of the courtroom. The judge now finished reviewing the counts.

  “Mr. Faust, in view of the particularly widespread and damaging nature of your crimes, this court imposes the maximum penalty of seven years for each count with each sentence to run consecutively for a total of twenty-eight years. Restitution paid from seized assets will continue. Court will be in recess until one p.m.” He banged the gavel.

  “All rise.” The bailiff intoned.

  Everyone stood. Sean and his attorney talked quietly for a few moments then the bailiff approached the table. Sean said something and the bailiff glanced at Sarah then shook his head in response. Sean looked back at her before he shuffled out, head down.

  Sarah found with surprise that she was crying and sat back down, rummaging through her purse for a tissue. How could he have done this? Defrauded investors and stolen the life savings of hundreds of people, destroying their lives just as he had destroyed hers. She wiped her eyes then blew her nose and the tears stopped. Her purse sagged open and she smiled a little when a small, foldable road atlas with a highlighted route wandering down the east coast slid out. Time to go.

  Chapter One

  The house has Flemish curves upon its eaves;

  Its doorways yearn for buckle-shoed young bloods,

  Smoking clay pipes, with lace a-droop from sleeves—

  Moonlight on terraces is like a story told

  By sleepy link-boys 'round old sedan chairs

  In days when tulip bulbs were gold.

  -Carolina Chansons

  “You’re going to love this one. Needs a little tlc but the neighborhood is impeccable.” Foster Collins of Cooper River Realty sounded genuinely enthused.

  Sarah looked around. The cobblestone street was picturesque in the late afternoon light. If not for the cars parked here and there she could almost think she had gone back to colonial times. She held a flier that read:

  “Historic property with established gardens. Desirable S.O.B. location only three blocks from the Battery. Don’t miss out on an opportunity to own a piece of history. Shown by appointment only.”

  “What is an S.O.B. location?”

  Foster read the flyer and laughed. “Not what you’re probably thinking. It means south of Broad which is traditionally a very good area of town.”

  “Oh.”

  Sarah peered through the leaves. This was the fifth house she had seen today and one of the very few that fell into her price range. Almost hidden by overgrown shrubs, the narrow structure was easy to overlook. Crumbling stone steps led directly from the street up to a small front door, and that tree…

  “Do you know what kind of tree that is?”

  “A rowan. It’s supposed to be as old as the house.”

  “And how old is that?” She removed her sunglasses and looked up at the tree looming over the entrance, partially blocking the door.

  “The original building permit has never been found in public records. In some historical accounts of the city, there is specific mention of a house that survived the Great Fire of 1740 serving as a smithy on this spot and based on that I would estimate it’s around three-hundred years old. But I doubt that’s accurate.”

  A three-hundred year old house? Some of the homes on this street could be described as mansions. This one nestled among them like a poor relation. Double porches with peeling, vine-choked Tuscan columns adorned the left side of the dwelling. Wicker chairs stacked against the railing looked moldy with age. Obviously neglected but with good bones, the house seemed to beg pardon for its humble state. Several of the encircling trees sported green leaves even now in the deep of winter. The plink of a piano floated over from the red-brick house next door, reminding her of the piano she had just sold. When she thought of all the money she had flushed keeping it tuned over the years... hindsight is twenty/twenty.

  This was her second day in Charleston, the city her mother had spoken of so longingly from military postings in Japan and Europe. Sarah’s soldier father’s career had taken them around much of the world but lovely as it was, her mother always reminisced wistfully about this southern, coastal town. Yesterday had been Sunday and despite the rain she’d walked the cobblestone streets along with the other tourists and listened to the church bells tolling, apt in ‘The Holy City’ as the tour guide called it. She was already succumbing to the dilapidated charm of its shady, overgrown lanes and gated side yards in which fountains splashed unseen behind oleander and magnolia. This street was a little more tucked away than some and she hadn’t come across it in yesterday’s ramblings.

  “Ready to see the inside?”

  “Sure. You’re right about the neighborhood; it’s fantastic. I’m just a little worried about the repairs needed on a three-hundred year old house.”

  “There’ve been several renovations over the years, obviously, and some rooms are more up to date than others. I’m not saying you won’t have to make some changes but you’ll find that reflected in the price. I promise you, it’s worth a look.” He opened the quaint, arched front door to which traces of bright blue paint still clung. The foyer they stepped into was small and square with a central staircase rising to the second floor.

  “The house is what is known as a ‘single’ and was the most common building style before the Revolution. Most of the rooms on this floor are to the right of the hallway. The first room on the right would have been called the parlor. The next room you see is wired for an overhead light so it was probably used as a dining room at some point. The tall ceilings are characteristic of Charleston houses. They allow heat to rise.”

  The parlor boasted a classic Adam fireplace and mantel surrounded by a beautifully paneled wall. Trash filled the dirty hearth and two grime-encrusted firedogs rested against the back bricks.

  White-painted wainscoting and heavy crown-molding adorned both rooms and continued up the staircase. Two pictures, roughly the same size, hung face to the wall in the foyer. Sarah tried to turn one around and found it nailed fast. She looked at Foster who shrugged.

  “Um, not sure what happened there but you can pull the nails out with a hammer and the holes should be an easy patch job. You can see that the electrical conduits run along the outside of the walls. Not everyone likes that but I find it charming and it does accentuate the age of the house. Also, I forgot to tell you that everything in the house conveys so what you see here is all yours.” He made a grand, sweeping gesture as if to encompass vast riches and Sarah suppressed a laugh.

  Behind the foyer, two steps led down to a small, barely functional kitchen with an old range, (only one of the electric eyes worked) green, laminate countertops, and what could truly be termed an ice box languishing off by itself near a door that led to the yard. The floor, however, was marble, gouged and scratched, but still marble. The larger, creamy squares were broken up with small, blue-marble tiles, set in a diamond pattern.

  Their steps echoed on the old oak floors and the stair treads creaked when they mounted the curving staircase to the second floor. Some previous owner had carpeted the steps and the ancient, stained carpet bunched and sagged like the diseased pelt of a very old animal. The mahogany banister felt smooth as silk under her palm.

  The house’s one bathroom at the top of the stairs was one of the more up-to-date rooms in the house but decorated in a horrible, seventies, brown and orange color scheme. There were two bedrooms on this floor; one, slightly larger, looked out over the overgrown garden on the side of the house. A door in the smaller one opened to a closet staircase leading to an attic crammed full of bits and pieces left behind by previous residents.

  �
�You can see there’s room for expansion. It wouldn’t take much more than a little insulation and drywall to turn this into a game room or a bedroom, whatever you want. I would have all this” he gestured at the items covering most of the floor “hauled away by a professional junk removal company.”

  She was noncommittal. She didn’t have the money to have anything professionally removed. Maybe she could sell some of the stuff on Ebay.

  “Are the bedroom floors the same wood used downstairs? They look different.”

  “Often these old houses were built with different woods, depending on what was available. I think the floors upstairs are cherry and maybe another fruitwood. The floor downstairs is oak in all the rooms except for the kitchen, of course. The painted wainscot and that paneled wall is anyone’s guess as to wood-type. Maybe you can tell from the grain if it’s still visible. I don’t have that level of expertise.” His phone buzzed and he excused himself to take the call and went outside.

  Heading for the small, grime-coated attic window, Sarah accidentally kicked over a half-full duffle bag. The contents spilled across the floor. Hurriedly gathering the contents and stuffing them back in the bag, she was surprised to find a wallet containing a driver’s license and credit cards. The expiration date on the license was March 1989. The bag also contained a gray, moldy toothbrush and several un-posted letters. She opened one at random.

  “…and they’re always here now. Yesterday, when I came home from work they were waiting, all four of them, in front of the hedge in the back. I’m leaving as soon as I can but I’m trying to get my deposit back. That bastard at the rental office is stonewalling me. I’m not crazy and I think he knows more than he’s telling.” She put it back in the duffle with the wallet.

  Obviously an unhappy tenant. Odd that he would leave his wallet behind. She distinctly heard a child crying and she looked out the window but saw no one. Going back down to the second floor, Sarah paced the larger of the two rooms, mentally placing furniture. The bed could be any size she wanted; she had sold the lit matrimoniale when she realized the extent of her husband’s betrayal. There was no closet. She supposed she could have one built but it would make the room smaller. A small side-window set in a dormer had a built-in seat with drawers beneath it.

  French windows led to an antiquated side porch that needed paint but would be a nice place for morning coffee. She glimpsed a plank swing moving gently back and forth underneath a giant oak and she inhaled deeply, feeling engulfed in a sea of green leaves. Sleeping in this bedroom would feel like sleeping in a tree house. The moist, fragrant air and the buzzing of invisible insects all around were soothing.

  A bird flew past the railing, landing near her feet and then took off again, seeming almost comically alarmed at her presence. She heard the sound of the piano again and then a door slammed. A little girl waved to her from the porch of the house next door and Sarah waved back. She saw the realtor standing next to her ancient Volvo. She had coaxed it along most of the drive down and sent up thanks each time it started.

  Outside, Foster finished his phone call. He caught glimpses of his customer at windows as she moved through the house. She was a tight-lipped one. Most clients would at least tell you where they were moving from but not this one. When asked she just said, “Up north” and then inquired about property tax rates. However, the north-east was in her voice and on her car tags.

  “Hello?” He looked up. She called down from the side porch. “I’m going down to have a look at the basement.”

  The basement was gloomy, with rickety, wooden stairs. An overwhelming smell of putrefaction hit them as soon as they opened the door. They descended the steps and Foster found the source of the odor. A cat had somehow gotten in but had not been able to get back out. The desiccated, marmalade-striped body lay under the egress window. She caught just a glimpse before Foster found an old coal scoop, and took the remains outside.

  “I’m so sorry about that. I usually try to pre-inspect a house before I show it but with the holidays…” He wiped his hands on his pants and trailed off, hoping she hadn’t seen the body too closely.

  “Poor cat. Odd that with neighbors on either side no one heard it. I can’t imagine it starved to death quietly.”

  Foster shrugged. From the way the neck swung when he picked it up in the shovel, it was obvious that it hadn’t starved to death. Someone or something had snapped its neck.

  The floor was actual stone, not concrete, and housed a drainage system and sump pump since wet basements were not unusual in Charleston during a heavy rain. This one seemed drier than some she had seen. The washer and dryer connections were down here. An old, oil furnace filled most of one corner with odd cylinders and elbow joints lying scattered about. She rapped the side and a bolt fell to the floor.

  “If you’re interested in the house you should probably have that looked at by an HVAC company and adjust your offer accordingly.”

  “That’s the heat right? Has the house ever had air conditioning?”

  “If it did, they would have been window units that someone took with them when they left. The current owner lived in it briefly but rents it out now. I don’t think he has had a tenant in a while.”

  “How receptive would he be to a lowball offer?”

  Foster thought this one over. She didn’t need to know the house had been on and off their books for nearly ten years and that tenants never stayed more than a few months, if that long. If this were his house, he would jump on the first chance to get rid of it. Anyone likely to buy it would have to be from out of town and not have heard the stories and this cautious cutie was an ideal candidate. Moreover, if certain dark rumors were disregarded, it was a bargain.

  “Make an offer if you’re interested. The worst they can do is say no.”

  “I’ll have to think about it. How soon could I take possession?”

  “I would think immediately since it’s empty but you never know until you ask. Do you have furniture in storage or is it en route from…?”

  “I don’t have a lot of furniture so I’ll probably be looking for some pieces here.” She sidestepped that inquiry.

  “Unless you’re uber rich, avoid King Street. They have some great pieces of course, but you will pay through the nose. So, would you like to sit down and write an offer?”

  She laughed at his eagerness and he realized she was younger than he had first thought. Early thirties tops.

  “Give me a day or so. I have some things to sort out but I promise I’ll let you know by Friday. Of course, I’ll need to have a home inspection company check it out.”

  Foster was elated. If he could close this sale, he would exceed his quota for the month and get a white elephant off the firm’s books to boot. He could usually tell when someone was going to make an offer but she had a good poker face. He bent down to re-tie his shoe so she wouldn’t see his excitement.

  She wasn’t going to tell him yet but she had already decided. This house, broken, neglected, and in need of repair, was something she could make beautiful again. This rain-drenched, green plot of land was going to be her new home.

  ~

  A Haunting by L.I. Albemont, now available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.com.

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