SPIRITS OF SEACLIFF MANOR
Morgan Hannah MacDonald
Copyright © 2016 Morgan Hannah MacDonald
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
DEDICATION
I’d like to dedicate this book to Cathy Koenig, a kind and loving woman who is always giving to others. A brave woman who has endured more than her share of challenges, but instead of showing defeat, she continues to smile. I love you and am proud of you. You’re a winner in my book. Nothing but clear sailing from here on out.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank my fantastic editors, Alyssa Palmer and Aemelia Manier, for making this manuscript shine.
I want to thank Debbie Snow for another wonderful job proofreading this manuscript. She’s has an eye for detail that is constantly amazing me and has saved my bacon on more than one occasion. I hope to have her on my team for many years to come.
I want to thank Paul Salvette of BB eBooks for the great and fast formatting job.
To my assistant, Audrey Little, I’m very glad you joined my team.
I want to thank my street team, The Scream Team, for spreading the word about my books.
I want to thank my family and friends for their love and support.
And last but not least, I’d like to thank my loyal readers. I wouldn’t be here without you. You are truly a great and enthusiastic group! I appreciate each and every one of you.
EVIL LIVES HERE
While restoring an old estate, the darkest malevolence known to man is unleashed. Again.
An elderly woman’s murder, an unlikely serial killer, and an evil that must be stopped.
Brandon Barnett has been given the promotion of a lifetime. There’s just one problem; he can’t afford to buy a house in Southern California. Even the apartments cost more than his current mortgage. Then a miracle occurs: a letter arrives, informing him that he’s inherited the home of his dreams. His grandmother had regaled him with stories of the summers she spent there as a child as they poured over the old photographs in her scrapbook. The place is magical. It even has a name, Seacliff Manor.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
It’s love at first sight for Brandon, but not so much for his wife, Alyssa. The humongous estate needs more than a little TLC to make it inhabitable, but he convinces her that they can turn it into a bed & breakfast. The money they earn will help with the upkeep.
Alyssa Barnett can’t wait to move to San Diego. From everything she’s heard, it’s paradise on earth, it’s on the ocean and the weather is temperate year round. She just isn’t keen on living in the monstrosity her husband has inherited, but he adores it so she’ll try to make it work.
ALWAYS TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS
The problems mount daily; the faucets turn on by themselves, the lights flicker and they have rats in the walls. Workmen disappear. Alyssa’s nights are restless. She wakes with tearstained cheeks, but no memory of why. Although they speak nightly, her husband travels for work, leaving Alyssa alone to tackle a job in which she’s clueless. That’s why she’s thrilled when her sister comes for a visit. Her enthusiasm is short-lived as Courtney tries to convince her that the old place is haunted.
Then a hidden room is discovered, and along with it clues to the home’s dark past are revealed. Things quickly go downhill from there. Alyssa begins sleepwalking, waking in the most peculiar places with no idea how she got there or what she may have done. Before long, she’s asleep more than she’s awake. Courtney decides to call in a paranormal investigation team.
NO ONE IS SAFE
Jane Spencer and Tim Reeves have been doing paranormal research for many years. When Tim is almost killed, Jane calls The Thibodeux Foundation for assistance. They send Jake Spaulding (a demonologist) and Sara Crow (born with the gift of psychometry – she receives visions by holding certain items.) Together they uncover the deadly truth buried at Seacliff Manor. But can this team banish the evil before someone else loses their life?
ONE
Deputy Baker, a thirty-year veteran with the San Diego Sheriff’s department, slowed when he spied the twin lions marking the driveway to the MacDougall Estate. The eight-foot black iron gates stood open, so he pulled in and continued up the winding drive flanked by maple, oak, elm and pine trees.
“Wow, you wouldn’t know we’re just a few blocks from the beach,” said Kowalski, his rookie-in-training.
“That’s because the Captain had the trees planted so his bride would feel more at home when he had the place built in the 1800s. They’re the same kinds of trees surrounding the estate where she grew up in Boston.”
Kowalski glanced his way. “How do you know that?”
“I grew up here. When I was a kid, everyone knew about Seacliff Manor. There were not a lot of homes around here then and nothing compared to the grandeur of this place. Actually, back then there was nothing else for miles around.
“The MacDougall’s owned all the land from here to the sea. After the matriarch passed, the descendants began selling off parcels. Slowly the property dwindled until it was down to just these twenty acres.”
As the car climbed, it was swallowed by forest. Baker continued his narration in the hope that the lad would appreciate how fortunate he was to visit a piece of San Diego history.
“After the last generation picked the place clean of anything with value, they moved away. That is, except for the youngest, Vera MacDougall. She’s the sole inhabitant of the huge estate. It’s rumored to be haunted because no one has seen her in years. She even has her food delivered to her porch with strict instructions to leave it there.”
The roof came into view and Baker’s anticipation grew.
“A friend of mine used to work for the grocer. He said the house is even creepier up close. One night he sat in the bushes for hours and waited for her to open the door.”
“What did she look like?” The rookie asked eagerly.
“He never found out. He fell asleep sometime around midnight and didn’t wake until the sun rose. By then the box had vanished.”
The trees thinned as the patrol car reached the top of the hill where it leveled o
ut.
“Holy crap! That house has to be haunted. It looks like something out of a horror movie,” Kowalski said.
Baker pulled around the circular drive, where a broken fountain sprouting weeds sat in the middle of a dirt island. He parked at the base of the stone steps and stared up at the mahogany door with its oval window of etched glass.
After turning off the engine, he remained transfixed by the sight before him. “It’s a shame to see such a beautiful piece of art simply wasting away. You should check out the photographs at the exhibit in Old Town. We’re talking truly amazing.”
The old Victorian had a wide wrap-around porch; the paint peeled away from the banister in curls. There were two towers. The widest was located in the far right corner of the house on the first floor and ended just above the fourth and final floor.
A tall skinny turret was positioned in the center, reaching roughly a hundred feet higher than the other tower. The top had windows all the way around; the west faced the sea and incoming ships, the east faced the snow-covered mountains in winter, the north the road below to watch for visitors and the south faced Baja.
Three chimneys pierced the sky, each strategically placed to heat the enormous structure built before central heating. Many windows were covered with plywood. The lack of shingles in big round gaps had the roof resembling a man’s balding head.
Wicker furniture remained on the veranda, rotting in the elements. Empty pots dotted the overhang. Whatever plants they’d held had long ago dried up and blown away. The once lush lawn had been replaced by weeds. Ivy overran the outside of the house covering many windows. The remaining red gingerbread shingles had faded to a pale pink.
There were balconies on all four sides of the house on the second floor, each covered with a dormer roof and a square, stained glass window. The front of the portal had an oval cut out for viewing and the sides were simple arches. The overhang and railings running along the house were carved in great detail.
Baker stood with his neck craned, taking in each nuance of the massive structure. When he gazed at it now, he appreciated the grand architecture, unlike his younger self who had only seen a creepy old house.
He lowered his eyes to the porch. Newspapers had been tossed every which way. Animals had gotten into the boxes of food, half-empty containers and trash was strewn all about. The front door had one of those old slots built in, so the mail was hidden from view. But if he had to guess, he’d say there was a stack waiting on the other side.
He elbowed the rookie. “Come on, we have work to do.”
The kid eyed the rubble. “She’s dead all right.”
“Or she could be too sick to get out of bed and needs our assistance.” Baker truly hoped that was the case as he knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes, knowing her gait would be slow.
When nothing happened, he fisted his hand and banged loudly. There was a good chance she was hard of hearing. He peered through the oval window, but saw no movement. He tried the knob, but of course the door was bolted. He pulled out his lock-picking tools and went to work.
It took him almost five minutes, either he was rusty or it was a damn good lock. Probably both. Cautiously, he inched the door open as he called out, “Hello!” The door stuck and a couple pieces of mail poked out. He kicked them aside until he could open the door wide enough to fit through.
“San Diego Sheriff’s Department!”
The place was deathly quiet.
Baker made his way through the clutter into the center of the foyer littered with dirt and debris. He did not have a good feeling about this. He glanced up and noticed he could see four floors up to the ceiling, where a frosted white dome had been shattered; a large tree branch hung half-way through. A giant puddle of muddy water lay directly below.
Dead leaves floated down around him like snowflakes.
“Ms. MacDougall, no need to be alarmed. We’re just here to help.” Baker turned to see the rookie still standing in the doorway.
“Kowalski, start checking the rooms.”
“How?” the rookie whined.
He was referring to the mounds of newspapers and mail surrounding the entrance. A rat ran across the floor and Kowalski screamed like a girl.
“Jesus.” Baker stared at the sky for help. The veteran was more than a little irritated with the entire situation. He couldn’t fathom how this kid graduated from the academy or who thought it was a good idea to let him handle a firearm.
As his wife had suggested, he took a deep breath and counted to ten before he continued. “If you just take a few more steps, you’ll notice a pathway with plenty of room to walk.”
With that, Baker headed toward the nearest room so he didn’t have to look at the moron a second longer. To the right of the front door was the tower room or what they probably referred to as the parlor.
Deep red velvet curtains covered the windows, making the room as dark as night. He pulled the Maglite from his belt and began exploring. A piano stood in the corner, covered in a thick layer of dust, and framed photographs adorned the top. A six-foot long console stereo from the 1950s lined a wall between two windows.
He scanned the room until it lit upon a man’s face. Baker flinched before he realized it was only a painting. The craggy scowl held steely eyes that glared at him as if he were an intruder. The engraved gold placard below read Captain Patrick MacDougall.
Baker could not tear his eyes away; the portrait scared the shit out of him, but fascinated him all at the same time. The damn thing was so lifelike he expected the man to speak any minute.
A panicked cry brought Baker back to the present. He swiftly turned toward the sound, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. He crept into the foyer. It was clear so he silently moved toward the room directly across the hall. The moment he entered, he found the rookie’s torch had landed on a large furry animal with fangs.
Baker relaxed his stance.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s a stuffed bear. What the hell is wrong with you?” The grizzly was on its hind legs, its claws up in attack mode, its mouth open in a growl.
The dipshit stared at him with bulging eyes. “It startled me.”
“Oh my God. Grow a pair.” Baker ran his hand down his face. He turned around to take in the room. It was overwhelming. Taxidermy animals crowded every square foot making him feel a bit claustrophobic. There were heads mounted on the walls: moose, caribou, lion, tiger, wild boar, and elk.
Elephant tusks were displayed in a glass case. Full-sized animals stood nearby: a hyena, zebra, and gorilla. An owl, squirrel, and raccoon were placed on the mantel. Baker zeroed in on the cocker spaniel curled up on the hearth as if asleep.
Baker nodded toward it. “Must have been a beloved pet.”
“That’s just plain sick.”
“There was a time when hunting big game was a hobby of many wealthy men. They hung their trophies proudly for all to see.”
“That doesn’t explain the squirrel and the dog.”
“What can I say? Rich people are weird.”
Baker left the rookie behind and made his way into the formal dining area. The extended table with twenty-two chairs ran the length of the room. At one end he found a place setting with a petrified piece of bread resting on a fancy piece of china next to a bowl of dried green gunk.
He stepped into the kitchen, where he found a can of Campbell’s Split Pea soup resting on top of the trash receptacle next to the counter. An empty pan remained on the stove, the remnants crusted to the sides.
After searching the first floor without success, he continued up the stairs that ran along the left wall. The hardwood was covered with a runner in dark red with green fern leaves. The banister was made of a beautiful deep mahogany. Twenty steps up, he came to a landing with a lovely stained glass window where he turned and continued up another flight to the second floor.
It was apparent by the dust, stacks of newspapers, rat droppings, and the ivy that had grown in around the windows that the rooms on t
his floor had not been inhabited for years. When he came to the end of the hall, Baker found what had to be Ms. MacDougall’s bedroom.
It was the only area so far that didn’t resemble a hoarder’s haven. It was almost dust free and rather organized compared to the rest of the home. The bed was empty, but made, so she hadn’t lost all sense of decorum in her advanced years.
Baker was so certain he’d find her here. His desire to find her alive took another hit. The woman was elderly; surely the stairs were too painful for her arthritic legs. What could possibly draw her to the upper floors? Everything she needed was either here or down below.
He continued his search.
When he got to the end of the hall on the third floor, he found a spiral staircase running along the wall and took it. The journey ended at the top of the shorter tower. What he hadn’t expected to see was Kowalski’s back as he stared straight ahead.
Baker walked in. “What’s that?”
The rookie startled before he spun toward him reaching for his gun.
Baker raised his hands. “Whoa, kid, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s just me.”
Kowalski dropped his hand and turned back. “Check this out.”
Every inch of space was covered with newspaper clippings.
Baker came up alongside him and began to read.
Jason Albright, 14 years old. Disappeared Friday, October 13th when he was collecting for his newspaper route. His mother, Abigail Albright, 34, a homemaker, said he left right after school for a job that normally took an hour to complete.
“That article’s dated two weeks ago.” Baker began checking the other dates. “This is the last story posted. It had to be right before…well it just might be the last thing she did. I wonder if she knew the boy?”
Baker sauntered around the room scanning the articles. “These are all accounts of people who’ve gone missing. Talk about a weird hobby. A bit gloomy if you ask me.”
Spirits 04-Spirits of Seacliff Manor Page 1
