Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Are you married to this knocker?” He pointed to it.

  “Its as old as the house,” Melissa said. “Why? Oh, eww, what is that? A dragon?”

  “A demon,” Craig answered. “The family demon. You don’t know about it? Geoffrey Andrews had it made for the house when he built it. According to the legend, it guards against evil.”

  Both Melissa and Paul answered in unison, “No,” and Paul finished with, “It’s gotta go.”

  They entered the spacious entry with its black-and-white marbled floors in a beautiful two-story hall. Period furniture was placed along the white walls. It was elegant, grand, and cold.

  “I would bring in a big bouquet of flowers for the entry on this table; it will warm the place up.” He pointed to a regency-burled, walnut round table. “We could say the blooms are from gardens on the estate. People will love that. Makes them feel like landed gentry.”

  “Nice,” Melissa agreed.

  Craig smirked as he shrugged his big shoulders. “Whatever.”

  Paul went to hand the key to Melissa who shook her head, “You keep it now. You’re going to need to get in here to show the house. Is that alright with you Craig?”

  “I don’t care,” Craig said. “Make sure you don’t lose it. They’re hard to copy.”

  "Do you have another?"

  "There are a few floating around. The housekeeper has one, I have the other." Melissa assured him as he pocketed the cumbersome key.

  “Had they updated the kitchen?” Paul asked as they walked down a narrow hallway lined with Sheraton consoles that could have paid for both Veronica and Jesse college educations. They must be sitting on two million dollars in antique furniture alone, he thought to himself.

  Paul stopped just outside the billiards room, his eyes drawn to a broken while marble tile. Craig looked back, smiling when he noticed what caught Paul's attention.

  "Oh man, did I get my ass kicked for that." Craig said.

  "What?" Melissa came to stand next to them. "Oh what happened here. I've never noticed that."

  Both Paul and Craig grinned in shared amusement.

  "They never let me into the main house after that." Paul murmured.

  "Superbowl, 1995. We appropriated some of my Dad's brandy..."

  "And scotch, and vodka, I'd kill my kids if they did that..." Paul added.

  "Well, Carey, Dad's butler caught us and we dropped a case of really old..."

  "Scotch. What a mess. We cracked the tile and I was banished to the pool house when I visited." Paul finished.

  "All my friends were."

  "I wasn't." Melissa said pointedly.

  "You were special." Craig said sarcastically.

  The kitchen had been redone in the late 20s and was still the same putrid shade of green with white utilitarian cabinets. This was clearly going to have to be gutted and will take away from the value of the house. Everyone wanted gourmet kitchens today. The appliances however were new and had the capability to do banquet catering. Paul jotted notes into his spiral notebook.

  They gathered at a picture window, admiring the overgrown garden. As Melissa and Craig were momentarily distracted by an antique jug, something flashed outside. Its laser beam hitting Paul directly in his eyes. He gasped and Craig looked up saying, “What? What is it?”

  “Did you see that?” Paul asked.

  “Did I see what?”

  “The light.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Craig replied and the subject was closed. They walked through the rooms, and when they approached the master, Paul hung back just a bit. He did not want to go in there. “I swear, they cleaned it, Paul. You wouldn’t even know something happened in there.”

  “Why?” Craig turned to look at him. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He followed them in, his heart tattooing his chest.

  Sure enough, the room was spotless, and the chair he had seen from the window, missing. A scent of something familiar assailed his nose and he gagged. It was the unmistakable smell of illness.

  “Your mom was sick?” he asked Craig.

  “No. Why?”

  “Just asking.” He knew what he smelled and the odor was of illness.

  Craig and Melissa stood in the center of the room, hands clasped. She put her arms around him, but her face looked at Paul. Craig returned her embrace and didn’t see her predatory eyes following Paul as he backed uncomfortably out of the room. “I’m going to run upstairs and check out the other bedrooms.” He recognized grief in Craig’s expression but refused to acknowledge what he saw in Melissa’s glance.

  He ran up the grand stair case steps two at a time and walked around each bedroom. Using his cell, he took a few shots so he could come up with ideas later. Each bedroom had been redecorated in a different time period. It was actually pretty interesting, Paul thought. There was a suite from the roaring 20s which was all fringe and lace in muted colors. The art deco room had mirrored furniture and he laughed thinking Stella would have a field day in there with the multifaceted vanity table. There was a regency style bedroom that looked right out of the set of Pride and Prejudice. He went back to the rooms over the servant’s wing, here the hallway was dingy and unused. The carpet was so worn that it bordered threadbare. It was eerily quiet, not even the floor boards creaked and he felt removed form the rest of the house, in a time warp. Ghostly shadows of furniture under Holland covers unnerved him each time he opened another door. The last bedroom on the right was closed off, the door stuck, its handle difficult to move. He pushed it with all his weight against the door, and it gave in, propelling him into the room. It was painted in old colors, sort of a sea foam, as if it hadn’t been updated in two hundred years. There was an ancient tester bed, hung with yellowed lace. He touched a corner then watched it disintegrate into dust. The room was musty, old, and silent. He walked to the window and looked out on the yard seeing the Stillwell wishing well right in the center of his view. Tucked in a small dale, it was flanked by lush weeping willows. A broken bucket swayed on worn rope lines. It was an eyesore, he thought. Maybe he should suggest Craig call his uncle and have the place torn down for condos. An eerie chill swept up his spine, and sweat dotted his forehead. The ring on the chain around his neck vibrated with a life of its own. It grew hot, the heat singeing him. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered.

  He made a hasty retreat for the stairs, overwhelmed by claustrophobia. He reached the carpeted landing and raced down the steps. Midway, he felt a punch to his back right shoulder blade, knocking the wind from him. The stairs came up to meet his face as he tumbled down the rest of the way to rest dazed at the bottom.

  He became aware of a cool hand first and muffled voices next. Craig’s white face was talking into a cell phone.

  “Yes, that’s right, the Stillwell estate, off Route 25A. Right away. He’s breathing, oh, Paul.” He knelt down. “You OK?”

  A hand restrained him. “Don’t move. The ambulance will be here soon,” Melissa added.

  “No.” Paul raised himself painfully. “I’m OK. Just dazed.”

  “What happened?” Craig asked.

  “I...”

  “It’s that blasted carpeting. Craig, I told you we should pull it up!”

  “I think I was pushed.” Paul heard the words come out of his mouth.

  “The EMTs will be here in a minute. Did you hit your head?” Craig handed him a bottle of water he had gotten out of his car.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe.” He looked up at them. “I don’t know if I want to do this listing. Maybe I’m not ready.”

  “We’ll wait. We don’t want anyone else,” she added hastily.

  “Paul.” Craig looked at him. “I…I know you’re going through a rough time. Nobody else wants the listing. Nobody else will take it. Buddy, I need a favor.”

  He shook his head to clear it, rising. As he stood he brushed imaginary dust from his pants, trying to find words.

  He hated bein
g put on the spot. He wanted to say, I’m seeing things. My head’s not screwed on straight right now. Don’t ask this of me. But the money beckoned. A commission to put him back where he wouldn’t have to worry about expenses. He couldn’t stop the next sentence that came out of his mouth. “Cancel the ambulance. I tripped. It was nothing.”

  “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Honestly, a bit embarrassed, nothing more.” They shook, walking out into the morning sunshine.

  The back of his head hurt like the devil, throbbing with a life of its own. He swallowed two aspirin he kept in the glove compartment. Then he headed back toward town, insisting he was fine and could drive alone.

  What’s happening, he thought. No matter how badly he didn’t want this listing, the more he kicked and screamed, the more the house was sucking him in. Paul knew it was a punch to the shoulder. He felt it. He could feel the clenched fingers as they impacted his body.

  Paul wanted to be done with Stillwell. The trick was to move it quickly, so he set up a broker open house for Friday, to be followed by a public open house the next day. Calling a caterer all while driving, he then phoned Molly to arrange for the professional photographer to do a spread for the Times and other high-end magazines. He avoided turning on the radio.

  He realized that lunch had come and gone, and while he wasn’t hungry, the overriding grief had eased a bit. The heaviness in his chest was still there but concentrating on other things relegated it to the background. His indigestion had also subsided.

  ====

  He pulled into the library, parked, and found himself limping slightly to the double doors. It was a tiny building, off the main street of town with a musty old smell. The librarian looked up when he entered. Surprisingly, it was packed with older people sitting on old mustard-colored vinyl seats, reading books and newspapers.

  “Where can I find records on the old houses in the area?” he asked.

  “How old?” She had a rusty voice to match her wrinkled face.

  “I want to research Stillwell Manor.”

  She paused, her lips pursed. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, not at all. I’m a realtor. The house is for sale. I thought a bit of history...”

  “Just so.” Her face cleared. “I knew the Andrewses. They were lovely people.”

  “Yes. I grew up with Craig, their oldest son.”

  “You know, it’s not what people think,” she whispered while leaning in close. The unpleasant odor of mothballs and mint surrounded her.

  “Excuse me, what?” he asked, confused.

  “Richard loved Maryanne. He would never have done such a horrible thing to her.” She shook her head and tsked. “They were so in love.” She placed a hand on his arm, her fingers like talons. “He would never have killed her.” Her faded blue eyes searched his.

  “I...I wanted to do some research on the family that lived there during the Revolutionary War.”

  “Oh,” she said and smiled, “you don’t need a book. I can help you. I am the local historian as well as the president of our DAR.”

  “What ?”

  “DAR, Daughters of the American Revolution. My family is distantly related to the Andrewses; we’ve been neighbors since the seventeen hundreds. My family is Newfield. You know, as in Newfield Mall.”

  “Newfield Mall?”

  “My family owned that tract of land. It was farmland and my parents sold it to developers in the fifties. I live in the original gatekeeper’s cottage. Oh, these old homes, they do have tales to tell.” She was excited now.

  “So, what do you know about Stillwell Manor?”

  “It was named for the wishing well in the rear. Have you seen it? Squire Andrews was a Loyalist; in other words, he supported the king, as did my ancestors. This whole area supported King George. The squire had a daughter, whose name was Hannah. She was beautiful. I have a portrait of her in one of the books somewhere. I’ll find it for you. But I digress. She fell in love with a local boy by the name of John. John Wendover, of the Hicksville Wendovers. They were a rebel family.”

  “Rebel family...you mean ‘patriot’? He was a patriot. This was during the American Revolution, not the Civil War,” Paul interrupted.

  “Yes, I know.” She smiled. “Depends on which side of the pond you sympathized with, dear boy. Anyone who went against the king was a rebel. They were revolting against their own country. You only become a patriot if the rebellion succeeds, otherwise you’re a traitor. John joined up with Washington. He was carrying information about troop movements. So they say...Well…” Her eyes got dreamy. “…her father wouldn’t have it. No, no, not at all, no rebel was going to marry his little princess.”

  “What happened to them?” he asked even though he had most of the story from Molly. It sounded like the historical bodice rippers his mother read all the time.

  “It was a tragedy. Terrible. Hannah disappeared, and they blamed the boy.” She leaned closer as if sharing gossip. “He was charged was treason, but they say he was framed by Hannah’s father who blamed him for his daughter’s disappearance. He was hanged at the corner of High and Bauer streets.”

  “Here! In town!”

  “Well, we are talking close to two hundred forty years ago. They didn’t lock children up in their rooms. She was very young, seventeen or eighteen. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Years later, they found her remains in the well on the estate. They say when he couldn’t have her, he threw her down the well,” she added with relish. “Wait here. I’ll bring you a picture of her portrait. The artist was pretty famous, studied under Lawrence.”

  The old woman floated away, while Paul digested the information. His phone rang and he answered, much to the disgust of the locals. An older man pointed to the “no cell phone” sign, while a woman shook her finger at him.

  It was Molly. Before he could tell her he couldn’t talk now, she started, “You’re late. I went to all that trouble of getting that young couple for you.” Her voice whined through the receiver.

  “Crap. I’ll be back in twenty. I had to make a stop. Can you keep them busy by filling out forms?”

  “You owe me, Paulie, big time...I had a nail appointment...Paul...”

  The older woman returned, an enormous book open in both her arms. He caught a glimpse of the subject of the painting. Absentmindedly, he dropped the phone onto the counter.

  “I know, I kn...”

  His gaze froze on the page of the open book.

  “She was a beauty.” She propped the book on her desk and moved away, her thin finger pointing to a woman that took his breath away. Paul pressed Allison’s wedding band close to his heart as if to stifle the ache there. Dressed in a billowy, white dress, hair loose and flowing, glinting blonde in the sun was his wife, Allison.

  “Paul...Paul...” Molly continued on his discarded cell.

  He swallowed thick. Staring at her beloved face, he read the caption: “Hannah Andrews circa 1775 Stillwell Manor by R.G. Fontaine. Late daughter of Squire Geoffrey Andrews, presumably murdered by her lover, John Wendover.”

  “Can I take this?” he asked.

  “No, it’s reference.” She looked at his tense face. “Why?”

  “I am trying to sell the house. An uncle in the family wants to tear it down. I want to create a cleaner history for it.”

  She closed the book firmly. “Here. Anything that preserves the old homes of Long Island is important to me. Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.” She put her hand over his. “But please return it in the same shape.”

  Paul did something unexpected. Leaning over, he kissed her powdery cheek. “I will guard it with my life.”

  ====

  Racing back to his office, he glanced at the dash and realized he was a half hour late. The couple sat beside an animated Molly who entertained them with local lore. “And here he is the man of the hour.”

  “I apologize. I got stuck at another house.” Molly raised her thin eyebrow at him. “Did you prepare those c
omps for me, Mol?”

  “Does McDonald’s have golden arches?” She handed him a sheaf of papers. “Simmons house first. It’s got everything they need. That’s the ticket.”

  “Do you want to follow or go in my car?” he asked as he walked them out.

  Though the shock of the portrait was on his mind, somehow he was able to get them to commit in record time. It was the Simmons house, just as Molly suggested. The buyers came up, the sellers came down, and a sale was in the works a scant two hours later.

  “Man, you’re good,” Molly admired. “What the heck happened to you today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you, Jesse now? I can see something is on your mind.”

  “Wait here.” He ran out to the car to retrieve the book. He motioned for her to go into the privacy of his cubicle. “Take a look at this.”

  He opened the page and spread the book on his desk and heard Molly’s gasp.

  “Allison?”

  “Nope. That’s Hannah Andrews. Weird, right?”

  “I’ll say. Melissa Andrews called here earlier to see if you’re OK. What happened over there?”

  “I don’t know,” he said absently as he stared down at the picture. “I was coming down the main staircase, and…I don’t know, it was nothing.”

  “What? What?”

  “I think I was pushed.”

  She slapped his shoulder, and he winced. “Get out of here. Did you hurt yourself?”

  He shrugged. “Only my pride. I may just have tripped on the carpet. It’s old.”

  “You’re still taking the house?”

  “I feel like I have to. I don’t have a choice. I need the money.” He closed the book and headed home, ready to tackle dinner for his three kids.

  “Get normal. Get normal.” He repeated this mantra to himself in the car. He was afraid to turn on his radio. This was crazy. Seeing crime scenes, being pushed by ghosts, a demon who chose to visit him nightly—was this the new normal Allison spoke of? He breathed deeply, slowing his racing heart. I have to be normal for the kids, he thought wildly. Just my imagination, he convinced himself and then said out loud, “I am having a nervous breakdown.”