The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  The Haunting Of Quenby Mansion Omnibus

  J.S Donovan

  Copyright 2017 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Last Will and Testament

  2. Evelyn

  3. Cool Down

  4. Neighbors

  5. Raw

  6. The Key

  7. Gunner

  8. The Call

  9. The Trio

  10. Death at the Doorstep

  The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Book 1

  11. Black Bird

  12. Bed of Bones

  13. Family

  14. Romance

  15. Breath

  16. Broken Lives

  17. The Lost

  18. The Vanishing of Bella Day

  19. Crawl Space

  20. Encounter

  The Haunting of Quenby Mansion: Book 2

  21. Days Before Death

  22. Crimson Tears

  23. The Family Name

  24. Tattered Hearts

  25. Party of Five

  26. The Buyers

  27. Barnstormer

  28. The Woods

  29. The Free Man

  30. Father

  About the Author

  1

  Last Will and Testament

  It was dark, and the moon was full. Georgia bugs chirped in the humid air. A breeze rattled the leaves of fat Southern oaks. At the end of the brick road, ominously named The Path, stood the momentous Antebellum relic. Seventeen rooms, 2.5 stories high, and a survivor from a bygone era, the Quenby House was rich with history and had a set of colonnades on both the first and second floor. Spotted with little white flowers, vines and ivy climbed the mansion’s chipped white paint and around the tall glass windows. More roses and thorns bloomed around its base.

  In the night, silhouettes of neglected cabins and a struggling cotton field were visible beyond the massive building.

  A dim glow leaked from one of the mansion’s upper windows.

  Apart from the flame dancing on a candlewick, the study was dark with tall bookshelves, chairs with cracked leather cushions, and a number of wilted flowers that decorated the windowsills and tabletops. There were other antiquities too, but none were a concern to Maxwell Quenby.

  Hunched over his great grandfather’s desk, Maxwell, a forty-eight-year-old man with sunken cheeks, a patchy beard, and red-rimmed eyes, heard movement in the long halls of his Antebellum-era home. In the candlelight, sweat glistened on his creased forehead and greasy black/gray hair. He hadn’t bathed in days, and though the study was spacious, his natural odor seemed to hang in a cloud over his head. His calloused hand scribbled feverishly on the page before him.

  It was the most important note of his life.

  The first and last thing he’d say to the daughter he never knew.

  Since the widow Cecilia and her lover Abel Quenby I completed the plantation decades prior to the civil war, every important document was signed on this heavy wooden desk. From the purchase of the first slave in July of 1843 to the final cotton sale in March of 1875, the deep scratches and ink stains on the desk’s wooden surface ran as deep as the family’s blood.

  Muffled voices leaked through the walls.

  Maxwell twisted back at the sound. They found a way into the corridor. His nearly black, beady eyes returned to the page. His vision blurred from his lack of sleep. A bead of sweat raced down his nose. Moving his lips, Maxwell read his draft. It was garbage. He balled up the page and tossed it back to the mountain of crumpled paper.

  He pulled another sheet of paper from the pile and let his pen go to work. His hair tumbled down over his tired eyes. He should’ve cut it ages ago, but time escaped him. Time always seemed to escape him.

  The doorknob to his study jiggled violently.

  Maxwell’s heart throbbed in his chest. His breath quickened.

  The next draft of the letter dragged. He crumpled it up and threw it with the rest.

  Light seeped through the bottom of the door.

  More indistinguishable voices. They got closer.

  Last time, Maxwell promised himself and made the note brief. It wasn’t loving. It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what it needed to be. Maxwell forwent that perfectionist’s voice and folded the letter with his trembling hands.

  The door rattled on it hinges. The lock wouldn't hold much longer.

  Maxwell slid the letter into a red envelope. His tongue traced the envelope’s lip, and he sealed it tight.

  Wood cracked behind him as something heavy slammed into the door.

  Maxwell scribbled the day and time he wished the letter to be opened. If all else failed, the delivery must be precise.

  Crack!

  He set the letter aside and pulled open his drawer. His trembling hand withdrew a dusty snub nose revolver. Candlelight bounced over the tight frame. He checked the cylinder. Six rounds. He prayed to God it would be enough.

  With a crash, the door swung open.

  In the threshold, the figures looked like shadows, but Maxwell knew they were so much more. His finger squeezed the trigger desperately. The gun misfired. Maxwell leapt from his chair, knocking it over. The figures charged him. Their hands grabbed at him and tore the weapon from his grasp. He reached desperately for something to grab onto, but his efforts failed him. He was yanked from the study, screaming the only name that came to mind: his daughter’s.

  2

  Evelyn

  Detroit had its own pulse and noise. Sirens, shouting, and the bays of unseen dogs were the natural sounds of the manmade habitat. Iron clouds blanketed the stars, though even on a clear night, the city’s glow would hide them.

  With shifty eyes, Evelyn Carr watched the multi-story tenement from the opposite sidewalk. Her hair was blonde and her body slender. The pockets of her belted, black, double-breasted raincoat warmed her hands. Through the coat's lining, she felt the extendable baton concealed under the jacket.

  An ambulance screamed down the damp road, splashing water on the curbside and on the toes of Evelyn’s black heelless ankle boots.

  Standing between the glow of two hooked streetlights, Evelyn withdrew the picture of the girl a final time. Twenty-two years old, raven black hair, and floral tattoos up her arms, upper chest, and neck, Molly was a college dropout, a societal failure, and another shadow in a city of faces. No one cared that she had been missing for seventy-two hours except her high school friend Alice, a good Christian girl, and the burnt-out thirty-three-year-old private investigator Evelyn Carr.

  Evelyn refolded the picture and tucked it away. Looking both ways, she crossed the street. A granite-faced man smoking a cigarette on the tenement steps glared at her as a wisp of smoke seeped from his busted lip. His hard look was one Evelyn was used to. Just like most places, she wasn’t welcome here.

  Evelyn pushed through the double doors. The sound reverberated through the entrance hall followed by her boots clacking on the scuffed tile floor. She reached the elevator without passing another soul. It hummed and rumbled as it climbed the building, finally spitting Evelyn out on the seventh floor. The ceiling light flickered in the hallway that ended at room 712. Muffled heavy metal music thumbed through the closed door. Evelyn hammered her fist on its face and took a step back. Harsh bass and wicked guitar riffs replied.

  She knocked again, much harder this time.

  The doorknob jiggled, and a mom
ent later, Evelyn faced a skinny man wearing only tight jeans unbuttoned above the zipper. Though not muscular, the pasty-skinned twenty-something year old had a toned body painted with skulls, naked ladies, and other decadent tattoos. A happy trail climbed from his beltline and to his innie belly button. His jet-black hair was combed to the side of his roguish face. Casually, he rested his forearm in the frame of the door. His dark eyes licked Evelyn from head to toe. The foggy haze lingering in the dimly-lit apartment behind him drifted over her.

  “I’m here for Molly,” Evelyn stated.

  The shirtless punk smirked. “You her mom or something?”

  Evelyn ignored the comment. “Tell her to come out here.”

  “She fine where she is.”

  Evelyn shook her head slightly. “No.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Evelyn pushed past him. Their shoulders knocked together, and the unsuspecting boy stumbled back.

  “Hey!” the punk shouted.

  Evelyn stepped into the apartment den reeking with the stench of all sorts of herbal substances. Poster of various metal bands and scantily clad woman were tacked to the wall. Old food and used heroin needles sat on the glass coffee table in plain view.

  The punk yelled at her again. Evelyn guessed he was commanding her to leave, but the overwhelming music drowned out his words. There were empty beer bottles in the kitchen sink and pizza on the stove, but no sign of Molly. Wasting little time, Evelyn bustled down the hall that became further mystified by thick smoke. From behind, a hand grabbed Evelyn’s forearm. She turned back to the punk. He screamed over the speakers. “I will call the police!”

  Evelyn stared at him with a cold face. “Really?” she asked sarcastically, bouncing her eyes to the drugs before yanking herself from his grasp. The punk stood dumbfounded as Evelyn reached the bedroom door and shoved it open.

  The room was painted crimson like blood, with cheap red candles glowing on the dresser. It was like a scene out of some low-budget vampire movie. At the edge of the bed, Molly rested her head on the shoulder of another shirtless punk. She held a burnt spoon in one hand and a lighter in the other. Both of the twenty-something year olds sat up in alarm at Evelyn’s approach.

  The punk behind Evelyn spoke up, “She just walked in, man. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Molly,” Evelyn said, revealing her P.I. license. “You’re coming with me.” She grabbed the girl’s wrist.

  “Ow!” the girl shouted as she was pulled from the bed. “What are you doing?” she said with angst.

  The punk on the bed rose to his feet in defiance. “Hey, let her go!”

  Evelyn gave him a look that caused him to sit back down. He mumbled a few unpleasant words. Molly’s wrist in hand, Evelyn twisted back to the shirtless punk who greeted her at the door. With her free hand, she withdrew the baton from under her coat and extended it with the flick of a wrist.

  The punk’s eyes widened.

  “Excuse me,” Evelyn said, feeling his tension. The ball of the baton pushed up the man’s chin. He raised both hands and stepped aside.

  “Jared?” Molly called as she was led out of the room, expecting the punk to do something.

  The punk didn’t move.

  Taking Molly with her, Evelyn hustled out of the apartment and back to the elevator. When the door closed and the rumbly descent began, Molly wrenched free of Evelyn’s grip. The goth girl rubbed her sore wrist. “You a cop or something?”

  Molly’s lack of resistance spoke volumes. There was hope that she’d be saved after all.

  “Alice sent me to find you.” Evelyn watched the digital floor numbers tick down. “She was worried that you relapsed.”

  “Alice?” Molly scoffed, but then averted her gaze.

  Evelyn put away her baton. “When this door opens, I’m going to my office to meet with your friend. You can come with me or stay in the elevator.”

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice back at the apartment,” the girl mumbled.

  “I thought you could use some persuasion, but I can’t hold your wrist forever.”

  The elevator dinged. Evelyn stepped out without looking back. The girl’s fate was her own. The elevator door closed. Quiet footsteps followed behind Evelyn. In silence, the two women walked the sidewalk together.

  Black hair tossed by the wind, Molly crossed her arms over her chest. Goose bumps speckled her pale skin. “What are you? A private investigator?”

  Evelyn stepped in a puddle. “Something like that.”

  “Are you allowed to be dragging people around?”

  Evelyn didn’t reply.

  Two blocks down, they reached the parking meter and dingy minivan. Corrosive spots and peeled paint revealed the metal of the hood.

  “You’re taking me in that?” Molly complained. “Will it even run?”

  “I didn’t take you as a woman of class,” Evelyn climbed into the driver seat, not waiting to see the girl’s reaction. Reluctant, Molly took shotgun. They drove on damp streets and by skyscrapers spotted with glowing windows. The Tuesday night crowd gathered in long lines outside of nightclubs. Hobos and other street crawlers huddled under awnings that still dripped from the evening rain forty-five minutes ago. Cop cars zipped by, rushing to the scene of a crime.

  Evelyn turned the car through an alleyway beside a cheap buffet restaurant. A gruff chef with an apron stained with greasy fingerprints tossed a bag of trash into the growing mound outside his back door. A skeletal cat ran out from behind it.

  Evelyn parked her van in the small lot behind the adjacent office building: an old brick structure that had been standing for nearly a century.

  “Do my parents know that I was...” Molly’s voice trailed.

  Evelyn turned the key in the ignition. The car sputtered off. “It was Alice that reached out to me. I’ve heard nothing from your parents.”

  “Figures,” Molly replied. She covered her eyes with her palms. “Ugh. I’m so high right now.”

  The comment didn’t surprise Evelyn. She turned to the girl. “Ready to go up there?”

  “No,” Molly replied. “I mean, I don’t know. All my stuff is still at the guys’ apartment.”

  “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” Evelyn replied.

  Molly met eyes with her. “Why?”

  Evelyn didn’t have an answer. After locking the car, they hiked up the metal stairs at the back of the brick building. Evelyn sifted through her key fob and tried the lock. She had to jiggle it a few times before it opened. The room was little more than a metal desk and few chairs. Rusty street light oozed through the window blinds faded from exposure to the elements. Cinnamon caches placed through the room gave it a lively smell.

  Dressed in a floral-patterned blouse, nice jeans, and spotless white tennis shoes, Alice stood by the desk and chewed her nail. She was a cute girl with a bob cut and an air of naiveté.

  “Molly!” She squealed and hugged her tattooed friend. Molly didn’t reciprocate the warm embrace.

  “How did you know where I was?” Molly asked.

  “I didn’t,” Alice replied. “She found you.”

  They both turned to Evelyn silhouetted in the doorway. Evelyn could’ve explained how she used the location finder from Molly’s social media pictures to lead her to the various nightclubs, bribed the bouncers, reached out to club regulars, jotted down descriptions of the men, found one of their angry exes, got the punk’s address, and waited until they had settled in their flat before making her move. Instead of saying all that, Evelyn smiled with pursed lips.

  “Stay with me tonight,” Alice said, taking Molly’s hands in her own. “We’ll take you back to rehab tomorrow.”

  “I got out last week,” Molly replied. “I can’t go back like this.”

  “This is the best time to go back,” Alice replied. “Before you backslide any worse.”

  Molly grunted. “I’m not backsliding. I was only having fun.”

  “That fun almost killed you last tim
e, and if not for Mrs. Carr, it may have killed you this time,” Alice said. “Did you even know those guy’s names?”

  Molly didn’t reply.

  “Oh,” Alice perked up. She pulled a white bank envelope from her back pocket and handed it to Evelyn. “I almost forgot this.”

  Evelyn took it and opened the tab. She counted a few fifty dollars bills inside. “That’s very generous of you.” Evelyn reexamined the money. I really need to raise my fee.

  The two girls said their goodbyes and exited. Evelyn closed and locked the door behind them. She removed a cash box from her desk and studied the contents within. It was never a good month when she could see the bottom of the box. The last few months were bad. It wasn’t a matter of how hard she worked or how good she was. Her livelihood depended on the client and how much they were willing to pay for her services. It sucked, but that was the reality of her business. Evelyn finished locking up the office and headed upstairs to her rented apartment.

  The familiar sour stench of wood polish splashed Evelyn as she entered. After all these years, it was a surprise the chemical hadn’t killed her sense of smell. Her husband Terrence stood amidst curled wood shavings littering the floor beneath the kitchen table. His large hand brushed a stained rag across the body of a freshly carved violin. A half-dozen violas and fiddles dangled from a taut metal wire connected to two walls. A wide wooden tool rack was nailed to the adjacent wall. It held chisels, clamps, wire cutters, strings, and other luthier tools.