The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  “Hey,” Terrence said without looking back.

  “Hey,” Evelyn replied and pressed her body against his back. She wrapped her arms around his chest, snuggling herself ever closer to the love of her life. “Hungry?”

  “I have rice on the stove and the crock pot going.” Terrence put down the rag. He turned to Evelyn, keeping his stained palms on the table’s rim. Terrence stood over six feet. He had dark skin and a little chin beard he took pride in. As a blues and country lover, his shirt always had some sort of instrument pattern decorating them. Tonight, it was little guitars--the first instrument he learned to build--that were the size of polka dots. “How was it today?”

  “Long,” Evelyn replied. “You?”

  “Made a sale,” Terrence said with a smile.

  Evelyn didn’t want to remind him that bills come early tomorrow morning.

  They enjoyed their meal in relative quiet. Conversation hadn’t been either one of their strong suits. Both of them worked odd hours, and even though they thought about having a child, the timing and cost never seemed right. After they finished clearing their plates, they took a shower together. Water cascaded down the deep grooves on Evelyn’s back. The scars reminded her of the “accident” all those years ago. She thought the crash would be the end. Instead, she met Terrence. The man who had saved her life. They were very different people. Evelyn bent the rules. Terrence was by the books. Evelyn folded to the back of most crowds. Terrence liked to be front and center. Pessimist: Evelyn. Optimist: Terrence. Evelyn could go on and on with their differences, but it was their commitment and love that kept them strong.

  The sun came up too early. Evelyn untangled herself from her strong husband. She flipped on the kitchen lights and made an omelet filled with red peppers, diced ham, and shredded cheese. She glanced at the cluttered dining room table that had slowly become Terrence’s workshop over the last few years.

  Evelyn slouched on the couch and put her plate on a cheap collapsible table. She sifted through the bills and rubbed her brow. It would be another close month. How many more of those would she have left before the close calls caught up with her? As she sealed away paid bills, she found a letter addressed to her by an attorney named Duncan Peters. Evelyn stared at it for a moment. The name didn’t ring any bells. She opened it and pulled out the document.

  The letter began, “I write to you in regard to your father’s estate...” Evelyn paused. Rays of the morning sun climbed across the carpet floor and her pale cheek. She re-read the sentence and stopped at the word “father.”

  She had no memories of the man, or her mother. Evelyn was an ugly baby. A little pink screamer no one wanted. Her youth was a blur of orphanages, where she was too “unruly” to get adopted. At eighteen and with no parents, she was on her own.

  Until she met Terrence.

  Evelyn continued reading the letter. Its contents were vague about the inheritance and who her father was. It seemed more like an invitation than a legal document. Evelyn gave the lawyer a call.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m under specific obligation not to discuss the contents of the will over the phone,” Duncan Peters said.

  “You expect me to drive two hours with no information about my father or his will?”

  “If you wish to collect your inheritance, you will need to arrive in person. That was the deceased's final wish. I must adhere to it.”

  After the call ended, Evelyn let the couch swallow her up.

  “What was that about?” Terrence said, standing in the hallway in his boxer briefs, toothbrush in his mouth.

  “My father,” Evelyn said, almost disbelieving.

  Terrence stopped mid-brush. He stepped back to the bathroom, took out his toothbrush from his mouth, and spat in the sink. “Babe, that’s great.”

  “I suppose,” Evelyn put the letter aside. “It seems fitting that the only contact I’ll have with the man is reading his will.”

  Terrence folded onto the couch next to her. “I’m sorry, but hey, maybe you’ll finally get a chance to find out who he is.”

  Evelyn rested her head on his shoulder. A stir of emotions swirled inside. She didn’t know if she should weep or rejoice. Why leave her the inheritance when he never once reached out to her? Was the letter a mistake?

  Evelyn made a trip to the punks’ house to clear her head. They opened the door slightly. “You know why I’m here,” Evelyn said.

  The punk slammed the door in her face. Evelyn kept her hands in her coat pockets until the door reopened and the bundle of Molly’s clothes was thrown haphazardly into the apartment’s hallway. Evelyn made the trip to the rehab center and dropped off Molly’s stuff. The girl said some kind words and ended with the conversation by saying “I hate this city.”

  Of that, Evelyn agreed.

  Terrence and Evelyn made the trek to the lawyer’s office. The room had been painted a drab gray and displayed several paintings of large ships and beautiful mountain vistas. Duncan Peters was a heavy-set man with a droopy face, graying brown hair, and rimless glasses. He sat with fingers locked on the table. Terrence and Evelyn sat opposite of him in cushioned chairs designed to make the process easier. Evelyn found them uncomfortably soft.

  Peters gave them both a pitying smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carr.”

  “I didn’t know him, but thank you,” Evelyn replied.

  “Let’s begin,” Peters lifted the weathered red letter from the top of his desk and cleared his throat. He read the handwritten print on its front. “To Notary Duncan Peters. Whether or not my body is found, deliver this letter to daughter Evelyn ten years after I’m presumed dead. Only on the tenth of March.”

  Evelyn leaned forward. March 10th was the day I was put up for adoption. “Ten years?”

  “Yes,” Peters said stoically. “I’ve had this letter in my possession since that time.”

  “Shouldn’t you have told me about this?” Evelyn asked.

  “I was left clear instructions not to,” Peters replied. “Shall I proceed?”

  Under the table, Terrence squeezed Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn nodded.

  Peters ran the sword-shaped letter opener across the envelope. He removed a single sheet of paper from within. “To Evelyn, my daughter. My heir. I failed you in life. I will not make excuses or justify my actions. That time is dead and gone. I will leave you with the only thing I have to give: my estate. Enclosed within this note is the key to our family home. May it give you more peace than it did me. Your father, Max.”

  Silence hung in the room for a moment.

  “Is that all?” Evelyn asked.

  Peters nodded and handed her the old gray key. “The address as well. 1 Quenby Avenue, Adders, Georgia.”

  “Adders? Never heard of it,” Terrence said.

  “Most people haven’t,” Peters said. “It’s hardly a blip on the map.”

  “You lived there?” Terrence asked.

  “I got out as soon as I could,” Peters said, leaving no room for further questioning.

  Evelyn took the key. It was heavy and spotted with rust. She locked eyes with Peters. “In his will, he said that if he is presumed dead. What does that mean?”

  “Maxwell vanished from his home ten years ago. All of his possessions were accounted for. However, the body was never recovered.”

  “What happened to him?” Terrence asked.

  Peters shrugged. “The police have been asking that question for many years.”

  On the drive back, Evelyn pinched the key between her finger and thumb and spun it slowly before her eyes.

  “I didn’t expect that. I wonder what happened to your father?” Terrence kept his eye on the road as he turned right.

  Evelyn had about as many answers as Terrence. None. “If he was alive, someone would’ve known. But it’s been ten years… and he wrote a will.”

  They drove farther up the road. Terrence smiled. “I wonder how big the estate is?”

  Evelyn tucked away the key. “I don’t know. Either wa
y, we can try to flip it.”

  “It’s your family home,” Terrence said, as if Evelyn didn’t know.

  “It’s in Georgia. What are we going to do with a house in Georgia?” Evelyn asked rhetorically. “I’ve never been south of Tennessee.”

  “I say we check it out,” Terrence said, smiling. “It could be an adventure.”

  “Who’s paying for it?” Evelyn replied, harsher than she had anticipated. Maybe the ordeal was doing a number on her after all.

  “We have a little in savings,” Terrence replied. “I thought you’d want to know more about your heritage?”

  “I do, but… the timing’s wrong,” Evelyn replied. She studied the key again. The timing’s always wrong. Her investigative instinct pulled at her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She knew practically nothing about her father and even less about her mother. “Ah, hell, let’s do it. I could use a vacation.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Terrence said with childish glee.

  They took a stack of money from the lock box and packed up the minivan with a month’s worth of supplies and Terrence’s luthier tools. If they were traveling that far down, they needed to clean the place and get it ready to put back on the market. Evelyn didn’t know if she’d make it back down to Georgia again.

  It was a long drive down south. Evelyn and Terrence spent most of it on highways that descended into woodland areas. Terrence woke her up when they passed the state sign. Welcome to Georgia: the state of adventure.

  Following the GPS, they reached Adders without a hitch. Established in 1837. Estimated population: seven thousand. Once they got to town, Evelyn had to rely on a map to find Quenby Avenue. They drove through the small downtown area made up of farmer’s markets, old brick and wood buildings, and rubbernecking locals. Beyond the town were sprawling cow pastures and horse farms.

  The rusty minivan turned into a street flanked by pastures outlined by wooden fences similar to what one would see surrounding a civil war reenactment sight. Clusters of sprawling old trees spotted the outcropping. Evelyn lowered the window and allowed herself to take in the breeze. Unlike the city, the air was fresh, cool, and seemed to revitalize the soul.

  Evelyn watched black and white spotted cows blur by. Her mind wondered as it did when she was a child. Were her parents rich or poor, happy or sad, nice or cruel? She stopped asking questions in her teens when she realize no one would adopt her. Back then, she was the ugly kid with long limbs, pepperoni face, and a bad attitude. The last part was an act. Evelyn didn’t want to be adopted. She wanted to wait for her real father to return. After high school, Evelyn got a woman’s body and well-structured, beautiful, but intimidating face. It didn’t make her very approachable, and the reality set in that she’d be alone. Focus on the house, Evelyn reminded herself. If it was worth something, it could be the big break she needed to start her family.

  They continued down a single lane road. Terrence pulled to the side of the street, allowing a big truck with a dead buck tacked down in the bed to pass by. The tobacco-chewing locals gave them curt nods and kept on.

  “We aren’t in Detroit anymore,” Terrence said.

  “What gave it away?” Evelyn said with a small smile.

  Terrence playfully squeezed her knee. “There’s that smile I’ve been missing.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, buster,” Evelyn said.

  They drove by an old, two-story farm house. “You sure we’re going the right way?”

  Evelyn studied the map. “This is Quenby. It should only be a matter of finding the address.”

  A small road came into view. A white wooden sign was staked in the ground beside it. “The Path,” the engraved blue text read. Below was the number 1. Terrence turned in, driving between rows of ancient, mossy-covered oaks that curled over the road.

  “Look at this place,” Terrence said with wonder.

  Evelyn straightened her posture, awed by the beauty that she almost didn’t notice the massive three-story plantation house at the road’s end. Green vines with little white flowers climbed its walls and colonnades. Untamed bushes and weeds sprouted from its base. It looked like it came right out of Gone with the Wind.

  “This can’t be it,” Evelyn said. The white paint was chipped but well-kept. The windows were dusty but intact. Acres of farmland sprawled out behind it along with a half-dozen wooden cabins and a vast cotton field.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Terrence asked as he parked.

  “It looks like it. Come on,” Evelyn climbed out of the van. The spring Georgia air was soothing. Plump white clouds surfed across the indigo sky. Weeds grew between the cracks of the red brick road. The large shadow of the house cast over them as they approached. The set of colonnades on the first and second floor gave the building a look of unparalleled grandeur that captured the Georgian ideals of symmetry and order. Evelyn and Terrence stopped before the massive house.

  “There’s no way,” Terrence said and chuckled. “There’s no freaking way!”

  Evelyn smiled at him. “Race you to the door.”

  They bolted between the pillars, laughing until they stopped at the door. Evelyn fished out the key. Taking a deep breath, Evelyn slid the key into the lock and twisted.

  Click.

  The door opened with a rickety groan. The mansion smelled of dust and old books.

  “This is your father’s house?” Terrence asked and rubbed both hands up his shaved head. “Holy crap.”

  They stepped into the large foyer big enough to host forty people. Clouds and angels were painted on a vast mural on the domed ceiling. Two sets of symmetrical stairs bowed up to a balcony with a hand-carved railing. Paintings in gold leaf frames decorated the walls boasting images of the mansion, the pastures, and the cotton fields in their prime. The floor had a thin red carpet over hardwood. It was dirty and dusty, but nothing important had been damaged.

  “I’ll get this out in the open,” Evelyn said. “If we learn that my parents were a bunch of slave-owning bigots, you can’t divorce me.”

  “Deal.” Terrence craned his head back to one of the paintings on the wall. “I’m no art dealer, but that--if it’s original--is worth at least four grand.”

  Evelyn wasn’t the crying type, but today seemed the exception. “Terrence...” She wrapped her arms around her husband and turned her gaze to the painted angels on the ceiling. They had sly smiles, rosy cheeks, and long golden trumpets. Their soft eyes seemed to follow Evelyn as she moved. Age gave the mural the texture of cracked dirt.

  Terrence finished speaking for Evelyn. “We’re standing in a gold mine.”

  There were flame-shaped bulbs on the massive, multi-tier silver chandeliers overhead. Evelyn flipped the light switch. No luck. That wasn’t unsurprising since the last resident hadn’t paid the bills in a decade. Evelyn would be relying on fans and open windows to cool her. Even if she did have access to air conditioning, cooling this house for a day would cost more than her monthly rent.

  Terrence and Evelyn grabbed some flashlights from the car and explored the halls. They were decorated with portraits of various men through the last two centuries. Their faces were stern and handsome with similar noses and jawlines, though some were inclined to plumpness and their eye colors were all a little different. Evelyn shined the light over each face, looking for a similarity between her and the men she assumed were her ancestors. The last portrait was from the 1930s, but the years descended down the hall ending at the oldest painting. It was a woman with long, braided blonde hair, alluring blue eyes, and small nose. Terrence looked at her and then Evelyn. “Yep. There’s the one.”

  They continued the tour through the house, finding rooms where modern life clashed with the Antebellum era. They found stock investment books from the nineties, modern lamps, and updated plumbing in a few bathrooms. By the time they finished the tour, hours had passed. The house had seventeen rooms. These included three bathrooms. One needed new floors. Another appeared to be never used and had leaves fillin
g the tub from an open window. The final bathroom was usable, but they’d need to get the water running before risking it. There were five bedrooms that were in various states of disrepair. All had different sized beds, wallpaper, and furnishings. Her father must’ve lived out the master bedroom because that was well-kept with a king-sized bed covered with an awning, a massive wardrobe, coat closet, two seater table, and more. The rest of the rooms included a study, billiard room, a bedroom containing objects like arcade machines and pool tables, two living rooms, a lounge, an art room, kitchen, and walk-in pantry. Finally, there was the basement that was a maze of clutter. There was an area in the center of the dark, sprawling, and dusty basement that had a couch, a TV, and two shotguns sitting upright on the cushion. There were a few boxes of shotgun shells that wore a coat of dust and were sealed.

  “Oh,” Terrence said and picked one up. He examined it. “It’s loaded.”

  “Try not to blow a hole in the wall,” Evelyn said, half-joking.

  Terrence flipped on the safety and handed it to Evelyn. She was surprised by the weight and readjusted her posture to get a better grip on it. Terrence retrieved the other gun. “Let’s see if these work.”

  “I don’t know if we should be messing with them,” Evelyn said.

  “Everything here is yours, Evelyn,” Terrence reminded her. “We can do whatever we want.”

  Evelyn rolled the gun in her palms. She smiled at her husband. “See if we can find some old cans.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Terrence replied and rushed up the stairs. Gun in hand, Evelyn followed soon after. This house has got everyone acting spontaneous.

  They headed out the back and walked through the garden. It was lively, with all sorts of roses and other colorful flowers. There were a number of stone statues set up across the other grown brick path. Terrence would mimic their poses to get Evelyn to laugh. It worked. It was a good day to be alive.

  They saw the cotton field to their left and the cabins nearby. There was also a stone building with a cotton gin and extra storage. Terrence found a nice spot on the rolling green plain spotted with oaks older than the plantation and roots so firm that they’d never be removed. Terrence set up a stand from scrap wood in one cabin and lined a few cans on top of it. He was a good shot. Evelyn was better. They were a little nervous someone would call the cops, but this wasn’t a big city. Shooting a gun in the backyard was a rite of passage.