The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  “Do you want me to drive?” Evelyn asked.

  Terrence shook his head. “No. Get some sleep. I need to clear my head anyway.”

  He walked around the front of the vehicle and climbed inside. The minivan sputtered to life and disappeared down the road. Once Evelyn knew it was gone, she hunched over and felt her chest tighten. She controlled her breathing. In and out. In and out. It seemed to help the panic and confusion that was flooding over her. Was there something in the water? Are we both sick? Evelyn straightened her posture and inhaled as deeply as she could. Part of her knew that wasn’t the answer. There was something wrong with this house. She needed to find out what.

  The power had returned at some point during the night. It reset all the clocks, causing them to flicker at 12:00. Evelyn pushed open the basement door and gazed into the abyss below. She flipped the light switch, watching the large room flood with light. Slowly, carefully, she descended a single step at a time. It seemed much smaller in the daytime, and the shadows didn’t stretch as far. Most of the articles within were odds and ends pieces of furniture stored for a later day. The couches were moth-eaten and the leather chair cushions were cracked. The small lounging area where Evelyn discovered the shotguns seemed to be the only place that had been used in the last decade. The couch there was stained. A box TV sat on its stand. A sheet of dust clouded its black glass face. Evelyn approached the brick wall. The few droplets of her husband’s blood hardened on the ridged surface.

  Why here? Why this place? she wondered. She traced her finger across the surface. There was nothing intricate about the brick. Nothing unique. Was there something behind it? Evelyn pressed her ear against the wall and listened. No sound. It was rock solid. Still pushed against the wall, she knocked on different points of the brick. No sound. No hollowness. Was the clawing random? Maybe, but this was the same place Evelyn had first heard the scratching sound that seemed to cling to her psyche like a parasite. As she turned back to the basement, she caught a glimpse of the black spot on the ceiling. It was a stain of sorts, possibly from an old leaking pipe.

  She headed upstairs and into the portrait hall. She glanced up at the nameless man immortalized by paint. Many of them had stern faces and intense eyes, much like Evelyn, though none were blonde except the intriguing and beautiful woman that began the Quenby line. Terrence and her had been through this hall before, looking into the origins of the black stain but finding nothing. The wall behind the paintings had a hollow quality. There was something back there, but Evelyn had no idea how to access it without taking a sledgehammer to the wall. Something told her that wouldn’t help the resale value.

  She slid up the corner of one of the paintings in search of a breach in the wood that she could glance through. A few paintings later and without results, Evelyn stopped before the portrait of a chunky man dressed in a caramel-colored tailored suit standing next a cotton gin. She checked behind it and found something she never expected: a keyhole.

  Evelyn peered through it but could only see blackness. She pulled herself away. What did this have to do with the blackouts, the scratching, the scorched cotton fields, the masked man and the little girl in the mural, and her father’s demise? Evelyn didn’t know. This could mean nothing, but she wouldn’t know until she found the key unless… she rushed back to the master bedroom and tore apart her travel bag. She grabbed her lock-picking tool that she used in her P.I. business and the key her father left her.

  She tried the key first. No luck. It wouldn’t even fit into the tiny hole. She fished out the lock-picking tools and gave them a try. They met resistance partway through. Something was stuck in the keyhole. Evelyn shined a flashlight within, making out what seemed like part of a key that had snapped off. She searched her husband’s tools, finding some glue. She slathered it on the back of her lock-picking tool and jammed it inside the keyhole. After a minute, she jiggled the lock pick out. The tip of the key that was once lodged there was now glued to the lock-picking tool’s end. Evelyn peered through the keyhole. There was a room back there, but it was too dark to make out details. She tried unlocking it with her lock-picking tools again. However, the intricacy of the lock made it impossible. What was he trying to hide back here? Evelyn wondered.

  She searched the floor of the hallway, the ring posts in the kitchen, the drawers in the master bedroom, and the desk in the study before returning to the portrait empty-handed. She stroked her chin. Searching every nook and cranny of the house would take weeks. She thought back to her private investigative work. Every missing person leaves a trail intentionally or unintentionally. It was inevitable. Secret keys were a different matter entirely. The owner would intentionally leave a trail, but one only he could follow. Evelyn knew nothing about her father, so digging into his past would not help her here. She had to rely on her own experiences and ask herself the fundamental question that began with “If I were trying to BLANK, how would I do it?”

  Evelyn started with the obvious: leave a subtle reminder in the surroundings. The door was hidden behind family portraits, did that matter? Evelyn didn’t know their names or their gravestones, so seeking the dead wasn’t practical, plus that would be too obvious. Evelyn would want to hide the answer in plain sight, but not so plain that one searching would guess at first. Evelyn looked for subtle clues. She gazed at the portrait with the rotund man and the cotton gin behind him. It must’ve been painted when the cotton gin was still new. Evelyn studied the other portraits. None of them had buildings in their background, so why would this man choose to put one in his portrait’s background? Evelyn snapped a picture of it with her phone and went outside. She walked through the tall grass and toward the cotton gin house. It was a wooden two-story structure by the cotton press. Its wood was dark, nearly black and gray. The first floor looked like a car garage with multiple ports where workers would pile cotton. Evelyn hiked to an outdoor ramp that connected the ground to the second-story door. She pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside the building. Dust, hay, and a sparse amount of cotton littered the groaning floor planks. Some were broken and others were thin and weak. At its center was a crude cotton gin. The device was made entirely of metal, with an opening on top to feed the cotton and an area in the back to receive it once it had been funneled through. Evelyn withdrew her phone and studied the picture. At the time the portrait was drawn, the cotton gin was outside. She approached the metal tool and spotted something within its metal teeth. Nearby, stuck in the metal, was a key that had been lodged inside.

  Evelyn saw that the tip of it had been broken off. This is the one.

  She reached her hand inside and pinched the key with her fingers. She felt a sharp tug, and suddenly her arm was being pulled into the gin. Before she could realize what was happening, the metal teeth within were flaying her hand and wrist, sucking her deeper into the machine. Evelyn gasped, unable to scream from shock, and attempted to tug her hand free. It only went deeper. With her free hand, she grabbed her captured wrist and pulled with all her might. The metal teeth bent for a moment and then snapped as her hand was yanked out. Evelyn fell on her bottom and gawked at her hand, expecting to see tattered flesh and bone. Her hand was perfectly fine and held the broken key.

  Evelyn closed her eyes. I’m losing my mind.

  Key in hand, she returned inside, washed her face, and returned to the portrait hall. She took the piece of key glued to the lock-picking tool and glued it to the rest of the key. After it set, she gave the keyhole a try. A tall and skinny three-feet wide portion of the wall opened. Evelyn stepped back and peered into a tight corridor. Dust flakes danced. The walls and floor were unpainted wood. I guess my father had secrets. She stepped inside and walked through the hall that ended at a door. The door wasn’t fully closed. The hinges were warped. The wood around the doorknob was splintered. The lock was broken.

  Like every door in the old mansion, it groaned as Evelyn pushed it open. Inside was an office about a quarter of the size of the other office, but dense with objects. The
re were piles of old books spilling out of a dusty bookcase, a desk covered with documents, an old globe, a rusty bed frame and lived-in mattress, and dirty plates, cups, and silverware. There was a scattered pile of balled paper that rested on the floor. It looked like rats took a bite out of it.

  Evelyn knelt down and picked up one of the balled pieces of paper.

  It read, “To my beloved, in a less cruel world, we could’ve been together. It was never my desire to send you away, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for your safety and for mine. I write to you with my final breath. Come home. Take what is yours and do with it as you please. You are free of the burden of this town and family. Enjoy it, Evelyn, and know that I will always love you. Sincerely, Maxwell, your father. P.S. by the time you read this, I’ll be ten years gone. I know you do not understand nor will you, but know this is better for us all. Wounds will be healed. Life will be stable.”

  Evelyn read the note again before swiftly unballing another paper wad. “I am in great danger, which is why this must be brief. I surrender my estate and everything I own to Evelyn Quenby, my daughter. Burn this house or sell it. Nothing good will come from this place. -- Maxwell.”

  Evelyn picked up another. “Evelyn, there’s so much I wish I could’ve told you. There’s so many things I wish I could’ve seen. From your first step, to prom night, to your wedding, I would’ve loved to be there for all of it. I imagine you grew up to be beautiful and smart, like your mother. Though I’m ashamed that I never got to see you personally. Enclosed in this letter is my will…”

  Eyes watering, Evelyn read another and another and another, learning about her father’s love for her, his guilt, and this ominous danger that prevented him from telling her more. Evelyn felt her heart twist and a conflicting stir of emotions tear at her insides. If Maxwell loved her so much, why surrender her to the foster system? Why not reach out? Evelyn’s frustration grew the more she read. Every draft of his letters was vague and filled with regret. She flattened them out on the old mahogany desk. Part of her wanted to burn them. The other part of her wanted to hug them close to her chest and cry.

  Sniffling, she thought back to the danger Maxwell mentioned. It sounds like he was murdered. Evelyn shivered at the thought. If so, no one knew. A body was never found. By the smashed door into this private study, it may well have happened where Evelyn stood. An overwhelming sense of dread filled her. She wanted to run as far as she could from the room. Suddenly, she noticed something nailed on the desk panel. Cautiously, she approached. Her mouth dried. She turned the photograph towards her. It was sepia tone and showed a little girl, between seven and ten years old, with sandy blonde hair, freckles, and a wide smile. Evelyn recognized her from the cotton field and from the mural she drew.

  Evelyn took a step back and covered her mouth. She looked around the dusty room cluttered with clothes, odd philosophical books, and a number of rolled papers. The walls seemed to close in on her. The old, rusty bed made her mind go to dark places. She thought about the scorch marks in the cotton field. The child’s toy she’d found. What was the connection?

  Evelyn felt like she was going to faint. She bolted out of the room and back into the hall of portraits. The front door opened.

  “I’m home,” Terrence shouted.

  Evelyn shut the secret door panel behind her and put the painting back in place. She pocketed the key, composed herself, and walked out into the foyer to meet him. She knew her face was still stark white, but she did well to hide it. None of this made sense, and bringing Terrence into the fold would be a distraction she couldn’t afford. Like in Detroit, Evelyn would work her cases alone unless she needed help.

  Terrence had Band-Aids around each of his fingers. He held a large camera bag in his hand.

  “You were gone for a long time,” Evelyn said, followed by asking, “What’s that?”

  Terrence unzipped the bag and pulled out the massive video camera. “I rented this for a few days to monitor our sleeping habits. I hope that’s not an issue.”

  “No,” Evelyn said. “I think it’s smart.”

  Terrence smiled at her. “Good. I’ll set it up.” He bounced up the steps.

  Evelyn looked outside the window. The sun was falling. Her mind went in circles, thinking about the blonde girl. Today was full enough already. She’d look first thing in the morning when she was better rested.

  Terrence and Evelyn heated up some soup and ate in the vast dining room fit for twenty patrons. They didn’t say much. Both were lost in thought. Between the break-in and blackouts, Evelyn could see the toll on Terrence's face. There was a tension in the air, fearful of what the night would bring.

  After dinner, they went to bed. Evelyn felt odd having the dark camera lens watching her as they slept. Both of them doubled down on the doctor’s recommended medication and drifted to sleep.

  Evelyn dreamed of fire licking her skin.

  She awoke before the sun came up and took a shower. When she got out, Terrence was awake. He had the video camera on his lap and was reviewing the footage on the small screen. Evelyn scooted in close to him. Terrence’s Band-Aid-wrapped finger pressed the play button. They fast-forwarded through the first hour of tossing and turning, and then they both got out of bed with closed eyes. They walked out of the room.

  Evelyn and Terrence traded worried looks.

  They continued to fast-forward the footage until they watched themselves return to the frame an hour ago. Sleepwalking, both Evelyn and Terrence carried the missing shotguns. They stowed the weapons under the bed and returned to their sleeping positions. Terrence pressed pause. Evelyn stood up from the edge of the bed and peered under. A moment later, she returned with two shotguns.

  “What did we do last night?” Terrence asked.

  Evelyn knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  7

  Gunner

  Evelyn checked the cartridge of the shotgun. One shot had been fired. The second gun told the same story.

  Evelyn and Terrence sat in quiet for a moment, overwhelmed by the mansion’s silence. Outside, trees swayed calmly in the wind. The unmowed grass spotted with dandelions, weeds, and other wildflowers bent as if bowing to the high sun.

  Without a word, Terrence grabbed one of the guns and unloaded the shells within. By the time he finished, ammo was spilling from his palm onto the painted white floor. He trembled slightly and started on the next gun, getting frustrated when one of the bullets jammed in the chamber. Evelyn put her hand on his thigh to calm him. Terrence tensed up.

  “I don’t know what the hell we did last night,” Terrence said with a trembling voice. “But I’m not going to take any chances.”

  “We need to stay levelheaded,” Evelyn said.

  Terrence shook his head, ignoring her words. “I’m getting rid of these guns.”

  Before Evelyn could say a word, her husband was choking a shotgun in each hand and his pajama pockets were packed with ammo. Evelyn followed his march out the door. They walked out into the expansive backyard and far beyond the cotton field. Morning dew wetted their feet in their open toe slippers. Evelyn chewed her nails as she walked. Her other hand clenched a shovel. Terrence never asked her to pick it up, but Evelyn took the initiative. Sleepwalking with a high-powered weapon was not something she’d ever want to do again. Terrence dug a shallow hole, wrapped the weapons, and tossed them in. While Evelyn kicked the dirt over the shotguns, Terrence buried the ammo half an acre away, swaddling them in a towel before placing them in the hole.

  After throwing their dirty clothes into the wash and showering, they put on their day clothes, sat on the walnut-colored sofa with green and gold floral upholstery in the living room, booted up their portable Wi-Fi hotspot, and opened their laptops. For a good hour, they browsed the local news in search of murders or gun crimes committed the night before. She found articles regarding an upcoming farmers market special and other small local events. There was nothing about murder or shots heard in the night. Evelyn didn’t count he
r blessings. The day was still young.

  “Maybe we’ll never know what happened,” Terrence said, his dark eyes glued on the computer screen. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

  Evelyn nodded. In most cases, she’d want to know all the gritty details, but something about what happened last night made her stomach churn. She was hoping she’d have some recollection, but that hadn’t happened for the other blackouts, and she knew that it wouldn’t happen for this one.

  “Life goes on,” Terrence said, talking to himself more than Evelyn. “We move on. No need to talk about it. We’ll get some medication, clean the house, and hit the road back to Detroit. Simple.”

  “We can’t go back,” Evelyn said, watching the news anchor with unblinking eyes.

  Terrence turned to her with his lips slightly parted.

  “If we committed a crime, and I pray to God we didn’t, fleeing is the last thing we want to do.”

  “Just yesterday, you were the one who wanted to leave.” Terrence turned her words against her.

  “That was before the shotguns. Now let’s delete the footage from last night and finish our month here, and then we get the hell out of this house and don’t look back.” Evelyn thought that her words were a little extreme, but ninety-five percent of the time, someone got arrested for a crime because they acted hastily. Whether they did anything nefarious last night or not, she needed to play it safe. Only for a few more weeks.

  Hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing a white zipped-up track jacket, Evelyn went on a morning run through the property. With blackouts, the break-in, the revelation that her father may have been murdered, Evelyn needed something constant in her life right now. The pain shooting up her calves with every swift step and the sweat on her brow were her salvation at the moment. Acres away, Evelyn could still see the monumental Quenby House. Its tall white walls, Greek-style pillars, and blanket of flower-spattered vines nearly stole her breath every time she took a second to look at the artifact. A blessing and curse, that house. A heart-stopping beauty built on the back of slaves.