The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  Drenched, Evelyn began her journey back. She hadn’t traveled far in terms of the scale of the property. She guessed they had between 20 and 25 acres total. A large portion of that was the cotton field, and another portion was for hay and livestock, of which there was none.

  She returned inside and used a cloth in the large kitchen to dry her face. Resting her bottom against the countertop, she looked at the wooden kitchen island, the pantry the size of a small bedroom, and a small door leading to the meat freezer. Like the basement, the walk-in icebox was an extension added a century after the mansion’s inception. Overall, the kitchen looked like it could fit five chefs and servers.

  Following the sound of tools scraping wood, Evelyn stepped into the one of the empty spare bedrooms Terrence had converted into his office. Thought usually slow and precise, Terrence worked furiously on the guitar frame with the wood shaver. Dripping with perspiration, he turned his gaze up to Evelyn. His shirt with different instruments was unbuttoned partly down the chest, and the sleeves had been rolled up past his elbows. The laptop was open nearby, still displaying generic news articles.

  “Whenever you’re ready, let’s visit Dr. Waxen,” Evelyn said and walked away.

  Terrence refreshed the browser page and went back to working on his newest guitar.

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, and they were back at the hospital. Skeletal and silver-eyed, Dr. Waxen welcomed them into his office. He sat behind his imposing desk. On the wall, diplomas and certificates hung over his gray head. Skinny fingers locked on the desk’s top, he bounced his drooping but lively eyes between them.

  Evelyn slid the pill bottle across the desk. “It didn’t work.”

  “You’re still experiencing blackouts?” Dr. Waxen asked with his soft voice.

  “We’re still sleepwalking,” Terrence injected and presented his Band-Aid-wrapped fingertips. “And we’re hurting ourselves while we do it.”

  “Huh,” Waxen said with acute fascination. “How about you, Mrs. Carr? Any unexplained phenomena?”

  Too many to count. “I believe I’m hallucinating. I find things I thought I moved back in their original location. I’ll see things I know aren't real. I’m not crazy,” Evelyn thought she should clarify. “I think there’s something in the water or maybe a gas leak in the house.”

  Terrence shifted in his chair. “The home inspector would’ve told us that, and when were you planning on telling me about all that stuff?”

  “I thought it was sleep deprivation,” Evelyn replied. “I didn’t want to worry you with it.”

  “Well, I’m worried now,” Terrence huffed.

  Doctor Waxen cleared his throat. “The medication I prescribed you is the strongest I have. I can up the dosage and see if that helps, but I must say that the side effects are less than favorable.”

  “What are we talking about?” Evelyn asked.

  “Nausea, headaches, cramps, drowsiness. Some find themselves steering the toilet seat every now and then. In summation, it’s not a fun time, but you’ll sleep like babies.”

  “Screaming and crying at 3 a.m.?” Terrence said to lighten the mood.

  Waxen stared at him with hollow eyes. “Soundly.”

  Evelyn traded looks with Terrence. “We’ll take it.”

  “I would suggest you stay somewhere other than your home for the next few days. Stress plays a large role in these types of situations,” Dr. Waxen said as he wrote them another prescription and had a coughing fit. Evelyn and Terrence traded looks.

  With most of their clothes still packed in their suitcases, Evelyn and Terrence found the Sunnyside Motel on the outskirts of town. It was a cute place, single story, and owned by a nice elderly couple with friendly smiles. At 44 dollars a night, the price couldn’t be beat. The room was as “quaint” as the owners described, with a queen-sized bed, 20-inch TV, outdated microwave, and mini fridge. Evelyn knew she wasn’t going to be storing much food in there. It appeared she’d be enjoying the continental breakfast for the next few days. Though neither one of them said it, their massive room in the Quenby House was miles better. Evelyn didn’t like that revelation, knowing that adapting back to her low-income Detroit lifestyle would not be easy.

  Sitting at one of two chairs on the circular table, Terrence checked his wad of cash and rubbed his creased brow. “We need to start selling stuff.”

  “I agree,” Evelyn said, plopping down at the corner of the bed. “The break-in did a number on us. The paintings survived, thankfully, but a lot of the vases broke and the furniture that got pushed over is chipped.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re getting a few days away from the house. It keeps us humble.”

  “Half glass full?” Evelyn smiled tiredly.

  Terrence returned the grin. “Always.”

  The light-heartedness helped push the horror of last night from Evelyn’s mind, but only for the moment. The stress returned. She opened the small spiral-bound notebook she kept in the inner pocket of her black double-breasted raincoat. Chewing on the end of the eraserless pencil, she thought of the best way to clean up the plantation. They needed landscapers and to research what was actually worth money. After all that was finished, they’d need someone trustworthy to put an estimate on the house and property. It would be smart to search Maxwell’s desk for any documents regarding the house’s history. Evelyn guessed that would be a big selling point if the person could look past the ideas of slavery. Terrence seemed to be doing a good job of it, or at least a good job at not expressing his concerns to Evelyn. They never took the time to broach the topic seriously, and Evelyn was happy for that.

  They spent the next three days at the Quenby House, cleaning, organizing, and getting the landscapers to start on the yard surrounding the house. Wearing green polos and driving a green van, they hustled out and worked swiftly at mowing and pruning the bushes. When the leader approached Evelyn in regards to the vines growing on the mansion, she replied. “Leave them. I think they’re pretty.” The workers were quick but not cheap. Thankfully, Terrence lucked out with the tractor owner. It was a friend of the musician from the bar, and he offered to cut the hay for free as long as he could keep the bales. Wearing his white cowboy hat, Terrence signed off on that and subtly directed the man to avoid part of the patch of grass behind the cotton field. Terrence didn’t need to explain the reasoning to Evelyn. No one needed to know about the guns they buried.

  During the evenings, Evelyn and Terrence set up the video camera and took the medication. When they woke up, they felt like they were experiencing the worst hangover ever. The dimmest light blinded them, their limbs felt weak, and their heads throbbed. As Dr. Waxen had promised, there were no blackouts and no sleepwalking. They checked the news. Still no word on any sort of gun crime committed. Terrence thought they might dodge a bullet. Evelyn was still holding her breath.

  With all the activity, the Quenby House lost its signature silence. The tractor hummed in the distance, lawn mowers rumbled, and yard workers shouted instructions to one another. Evelyn snapped pictures of every antique she could find and felt convicted when she compared them to similar items on the Internet. Though she didn’t know her father or her family, it felt like she was guilty of some sin by selling the family relics.

  When no one was watching, Evelyn slipped into the portrait hall, turned the key, and snuck into her father’s secret study. She clenched the little circular knobs on the desk drawer and pulled it out. Sharp ink pens and unorganized old documents lay within. Evelyn removed a black and white photo of a family of three standing out in front of the mansion and a 1960s Duesenberg car. There was a massive crease down the middle of the picture where someone had folded it many times. It showed a nicely dressed middle-aged couple with black hair and dark circles under their eyes standing behind a boy of seven wearing a sweater vest and slacks. Like his parents, his hair was dark, his eyes were underlined with black, and he didn’t smile.

  Evelyn turned over the photo. In cursive, a message said, “T
he Quenbys. John, Alice, and little Maxwell. Spring 1966.” Though they were her grandparents, all Evelyn could think was that this was a big house for a small amount of people. She rested it on the stack of unfinished wills and removed the other documents. There were sales records for cotton and livestock, plummeting in price and quantity since the end of the civil war. By the looks of it, the Quenbys couldn’t maintain the place after slavery was abolished. Their final cotton sale was in 1875. The closer she got to the bottom of the stack of documents, the more brittle and stained the pages became. Evelyn was surprised that the paper had survived as long as it did. With a gentle touch, she removed the original land deed dating back to July of 1824. The mansion was completed in 1832 and the first slave was purchased in 1843. When Evelyn searched the town of Adders on her phone, she realized that the Quenby property was older than the town itself.

  With surviving receipts from every cotton auction, it was a wonder how this place hadn’t been converted into a historical landmark. That’s why Maxwell must’ve wanted to keep this gem hidden. Evelyn assumed. The locals say he kept to himself. Continuing her procrastination streak instead of cleaning, she shifted through the other documents. Money was funding the plantation from some unknown source. Evelyn wondered what it could be without the sales of cotton to support them.

  As she sifted through legal and sales papers dating back one hundred and fifty years, Evelyn caught glimpses of the picture of the little blonde girl nailed onto the desk’s backboard. She felt dread crushing her and pulled the photo from the nail. She looked into the little girl’s eyes. For a moment, it was like the little girl was looking back. Evelyn shuddered and put the photograph face down. Focus on the sale, Evelyn reminded herself, yet like an itch she couldn’t scratch, her mind went back to the girl.

  The fourth night at the Sunnyside, Evelyn and Terrence scooted close together on the bed, with only illumination from the TV to light the small room. It felt like their Detroit home. The medication began to kick in, and Terrence rushed out of bed and into the bathroom. He dry-heaved for a little bit before returning to bed. Neither one of them had vomited as Dr. Waxen had said, but they’d gotten close.

  They fell asleep a little bit before ten o’clock. Evelyn dreamed of Quenby House backed by the hot sun. One moment, she was standing before the massive house and next she was running from it. Suddenly, someone or something grabbed her by the neck of her shirt and dragged her down the hall. She realized that she wasn’t her adult-self but a child. Her small hands reached desperately for something to grab onto while she was being taken, but there was no hope. She was dragged across the yard. Her screams were muted by a dry rag. Her legs and arms thrashed as she was pulled through the tall grass and into the cotton field. She was picked up and thrown down. Her little body thumped on the hard earth and the wind left her lungs. She smelled lighter fluid and gasoline, heard laughter, and was doused with liquid. It dripped through her blonde locks.

  Evelyn thought she’d wake up from the nightmare when she saw the match produce a flame. A shadowy figure flicked at her and flames burst across her body. She screamed as loud as she could but out here, no one could hear her. Her flesh melted and her little heart raced. She thought she’d be dead by now, but the flames only grew hotter until all she knew was fire and agony.

  Evelyn jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. Her heart sank when she looked at the cow pasture around her. Millions of stars speckled the sky. Cold air cut right through her pajamas.

  Terrence sat cross-legged behind her. His eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Evelyn pushed on his shoulder. “Terrence. Get up. Terrence.”

  Her husband’s eyes shot open. He stared at Evelyn with a horrified expression, and then twisted around to study the field of rolling grass behind them.

  “What--where?” Terrence tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he fell down to his shins.

  Evelyn put her hands on his cheeks and turned his scrunched-up handsome face to her. “Shh. I know where we are.”

  “Wha… how?” Terrence said.

  “Trust me,” Evelyn replied. “Come on. We need to move.”

  Evelyn helped Terrence up. Her leg wobbled beneath her. A throbbing headache rattled her brain and she started seeing double. The drug hadn’t worn off yet and the side effects hit her like a train.

  “For all his diplomas, Dr. Waxen doesn’t seem to know what the hell he’s talking about,” Terrence said through chattering teeth. He was only wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt and boxers. The only warmth they found was from each other’s hand.

  They raced across the cattle field, avoiding cow patties like landmines, until they reached the road. Evelyn recalled the path that the twin had drove down and started that way. They grimaced as they stepped on the rough road with their dirty bare feet.

  “Where are we going?” Terrence asked, struggling to keep up with Evelyn’s speed walk.

  “Home,” she replied. “It’s a few miles down this way.”

  Terrence cursed. “It makes no sense that we walked that far without waking up.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Terrence. You know as much as me.”

  “Whatever we have, it’s not a normal medical condition.”

  “Really?” Evelyn said sarcastically.

  “This is way past screwed up,” Terrence mumbled.

  “Hey, at least we don’t have guns this time,” Evelyn said to make up for her husband’s lack of optimism.

  “We might have. Who knows anymore? I sure don’t.” Terrence grumbled. “Hell, it might be good to have weapons in the middle of nowhere.”

  “You’re acting uncharacteristically grumpy,” Evelyn pointed out.

  “I feel grumpy,” Terrence retorted angrily.

  Evelyn kept her mouth shut. About a half mile into their journey, their jog died into a painful walk. No cars drove by. No lights illuminated the street. They navigated inky blackness, feeling their hairs stand whenever they heard a critter or movement just out of sight. An hour passed, or at least what felt like an hour, it could’ve been more, before they reached Quenby Avenue. With lazy footsteps, they stayed on course until they reached the red brick path. Evelyn sneezed and Terrence coughed. Despite the walk, the cold never seemed to leave their bodies.

  Through the long columns of trees, the mansion slowly revealed its tall, white colonnades. Panting, Evelyn and Terrence shambled towards the house. A crescent moon hung above it. There was a light on the second-story window. Evelyn and Terrence turned to one another.

  “Did you turn that on today?” Terrence asked.

  Mouth still dry from the long walk, Evelyn said, “No.”

  Cautiously, they pushed open the unlocked front door and stepped into the dark foyer. She marched to the kitchen and armed herself and Terrence with knives before proceeding up one of the curved stairways. Evelyn walked on the sides of her feet or heels due to the tenderness of her soles. They reached the second floor and silently walked through the long hall. The floor groaned and creaked, causing them to pause and trade looks with one another. Evelyn wished she had the shotgun as she approached the closed door with light streaming out from its seams.

  Getting on either side of the door, Terrence turned the knob slowly and opened it into the nursery. The light was on. The toys were in the same place Evelyn saw when she last visited the room. Not seeing anyone inside, Terrence entered. Evelyn followed. The ceiling fan whirled above their heads.

  “There’s no one here,” Terrence said with relief.

  They turned back to the door, only to see the little blonde girl and the tall man in a white mask staring at them from the doorway.

  Evelyn opened her mouth to scream. The light suddenly cut out.

  With a gasp, Evelyn shot out of bed in her Sunnyside Motel room. She looked at Terrence, who was sleeping soundly beside her. She took inventory of herself. It was a dream, she said, feeling her heart pounding.

  Drenched in sweat, she swiveled her leg
s over the edge of the bed. Her tender feet touched the cheap-carpeted floor. Evelyn didn’t like that feeling. She lifted one foot and studied the bottom of it. It was bruised, raw, and dirty. Panicking, she pulled the covers off of Terrence. His feet were dirty too.

  “Terrence,” Evelyn rolled her husband over. His body was limp. His head was covered by a featureless white mask.

  8

  The Call

  The tight cotton mask encased Terrence’s face, almost as if sucking at his skin. The point of a crude knife had cut out the two crude eye holes the size of buttons, and the two ear holes the size of peas. A burnt musk lingered on the mask. Terrence’s stomach rose and fell with every breath. Band-Aids decorated his fingertips. Evelyn looked at her husband with fear and uncertainty. Her muscles were tense and her breathing ragged. She brushed her fingers across the smooth cotton texture before clenching the mask in her hand and tearing it off her husband’s face. Still sleeping, Terrence’s head rolled limply.

  Evelyn faced the mask as if it were a decapitated head. When she looked into the dark eye holes, the crackling of fire and the screams of a little girl filled her ears. Without hesitation, Evelyn threw the mask at the wall. It hit with a soft pat and plopped to the ground, wrinkled like a tissue. She turned back to Terrence.

  Like worms, red veins reached to brown irises as Terrence stared at her with wide eyes.

  Evelyn scooted away from him as a horrifying thought snaked into her mind. Whoever she was looking at wasn’t really her husband. He may look like him, he may smell like him, but he wasn’t her Terrence.

  “What happened?” Terrence asked. “Baby, you look worried.”

  Evelyn didn’t speak. She stared at him, ready to bolt out of the room in an instant.