Life Eludes Him

by Jennifer Suits

  When the desire for life and love surpasses death...

  A man finds love anew when he meets a woman several hundred years later. A different time for each, both wrapped up with intrigue for one another. They develop a friendship that withstands their differences. Plagued by his past full of hurt, a local ghost haunts the rooms of a dilapidated mansion set in the recesses far from modern civilization. Plagued by the normal every day humdrum, she takes on a case to survey a old, time worn mansion. Her interest is piqued. Armed with tidbits of the building's history, she steps over the threshold and into adventure.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Life Eludes Him

  Copyright © 2014Jennifer Suits

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-825-5

  Cover art by Latrisha Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Devine Destinies

  An imprint of eXtasy Books

  Look for us online at:

  www.devinedestinies.com

  Life Eludes Him

  By

  Jennifer Suits

  Chapter One

  As a professional property assessor, I took the job of the West Creek Manor case; I received orders to appraise the property up for sale for a construction company. This company wanted to buy the land, tear down the mansion and pour pavement for future commercial development. I lived in the states several years ago, but moved to Ireland for its majestic beauty.

  Four hundred miles away from the city, I rented a small loft at an apartment complex and decided to stay for vacation after I completed my work at the property. Having no historic background on the location I would be investigating, I researched the local library, scanned through the internet and asked the locals about the manor.

  The nearby town was a quaint little settlement. The buildings were small and placed close to each other. The people were initially kind and generous, giving me a set of keys to the manor and its neighboring buildings, spoiling me with the area’s history when I asked and allowing me free reign of their resources.

  Most of the responses I received from them were that they rarely heard anything from the place. It was rundown and dilapidated, and it needed tearing down long ago because of its structural instability.

  When asked about their personal experiences with the manor, they could not deliver anything they knew factually. Feeling uneasy with the mixed results, but not really surprised, I planned an initial outside exam the following day.

  The research materials I looked over covered around two hundred years of history, most of which involved several owners that occupied the residence and left within a year’s time. Most accounts from the previous inhabitants came up with stories of ghostly encounters, hallucinations and ethereal dream-like accounts.

  The next morning, I rose from bed, showered, dressed and left the apartment. On the way to the outskirts of town, I noted the unusually sunny day for this area. Close to the coast, in the summer months, the weather was usually overcast, with fog rolling in from the ocean.

  Past a large lot of woods to the right, I noticed a tall tower peeking over the tree line, centered within the property’s perimeter. A small, overgrown dirt road appeared through a small gap of protruding branches.

  Quickly braking, I turned my vehicle into the woods and slowly followed the rough, uneven path to the aged, locked gate.

  Upon first examination, I noted the weatherworn mansion through the bars. Its walls were several shades of gray, lighter on the outside of the stones, darker within their cracks.

  The overgrown path wound tightly around a semi-worn statue of a pan pipe-playing court minstrel. Windows of stained glass, some boarded up, lined the upper walls.

  The trees and bushes had overgrown in the area, making it difficult to imagine what it would have looked like in its prime days, but with some thought about its layout and structure, it came together as one beautiful residence to dwell within and hold social gatherings.

  I left my car and walked toward the entrance, rustling with the keys until I found the correct one for the gate, which opened stiffly. I returned to my car and drove onto the property—where I heard an unexpected sound.

  Locking my vehicle, I spun around to scan the woods near the house for anything that might have caused a small branch to snap. With alert-driven haste, I shuffled to the front door.

  A simple padlock had held its security. I fumbled through the keys until I found a match and labeled it with a permanent marker. I decided that today was going to be outside assessments and tomorrow would be the inside examination.

  Heading around the left side of the main, large mansion, I carefully treaded through the brush to a small, carved, marble bench in an overgrown garden of weeds and pavement. When it was manicured at one time, the garden had a concrete pathway curving throughout and heading to a small shed-like building about fifty feet away. The outside is absolute beauty. With some fixing up, this place could be livable.

  Nodding in agreement, I rounded the back and came to the front right side. The sun was about to set, so when I climbed in my car I took final notes, recorded my thoughts and explained my future plans and quietly stared in awe at the mysterious abode before me. The sunrays beat on the stone walls and radiated the warmth toward me.

  I sighed and started for town. I had to admit, the place grew on me with every mile I drove away from it. I was clearly anxious to see what the inside had in store. Tomorrow would not come fast enough, for curiosity had settled deep into my very core.

  As I returned to the apartment, I saw a tall, thin man standing in my doorway. He balanced Chinese food in his hands and forearms. Turning when he heard me approaching, he smiled.

  “Greetings,” he said, as he stepped to the side of the entryway. “I don’t mean to startle you, but I brought you dinner. I heard about your outing today and thought you would like something to eat.”

  “Thank you,” I said, a little cautious in the presence of a strange man, “But I’ve already eaten on the way back to town.” I reached in my pocket for my door key, but seeing his smile fall to a slight frown of disappointment, I returned his friendliness with a smile of my own. “Please, though I’ve eaten already, come inside. I could use some companionship.” Accepting my invitation with a slight, tilted nod, he followed.

  Setting the food down at the small, round table by the door, he held out his hand. “I’m Steven Davis Renshaw. I have some information that you might find interesting concerning the property you investigated today.” Sitting when I sat, he continued once my full attention was on him. “My great-grandfather owned that property. It was in our family for generations. I researched the historical value of that place until I came across its constructor.”

  “Yes? Would you like tea with this Chinese you brought?” I stood, started for the kitchen, grabbed the tea pitcher with two glasses and pocketed my voice recorder
. I hastily returned, sat and waited for him to continue. I was fully interested in what this man had to say about the place I was falling for by the minute. Never, in my five years working as an assessor did a single property intrigue me as much as this place had.

  He sipped his tea, dished out equal portions of fried rice and noodles and waited for me to take the first bite. Once I started eating, he continued his story. “His name was Chesley Davis Renshaw the third. From what I can gather, he was a learned man, very capable with numbers and had a knack for courtly chivalry.”

  I was further intrigued with the mysteriousness of the West Creek Manor and everything regarding it. “What brings you to me?”

  He shifted in his chair. “I’ve heard that the place is haunted with his specter.” He went on to explain that he never had the guts to go there alone, even if he was family. “I know, it seems rather silly of a grown man like me to be scared of ghosts and goblins, but I came from a long line of believers and therefore, I suppose, it was ingrained into me ever since I was a youth.” A nervous grin crept over his face.

  Not sure how I should reply, I waited what seemed like an eternity. “I have to go there, you know. I’ll tell you, I was in love with it from the moment I caught my first glimpse of the tower from the road.” I shifted my gaze to the food that I was pushing around on my plate. My stomach reminded me that I really didn’t eat on the way home. My thoughts were still with that unwarrantedly neglected, desolate, empty mansion.

  “I hear that’s one effect on people,” he explained with a slight warning tone. “And that’s why I’m here. You can evaluate the property, but be forewarned of its magic.” Evidently embarrassed with the way he sounded, he lowered his head.

  “If you’re concerned that I’ll think you’re a fool for believing in the supernatural, you shouldn’t,” I conceded. I wasn’t about to let him become disappointed in how the evening was unfolding, because I actually enjoyed the presence of the man across the table in front of me.

  When he looked finished with his plate, I hurriedly gobbled down a few bites and rose, bringing our plates with me. I carried the conversation into the kitchen, “You’ve been a rather pleasant guest. Would you like a glass of wine? I could order a bottle before they close.”

  “I don’t drink, but I thank you all the same,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “You’ve been a generous hostess. I’m sorry I sprang this on you like that. I just didn’t want to see someone as lovely as you trapped into such a place, without anyone to explain what’s truly happened over the years.”

  I blushed with the compliment. “Thanks. I haven’t had anyone look out for me like that and really, I’m not used to it.” Placing the dishes in the sink, I smiled and turned to him.

  He looked me in the eyes as his face fell stoic. “I mean it. Please be careful. It is said my great-grandfather still roams those rooms on the third floor.” With that, he begged pardon for the abrupt departure and left my apartment.

  Steven Davis Renshaw…I went over the entire evening I’d had with the stranger at dinner. Chesley Davis Renshaw III. That’s a beautiful name, very elegant. I readied for bed and played the recorder repeatedly until I fell asleep listening to it. I dreamt of Steven Renshaw, of his voice, the way he carried himself and the politeness in his words. He, above all others I’d met in my life, carried all the aspects of chivalry.

  Chapter Two

  The sun woke me in the morning. Nearing eight o’clock, I took a shower and drank a mug of coffee. Picking up the paper from the local pharmacy down the street, I noticed the front-page headlines. I felt my heavy heart in my throat the further down the page I read. Steven Renshaw was hit and killed by a drunk driver last night. But there was a glaring error in the news article; the time given for the accident was a half hour before he visited me last night. I wiped my eyes in disbelief.

  It must have been a typing error. He visited me and then died. I felt shocked and sad, so I went to the police station for answers. The police informed me of the events and the recorded time of the accident, which was indeed half an hour too early, and took information from me.

  Stunned, I went back to the apartment. I looked at the previous night’s take-out boxes in the trash and shook my head in disbelief.

  I called my boss and told him about the previous evening’s events, deftly leaving out the questionable parts and relaxed when he gave me the day off to unwind. I made sure to take out the trash and draw a bath. Again, I dreamt of Steven Renshaw. Something about him made me think he knew much more than he had told me.

  The next day, I felt slightly refreshed and ready to inspect the inside of the mansion. Gathering my voice recorder, pad of paper, pens and other instruments, I set out for West Creek Mansion.

  Turning into the drive, I felt eased by its presence. Massive in its complexity and mystery, the fact that I had already looked at it the day before yesterday helped ease its enormity. I took up my equipment and went to the shed-like building to the left, which was deep within the overgrown garden.

  Again, I found the correct key and labeled it. Stepping inside and using a small flashlight, I could tell it was a garden and swimming pool supply shed.

  Turning back out and locking up this building, I headed for the front door of the main house. I inhaled a fresh breath of air and unlocked the padlock. With no aid, the door creaked open slightly. Fresh air stirred up dust puffs at the doorstep.

  Light streamed in from the doorway, casting my shadow across the dirty floor. A dingy staircase started twenty feet inside the foyer and a small anteroom sat off to the left. Old furniture pieces stood near a fireplace in the formal dining room to the right. I tasted dust in my mouth so I put on a mask, covering my mouth and nose and closed the door behind me. I took out my voice recorder and began recording notes on the quality of the dwelling and its contents. Even though the place was in bad need of repair, it looked grand, almost worth restoring.

  The inside of the mansion looked medieval in style and most of its furnishings suited the era. I checked the first few stairs before ascending them. Stable and durable, they were quite solid—and didn’t even creak.

  The second floor had a larger buffet-type dining hall, a sitting room and a game room, the latter furnishings apparently added within the last few decades. I noticed old, worn tapestries still draping from ceiling to floor on two walls and a couple of dirty chandeliers hung from the ceilings over the twenty-foot dinner table. Though the place was bereft of life, it had potential if properly tended.

  I headed farther up the stairs, which ended at a landing on the third floor; the dreaded floor the dead man had warned me about. Though stained-glass windows were ample on the second and third floors, less light shone inside. Trees outside and darker glass in the windows contributed to more shadows.

  A bit more eerie than the other floors, the third floor seemed even more so than the second did. There were two main rooms on this floor, both with smaller rooms coming off each.

  The first room I checked was to the right of the landing. It was obviously a bedchamber, still containing medieval-period furnishings. The bed was large, its headboard carved mahogany with cherubim. The closet was empty, save for a rod for hanging garments. A mirrored vanity sat in the corner and, by the looks of the layering of dust, had remained undisturbed for years. Noting nothing bizarre, I shut the room’s door after I took measurements and evaluated the space.

  Across the hallway from the first room was the second, larger room. Its door was locked, so I pulled out the set of keys and tried each. None seemed to work for this door. I took a screwdriver and tried to jimmy the lock, but was unsuccessful.

  I stepped back for a moment, thinking, studying the lock and knob. As clear as day, it hit me; I could simply take the lock completely off the door with my screwdriver.

  Setting the lock aside on the floor near the entry, I brought my flashlight up to mid-level view and peered into the room. It was the darkest of them all. Not one wi
ndow lit this room.

  The room displayed a huge, dank, stone fireplace in the center of the back wall. To the left was a door, possibly to its sister room. Between the other door and the one I currently stood in was a large, thick table of some kind of dark wood. To the right, and more centered in the room in front of the fireplace, were a throw rug and a couple of sitting chairs. This room was the most elegant thus far.

  A broad, crystalline chandelier hung in the direct center of the room. Looking at the walls of the room, my gaze fell upon a portrait. Intrigued, I entered the room and walked toward it. The flashlight’s beam completely revealed the oil painting of a woman in a medium blue, ruffled dress. She sat with her left shoulder most predominately forward. Her hair, curled in locks around her bare neck and shoulders, fell around her head and framed her face. She looks just like me.

  Bemused, I stepped back from it as if I feared to be eaten alive by its sublime meaning. Who is this lady? Why does God make unrelated people look exactly alike? So enthralled I was with the woman in the portrait, I was startled when the room lit up and glowed with warm lighting.

  “It has nothing to do with God,” a deep voice retorted, flat and smooth.

  I spun.

  The handsome man strode toward the table with a surprising grace. Solid as he seemed, when his tunic-like shirt touched the edge of the table, it went through it.

  He’s a…

  His presence, not the chandelier, lit the room. It changed everything from rusted, worn, broken and aged to shiny, smooth, bright and new. The fireplace flared up into a roaring blaze, burning wood that, a moment ago, was ashes. The rug and all things within the room lit up with sparkling brightness, clean and new, rich in colors and reflected vivid contrasts.