by Shawn Lane
Dexter’s Haunting
By Shawn Lane
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 Shawn Lane
ISBN 9781634867306
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Dexter’s Haunting
By Shawn Lane
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
It was a dark and stormy night—
Okay, well, it wasn’t that dark, but it was stormy. Surprisingly so. We didn’t get a lot of rain most years, which was why the state was in “drought one thousand or something,” but lately it had been raining cats and dogs. For a number of days in a row.
In the background, I could hear the television news people on Storm Watch. Earlier, I had seen reports of mud slides on some of the nearby hillsides.
I set my paperback on the table and got up from the bed on which I’d been lounging to look out the window.
The hotel parking lot had filled up with puddles and most of the parking spaces were full. Who’d want to go out in this? I only hoped it would be better in the morning.
I glanced at the television plastered to the wall of my room. They were still going over traffic and all the numerous accidents on the freeways.
The room was chilly, too. I walked to the heating controls on the wall and flipped up the switch. It was only about five in the afternoon, but I was already hungry.
I’d arrived at the hotel just after three and had checked in immediately. Originally I’d planned on doing some traipsing around the little seaside town—well, almost a village, really—but the rain had convinced me to forgo that.
I noticed the room service menu on the small desk, so I thumbed through it. I’d narrowed down my selection to between only three entrees when my cell phone buzzed. I’d been expecting the call from my boyfriend.
“Hey!”
“You made it, I take it?” Mace’s deep voice rumbled.
“Yep, all cozy in the hotel room. Just turned up the heat so hopefully warm soon, too.”
“Did you eat, Jules?”
I rolled my eyes at the nickname, though of course he couldn’t see. My name was Julian, but I didn’t know if Mace had ever called me that. Well, maybe when we’d first met as kids. “No, but I was perusing the room service menu when you called. They have a restaurant downstairs but I’m kind of comfortable in here and didn’t want to make that much of a fuss.”
“Don’t blame you. You’ve got the brochures and the specs?”
“All set for my appointment with the real estate agent in the morning.”
Mace exhaled. “So, we’re really going to do this?”
“Provided everything checks out, yeah. On paper and in pictures, this house is perfect for us.”
“Almost too good to be true.”
“Now that’s the cop talking.”
“I am a cop,” Mace grumbled. “One who needs to get back to this case. I’ll call you later before you go to sleep. Stay in, okay? Don’t want you getting caught in any of this weather mess.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You be careful, too. Love you. Bye.”
I put my cell phone on the desk and returned to the menu. After making up my mind, I called to order chicken strips, fries, a pot of coffee, and a slice of chocolate cake. It was ridiculously expensive, of course, but I did it anyway.
Having settled that, I returned to looking out the window. I couldn’t see much. Being September, it was already getting darker than even a month ago and the cloud coverage didn’t help.
Up a steep hill overlooking this part of the village stood the home I would be looking at tomorrow, if all went well, anyway. I’d talked to the Realtor only over email and once on the phone to set up the appointment.
From the looks of the maps, the house Mace and I were considering stood alone on the right side of the hill. If you kept going left, several newer homes could be found, but we’d liked the look of this old house. A “manor,” they’d called it.
It had been built in the 1920s by an eccentric young man who’d done a handful of silent Hollywood films. Dexter Larabee had been his name, and from the look of the photographs I’d seen of him, he’d been ridiculously good-looking. Yet he’d never really made it once talking films came into the norm.
The story was, Larabee had come from a family with money, lots of it. But also mental illness. Larabee had been bipolar, as they would have called it now, and had acted out too much on set. It had gotten to a point that no one would hire him because of his behavior, and he became a recluse in the very house I’d be viewing in the morning.
There’d also been rumors he’d been homosexual, and had many affairs with fellow actors, directors, and producers, although, of course, that hadn’t been the accepted thing then.
He’d died in his forties in the house, under mysterious circumstances, and the house had passed on to others. First, his brother, Basil, then ultimately Basil’s children, then grandchildren. It had still been called Dexter Manor, even by Basil’s family.
From the history I’d seen of it, Dexter Manor had not been lived in for the previous five years or so; the last person living there had been a friend of one of Basil’s grandchildren. It was the grandchildren who had apparently finally decided to sell the manor. It would need a bit of work, but I was up for the challenge.
And that, of course, was the plan. I would work on getting the house ready for us to live there, and Mace would continue residing in Los Angeles until it was ready to be fully occupied. I had an architecture degree, plus a construction business license, and knew my way around fixing up houses, and “tinkering with things,” as Mace would say.
There was no reason for him to leave his job with the police in LA until I had things ready. By next spring, though, we’d get married, Mace hoped to retire from the police department, and we’d live full time here. We had dreams of buying a small shopfront on the Embarcadero and selling Mace’s paintings and my handcrafted designer jewelry. But first we had to get Dexter Manor settled, and that meant buying it. Word was that they wanted a fast sale. With luck, I’d be in the house by the end of October.
There was a knock at my door, and I realized my room service had arrived. I opened the door to a young man, pushing a cart with two trays and a coffeepot with cream on it.
“Good evening, sir. Would you like me to put it on the desk?”
“Yes, please.”
I allowed him inside the room. “Can I ask you something?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“How familiar are you with this area?”
The man, probably in his early twenties, placed the trays on the desk. “Very. I was born here.”
“Great. You know Dexter Manor, then?”
The coffeepot rattled as he set it down. “Uh.”
“Well?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, I do. Everyone knows that old place. Why would you want to know about that, sir?”
I nodded. “I’m here to look into buying it.”
He shot me a glance that seemed to indicate I had two or three heads or something. “That old place? It’s pretty run down.”
“But that’s part of the charm. I’m pretty good at restoring old houses. I used to do that down in LA.”
“This is no LA.”
I laughed. “I know. But that place has a lot of history.”
The young man shrugged. “I guess so, if you’re into that. But the rumors…never mind. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
He handed me the delivery slip and I signed it, writing in a tip.
“What rumors would you be talking about”—I noticed his name tag—”Charlie?”
“Every small town has its haunted house, I guess, sir. Since I was a kid, well, that’s what they said about Dexter Manor.”
“Yeah?” I asked, bemused. “Who is supposed to haunt it?”
“Dexter Larabee, himself, sir.” Charlie shrugged and pushed his cart toward the door. “Just leave the dishes in the hallway when you’re finished and someone will come by for them.” He paused at the door. “He’s supposed to have hanged himself there. Or so that’s what I’ve heard.”
“In what room?”
“His bedroom, I guess. Over a lover who dumped him. Some old-time Hollywood director, they said.” Charlie wrinkled his nose. “I’m trying to remember his name. Can’t quite think of it, though. Anyway, I always heard they had a big fight that night in the house. The director left, vowing to never go back, and Dexter hanged himself. Funny thing was…”
“What?”
“It was the director who found him. So I guess he did go back after all.” Charlie shook his head. “Anyway, weird noises have come from that place ever since. Always been that way, I guess.”
“Did you ever know the other members of the family? Basil Larabee’s branch?”
“I’d seen them around but never talked to any of them. Last one was Michael Larabee, but he left here when I was still in high school.”
“Okay, thanks, Charlie.” I took a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and handed that to him on top of the tip for the delivery. “I appreciate the history.”
“Sure. Enjoy your stay. Good night.”
And Charlie was gone.
I locked the door and considered what he’d told me. It was true a lot of towns had old houses kids would say were haunted. I’d not heard anything like that about Dexter Manor in all my research of the place. Google and other sites, and even with the real estate agency. Even old sites dedicated to Dexter Larabee never mentioned him haunting the place. Or, for that matter, the fight with a lover that ended in suicide.
All I knew was that Dexter had died in the house under mysterious circumstances, mostly because he had been only in his forties. There wasn’t much mystery surrounding a suicide, though.
Lightening flashed outside the window, a rare occurrence, and it drew my attention away from musings about Charlie’s story and to the window again. Thunder followed shortly after, and I sat at the desk to eat my dinner and watch the storm.
Chapter 2
I was pleased when I awoke the next morning to the clouds breaking up and the sun streaking through. I hadn’t looked forward to the idea of looking at Dexter Manor in the pouring rain.
I showered, dressed, packed my stuff, and checked out of the hotel. I spotted a small bakery off the Embarcadero serving coffee and cinnamon rolls, so I headed there for a quick breakfast. I was to meet the realtor at ten at Dexter Manor.
At the appointed time, I drove my sedan to the steep hillside street that would take me to the Manor. The pictures I’d seen of the views were incredible and I couldn’t wait to see if they were an accurate representation.
At the top of the hilly street, I turned right and into a driveway. The wrought iron gate across the entrance had been left open, so I drove up to the house.
I noticed a white SUV parked near the entrance. I parked alongside it and paused to survey the two-story Tudor-style structure. It was painted mostly brown with a bit of beige accents. In the front courtyard, a fountain made up of two gargoyles pouring water from jugs gave off gothic vibes.
I stepped out of my car, and a woman emerged from the shadows, causing me to jump.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Ridgley, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I shook her offered hand, recognizing her from the Realtor website. “But please call me Julian.”
“Julian.” She smiled. “Georgia Tran, of course. Is it just you today, Julian, or will your fiancé be joining us?”
“Just me. Mace is still in Los Angeles.”
“Very well. As I told you, the owner is anxious to make a quick sale. Escrow and everything. If you like the place and want to make an offer, I’m thinking you could move in by mid-October.”
“That soon? I was figuring closer to the end of the month or even early November.”
She headed for the front door. “As I said, Mr. Larabee really wants this done. He’s leaving the country soon and wants everything settled.”
Georgia turned a key in the lock and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. It had that sort of musty, unlived-in smell. The place was devoid of furniture, of course, but the floors were hardwood, though covered in a fine layer of dust.
“I’ll have the place thoroughly cleaned, of course,” Georgia promised. “You simply must see the kitchen.”
And so I followed her through the expansive living room with a huge old fireplace and mantel to the kitchen.
“It’s been redone since the old days, of course. Just look at this state-of-the-art island.”
The kitchen was beautiful, with granite counters and gleaming appliances that looked hardly used. She must have read my mind, because she turned to me, sweeping her hands over the appliances.
“All these are new. Put in during the summer.”
I walked to the dining room, then the French doors that led outside to the backyard. I saw a covered swimming pool, and an awning above a patio area. To the far right stood a gazebo.
“A gardener and pool man come by once a week to care for the property, but they don’t enter the house. I’m sure it could be arranged for them to continue their duties if you make the purchase.”
“I’m surprised the kitchen was redone,” I said, musingly. “I was led to believe the house needed quite a bit of work.”
“Oh, certainly. Mostly upstairs, to be honest. And in the cellar. Also, there’s a bathroom off the living room with a toilet that doesn’t work anymore. Believe me, Mr. Ridgley, there’s still plenty for you to do. The owner redid the kitchen, honestly, because he had a brief thought of settling here himself. Changed his mind.”
“Why is that?” I glanced at her.
“He decided to live abroad. The kitchen was all he got around to doing.”
“I’d like to see the upstairs now.”
“Feel free to go on up,” she said quickly.
“You aren’t coming?”
Georgia shrugged. “Bad knees. It makes going upstairs rather painful. So, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer staying down here.”
Made no real difference to me, so I turned to go to the staircase off the living room. “Say…” I stopped to look back at her. “What about the rumors?”
She raised both eyebrows at me. “Rumors?”
“That Dexter Manor is haunted.” Even as I said it, I felt foolish for doing so. There were no such thing
s as haunted houses or ghosts. Emo Hollywood actors killing themselves or not.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “Oh, that old thing? You must have talked to a local. They like to add color to the town or something. But believe me, Julian, there’s absolutely no truth to any of that.”
I nodded, expecting that sort of answer. “How did Dexter Larabee die? Do you know?”
“I think it was cancer,” she replied, looking sincere. “Anyway, it was some sort of illness, I’ve been told.”
Satisfied, I continued onto the staircase and up to the second floor containing four bedrooms and three bathrooms. Two of the rooms shared a Jack and Jill type bathroom. From my understanding, most of the bedrooms had been seldom used in Dexter’s days, except for the occasional guest. But Basil’s children had moved into them when he’d owned the house.
I didn’t pay attention, for the moment anyway, to those other three bedrooms, and instead headed toward the master bedroom and bath. Where Dexter would have lived. While not exactly drawn there, I had no interest in any other room. I turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
By the window stood a tall man in a suit with his back to me, his attention on whatever he looked at outside.
“Hello? I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was—”
The words stilled in my throat when the man turned. He was absolutely stunning, with dark, beautifully swept hair, chocolate brown eyes, a light dusting of stubble across his jaw, high cheekbones, and full sensuous lips.
And he looked crazily familiar.
“Dex-Dexter?”
He cocked his head, his lips curled upward a fraction.
I shook my head and rubbed by eyes, and when I lowered my hands from my vision, he was gone and the room was empty, save for myself.
My heart pounded, but instead of fleeing the room, I walked to the window where the apparition had stood. I looked outside and saw a magnificent view of the beach and ocean across the bay. And I could swear I smelled the barest hint of men’s cologne.
I turned to survey the room, all done in dark paneling and dark wood floors. The paneling was cracked and faded in spots, and the floorboards a little warped. I realized the window was old, rather murky, and thinning in places, too. It would need to be replaced.
