by Cindy Winget
Fall of the House
of Crain
By Cindy Winget
Gothic Horror Mash-up: Book Two
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
without express written permission from the author.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2021 Cindy Winget
Cover by Warren Designs
Other books by Cindy Winget
The Calvacade Chronicles:
Book #1 – Calvacade: The Unlikely Heroes
Book #2 – Calvacade: The Double Identity
Gothic Horror Mashups:
Dracula Ascending
To my husband Devan
and my two beautiful daughters
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Prologue
There is a notion that a location can become diseased by the horrendous acts performed upon it. But that is not the only way for a property to become uninhabitable. There is another way. An ancient way. So ancient that no one in this century even knows, or would believe, that it exists.
One day, a man built his house upon just such a cursed land, full of that ancient evil. A house built out of love. A house built for the woman who would spend the rest of her life with him and bare him children.
But such stricken land cannot abide such emotions. It corrupts. It bends and twists such feelings until love turns to hate.
People who heard about this man who built a house for his young bride, thought to themselves that Hill House must be quaint and charming. Not something that would draw anyone’s eye or curiosity if not for the romanticism associated with it.
But they were wrong.
Hill House is neither quaint nor charming. In his extravagant eagerness—having just come into a large inheritance—Hugh Crain built a colossal structure. A monstrosity of a residence that drew everyone’s attention.
For many years, the people of the town were intoxicated by the house. Drawn to its curious craftsmanship and architecture, at every turn they would try to enter the domicile by any means necessary. To borrow a cup of sugar—never mind that it was built on a high mountain that overlooked the town and sugar would be more easily procured elsewhere. They would beg the mistress of the house to hold lavish parties so that they might catch a glimpse of the interior. Children would sneak onto the property at night and try to steal into its depths, curious as the cat that lost its life.
After the death of his third wife, Hugh Crain—along with his two daughters—left for good. But the house was never vacant for long. Once the Crains were no longer the inhabitants of the house, people came in droves to ask after the price of the residence. They would ask themselves and their spouses whether there was any possible way that they could afford to live there. The house changed hands so quickly and so often that surely people would begin to think it strange. But not so. Although the house became for sale time and time again under curious, and not altogether happy means, this did little to deter the eager masses.
Then, one day, the house became vacant once more and no one inquired after it. Perhaps market trends were changing, or the architecture was fading out of style. Maybe Hill House was too out of the way for a more modern age. Whatever the reason, for many years it sat empty, giving way to time and disrepair, becoming one with the forest it resided near. The weeds and grass grew taller. Vines climbed up its walls, choking the outside of the house, as rot and ruin festered on the inside. Tall trees began to obscure its once beautiful views.
It had become a byword, spoken of only in hushed tones. The deaths that had occurred on the property, having previously been ignored by the town, were now thrust into the light and seen for what they were. People began to shudder every time the Crains or Hill House was mentioned, sure that they could feel the eyes of the mysterious manse upon them.
Chapter One
Cambridge, England 1925
The light from the hanging fixtures grew dimmer the farther into the stacks Dr. Montague traveled. Cambridge University Library was the largest library on campus, and he had been here several times the past few weeks. He felt certain this was the day he would find what he was looking for.
Walking swiftly and confidently, his wingtip shoes making a slapping noise with each step, Dr. Montague stopped in front of the shelf that the card in the catalogue had indicated. The spot was empty. He had already talked to three different librarians before finding the correct card. Who had checked the book out? As far as he knew, he was one of only a half-dozen men on campus who were studying parapsychology. Tugging on his beard, he wondered what his next move should be.
“Looking for something?” came a melodic voice from behind him. He knew that voice. Spinning on his heel, Dr. Montague faced his ex-wife. She was dressed in the latest fashion; a baby blue low-waisted dress with a large bow sitting on her hip. Her sandy hair was short and done up in finger waves.
“Why are you here? You don’t attend Cambridge,” he said.
“Neither do you,” Annabel countered.
“It’s my alma mater,” he defended.
“I was under the impression that this library was open to the public.” She gave him a sly smile. “Is this, by chance, what you’re looking for?” She held up a slim volume.
Dr. Montague glanced at the cover. Phantasms of the living. That was it, alright.
“What is it you want, Annabel?” he asked warily.
“Who says I want anything?”
“You wouldn’t be talking to me otherwise.”
Annabel tsked. “So hostile, John.” She stepped closer, lowering the arm that held the book. “I offer you a trade. I’ll give you this book, if you listen to my proposal.”
Dr. Montague’s eyebrows lifted. “What proposal?”
“I’m aware of the reasons for your research. Word around campus is you’ve rented out Hill House and you plan to perform an experiment there.”
Dr. Montague only nodded, not willing to give away any more information.
“Have you turned into a spiritualist then?”
“Last I heard, you were quite the spiritualist yourself.”
Annabel gave a noncommittal shrug.
“How would you know what goes on around campus?” Dr. Montague asked her.
“I have eyes and ears in this place.” She grinned. “Several members of an organization I’m now a part of attend this university.”
“What organization?”
“The Society for Psychical Research.”
Dr. Montague had heard of this group. It was formed by scientists and scholars who investigated paranormal phenomena. He was thinking of joining himself un
til the society turned away from their spiritualist roots and began to debunk fraudulent mediums. It seemed to become their lot in life to disprove the existence of the paranormal, when Dr. Montague still firmly believed in its existence.
In fact, it was for this reason that he planned to rent out Hill House. He wanted to prove once and for all that spirits were real and did, in fact, commune with people on this side of the earthly veil. He had traveled to France on the rumor that the Paris Opera House was being haunted by a ghost, but it hadn’t panned out. He had not come across anything remotely supernatural there.
“Your eyes and ears are a bit ahead of themselves. I haven’t rented anything yet,” he said.
Annabel placed one hand on her hip. “But you plan to.”
Dr. Montague cleared his throat. “Perhaps.”
“You’re in luck. The Society for Psychical Research has the same goal in mind.”
Dr. Montague’s heart sank. This was his project. Once the Society took over, he would get steamrolled.
“When do you travel back to America?” Annabel asked.
“First thing tomorrow morning. I just wanted this last piece of research before I left.” He indicated the book still clutched in Annabel’s hand.
The smile faded from her face. “I know why you want to do this, but he isn’t there.”
“Of course not. He didn’t die at Hill House.” Dr. Montague tried to chuckle, as though it were a morbid joke, but it fell flat.
“He isn’t anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to Harry Price, the president of my organization, and see if we can postpone our plans. I can perhaps get you two weeks. Maybe three.”
Dr. Montague remained silent for a time. “Why would you do this for me? We didn’t exactly end things on a good note.”
Annabel straightened his bowtie. “I have a soft spot for sad, lost puppies.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.” She met his gaze and then sighed. “Honestly, I admire your tenacious belief. Envy it even.” She handed him the volume and walked away. Just before she was out of his sight down the long row of bookshelves, she glanced over her shoulder and gave him a little wave of her fingers.
Three weeks? That didn’t give him much time to find the assistants he would need. He had placed an advertisement in the newspaper back home, but as of yet, no one had called on it. He had also set up a study at the local college to find anyone gifted with clairvoyant, telepathic, or psychic abilities of any kind. As soon as he arrived home, he would head over to the lab and ask the technician if anything had come of the tests.
Chapter Two
Spencer, Massachusetts
Eleanor had been told by Dr. Montague, her new employer, not to inquire after the location of Hill House, for it would only win her the ire of the people of Hillsdale. But to Eleanor’s consternation, she had lost the paper with the written instructions. With night coming on fast, she had had little choice but to pull over and ask for directions at the nearest gas station.
“Good heavens! Why ever would you want to go to Hill House!?” was the response of the proprietor.
Eleanor tried to explain to the stooped elderly man her reason for going there, but with a shake of his balding head, he waved her off. “No, no! Go on home, girl, if you know what’s good for ya.”
It wasn’t until the third time she inquired after the house’s location that Eleanor received any kind of useful information from the denizens of Hillsdale.
“Keep following this street until you see a road branching off to the left. It’s quite overgrown, mind you, on account of nobody ever venturing up to that cursed place, so keep a weather eye out or you’re sure to miss it. Once on that road, follow it all the way up into the mountains and it will take you right to it,” said a kindly woman.
Unbeknownst to Eleanor, the woman shook her head as she got back in her black courier roadster, muttering to herself that the poor girl had no business being in a place like Hill House.
The reactions of the citizens of the town made Eleanor jittery, but she couldn't stop now; she had no home to go back to (she refused to stay in the house where her mother had passed away). She had no job. All she owned was in this motorcar that was already fifteen years old. She didn’t even own the motorcar outright, her sister’s husband having paid for half.
Her sister had gone ballistic when Eleanor had talked about taking it, even when Eleanor pointed out that it was half hers and that she didn’t even have a place to live. Skipping over the fact that their mother’s death had left Eleanor destitute and homeless, her sister had argued that they should have complete ownership of the car because, “What if dear little Susie were to get ill and needed to be rushed to the doctor’s?” and “How could she be so selfish?”
Eleanor had given in to her sister’s demands and walked to the nearest hotel, wondering if she had enough money to pay for a night. But then, in a rare bout of moxie, she had talked herself into turning back and taking the car without her sister being any the wiser. After all, she had paid for half of it and her brother-in-law made enough money to buy another.
Two miles out, anxiety had begun to claw at her insides, making her feel sick, but she refused to return the car. She needed it. Still requiring a place to stay, she had returned to the hotel.
While eating the continental breakfast the next morning, Eleanor had come across an advertisement in the local newspaper stating that a Dr. Montague was seeking assistants to help him with paranormal research. In desperate need of a job, even a temporary one, she had called him.
* * *
Luke tiptoed past his aunt’s study door where she sat at her large Edwardian desk, talking on the telephone to an unknown caller. Heading towards his bedroom, Luke stopped at the mention of his name. He stood at the crack of the door and strained to hear what his aunt was saying.
“I will agree to rent you the property at Hill House on one condition, Dr. Montague. You must take my nephew with you.”
What? There was no way he was going to Hill House! He had been there only once, as a child, and that was quite enough, thank you very much. The old house was beyond creepy. No matter what his aunt promised this Dr. Montague, he wasn’t going. He was twenty-two years old for crying out loud and could make his own decisions. And even though he still lived with his aunt—a decision made by his parents when he turned fourteen and they could no longer handle him; or so they said—that still did not obligate him to do whatever his aunt wanted.
“Yes, that’s right,” Aunt Hazel said. There was a pause, then, “Alright. Talk to you soon, professor.” Hazel hung up the phone. “I know you’re there, Lucas.” No one but his aunt called him Lucas. “Please come in so we can talk.”
Luke opened the door wider and stepped into the study. What exactly she needed a study for was beyond him. Taking long strides, he soon reached the desk, where he sat in one of the plush chairs that faced it, feeling like an unruly child sent to the principal’s office.
“Yes, auntie, what is it?” He tried hard not to smirk at her expression, knowing full well that it irked her to be called auntie.
Aunt Hazel interlocked her hands in front of her and stared into Luke’s eyes. “I have a job for you.”
“A job? Do tell.” Luke leaned forward with feigned interest. Planting his elbows on the edge of her desk, he propped his head on both hands.
“I am sending you to Hill House for three months,” she deadpanned.
“Three months?” Luke relinquished his childish behavior, if not the attitude, and leaned back. “No way! I won’t go, and you can’t make me!” Had those words really escaped his lips? He couldn’t believe how petulant he sounded.
His aunt smiled without warmth, but neither was it with condescension. “It’s time you start taking some responsibility. I want you to go with a certain Dr. Montague and ascertain the condition of Hill House. Note any and all repairs that need to be made. I am planning t
o sell it at the end of the summer, provided that it can be salvaged and all the repairs completed. I hardly think that there is anything of value for you to steal while you are there, so you can cause no mischief,” Aunt Hazel continued.
Why was it that his family thought he was such a reprobate? They all acted as though he was a step away from the big house.
Luke barely mustered the control not to roll his eyes. His aunt spoke to him as though he was a kleptomaniac, when all he had ever done was steal some petty cash from her purse once in a while when funds were low. Though he admitted to himself that the thought had crossed his mind that some of the antiques and old family heirlooms might fetch a high price at a pawn shop.
“You’ll do this, Lucas, or I will kick you out of my house and my will.”
Ouch. She knew just where to strike.
“I have to work,” he objected.
His aunt tilted her head, pinning him with a fierce gaze. “Your manager called when you hadn’t shown up for work for three days. I assume he fired you?” Something in Luke’s face must have told her she was right because she smirked before stating, “so since there is nothing pressing on your time, you will travel to Hill House.”
Luke sighed. “Okay, auntie. I’ll go. But I reserve the right to leave whenever I want to.”
His aunt nodded and turned her attention onto other matters, letting him know that the conversation was over and he was free to leave.
Luke walked to his room and packed a few of his belongings. He would stay a day or two, thus keeping his promise to his aunt, then he would ditch the first chance he got.
* * *
“Theodora, can you please answer the question?” asked the technician as he pushed his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.
“Theo,” she said automatically.
His eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
