Restless Spirits Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Haunted House Mysteries

by Skylar Finn

  Matilda didn’t say anything, just smiled at her warmly. Andrea stood next to Matilda with the two younger children by her side. They smiled at Emily, too.

  The lamp on the end table flared on. Jesse had thrown the switches in the breaker box downstairs. A moment later, he appeared at the doorway to the living room. As soon as he saw the ghosts in front of the fireplace, he stopped dead.

  “It’s okay,” said Emily. “They just want to say good-bye.”

  Jesse slowly entered the room and came to stand beside her. Emily knew it took a considerable amount of willpower for him not to run screaming into the night. Jesse had never liked anything that couldn’t be explained with a logical explanation, and she imagined it was taking everything he had to accept the scene before them.

  Matilda smiled sympathetically, as if she knew how mind-boggling this was for him.

  She nudged the youngest children forward. They waved at Emily and Jesse. Matilda reached out for their hands, and they went to stand by her side. Andrea smiled at Emily. She reached up to her neck and touched the necklace there lightly. Emily saw that it looked very much like the one she’d found upstairs and returned to Andrea’s parents in the park.

  In the distance, sirens wailed, the sound gradually amplifying as they grew closer and closer to the house. Matilda blew Emily a kiss. Andrea and the children waved. With these final gestures, the four of them faded from sight until the only thing left was the light of the fire behind where they had once stood.

  The firefighters used the Jaws of Life to get Cynthia out of the car after they put out the flames. She was unconscious when they took her away in the ambulance, burned beyond recognition. Sheriff Oglethorpe assured them she’d be heavily guarded at the hospital so that when she did regain consciousness, there would be little chance of her escaping. Although, he added, it seemed highly unlikely, in her condition.

  Theresa came to just as the police arrived, groaning “Where am I?” from the floor of the parlor. One of Oglethorpe’s deputies, Officer Tapper, cuffed her once the EMTs examined her. He put her in the back of a squad car and gave the roof a sharp slap. The car pulled away from the house with Theresa in the back of it, staring out the back window, her eyes dead and her mouth slack. She looked shell shocked, as if she didn’t fully comprehend what was happening. Emily wouldn’t have been surprised to find that she didn’t, without Cynthia there to tell her what to think and how to feel.

  Jesse brought Widget inside from the truck and Emily held her while they sat in front of the fireplace, describing the events of the past twenty-four hours to Sheriff Oglethorpe. Emily gave him the address to the cabin where Richard was locked in the cellar. He sent several officers up into the mountains to retrieve him.

  “So, Cynthia Harkness has been alive all this time?” Oglethorpe said to Emily and Jesse. “Do you know what made her swerve right into that tree?”

  “No idea,” said Emily, shaking her head. She thought of Matilda and the children. She was glad they’d finally gotten their revenge.

  “She was crazy,” added Jesse. “I think she’d lost her mind at that point. She also may have been drunk, or on something.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I’ve seen people do some pretty crazy things when they’re under the influence. Wouldn’t surprise me. Sounds like she was crazy enough to begin with, trying to murder her way into owning a house.” He shook his head. “I mean, most people would just take out a loan, y’know what I mean?”

  Emily remembered Richard’s story in the cabin. “I think it was about more than that to them. They thought of Matilda as a Have, while they were the Have Nots. It seemed like they wanted to even the score.”

  “Money will make people do crazy things,” said the sheriff with a sigh. “I’ve seen some strange things in my time. But rest assured, with your testimony, they’ll be behind bars for a long, long time. I’d be surprised if they ever saw the light of day again.”

  “Will you find out what they did with the bodies?” asked Emily. “Matilda and the children, I mean. I would really like to give them a proper funeral.”

  “We’ll find them,” said the sheriff. “It’s the least she and those kids deserve. Right now, I want to have the EMTs look you over and take you down to the hospital.” He glanced over at Jesse, whose face had swollen to Quasimodo-like proportions. “You look like you need some medical attention. We’ll get the rest of your story afterwards.” The sheriff went to find a paramedic to take care of Jesse. Emily reached for his hand and he took it.

  “Do you think it’s over?” she asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

  He squeezed her hand. “The ghosts are at peace. Cynthia has been thoroughly incapacitated. Richard is going from that cellar straight to a cell. And Theresa left here in the back of a police car. So yeah, I think we’re pretty much safe. Don’t you?”

  Emily gazed into the fireplace and thought of Matilda.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  12

  Ayear had passed since Emily and Jesse moved into the rambling old house on the hill. It had once been a haven of criminal activity when the original Meades lived there. It became a beacon of hope for children with nothing when Matilda took over the home. And for a while, it became the site of a tragedy. Though for many months it had been a place of mystery, dark secrets, and fear, it was finally the place Matilda had always dreamed of it being: a safe haven for the less fortunate, for the kids who otherwise might have nothing.

  Emily opened the Matilda Meade Home for Wayward Children two years after the death of her great aunt, and she knew that if Matilda had been there—and that in a way, she still was—it would have been the proudest day of her life. The proudest day of Emily’s life had been seeing her name on the New York Times bestseller list, after her book about the events of the previous year became a bestseller. She’d taken her earnings and the advance on her next book and used it to get out of debt and realize Matilda’s dream. Jesse had built an addition onto the house, and there were now no fewer than ten foster kids there at any given time. Emily and Jesse bought his parents a house nearby and Jesse’s mother, who had always dreamed of him having a large family, came over every day to help them with the kids.

  Cynthia, Richard, and Theresa were all doing hard time in federal prison for murder, kidnapping, and assault, among their myriad of other crimes. Watkins was disbarred and landed in a white collar minimum security prision in exchange for the plea deal he struck for providing the details of their conspiracy.

  As for Roger and Darla, they’d been driven out of business when Emily posted the video she took of them online, the one she took on her phone of the pair sneaking out of the house after vandalizing the living room. The video quickly went viral, and there was now a class action lawsuit against them, formed on behalf of the numerous outraged homeowners who’d been subject to the same harassment and intimidation tactics that Roger and Darla had inflicted on Emily and Jesse.

  Without the money from the property managers pouring into his campaign, Sheriff Oglethorpe lost the election. He lost to one of his own deputies, Jake Tapper, an idealistic young officer whose increasing frustration at Oglethorpe’s lackadaisical style of law enforcement and whiff of corruption had led him to take a stand against his superior in the name of making a change.

  Now, Emily sat in the library. She regarded the portrait of Matilda and the children she’d moved to hang above her desk for inspiration. She thought of how much had changed in so short a time. While Emily and Jesse had once been two people struggling on their own, they were now a large and flourishing household, filled with laughter, noise, and love. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly, and she thought of the remarkable series of events that had led them to where they were today.

  It had inspired the book she’d written in a frenzy: never had the words and ideas come so quickly and fluidly to her before, and it was as if the writer’s block that had plagued her for so long had never existed. And it hadn’t returned to inhibit her since
.

  Today, Emily was at work on her next book. It was about the lives of the children who lived at Meade House: the various hardships they experienced, and their future hopes and dreams. She had already written a story about death. Now, she wanted to write one about life—life, and all its endless possibilities.

  Emily rolled a fresh, clean sheet of white paper into the typewriter. Now that the ghosts were at rest, the only words she ever wrote on it were her own. Emily closed her eyes, and the first lines came to her as easily as breathing: It was an old house, a house filled with history, whose walls had been witness to many a mystery, hope, and struggle. The house had seen many stories pass through its doors and was now home to the numerous stories of the children who lived there. And while many of those stories were of the tragedies that comprised their pasts, the house was now a vessel that contained the promise of their hopeful futures.

  She opened her eyes and began to write.

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

  Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.

  As an indie author, Amazon reviews can have a huge impact on my livelihood. So if you enjoyed the story please leave a review letting me and the rest of the digital world know. And if there was anything you found troubling, please email me. Your feedback helps improve my work, and allows me to continue writing stories that will promise to thrill and excite in the future. But be sure to exclude any spoilers.

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  Again, thank you so much for letting me into your world. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it!

  The Haunting of Riley Watson Book 0

  Prologue

  Crimson Basin, Vermont was a pure white sea of snow this early in the morning. The previous night’s storm coated the mountain with a fresh layer of untouched powder and left the sky spotless. As the sun rose, it brought with it a palette of pink, purple, and orange, turning the snow into a blank canvas for the sky to paint its colors on. At the bottom of the mountain, the octagonal roof of the King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort main building jutted out of the snow, like a child poking her head from a pile of fallen leaves. From a helicopter’s point of view, the resort looked miniscule in comparison to the mountain. Up close, it was thousands of square feet of beautiful stone masonry construction and towering gabled roofs that fit together like the pieces of a decorative Christmas village. It was the type of building that elicited the phrase, “They don’t make them like this anymore” from the mouth of anyone who had an ounce of appreciation for true craftsmanship.

  Right before sunrise, the guests and residents of King and Queens were all asleep except for Thelma Watson. She slipped from her bed, dressed silently, and left her snoring husband to catch up on his REM sleep. Downstairs, she met a bleary-eyed employee at the locked door of the ski rental shop.

  “Morning, Mrs. Watson,” he said, yawning as widely as a lion. He shook out his mane of long, golden hair and pulled on a bright, neon-yellow beanie. “Fresh powder, huh?”

  Thelma liked the slow drawl of the local snowboarders. It was a refreshing change from the forced politeness of the tourists who frequented the lodge. She offered him a cup of hot coffee and a twenty-dollar bill.

  “You know me, Liam,” she said. “I like to be the first one to cut a line. Two sugars, right?”

  He pocketed the twenty and inhaled the steam rising from the hole in the cup’s lid. “Oh, bless you.”

  She used her own set of keys to unlock the ski rental shop. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Mrs. Watson?”

  “Sorry. Thelma.”

  Liam helped Thelma get her skis and equipment off the shelves. She admired the way his shoulders flexed and rolled beneath his heavy snow jacket. When she was all set, the pair locked up the rental shop and headed to the ski lift. Liam hopped into the controls booth as he took off his gloves and blew warm air across his fingers.

  “Here she goes,” he announced, powering up the lift with familiar dexterity. The cable creaked to life, and the metal chairs swung around as Thelma snapped her skis into place.

  Thelma kissed Liam’s cheek. As he flushed bright pink, she said, “You’re the best.”

  “Be safe up there,” he said. “You know what they say about skiing alone.”

  She coasted across the snow toward the lift. “That you shouldn’t?”

  “Basically.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been doing this for years.” The chair lift scooped Thelma up and whisked her away. She waved over her shoulder at Liam. “See you later!”

  The lift carried Thelma into the rising sun. She kicked her feet, savoring the freedom of nothingness beneath her skis. In the middle of the sky, she forgot the problems awaiting her at the lodge. For an hour or two, while she was alone with the snow and the mountain, everything else faded into oblivion. No amount of meditation was as effective as skiing alone in the early morning.

  About two-thirds of the way up the mountain, a clang echoed across the treetops and something fell from above Thelma’s head and landed with a puff of powder in the snow below. The chair lift shuddered. Thelma looked up at the gears that secured the chair to the cable. Four heavy-duty bolts connected the gear to the chair itself, but one of them was missing. The second was on its way out, and the remaining two steadily loosened, coaxed free by the vibration of the lift. Thelma’s pulse quickened, but she encouraged herself to remain calm. She patted her pockets and swore. She’d left her phone in the rental shop. There was no way to contact Liam to stop the lift. The second bolt fell. It clanged against the chair, ringing like a church bell, before plummeting to the ground. Thelma shrieked as the chair dipped violently.

  “Think,” she urged herself, holding on to the armrest with white knuckles. “You’ve got two kids who need you, Thelma. Get out of this.”

  She ditched her poles over the side of the chair then unstrapped her skis and let them fall too, wincing as the expensive equipment crashed against a jagged rock. Above her, the last two bolts gradually worked free. Thelma jettisoned her heavy snow boots next. There was an emergency call box at the top of the lift. If she could lighten the load long enough to make it there, King and Queens could send a rescue team before she froze to death in the snow.

  The lift bounced through a support brace. The third bolt caught on the gears, and the chair swung to the right as metal screeched against metal. The bolt ripped away, and Thelma slid from one end of the chair to the other as it dropped to a steep angle, swaying from the final bolt. Thelma peered over the side. Jumping wasn’t an option. The steep mountain pass would swallow her whole, and they wouldn’t find her body until the snow thawed at the end of the season. She imagined skiers and snowboarders riding over her, the tip of her nose protruding from the snow.

  The top of the lift loomed up ahead, a buoy of hope in a sea of waiting disaster. Thelma squeezed her eyes shut. If she didn’t watch the distance closing in on itself, the time would pass faster. One last support tower separated Thelma from safety. As the lift approached it, the sun burst over the trees and sent its blinding white light into Thelma’s eyes. Tears soaked her eyelashes and traced patterns down her cheeks. She knew, somehow, that this was the end. As the chair passed through the support tower, Thelma blew a kiss toward the resort at the bottom of the mountain. The final bolt fell. The chair plummeted. Thelma screamed.

  1

  “Have you seen my tarot card deck?” I swept aside a pile of old magazines, faded and wrinkled with condensation rings from all the times I’d used them as coasters, to check beneath. The tarot deck was nowhere in sight. “I swear I just had it. Oh, the bathroom maybe.”

  My best friend, Jazmin, planted her hands on her hips as I ducked into the five-square-foot bathroom
of my tiny, one-bedroom apartment to look. “Do you read fortunes in the bathroom?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “I can’t afford to miss a call. If I happen to be in the john when the phone rings, then so be it. Ugh, it’s not here.”

  It was almost noon. Today’s show was supposed to go live in fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t gotten dressed or rigged the apartment yet. I smoothed my hair in the mirror. It was time to dye it again. The pink sheen I favored for Madame Lucia’s signature look faded fast, but the frosty silver ombre underneath was going strong. I wasn’t a huge fan of bleaching my dark hair so often, but silver was in right now, and the viewers loved the mysterious and effortless vibe of my ghostly style. I arranged my hair into Madame Lucia’s trademark mohawk braid, a voluminous plait envied by many of my followers, intentionally leaving some wispy strands for added mystique. My hair was a huge part of the character I created. If the braid wasn’t complete, I was plain old Lucia.

  “Found your cards,” Jazmin called. “They were under your crystal ball. Hurry up, will you? We’re on in ten.”

  “It’s an orbuculum,” I corrected her, pinning the braid in place. “I’m getting ready. Can you hook up the fishing wire?”

  “Sure. What are we demolishing today?”

  “How about my mother’s china set?”

  “I thought we were saving that for the season finale.”

  The towering cabinet full of dishware that had been passed down to me from previous generations stood against the far wall, blocking out half of the lone window. The cabinet resembled a bloated old man—the husband of the wardrobe from Beauty and the Beast—with tiny, inefficient limbs and a belly full of priceless porcelain that cursed whomsoever dared to eat off it. My mother claimed the dish set had been in our family for hundreds of years, but the faded stamp on the bottom of the plates revealed they’d been made in the 1940s. Some of the patterns didn’t match, and I suspected my grandmother collected the entire set from a chain of Salvation Armys.