The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1)

by Dorey, Michelle

  “Aye. I just put the muzzle to his chest and aim upward; you’ll see.” Devlin stepped to Kevin. “Now relax boyo; you won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

  In the trench fighting, Kevin Crawley had confronted many an enemy holding pistols at him at point-blank range. None of them survived. As soon as Devlin was within arm’s length, he snapped a hand down and away from him in an arc, grasping the gun by the barrel. Devlin fired a shot, the report deafening everyone in the room.

  Kevin did not let go. He heaved the barrel back up and over Devlin’s wrist, a lever now which sprained the man’s hand, breaking his grip. The gun was now his own. Without stopping his movements, he grasped at Devlin’s throat with his free hand, and using the pistol as a hammer, pounded its handle into the man’s face. The first blow broke Devlin’s nose, the second crushed his brow above his eye. By the tenth blow Devlin was on the floor, his head a misshapen mess, the sound of each blow now a dull crunching noise.

  Bridget stared in frozen horror.

  From his position on the floor kneeling over Devlin’s corpse, Kevin raised his eyes to her, black with fury. “You murderer.” His voice low, he began to rise.

  She ran from the room in blind panic. She had to get Eamon and run away! She flew up the stairs to his room at the back of the house. She could hear Kevin’s feet pounding behind her as she threw the door open. When she got to the baby’s crib, Kevin’s fist seized her hair.

  He spun her around, his hands clenching her throat.

  “You murdered my babies!” he hissed.

  She struggled for breath, gasping, “Don’t hurt Eamon, Kevin! For the love of God, the boy’s innocent!”

  “As were the twins, ye whore!” He leaned into her, disregarding the scratches she was leaving on his face. “I’ll kill him as soon as I’m done with ye!”

  She knew by his eyes, she was done for. She knew Eamon’s life would end soon too. She faded to the floor, feeling the world slip away. Something burst behind her eyes, leaving only red and black, and a red and black rage boiled over in her heart.

  In her dying words, she croaked out, “Kill all of ye! I killed your English Melanie, and your half-breed daughters! I’ll kill all of ye if given half the chance Crawleyyyy…” He wrenched her neck, silencing her with a crack of bone.

  He knelt over the body of his wife, the murderer of his children. A sorrow and grief filled his heart. How could he be so blind? Panting, he got to his feet and looked to Bridget’s son, stirring now in the crib.

  “Kevin Crawley! Leave the babe alone!”

  He jerked at the sound of Melanie’s voice. She called to him again from the bedroom.

  He crossed the hall and into the bedroom. There she was, lying on her cushions in the bed.

  She was aglow; lit from within by an oil lamp it seemed. He could see through her. He ran to her, tears streaming, to take her in his arms.

  But all he could grasp were the cushions and bedding.

  “You’re a ghost, Melanie.” The only surprise he felt was at his lack of terror. God he loved her so; ‘twas a blessing to see her face again, faded as it was.

  “I cannot stay, Kevin… it takes all my strength to call out to you. Let the baby live… for the sake of your daughters, let him be…”

  And like an oil lamp being turned down, she faded from him, leaving only the scent of roses.

  He fell to the bed in tears, kneeling at it.

  “Papa!” the twins’ voices rang out from the back of the house. He ran back to Eamon’s room but didn’t see them. Oh God… were they trapped upstairs in their room? He went to where the wall had been closed up, and heard them call again. They were outside! He flew to Eamon’s room again and looked out the window.

  There in the yard, Alice was on the swing, Agnes behind her. They both glowed like their mother had. They blew kisses at him and smiled with such love his heart broke again. When he saw them also begin to wane, he threw open the window.

  “No! Don’t leave me like this! No my darlings, don’t go!”

  But they were gone. He collapsed at the windowsill, crying the most bitter of tears again. The pain in his heart was unbearable. He had brought Bridey into his home...

  He had brought Bridey into his bed! He went back to the crib and looked down at the boy, his blue eyes gazing up at him. He still had the St. Jude medal in his hand. He set it around the neck of the babe and kissed the top of its head. He loved and loathed that child. He stood up and left the room.

  They would find the child once they found him.

  Seeing the spirits of Melanie and the girls gave him the courage.

  Without coat nor hat, with a note he scratched out at the desk in the parlor tucked in his pocket, he walked out of his home for the last time. He was as guilty for the deaths of his wife—no, his wives—and children as the two corpses behind in his home. He walked alongside the park with Harvest Street at his back. He was heading toward the county courthouse. In his hand he held the hank of rope Bridey had retrieved from the cellar.

  He walked up West Street to Court Street, his path taking him past the front of the massive limestone courthouse building. The darkened windows looked down on him as he passed the gilded fountain in front. He wound his way along Court Street to Barrie. Off Barrie Street was a driveway which led into the city jail. The building had a light on over the entrance. He crept past quietly.

  Off to the side was a structure which had been in disuse for years. Standing atop a group of posts more than six feet in height was a wooden platform. Nowadays, young boys would sneak in and climb the stairs to do a jig on the surface of the platform to impress their friends with their daring deed before being chased away by the jail’s guards. One of these days they would have to tear down that hangman’s gallows.

  He crept up the stairs as silently as he could, pausing at each creak of the weatherworn wood. He reached the top of the platform. Two more posts rose from the top of the platform, joined together by a lintel overhead. He uncoiled the rope in his hand.

  He’d be doing a jig as well, but he wouldn’t be running away.

  Part II

  Kingston, Ontario

  The Present Day

  Interlude…

  The elderly man walked with tentative steps down the sidewalk of the residential street, leaning on his cane. His ‘Arthur-i-tis’ was bad today, despite the springtime warmth. In addition to the daily ache of ninety-year-old hips and knees, the soles of his feet were burning. He was almost there. Just this short sojourn and he could return to his room in the nursing home.

  A liver-spotted hand ran through the fine wisps of hair on his mottled scalp. What a doddering old fool he was. Day after day, for the last twenty-five years, without fail, he would walk to this street and stand across from that house. Every day, for twenty-five years he had been drawn to this tree-lined street like a moth to a flame—or a gawker at a car crash.

  And he didn’t have the slightest idea why. He only knew that if he didn’t make his daily visit, he would pay for it at night with horrible dreams—and upon waking—feel a sense of such forlorn longing, that he would begin his day crying like a baby. So yes, he came day after day.

  Stopping finally—thank God—he took his station across from the house. He knew from painful experience to remain on the opposite side of the street. Just like the moth and the flame, were he to draw closer, he would suffer for it.

  As it had been every day, his gaze was drawn to the dark, wooden door and he would wonder what was behind it. He lifted his head to stare at the bedroom windows on the second floor. Above them, like a jewel in a tiara, was the attic window, a half-moon shape, set just below the roof’s peak. Every time his gaze was drawn to that top window his heart would ache; why, he did not know.

  The house was old, older than himself he was sure. For another day, all the windows were dark. The vines of ivy at the top window spread outwards, clinging to the pitted brick, curling over the veranda and across the upper eaves. The house was being slowly
swallowed up in it. The only other plants were the rosebushes out in front and up the side of the wide driveway.

  His lips twitched in a sardonic smile. The last set of tenants were three male university kids swaggering in their yellow leather jackets, streaked with purple. They too were gone now. Engineering students, they lasted longer than most, a testimonial to their devotion at the altar of science. Still, that had proven to be no protection. No one who moved into that place ever stayed long.

  He turned his head and his gaze swept up and down the street. The sunlight glared down, a steel brightness which faded the color of the grass and sky. And as always, the street was empty and silent. Not a whisper of a breeze in a tree. Not a single bird calling. Not even a barking dog. The street would remain still until the new tenants moved into the house. They would be the only people he’d see, until they too would leave. It had been so for twenty-five years.

  “The circle must close.” he muttered the mantra he’d murmured every day for years. He would wait. He would abide. Abide to who or what, he didn’t know… and it didn’t matter. He would abide.

  His homage complete, he turned to leave knowing he would come again tomorrow. He would come as long as he was able. A sharp pain skewered his heart and he gasped. Staggering, he stabbed the ground with his walking stick to maintain his balance.

  “No…” he croaked. Not yet. The pain was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving him shaken from its memory. No… not yet… but…

  The circle was groaning. It was stirring. It was preparing to close.

  He sighed, and resumed his trudging gait. The tip of the cane clonked the ground next to him as he retraced his steps. Turning the corner and entering the park he saw the spring sunlight now filtering through the budding branches, patterning the sidewalk like lace under his footsteps. The burning in his feet ebbed away as he walked through the park back to the nursing home.

  Chapter 21

  Sarah’s eyes flew open and she jerked upright in bed. Gasping for air, her heart raced so fast it hurt.

  “Owww!” A tear rolled down her cheek as she strained forward, her fingers spread over her chest. Where was Mommy, or even Nana?

  The pain was gone in just a second, leaving her cold as a popsicle. She hugged herself but it wasn’t enough. Throwing the top blankey aside, she popped onto the floor. She’d been coloring in her book, and never meant to fall asleep. At five, she was too big for naps, even Mommy said so.

  Everything got fuzzy for a second, so she rubbed her eyeballs with the heels of her hands. Oh no!

  “Grandpa?” Had that been Grandpa in her dream? Nana showed her pictures of him once, when Mommy was out. Nana had promised that one day, he was going to come to Mommy’s place and they’d go for ice cream. He’d always been too busy to come, and Nana always told her he sent his biggest love and hugs.

  Nana was telling fibs when she said that. You weren’t supposed to tell fibs.

  Her forehead tightened when the dream—once more—flashed in her mind. Grandpa... he was in a barn, laying down on the ground! And his heart was hurting! It was hurting bad! Real bad! She ran from her bedroom to the living room where Nana sat reading.

  Mommy was there too! She was home from work? The question flitted and was gone because…

  “Grandpa’s sick! He’s in the barn and his heart’s hurting, Nana! His heart’s hurting right here!” She slapped her hand over where her heart was. “He’s sick and he’s lying down on the ground! We have to help him!”

  Mommy and Nana were still as statues looking at her. They were scared. She scared them, she could tell.

  “Hurry! He’s in the barn!”

  Mommy scooped her up. “Good Lord! Sarah, you’re cold as ice!” She turned her head, “Mom, Sarah’s got one heck of a chill, and it’s got to be eighty degrees in here!”

  Nana stood up and walked over to them. She put her hand on Sarah’s forehead. “Oh dear…”

  Sarah batted Nana’s hand. “Listen! Grandpa’s sick!”

  Nana’s brown eyes became wide. “Sarah McDougall!”

  “Easy, moppet,” Mommy was holding her tight. Mommy felt so warm. “Why don’t you give him a call, Ma? He keeps his cell on him, right?”

  Mommy and Nana look at each other for a long, long time.

  “Call him, Nana!”

  They both whipped their heads around to look at her.

  “Call him now! He’s sick!” She squeezed her Mommy’s arm and turned to her grandmother. “He’s dying, Nana!”

  Nana didn’t move. She was like a statue again!

  “Okay, that’s it, missy.” Mommy plunked her down onto the floor and grabbed her phone off the table. She looked at Nana. “First time I’ve called him in more than five years.” Her voice was low as she tapped her fingers on the small screen. She took a deep breath and held it to her ear. “It’s ringing.”

  A cloud of sadness shrouded Sarah. She sniffed. “He won’t answer, Mommy. Grandpa died.” She looked at Mommy, then at Nana and started to cry. “He’ll never take me for ice cream now.”

  ***

  Nana drove really, really fast. Mommy had barely finished buckling her into the car seat, when Nana wheeled the car out of the driveway. The tires squealed.

  “Slow down, Ma! You’ll get us killed!” Mommy was scared, yelling from the backseat.

  Nana didn’t pay her any mind. The car sounded like a lion on TV as it roared down the street and out of town. Nana was hunched over the steering wheel like she was trying to push it with her hands to go faster.

  “Ma, you’re scaring me,” Mommy gripped the seat ahead of her. Sarah’s lip quivered.

  “Call 911, Gillian.”

  “Ma, we don’t even know what’s going on!”

  “Call them, dammit!”

  Nobody said anything about Nana using a bad word. This was really scary.

  Mommy patted her pockets. “Oh shit, I left it at the house!”

  Mommy said a really bad word, and nobody said nothing again. Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes and she sniffled.

  “Ma, you gotta slow down! You’re scaring the baby!” Mommy put her arm around Sarah and held her tight.

  She looked up at Mommy. “Are we gonna have a axe-ci-dent, Mommy?”

  “Shush baby. Just hang on. It’s only a few more minutes.”

  Nobody said anything else as the car raced forward. After a few minutes, it slowed coming to a dirt road with big green fields on each side.

  “He’s got the cows in, Gillian! He is in the barn!” Nana turned hard on the steering wheel and the car squeaked really loud and jiggled as it turned onto the road. Sarah peered out the front window. There was a big house—bigger than their house back in town. There were a bunch of other buildings near it.

  “ Maybe he’s in the house, Ma! Would you slow down!”

  Sarah saw the big, brown cow barn. It had to be the cow barn because there were cows around Grandpa when she saw him in her head. And even though Grandpa was dead, she felt him there too.

  She pointed her finger. “He’s in the cow barn, Nana!” She and Mommy strained forward when the car came to a skiddery, bumpy, stop by the big doors.

  “Stay in the car!” Nana jumped out and ran to the barn. She hauled open a door at the side and disappeared inside.

  “Like hell,” Mommy’s face was tight. She leaned over the front seat and turned the key and the engine stopped. Her fingers shook undoing the buckles of the car seat. “Let’s go, Sarah.”