The Haunting of Abram Mansion

by Alexandria Clarke

  When Basil went inside for a snack and some shade, I decided it was also time for me to come off the balcony. I’d forgotten to put sunscreen on, and now my face felt a little too warm for my liking. As I stepped inside, the corner of my novel caught on the doorway and it tumbled from my arms. My bookmark—the Anderson & Associates business card—fell from the pages. I picked it up and studied the number, remembering what Penelope had said about Andrew Anderson. On a whim, I dialed the number.

  The first time, no one picked up. The call simply ended itself. There was no way to leave a voicemail or anything. I dialed again. This time, on the fifth ring, someone picked up.

  “Uh… hello?”

  “Is the office of Anderson & Associates?” I asked. “I have a business card with this number printed on it.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Someone cleared their throat. When they spoke again, it was a woman with the air of someone who’d adopted her professionalism in the last ten seconds. “Yes, this is the office of Anderson & Associates. I’m Penelope, the secretary. May I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

  A shiver ran through my body when the woman introduced herself. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that she shared her name with the dead matriarch of the Abram Mansion. “This is Peyton Fletcher. Andrew Anderson was my grandfather.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher!” the woman, Penelope or not, exclaimed. “Yes, we’ve been expecting your call. When would you like to schedule your appointment?”

  “My appointment? Regarding what?”

  “Regarding the business, of course,” the living Penelope replied. “Your grandfather left it to you. Surely that was covered in his will?”

  “The only thing covered in his will was the Abram Mansion,” I said. “What can you tell me about that?”

  The woman hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Mr. Anderson’s former address. I was only tasked with passing on Anderson & Associates.”

  “Fine.” I sighed heavily. “Can you at least tell me what kind of business my grandfather ran?”

  “I’ll happily discuss that with you in person,” the living Penelope replied. “Now, would you like to schedule that appointment? We’re flexible. I’m sure we can accommodate whatever day you’re free.”

  “How about today then?” I challenged. “Right now. Where are you located?”

  From the pause before the living Penelope’s reply, I assumed I’d thrown her off track again. “We’re located in Hartford. Are you able to make it here by two o’clock?”

  I checked the time on my phone. It was only noon, and Hartford was no more than an hour’s drive away. “I’ll be there. What’s the address?” She rattled off a street number in Hartford that I hastily scribbled in the margins of my novel. “Great. I’ll see you in two hours. Penelope, was it?”

  “Yes, and Mrs. Fletcher? I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  It was a happy coincidence that I didn’t have to pick up Sammy from school today, and it was also an odd relief to get out of Falconwood. I told Ben I was running an errand for Theo and that I needed the car for the rest of the day. He was surprisingly compliant, kissed me on the cheek before I left, and assured me he would have dinner on the table for all four of us—Della and Basil included—when I returned home. It was like he had accepted the older couple as his surrogate grandparents, and I wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea. I liked the person Ben was when he was around them.

  The drive to Hartford gave me too much time to think. Who was this living Penelope and how did she know my grandfather? Why was there so much mystery surrounding Anderson & Associates? If my grandfather had been missing for so long, who had managed his business for him all these years? None of it made any sense.

  Once in Hartford, I made three U-turns before I finally located the street address the living Penelope had given to me. It was one of those walk up offices with an entrance that was squished between two other businesses. The door was barely visible. I parked on the street and yanked the handle, but it was lock. With a huff, I rang the doorbell. Static buzzed through the intercom.

  “Anderson & Associates. How can I help you?”

  I recognized the living Penelope’s voice. “Hey, Penelope. It’s me, Peyton Fletcher.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “Peyton Fletcher,” I bellowed into the intercom. “I have an appointment at two o’clock.”

  The door buzzed to let me open. Rolling my eyes, I went inside. The carpeted stairway smelled like mold and must. At the top of the steps was another unmarked door. Before I could reach the handle, someone else opened it.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher!” The living Penelope beamed as she looked down at me. She looked nothing like the actual Penelope. She was a squat, middle-aged woman with puffy cheeks and tightly curled hair that made her look like a chia pet. She waved me up into the office. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  When I crested the top step and saw the official office of Anderson & Associates, I almost turned around and went right back to my car. It looked nothing like the office of a respectable businessman. The windows were blacked out with tarps and duct tape. Filing cabinets were stacked against the walls, overflowing with papers and folders. The place smelled like mildew and cigar smoke. A single desk had been cleared of debris in the front corner of the room. The surface had been hastily wiped free of dust, as if the living Penelope had arrived here minutes before I did and tried her best to make this place look like someone actually worked in it.

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?” I asked Penelope. “If you try to tell me Anderson & Associates is still in business, I’ll wring your neck.”

  The living Penelope flinched at the threat. I didn’t realize how convincing it had sounded. “Mr. Anderson told me to tell you that the business is still going, but it’s important you know—”

  “Speaking of Mr. Anderson,” I said, forcing Penelope toward the filing cabinets, “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Eight months ago,” Penelope stuttered as she stumbled away from me. “Right before he died.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really, Penelope?” I challenged, cornering her by the window. “Because I can’t find any information about my grandfather’s death at all, and it seems like you were the last person to see him. Maybe I should go to the police?”

  “No!” The living Penelope slammed her fist into one of the cabinet drawers, creating a metallic racket that echoed off the musty walls. This time, I was the one who flinched. “Andrew was adamant that the police could not get involved. He made me promise not to call them, even when he disappeared.”

  We glared at each other, inches apart. The reek of the office made my eyes water. I let my shoulders and my guard fall then sank into the one and only office chair. “Screw this. We’re both posturing, and this place stinks. Do you want to get a coffee? I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know, but I have to warn you: I don’t know much.”

  The living Penelope collected her coat from a nearby chair. “There’s a good café a block away. Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, the living Penelope and I found a private booth tucked away in the back section of a noisy café to talk about my grandfather. She ordered a green tea, claiming coffee gave her acid reflux. Then she tried a sip of my cappuccino and proceeded to let out small burps throughout our conversation.

  “First of all,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Your first name isn’t actually Penelope, is it?”

  “No,” she replied sheepishly. “It’s Alice, but Andrew told me it was important to pose as Penelope.”

  “Apparently, he told you a lot of important things. Who were you to my grandfather?”

  “His secretary. I swear!” she added when I gave her a skeptical look. “He hired me thirty years ago when no one else would give me a job. I’ve worked for him ever since.”

  “Thirty years ago, my
grandfather had already disappeared from society,” I reminded her. “He was a hermit.”

  “He was reclusive,” she corrected, “but he hadn’t disappeared. Besides, he had good reason.”

  “What reason was that?”

  Alice pressed her lips together, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the booth. If she knew the truth about Andrew, she wasn’t telling.

  “He was my grandfather,” I hissed. “Don’t you think I have the right to know?”

  “I’m under strict instructions,” she replied. “I wasn’t sure if you’d ever show up at the office. It all seems so silly.”

  I stirred a packet of stevia into my black coffee and took a long sip to calm myself down. “Listen, Alice. I’m trying to figure out a mystery that goes back about forty years, and my grandfather, as it turns out, played a huge part in the story. Whatever Andrew told you to tell me, I need to know sooner rather than later, and if you have any additional information you’d like to share, I’d appreciate that too.”

  Alice studied my expression, and I tried to look as pitiful as possible. At long last, she heaved a sigh. “All right. I’ll tell you everything I know, but I’m not sure if it will help you. Let me start by saying I never saw Andrew in person. We spoke over the phone or communicated via email in more recent years. He ran Anderson & Associates from afar.”

  “What is Anderson & Associates anyway?” I asked her. “What was his business?”

  “It was his passion project,” Alice said. “As you know, he worked as a freelance art curator around the country. When he moved to Falconwood, he started Anderson & Associates with the financial backup of a dear friend he made there.”

  “Percy Abram.”

  “He never mentioned a name,” Alice said. “Anyway, his friend—Percy, perhaps—passed away suddenly, leaving everything in his name to Andrew. As a tribute, Andrew kept Anderson & Associates alive. We were successful for a long time, but the art world has changed so much. Without being here in person, Andrew couldn’t keep up with the competition. However, he refused to shut down the business. He said he wanted to pass it on to you.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t he put that in his will?” I asked her.

  “He said you needed to earn it.”

  I pushed my coffee away, and it accidentally sloshed over the lip of the mug and onto the table. “I need one straight, non-cryptic answer about my grandfather’s existence. For my entire life, he’s been the guy that walked out on his wife and daughter for no reason then disappeared off the face of the earth. We knew he was crazy, but not this crazy.”

  “Like I said, Andrew had his reasons,” Alice repeated. “And if I’m not mistaken, one of them was a concern for your safety. Here. This is the only thing he left for you.”

  She drew a folder from her purse and slid it across the table. Inside, there was a piece of yellowing paper preserved in a plastic sleeve. I pulled it out for a better look.

  “An old magazine article?”

  “Your grandfather wrote that piece,” Alice told me. “You should read it thoroughly. Don’t skim.”

  “This is it?” I asked, holding up the article. “He didn’t give you anything else?”

  Alice’s lips turned downward as she reached into her purse for another folder. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted this or not, but I feel as if you need it more than I do.”

  I looked in the folder. It was Andrew Anderson’s death certificate, dated exactly eight months ago.

  27

  The old magazine article proved difficult to read because the print was so faded and the page was so yellowed. I sat at the kitchen table with the shades open and every possible light on, holding a magnifying glass in one hand and a flashlight in the other. When Ben walked in on my strangely luminescent procedure, he raised an eyebrow.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll think I’m going crazy.”

  Ben washed his hands in the sink. As usual, he’d been working on the greenhouse with Basil that morning. He sat across from me. “I knew you were crazy the moment I met you. You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know. What’s this old paper anyway?”

  “It’s a magazine article my grandfather wrote,” I relented, sliding the article toward him. He almost picked it up with his wet fingers. “Don’t touch it! Sorry, it’s delicate. Just look.”

  Ben squinted at the tiny, faded print. “Painting and plants: the link between traditional artistic styles and modern day horticulture. Wow, who would have thought anyone cared about that?”

  “Andrew Anderson did apparently,” I said. “So did Percy Abram.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes at me, trying to predict where I was getting at. “I feel like this is going to turn into a lecture.”

  “Not if you don’t want it to.”

  He sighed, got comfortable in his chair, and checked his watch. “I told Basil I was going inside for some shade and water. You’ve got four and a half minutes.”

  “I’ve asked around,” I said. “Percy and Andrew knew each other. They worked together, then became good friends. When Percy supposedly died, he left the mansion to Andrew, but I think something else is happening—”

  “Hang on,” Ben interrupted. “What do you mean when Percy ‘supposedly’ died?”

  I trapped my bottom lip between my teeth. We were getting into conspiracy theory territory. I didn’t have solid evidence to prove Percy faked his own death. It was a prediction based on conversations with people who were either dead or half out of their mind. Neither one bore enough merit to convince Ben of what I thought to be true.

  “I misspoke,” I said, tapping the article to draw his attention away from my word choice and back to the magazine. “I went to Hartford yesterday to visit Andrew’s business. The secretary told me Andrew left this article for me. There has to be a clue in it.”

  Ben looked perplexed. “A clue to what?”

  “A clue as to why he left this house to us,” I answered. “The reason he required us to stay here for six months before we could sell it. From the beginning, it didn’t make any sense. Don’t you want to know why we had to come to Falconwood?”

  Ben took a deep breath and braced his hands on his knees as he stood up. “Honestly? Maybe if you had asked me that question at the beginning of all this, I would have said yes. But it’s almost over now. We’ll be out of here in a little less than a month. We fulfilled your grandfather’s wishes. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “Right,” I murmured, my eyes returning to the cramped, faded letters.

  Ben paused before he left the kitchen. “Nothing’s changed, has it? Between you and me?”

  The tentative nature of his question pulled my gaze from the decrepit magazine. “Everything’s changed, Ben. In my opinion, we’re in a much better place than we were in five months ago. We have a clear idea of how our relationship works now. We’re friends, right?”

  He gnawed on the inside of his cheek and glanced at the floor. “Yeah, we are. I guess I really wanted to ask if any of our experiences at the mansion have made you reconsider.”

  “Reconsider our divorce?”

  He nodded slowly, a solemn air about his person, as if he already knew the answer to his question. But a flicker of hope danced in his eyes as well. I hated to put that spark out, but it was worse to give him false hope.

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” I said, watching that spark extinguish itself in real time. “I’m glad we’ve been getting along here, but I still think we should get divorced.”

  “You don’t think any of this has made us closer?” he said, gesturing around the kitchen. I knew he meant the mansion itself and all the challenges we had overcome since we arrived. “My injury? The break-ins? We’ve handled everything together. I thought we were learning how to work with one another again to solve our problems. I thought—”

  “This has been good for us,” I told him. “But it doesn’t change the fundamental reasons behind ou
r divorce. We’re different, Ben. I want things you don’t want and vice versa. Say we go home after this and stay together. How long would it be before things got boring again?”

  Ben hung his head. “I never thought our life was boring.”

  “That’s because you had a life,” I pointed out. “You had your jobs and your friends and your family there. I didn’t have any of that.”

  “I had you too,” he replied. “And you had me.”

  “Your partner isn’t always the end all, be all,” I said softly. “There are other requirements that needed to be fulfilled. I had no friends back home because they were all the same people I resented in high school. I had no family unless you counted my mom, who was always three sheets to the wind. I needed to go out and find family.”

  Ben scratched his fingernail against the newly painted door frame. “I’m not sure I get that. How do you find family?”

  “You connect with someone,” I said with a shrug. “Some people aren’t lucky enough to get a family like yours. We have to make our own.”

  “You mean like Theo and Sammy?”

  “And Della,” I added. “Basil, too, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it, Ben. Ever since we moved here, I feel like I actually have people in my life that matter.”

  He winced. “Harsh.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” I abandoned the article in favor of meeting Ben by the kitchen entryway. I took his face in my hands. Usually so clean cut and shaven, he had let his hair beard grow out a little bit. The rugged look suited him. He seemed free. I pressed my thumbs up and over his eyebrows, a little massage trick I used to use on him whenever he was feeling particularly stressed. His eyes floated shut and his frown melted away. “You always mattered to me. You still do. It’s not my goal to forget about our marriage or relationship. It’s my goal to find the part of me that wasn’t permitted to grow in our tiny little hometown. Does that make sense?”

  “It feels like you’re blaming me for never pursuing your photography career,” Ben said, his face tightening again. “That’s what it always felt like.”