Blackthorn Manor Haunting

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Sprawled on the floor was Catherine, her sweater wet, saturated with blood.

  Gene knelt over her, sobbing. “No, no, no. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be okay. Don’t leave me, Catherine. Please, don’t leave me.”

  Addison’s eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon, anything to explain what had happened.

  Addison dropped to the floor next to Gene, pressing her fingers against Catherine’s neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there.

  Addison took out her cell phone. “I’ll call for an ambulance. Gran, find Lia. Bring her here right away.”

  “Any idea where she is?”

  “She said she was going for a walk on the beach before she headed home.”

  Marjorie nodded and left the room.

  Addison made the call, her frustration mounting when the operator pressed for details she couldn’t provide. She offered a rapid explanation of the situation and then finished by saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t waste time on the phone with you. Just send someone out to the estate as fast as you can. Whatever happened here, I don’t believe it was an accident.”

  Addison shoved the phone back into her pocket.

  Lia rushed into the room, kneeling down next to Addison.

  “What the hell happened?” Lia asked.

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Lia thumbed in Gene’s direction. “What did he say happened?”

  Addison shrugged. “He isn’t talking. Not to me, anyway.”

  Lia leaned over Catherine’s body. “All right. I’ll have a look.”

  Addison placed a hand on Gene’s shoulder. “Gene, can you back up and give Lia some space?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Why? What can she do?”

  “She can do a lot,” Lia replied. “I’m a medical examiner. Now move so I can see if there’s anything I can do to help her.”

  He nodded and inched away, but kept hold of Catherine’s hand. Addison exchanged glances with Marjorie, and Marjorie closed the bedroom door, pressing her back against it. Until they were sure what role Gene had played in this, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Lia bent over Catherine and peeled back her shirt, using her fingers to feel around. Locating the source of the bleeding, she pressed down, applying pressure. “Chest wound looks like. There’s frothy blood around it.”

  “From what?”

  “Bubbles of blood, caused by air going in and out. Elastic tissue. Gaping. You find a weapon?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She has a bluish tint to her lips. Looks like she may have been stabbed with a sharp object, a knife possibly. We need to seal the wound and stop the air from entering her chest. I don’t want her lung to collapse.”

  Addison nodded. “Okay, what do you need?”

  “Plastic. Gauze if you can find it. And tape to seal it up. I’ll take whatever we’ve got. We may be able to stop the bleeding before the medics get here, if we hurry.”

  Gene headed for the door. “I’ll go.”

  In unison, Addison and Marjorie said, “No!”

  “Look,” Lia said, “he knows where everything is. We’re racing against the clock here.”

  “I’ll go with him.” Marjorie said.

  “Fine,” Lia said. “Just ... hurry.”

  Marjorie and Gene left the room. Once they were out of earshot, Lia turned to Addison. “If you want my honest opinion, I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

  “Is there nothing you can do to save her?”

  “She’s lost a lot of blood, Addison. Her breathing is getting weaker by the second. I don’t think we’ll be able to save her before the medics—”

  Catherine’s eyes fluttered open. She reached for Addison and muttered, “You were right. Everything you said. I can see it now. I ... I ...”

  “What happened?” Addison asked. “Who did this to you, Catherine?”

  “My darling boy. Oh, how nice it is to see him at last. He’s beautiful, you know, just like I remember. Looks just like his father. Always looked like his father. Such a good, strapping young boy. The best boy. He came for me just like I always knew he would one day.”

  “You see Billy?” Addison asked. “You see him now?”

  Catherine raised a finger, pointing.

  Addison glanced over her shoulder. A white lace curtain flapped in the breeze in front of an open window. Billy stood beside it. If Catherine could see him, Lia was right. Catherine was dying.

  Billy smiled at Addison. “I get to leave now. I get to go to the place Mama always told me about.”

  “No, Billy,” Addison said. “Your mother needs to stay here. I know how much you want to be with her, but if we can keep her alive just a little longer, we can save her.”

  He shook his head.

  “Listen to me!” Addison pleaded. “Can you wait for your mother just a little bit longer?”

  Billy stretched a hand toward Catherine. “Come on, Mama. It’s okay. We can play now.”

  Catherine looked at Addison. “You have to let me go. This is what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted—to be with my boy again.”

  “Tell me what happened to you, Catherine. Who did this?”

  “Leave this place. Today. Take your grandmother and your friend and go away from this house. Forget what has happened here.”

  “Why?”

  “I did something wrong, a long time ago, something I should not have done, and now ... now ... I’m paying the price for my mistake.”

  “What mistake?”

  “Gene needs to ... you have to help ... you need to ... the police.”

  “I don’t understand,” Addison said.

  “You’re in danger. You’re all ... all of you ... in danger. And Gene ...”

  Catherine’s eyes closed, her head sagging to the side.

  Addison looked at Lia. “Is she ...”

  Lia felt for a pulse and nodded. “I’m sorry, Addison. She’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Gene and Marjorie returned, the items he’d rushed to gather spilling from his hands the moment he saw Catherine’s lifeless body.

  “I’m sorry, Gene,” Lia said.

  “Sorry? Oh, no. No, no, no. Is she ... dead?”

  “She lost too much blood. There was nothing we could do for her.”

  Gene sank to the floor. He bent his knees toward his chest, burrowing his head inside, sobbing. Seeing him in this feeble, demoralized state made it far too easy for Addison to make assumptions—far too easy to lie to herself, to believe what was before her—a broken, grieving man—a man, chanting to himself about not being able to survive this life without his “darling Cat.”

  Whether it was a spectacular display of sorrow or an elaborate hypocrisy remained to be seen. No matter what Addison believed, Gene had been the only one in the room with Catherine when she arrived, and aside from the bedroom door, there was only one other way out—the window, which was open.

  Curious.

  In order to entertain the idea that Catherine’s murderer wasn’t Gene and the actual killer had slipped in and out of the bedroom window, it meant the killer would have had to find an escape route, a way to get from the second floor to the first without being seen. Not an easy thing to do.

  “Gene,” Addison said, “do you know what happened? Can you tell me?”

  Absorbed in his own emotions, he didn’t seem to hear her.

  Police would be arriving soon.

  If she was to get information beforehand, she needed to push harder.

  Addison sat in front of him on the floor. “The police will be here soon, along with the medics, and who knows what they’ll do. You were standing over Catherine when she died, which means you’ll be taken in for questioning, at the very least.”

  Tears pooled in his eyes. “What happened wasn’t my fault. I’ve never harmed a hair on her head.”

  “If you want us to believe you, we need to know what happened.”

  “I ... I don’t know. I found her like
this, on the floor, bleeding.”

  “The bedroom door was locked, though. And you were the only one in the room with her. If you didn’t harm her, how is it possible that it could have been someone else?”

  Face somber, he met Addison’s gaze. “I didn’t know the door was locked until you pounded on it.”

  “If you didn’t lock it, then who did? Catherine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A man came to see Catherine today. Who is he?”

  “What man?”

  Addison shrugged. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  “I didn’t know anyone else was at the house today. How long ago?”

  Addison glanced at her cell phone. “About an hour.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Addison described the man to Gene, relaying what little part of the conversation she’d overheard when she passed. “Does this sound like anyone you know?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Did anyone want to harm Catherine? Has she had problems with anyone lately?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know seemed to be the only thing he knew how to say.

  The wheels were turning, only they weren’t going anywhere.

  Tick, tock.

  “I’m going to need a better explanation than you responding to everything with ‘I don’t know.’ Help me understand what happened here, and why you think it happened.”

  He banged his head against the wall, expressing his frustration. “I told you, I don’t know why she’s dead. I wasn’t here when it happened.”

  “If you weren’t here, where were you?”

  “There are stairs in this room. They lead to my private study on the first floor. I spend my afternoons there, take a little time to myself.”

  Stairs inside the bedroom?

  Addison glanced around. She saw no stairs, and no other way out. What he was saying made no sense. “There are stairs in here? Where?”

  It took a few tries before Gene mustered the strength to push himself into a standing position. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Addison, Lia, and Marjorie followed Gene to a walk-in closet. He tugged on a string, and the room lit up.

  “There,” he pointed.

  On the opposite wall was another door.

  “I don’t understand,” Addison said. “Why have a secret door leading from this room to the study? Why not use the main stairs like everyone else?”

  He moved a hand to his hip. “Catherine’s grandfather, Luther, built this house.”

  “She didn’t say much about Luther, but she talked about her father, Clayton.”

  “Clayton was a tyrant, the kind of man most people went out of their way to avoid. I don’t think he started off that way though. His mother died when he was only ten. Then his father took over and proceeded to suck out all the sweetness his mother had instilled in him.”

  “So Luther installed the secret passageway?”

  He nodded. “He may have been an abhorrent man, but he had a higher level of intelligence than most. He had a great love for books, non-fiction in particular. He built a small library in the study and turned it into a place of refuge, a place he could go in the morning without walking through the main house.”

  “Why go to the trouble and expense of creating a shortcut?”

  “Luther had no interest being around people, and he had little tolerance even for those closest to him. Most saw him as ornery and distant, but after hearing various stories about him over the years, I’m convinced he was bipolar and socially awkward.”

  It was hard to believe. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Catherine’s father to grow up around him.”

  “Luther tolerated his children and his wife. It was everyone else he abhorred, his wife’s parents in particular. She came from a tight-knit family who preferred spending time together than anything else. They loved the ocean, and they visited often, sometimes staying for weeks at a time, which infuriated Luther.”

  “Why not forbid them to visit, or ask them to stay for shorter periods of time?”

  “The last few years of his wife’s life, she was quite ill. Having her mother around brought her a great deal of comfort. He may have been an ill-tempered man, but he loved his wife, so he found a way to fulfill her needs by fulfilling his own. He installed a private staircase leading from this room to his personal study to ensure he interacted with her family on a minimal basis, and he made it clear to everyone that he was not to be disturbed when he was there.”

  Luther’s story was fascinating, and while it explained how Gene entered the bedroom, it didn’t exonerate him from murdering his wife. “I guess the thought on all of our minds is—someone murdered Catherine. If it wasn’t you, then whom could it have been?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew. Believe me.”

  “Take me through what happened before you found her.”

  “I was in the study watching a movie. I came upstairs to use the bathroom. When I walked through the closet, I heard someone talking to Catherine. Sounded like a man’s voice, but I honestly don’t know for sure. We don’t have any men who work here on a regular basis aside from Brad, so at first I thought it was either Colin or that your husband had returned.”

  “Where is Brad now?”

  “It’s his day off.”

  “What about Colin? Where is he?”

  “Not here. Catherine sent Whitney to the store, and Colin went with her.”

  “So you came through the closet door. Then what?”

  “I heard her scream. It’s a sound I’ll never forget. The last time she screamed like that was when she collapsed the day our son died.”

  “What did you see when you came into the room, and what did you hear?”

  “It sounded like, I mean, I swore I heard footsteps outside like someone was walking on the roof, but when I looked out the window, no one was there. It was then I realized the window was open, which seemed odd.”

  “Why?” Addison asked.

  “Catherine was always cold. She never opened any windows in the house unless she was wearing a sweater, and today she was only in a short-sleeved shirt. There’s no way she would have opened the window without putting her sweater on.”

  “What happened after you looked out the window?” Addison asked.

  “I saw Catherine on the ground. I didn’t even realize she was bleeding at first. I thought she’d fallen. Then I noticed her hand was pressed against her chest. When she saw me she reached out, and that was when the wound she’d been protecting opened. Blood spilled out of her. I was in shock. Everything became a blur. I knelt in front of her, and when I looked up, you and your grandmother were in the room.”

  A car door slammed shut outside, and then footsteps were heard in the hallway. Addison assumed it was the police until she heard Whitney’s melodic voice. “Catherine, I have the body wash you asked me to get from the—”

  Whitney and Colin entered the room holding a few paper sacks in their arms. Upon seeing Catherine covered in blood, Whitney buried her head in her hands.

  Colin rushed to Catherine’s side. “What’s happened?”

  “She’s dead,” Marjorie said.

  “No. I can’t believe it.”

  “There’s more,” Addison added. “We believe she was murdered.”

  “What?” Colin said. “How? Why would anyone want to kill her?”

  “We don’t know. An ambulance is on the way, and the police have been contacted.”

  “No disrespect,” Colin said, “but where were all of you when it happened?”

  “I beg your—” Marjorie said.

  “It’s a fair question, Gran,” Addison interjected, “and one best answered by telling Colin and Whitney what we know up to this point. Although, it isn’t much.”

  Addison talked through the events. By the time she’d finished, Whitney was sobbing, and Colin had pulled his wife into
an embrace, doing his best to console her.

  The sluggish, persistent whine of the ambulance drew near, the sand in the hourglass of Addison’s ability to ask questions trickling to an end. But there was still time for one more.

  “Gene, who would want Catherine dead?”

  Gene took Catherine’s hand in his, pressing it against his cheek. “She’s cold. So cold now. And I was helpless to save her.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A slender, dark-haired man in his mid to late forties entered Catherine’s bedroom, his intense, haunting eyes tipping toward her in quiet observation. He stopped in a wide-legged stance, rubbed a hand across his chin, and stood in silence for a time, pondering. He then glanced at Addison, holding her gaze just long enough for her to realize who he reminded her of—a younger Al Pacino.

  He shook his head, frowned, and said, “Oh, Catherine. What a shame,” before removing his cellphone from his pocket.

  Then he made a call. “Yeah, this is Lancaster. I’m going to need O’Shea over here right away.”

  He paused, listening to the chatter on the other end of the line, which seemed to irritate him. “I don’t care where O’Shea is right now. Find him and get him over to the Ravencroft’s place. And where the hell is Beck? He should already be here.”

  There was a brief reply, and then Lancaster ended the call.

  A stocky, oval-faced female EMT with curly, ash-blond hair twisted into a thick, loose bun on top of her head rushed into the room.

  Lancaster said, “Hey, Brie.”

  “Hey,” she said.

  She glanced over her shoulder into the hall and huffed in frustration. A minute later, a second police officer entered the room, a pint-sized bald man with a narrow, pointy nose and a sizeable beer gut. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with a hand pressed to his chest, panting like the stairs had been the only workout he’d had in quite some time.

  He looked at Lancaster and said, “Sorry for the hold up.”

  “At least you’re here now, Beck,” Lancaster said.

  Brie tapped Gene on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. I’m going to need you to move.”

  He didn’t.