The Haunting of Bechdel Mansion: A Haunted House Mystery- Book 0

by Roger Hayden

  “You could use this place in one of your stories,” Curtis said. “Take your sketch pad out here and capture it.”

  “I plan to,” Mary said, “but it’ll be for fun. I don’t write the stories.”

  “Have you called anyone at work yet to let them know you’re settling in?” he asked.

  The thought so far hadn’t crossed her mind. She was a professional illustrator for children’s books, and mainly worked from home. It was a dream job that she couldn’t be happier with, though she’d been on maternity leave for a few weeks and hadn’t talked to her publisher in some time. “I’ll call them tomorrow,” she said.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Curtis said. “Relax and put it off.” He scanned the shops as they drove down Main Street. Mary knew that he was looking for a potential spot to set up his own practice, but their dwindling finances concerned her. During the drive from Chicago, she had suggested that he find a partnership in Redwood. There had to be a law office out there somewhere. He had originally balked at the idea, but they would have to start somewhere.

  They came to a parking lot near a pizza place aptly titled Bricklayers Pizza, complete with an old-fashioned hanging sign above the door. American flags, pizza places, parks, and nature trails, Redwood seemed perfect.

  “This looks like a good place to park,” Curtis said, turning in. “Library’s just up the street.” He then parked between a truck and Jeep and turned off the ignition while glancing up at the rearview mirror. “Hey, it’s Bob Deckers!” he said, excited.

  Mary turned her head. There was a man in a suit smoking under the canopy of the building behind them. “Who?” she asked.

  “Our realtor. That’s his office,” Curtis said. He opened his door and stepped out as Mary put on her sun hat and exited the car, her sandals touching the hot pavement.

  They walked toward the rear of the car while Curtis kept his attention on Bob Deckers, who hadn’t noticed them yet. He looked to be in his fifties, with gray slicked-back hair and a dark tan.

  “Let’s go talk to him,” Curtis said, taking her hand. “I want to ask him about leasing some office space.”

  Mary shook her head. “I’ll meet up with you guys later. I want to check and see if the library is open.”

  Curtis turned, frustrated but understanding. “At least come say hi. He really helped us out.”

  “I will later,” Mary said. “I promise.”

  “All right. Don’t go far.”

  “Okay,” she said, pecking his cheek with a kiss.

  “Have fun,” Curtis said, walking away. She watched as he hurried to the building, calling out Bob’s name and shaking his hand. Bob looked startled and surprised to see him. They exchanged words, and then Bob slapped Curtis on the back, opening the door to his office and leading him inside. Mary then felt free to walk through the town on her own to get a feel of the place. Someone had the answers she needed.

  She was, in fact, a believer in the supernatural. She had seen many strange things in her life, dreamlike visions of the future as far back as when she was a teenager. There was a lot Curtis didn’t know about from back then, and she was determined to keep it that way.

  She approached the sidewalk and moved past the pizza place, passing a closed consignment shop and, next door, an art gallery. Redwood seemed to have a little of everything, and she was excited to see a crafts store with art supplies in the window. It was closed as well, but she made a note for later. A few people passed her by as she smiled and nodded, but there weren’t nearly as many people out as on the previous day.

  She heard the church bell toll as the library came into view in the distance—a long gray building with a flat roof and large tinted windows. It was surrounded by vertical metal railing and nicely trimmed bushes. She didn’t see anyone around the building, but something told her to keep going. The open gate in the center was a good sign.

  As she walked past a closed bar, an old woman stepped into her path from an alley, startling Mary. The woman looked frazzled with long, dirty hair, a green jacket and a plain dress about two sizes too large.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” Mary said, carefully moving around the woman.

  The woman stared her down, shaking her head and not saying a word. Her gray hair sprouted in all directions. She wore bright-red lipstick and had heavy bags under her glazed eyes. As Mary passed, the woman turned and followed her, wagging her long finger in the air.

  “You and your husband,” she said in a low, scratchy voice.

  Mary stopped and turned around, facing the woman, dumbfounded. “What did you say?”

  “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” the woman said.

  Mary stepped forward, upset. “What are you talking about? How do you know my husband?”

  “You don’t belong here. Outsider…” she hissed with contempt.

  Despite the woman’s shoddy appearance and rudeness, Mary felt an urge to probe further. “What can you tell me?”

  The woman shook her head, lost in her own thoughts. She then opened her mouth to speak, when a nicely-dressed man approached her from behind and placed a hand on her shoulders. “That’s all right, Evelyn, let’s take you home.”

  The woman jumped as the man looked at Mary with a smile on his face. He was clean-shaven with thick white hair, neatly brushed to the side. His dark-blue three-piece suit was a stark contrast to the woman’s tattered clothes.

  “Hi, I’m Phil,” he said, extending his hand.

  Mary nodded and shook his hand. “I’m Mary. Nice to meet you.”

  The woman looked down and mumbled to herself, her train of thought broken.

  “I apologize if ol’ Evelyn gave you a scare. She wandered from the retirement home again.” He squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “She’s been missing for hours, and the staff has been worried sick.”

  Mary smiled. “Well, I’m glad she has somewhere to go.”

  The man narrowed his eyes in curiosity at her. “You and your husband just moved here, correct?”

  “Wow. Word gets around,” she said.

  “It sure does,” Phil responded.

  “That’s correct,” she said. “We arrived yesterday.”

  “And you’re staying in the old mansion, eh?”

  “We are. It-It’s been interesting so far,” she said.

  Phil smiled again, exposing bright white teeth. “I certainly hope you get settled in okay.” He paused for a moment and stepped closer to Mary as Evelyn rocked in place, muttering. “I’m the pastor at the First Christ Church of Redwood. Pastor Phil, they call me. I sure hope you and your husband can attend our services some time.”

  Mary nodded politely with a smile. “We’d love to.”

  Phil snapped his fingers as though recalling something. “We’re having our annual summer barbecue next week. You should come on out and see everyone.”

  “That sounds… really nice,” she said.

  Seeming satisfied, Phil turned back to Evelyn and took her by the hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Malone, but I gotta take ol’ Evelyn here back home.”

  “Pleasure meeting you as well,” she said, though she didn’t recall telling him her last name.

  He waved and walked off with Evelyn in tow and then turned around, calling out to Mary. “I look forward to meeting your husband!”

  Mary waved back and watched as they crossed to the other side of the road. A few cars passed as she stood there thinking about the woman’s words. They could have been the ramblings of a mentally damaged woman, or they could have meant something more. Mary turned back to the library, ready to investigate and uncover whatever was behind the creeping strangeness that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

  Unearthed

  Mary was glad to see that the library was, in fact, open. There were a few rooms with rows of old bookshelves and several empty chairs and tables in the center where patrons could sit and read. There was an older bespectacled man at the check-out table sitting on a stool and reading a newspaper. He wore
a striped button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and looked up at Mary as she walked in.

  Inside, the library was eerily quiet. Sunlight shined through the slats in the blinds covering the surrounding windows. She found the vintage aesthetic of the white plaster walls and faded red carpet comforting but also felt nervous being the only person there—or so she thought.

  “Good morning,” she said to the man, approaching his counter.

  He gave her a polite smile that lifted his wrinkled face and eyed her like the stranger she was. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his skinny neck hung down in folds. Like her, she assumed that everyone in town was from somewhere else. Or maybe some people had lived in Redwood their entire lives. It was exactly what she intended to find out.

  “Morning,” he said back. “Welcome to the Redwood Public Library.”

  “Thanks,” she said, looking around. “I wasn’t sure if you were open today or not.”

  “Seven days a week.”

  “That’s great,” she said. She didn’t want to draw attention to the empty tables and aisles, but the man seemed to have read her mind.

  “Sundays are our slowest in the morning. Big church community and all. By afternoon we usually get a good crowd,” he said.

  Mary approached the counter and placed her hands flat on its mahogany surface. “I’m Mary. My husband and I just moved here from Chicago. I’d like to get a library card if I could, please.”

  The man nodded and leaned down, retrieving a large, dusty binder and setting it on the counter. “All right, Mary. I’m Hal. I’m sure we can get you set up.” There was an old computer next to him, but he didn’t seem interested in using it. He asked for her full name as well as her driver’s license.

  She pulled her wallet out from her purse and opened it. “Oh. It still has my old address on it.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, taking her license. “Just let me know the new one.”

  He began scribbling onto a sheet in the open binder, taking down Mary’s name. The subdued quiet of the library had her thinking that she’d be spending a lot of time within its walls. It was soothing and pleasant. “I live at 513 Weatherford Lane,” she said.

  Hal stopped writing and looked up at her. “Weatherford Lane? The old Bechdel mansion?”

  She was surprised that he made the connection so quickly. But then, the mansion and its story surely were known by most people. That much seemed evident in the few interactions she had experienced so far. “Yes, that would be the place,” she said.

  His eyes immediately fell back onto the binder as he continued writing. “Didn’t think that place would ever sell,” he said.

  Curious, Mary leaned in closer. “And why is that?”

  Hal looked up again, taken off guard. “Well, it’s just… It’s an old place. Too big for most people. Not really practical in today’s modern world.”

  “But it’s so inexpensive,” Mary said. “Hard to believe they’d have a hard time selling it.”

  Hal tore a slip from the binder and handed it to Mary. “I wouldn’t know. Just seems it was held up in probate forever.” He then handed her a pen. “Sign the card here, and you’re all good to go.”

  Mary took the card and signed it, not entirely satisfied with what he was willing or not willing to reveal. “Mister… ?” she paused waiting.

  “Hal. Just call me Hal,” he said, sitting back down on his stool.

  “Hal. I actually came here today to get some information.”

  Hal went for his newspaper and then paused, looking up with an arched brow. “What kind of information?”

  “About this town. About our new house. About the Bechdels, if possible.”

  Hal leaned back with his arms crossed, more reserved than before. “You some kind of reporter? Been a while since one of them have come here asking questions and all.”

  “No, I can assure you that—”

  Hal cut her off with one arm in the air, pointing. “Because if you are trying to dig up some dirt under false pretenses, I’d like you to kindly leave.”

  Mary shuffled on the carpet, eager to set the record straight. “I am not a reporter. My husband and I just moved here, and I’d like to do some research.”

  “Oh…” he said, calming down. “Of course. Well you can’t blame me for being suspicious. Folks in Redwood don’t bother anyone. They just want to live in a nice, safe community. We’re not spectacles for big-city types to come down here and judge us. I think you can respect that.”

  “I can,” Mary said. “This is the exact kind of community my husband and I were looking for.”

  “It’s a long shot from Chicago, ma’am. I can tell you that.”

  She felt restrained from revealing anything more, or taking a chance on making him even more suspicious. She wanted to tell someone about the visions she had, the unsettling feeling the mansion gave her, and her overall apprehensiveness, but Hal seemed all business, and that was exactly how she decided to proceed.

  “Can you direct me to nonfiction, please? As I said before, I’d like to read some history about the town.”

  “Plenty of books over there,” he said, pointing to a row of wooden shelves in the corner across the room. “Lots of local authors there.” He then paused and looked up, pushing his glasses back. “Of course, if it’s records you’re looking for, you might want to visit the courthouse. They got an office of records there dating back a hundred-some odd years.”

  Great, Mary thought. She was beginning to have her work cut out for her.

  “Do you have a newspaper archive here?” she asked.

  “Sure do,” Hal replied. He then paused and eyed her suspiciously again. “You sure you’re not a reporter?”

  Her face flushed as she placed her hands on the counter. Hal noticed and reversed course with a laugh.

  “Sorry. Can never be too sure around here.”

  He then pointed to a darkened room off to the left side, behind glass-paneled doors where stacks of newspaper where piled on shelves. “That’s our news room there.”

  There were also several old monitors lined up next to a microfilm cabinet.

  “Thank you,” she said, walking away.

  Even with her back turned, she could sense him watching her. Perhaps he was reaching for his phone to alert the others that a newcomer was snooping around—an outsider. She stopped at the newspaper room and glanced behind her, only to see Hal going back to his own paper.

  She turned the light switch on as she walked inside the room where there were two old beige sofa chairs with a circular coffee table between them. She scanned the years labeled on each microfilm, unsure of where to start.

  There was a history that the residents of Redwood seemed very protective of, though she was curious how long Hal and his wife had lived here. Maybe if she got to know him better over the coming weeks, she could find out. She turned to the newspaper shelves with wonder. There were papers dating back to the 1950s, but she was looking for one particular decade—one particular year.

  She reached the end of the aisle and turned to walk between the shelves the next aisle over, eyes scanning up and down. In the middle she could see a label on one section for 1974-1975, encompassing over five shelves from top to bottom. “Well,” she said to herself. “Here we go.”

  Suddenly, her cell phone rang inside her purse. She paused and pulled the phone out. Curtis was calling her. She answered, speaking softly even though there was no one in the library at the moment to disturb.

  “Hey! Make it to the library okay?”

  “I sure did,” she said. “I’m there now.”

  “Great-” His voice cut out a little as a gust of wind blew into the phone. “Hey, listen. Bob wants to take us to lunch at this cozy little diner. We’ll come over and get you.”

  “That’s fine, but not right now,” she said without hesitation. “I’ve got to finish what I came here for.”

  “Come on, Mary. It’s Sunday. You’ll have plenty more times to go to the l
ibrary this week.”

  “Sorry, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll meet up with you when I’m finished.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  Mary paused and looked around. “Thirty minutes or so? Not too long.”

  Curtis sighed but held his tongue. “Okay. I’ll text you what they have on the menu.”

  “Sounds good. Thank. Love you. Bye.”

  She hung up and guided her hands along some newspapers on the second shelf dated between June and July of 1975.

  “Perfect,” she said, walking away toward one of the sofa chairs. She took a seat with a few papers in her lap as a young couple walked inside the library wearing their Sunday best. She could see them through the glass window. They walked in and said hi to Hal, continuing toward a line of bookshelves.

  She carefully opened the first paper, The Dover County Sentinel, scanning some articles. Dover was the county in which Redwood was located, but the town seemed to exhibit a boundary all its own. The closest town over, Jasper, was at least twenty miles away. Its headline displayed national news on inflation and gas prices.

  It was interesting seeing the advertisements for old television sets and refrigerators, right next to news articles with men dressed in vintage jean jackets and turtlenecks and women with their long, button-down granny dresses. As she flipped through more old news and captured moments of the past, her eyes stopped on one tiny article in the local section.

  She recognized the man in the picture. He looked much younger of course, but there he was wearing a plaid jacket and tie and with dark-brown hair, brushed back the same way as now. It was Pastor Phil, and he was standing at a podium with several microphones attached to it. The headline verified her suspicion immediately:

  Local Pastor Calls for Peace and Calm during Time of Tragedy