Haunting and Scares Collection

by Rosemary Cullen

  Mary, Millie thought as she chewed thoughtfully. That sounds familiar. She frowned. I’m probably just thinking of someone back home, a friend, maybe.

  Then it hit her. Mary – Mary Chambers – was the name of the servant that Cecil had mentioned to Millie, back when he’d first told of the Westbridge tragedy.

  Leaving her toast and coffee to cool, Millie raced up the stairs and pulled on yesterday’s jeans, a clean sweater, and a windbreaker. She ran a brush through her hair without looking in the mirror, then ran breathlessly out of the house and across the lawn to Cecil’s large, palatial estate.

  Millie knocked on the door, pounding with both her hands until it swung open. Cecil, clad in a red-velvet smoking jacket, peered at her.

  “Good heavens, Millie, what’s this,” Cecil asked drily. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I think I have,” Millie said gravely. She bit her lip. “I know it’s crazy, but you don’t happen to have any pictures of the old Westbridge staff, do you?”

  Cecil chuckled. “This was back in the time of daguerreotypes,” he said. “But come with me – I might have something. The late Baron FitzWalter was a fan of such technology. You may just be in luck.”

  Millie followed wordlessly behind Cecil as he led her through his own roomy estate. It struck Millie that Cecil’s home was much homier than hers – she could really tell that he enjoyed living there.

  Cecil led Millie into a small, dark library. It was cold inside, and Millie zipped her windbreaker and wrapped her arms around her thin torso.

  “Apologies,” Cecil said. “I so rarely light the grate in this room. Just give me a moment, I’m sure I can find what you’re looking for.”

  It seemed to take hours as Cecil rummaged around on the shelves. Finally, he plucked a leather album from the top shelf. The cover was water-stained and moldy, and it smelled of mildew and decay. Still, Millie found herself filled with hope and cheer to see it.

  “Come with me,” Cecil said, glancing over his shoulder. “I believe this is it.”

  Millie followed Cecil into the bright kitchen. He pushed the book at her.

  “Here,” Cecil said. “This would have been recovered from Westbridge right after the tragedy.” He narrowed his eyes and handed her a cup of coffee, then the decaying album.

  Millie bit her lip as she flipped through the pages. Sure enough, the Baron FitzWalter was shown on the first page, looking dapper and serious in a top hat and tails. She gasped when she flipped the page and saw a beautiful young woman with a happy, radiant smile and brown hair.

  “That must be Julia,” Millie said. “She looks so young!”

  Cecil nodded. “Yes,” he said. “She was a young woman when she became the Baroness. The Baron FitzWalter loved her so much, he was determined to have her at any cost.”

  Millie studied Julia’s face carefully. There was no hint of the turmoil or depression that would plague her. Millie felt a deep sense of sadness, and she stroked the picture lovingly with the tips of her fingers.

  As she flipped through the album, Millie began to feel discouraged. Most of the photos were staged of the Baron and his wife, or other affluent people that Millie assumed were relatives. But on the final page, there was a large group shot of men and women kneeling on the lawns of Westbridge.

  “The family jubilee, looks like,” Cecil said. “The servants are in the front, holding the children.”

  The daguerreotype was blurry, but Millie could make out a row of young girls holding squalling infants on their laps. One of them had fair hair and a serene smile.

  “That’s her,” Millie said suddenly. “That’s Mary Chambers. I know it.”

  Cecil frowned.

  “She must be holding the child,” Millie continued. “The one who died.”

  “The one she killed, you mean,” Cecil said, narrowing his eyes.

  Millie looked up at Cecil and shook her head. “This is going to sound crazy,” she said slowly. “But I don’t think Mary did anything wrong.”

  Cecil frowned. “Why?”

  Millie felt helpless as she groped for the words. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just…I have a feeling, Cecil, that she wasn’t at fault.” She sighed deeply. “What if the haunting of Westbridge is because of what happened?”

  “Well, of course it’s because of what happened,” Cecil said. “A young kitchen maid killed her mistress and her mistress’s child.”

  “No,” Millie said slowly. “I don’t think so.” She stood up slowly and pushed her chair away from the table. “Excuse me, but I think I should be going.”

  Cecil made no attempt to stop her as she left.

  Millie crossed the yard, glancing up at the sky. The sun was now behind a grey cloud, and the air seemed even colder than before. Shivering, she broke into a run until she was back in the safety of her kitchen.

  The crying always seems to come from the kitchen, Millie thought to herself. What if something happened, and Mary was blamed? And she cried herself to sleep every night, knowing that she’d be put to death for something she didn’t do?

  “Mary, I know you’re here,” Millie called to the still kitchen air. “And I know you’re innocent.”

  A chill ran through Millie’s body and she shivered.

  “Mary, tell me what happened,” Millie begged. “Please, I need to know!”

  When she heard the crying and sobbing, Millie wasn’t surprised. Nervously, she pushed into the pantry, where the kitchen staff had once lived. The air was filled with the pungent smell of sweat, and Mary shuddered as a deep sense of fear and dread filled her. Millie reached into her pocket and took out a book of matches. She lit a fire in the grate and leaned back against the wall, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

  The flames in the grate began to shift and change. The room filled with smoke, and Millie began to cough and choke.

  Suddenly, Millie saw two figures in the flames. A beautiful young woman, her body broken and bent, lying still. And a small child – no bigger than a toddler – lying on the floor, limbs akimbo, not breathing.

  The crying grew louder and louder. It filled Millie with such intense sadness that she, too, began to weep.

  “Mary, I understand!” Millie called, forcing herself to be heard over the loud sobbing. “I know you’re innocent!”

  The crying grew softer and softer.

  “I know you didn’t kill the Baroness FitzWalter!” Millie called. “Or the child, Thomas Edward.”

  She closed her eyes, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Just then, Millie had a vision. A young servant girl, with fair hair, stumbling upon the bodies of Julia and Thomas Edward. Millie watched in horror as the young girl burst into tears and dropped to her knees, wailing in anguish.

  The scene faded. When Millie opened her eyes, the flames in the grate had died down to ashes and char. The smoke was clearing from the room, and the crying had all but vanished.

  “They killed you, Mary,” Millie said softly, running her fingers down the roughly-hewn stone pantry wall. “They killed you, and blamed you for the death of the Baroness FitzWalter!”

  A loud crash from outside made Millie jump in fear. Gasping, she covered her mouth with both hands and ran from the pantry to the kitchen, then out into the garden.

  A large tree branch had fallen right on the chaise lounge where Millie had lain not days before. Blinking, Millie ran over. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  “Millie?”

  Millie screamed in fright as she looked up to see Cecil standing there with a hand on his hip.

  “Millie, good heavens? What’s given you such a fright?”

  “Mary didn’t kill Julia,” Millie said quickly. “Julia killed Thomas Edward and herself, in a fit of grief. I’ve read her diary, I know how depressed she was! Mary must’ve found the bodies…and she was punished for it!”

  Cecil blinked. “That’s odd,” he said, glancing at the fallen tree branch. “This tree was planted over the graves of several serv
ants who died here…one of them was hanged from these very branches.”

  Millie felt a cold chill overwhelm her body. She glanced up at the sky. The dark clouds were moving past each other, revealing a twinkling background of blue. The sun’s rays shone down, shining brightly over the fallen branch.

  Millie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Cecil, I know you don’t believe me,” she said slowly. “But I know what I know, and I know that Mary is innocent.” Millie shielded her eyes from the sun and looked back at Westbridge. “And now, her soul is at peace. The haunting of Westbridge has been put to rest.”

  Cecil looked at her in astonishment.

  “I just know it,” Millie said fiercely. She tapped her chest. “I can feel it, right here. The grief, the sadness…it’s all gone now. Mary’s spirit is free, and the house will be peaceful and calm.”

  Cecil blinked.

  “I know,” Millie said quickly. “I know it sounds insane.”

  Cecil shook his head. “A bit,” he said. After a few seconds, he smiled. “But you know, I haven’t ever felt this calm around Westbridge,” he added. “I think you may be correct.”

  Millie smiled happily in relief. She looked down at the fallen tree branch and knelt, running her hand over the rough bark.

  “You’re at rest now, Mary,” Millie said softly. “And no one will ever falsely accuse you again.”

  As the sun shone down over Westbridge Mansion, Millie somehow knew that the haunting was gone forever. Turning to Cecil, she smiled brightly before turning and going back to the home that she loved.

  The End

  The Haunting of Monroe Manor

  Rosemary Cullen

  Copyright © 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  Scarlet Hanley pulled into the end of the driveway. It was as far as the car wanted to go. The engine idled silently, the tires refusing to move over the fresh fallen snow, lest it wake the house.

  Scarlet swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. She reached for the bottle of imported mineral water and fumbled with the cap. It spun off and flew into the passenger seat.

  Cars don’t have fear! She chastised herself for a fool. And houses DO NOT SLEEP!

  The sign next to the drive cried out in rusted metal and rotted wood. MONROE. The name swung in the slight breeze like a hanging man on a gallows. Regardless of what she thought, this car was scared. It did not want to go one inch further.

  A river of mineral water quenched the fires in her throat, but the tremors in her body weren’t from the tepid water and did not originate in the artic fingers of icy air that seeped through the heater and curled around her legs.

  Damn it, that house slept.

  “Scarlet, you’re about to graduate from a prestigious university. You know better than these childish flights of fancy. You’re just using the facial recognition, trying to anthropomorphize the place. It’s a house, not a person. It’s not sleeping, it’s just built there, it’s NOT A PERSON!”

  She wasn’t convinced. The car wasn’t either.

  Scarlet gripped the wheel and pressed the gas. She forced the car to take the driveway up to the front door of the great brooding manor. It fought her on the snow and tried to turn. She countered the motion of the fish tail and the car whipped the other way, or at least tried to.

  Scarlet had grown up in upstate New York. Ice and snow were old friends. She let off the gas and coasted to a stop at the front door. She tapped the brake and though the car tried to make a last run for it, it settled grudgingly to a final rest.

  Scarlet killed the engine, and it began to ping and crackle as it cooled. The afternoon sun wasn’t enough to keep the heat under the thick gray clouds. Right away, a chill seeped into the car and settled beside her, as though the air itself was trying to steal the warm from her flesh.

  She reached for the parka she’d thrown off when she’d left the city, back when the heater was warm and the car was a safe haven for winter’s killing chill. She opened the car and the full wrath of the ice took the last of the car’s comfort.

  She stood and put the parka on, reached in the back to grab her two bags and stood looking around at the grounds.

  Virgin white covered every inch of the manor, burying the summer green and autumn’s dead leaves under a silent grave of pristine snow. She slipped as navigated the ice on the driveway, walking around the back of the car and heading cautiously toward the front door.

  The house began to stir. It was coming to life, waking something in her, something primal and familiar that left her shaken and unsure. Frowning a little, she climbed to the covered porch. She slung one bag over her shoulder and regarded the door with a wariness that seemed ridiculous.

  Does one knock on their own front door? Scarlet owned the house now, but had never seen it before today. It was a strange experience, and she didn’t know the protocol. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of caretaker here? She reached for the brass knocker, a grinning imp, hinged just below the ears. She told herself she was a fool for hesitating and rapped three times.

  The door burst open as the knocker fell the last time. Scarlet jumped. It was like a jack in the box, only she was trying to get into the box. An old woman stood in front of the door, her eyes fixed on Scarlet and her face the perfect image of disapproval and disgust.

  “Hi… are you…”

  “Malinda.”

  Well at least I can hear her clearly. Though she didn’t to need shout at me.

  “I’m…”

  “Scarlet.” The old woman spoke as though it were a sentence of execution. “Come.”

  There was something about her gaze. Scarlet shuddered and picked up the other bag and crossed the threshold into her new home. The entrance was a grand design with sweeping stairs, two, divided from a common landing. The landing held a built-in alcove that begged for a statue or a suit of armor. It currently held a cobweb in the upper right-hand corner.

  Just under each stair was an archway leading to the rest of the first floor. To her immediate right was large empty room big enough to park three semis side by side. Heavy curtains hung in silent effigy over large windows, blocking all but the most stubborn rays from penetrating the gloom. The far end of the room was all but lost in the dismal murkiness.

  “The grand ballroom.” Malinda said by way of explanation.

  Scarlet saw visions of ladies in formal gowns, men in tuxedos gliding over the gleaming hardwood floor and lively quartet ensconced somewhere playing as the company whirled and spun and clever feet flashed back and forth to the music. It was an inviting image, harkening back to another time.

  “Your rooms are up the stairs.” Malinda snapped and grabbed up the extra bag and began climbing the steps.

  “You don’t need to…” Scarlet chased after her, reaching a hand to take the bag back.

  “I’m not so old as I can’t still work.” Malinda groused keeping her fist curled around the handle. “I’m the last in a long line of housekeepers. My great-great-grandmother was the original housekeeper, hired by Ella herself. There has never been a Monroe manor what without a Wilkins working in it.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “There won’t be a Wilkens after me. But so long as I am here, I’m able to work right enough.”

  “I’m sure, I didn’t mean that you couldn’t…”

  “I know every single brick, every board, every pipe in this house and you will never find a better caretaker for it than I am.” She turned suddenly. Scarlet had to jump backward to avoid running into her. That basilisk stare focused on her and Scarlet found herself staring at a cold dead eye.

  That was reason for the odd stare. The right eye was glass. Someone had gone to great pains to match them, it was the right color and even carried painted veins running through the sclera and the pupil was bright and multifaceted. But it was dead. It didn’t move. There was no dilation, no contraction, no life in that eye.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Scar
let stopped. She’d missed whatever it was that Malinda had just said.

  The old woman glared at her for a moment. She lifted a finger and pointed to the glass eye. “This happened when I was trying to replace a fuse. In the basement of this house. I was helping my mother at the time. Fuse exploded, set burning wire into my eye.” Malinda blinked and her left eye looked away for a moment. Her right eye fixed its dead gaze on Scarlet.

  “It was a bad accident. That was the general talk. Just bad luck. I was sixteen.” Malinda turned and continued down the hallway to the east wing. “Like I said, I am the last of the Wilkins and as long as I draw breath, I am the keeper of this house.”

  Scarlet tagged along in silence. The will contained more than the deed for the house, it had a substantial trust for the upkeep and that included the services of a housekeeper. Aunt Mabel had been very specific about keeping Malinda in that position. Scarlet wondered why her dear Aunt wouldn’t just give the old woman money to retire on and let her free.

  Malinda passed six stately doors, three on each side of the hall and proceeded to the end. The master bedroom was the entire back of the mansion, it held a sitting room and a large fireplace with a dancing little blaze set behind an iron mesh. The warmth from the fire heated the center of the room, but the corners kept the cold hidden and protected. The fire wouldn’t burn forever, and the icy cold air would seep back in through any crack or crevice it found.

  Malinda heaved the heavy suitcase onto the bed and looked around.

  “The lawyer’s office called, told me you were coming.” She nodded toward the blaze. “I took the liberty to set the fire. Of course, you were a lot later than I expected, so we burned through quite a bit, but it’s your wood, so it’s your choice if you want to keep it going, of course. Come on then, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

  Scarlet tossed her knapsack on the suitcase and shucked off her jacket. It topped the pile on the bed. She envied her luggage, all she wanted to crawl into bed after that long drive, but she indulged the woman and followed her out.