Haunting and Scares Collection

by Rosemary Cullen

  Scarlet planted her feet and held firm. Whatever was in there, it was hers. It came with the house she owned. She owned it and she would not run from shadows, not anymore. The key slid into the lock with click that seemed to echo in her bones and the door opened on silent hinges. A part of her had expected the rusted dying scream of antiquated metal, the sort old horror movies insist upon. It might have been better, honestly, if it was, at least when the door swung, she’d have a warning. This was a purely silent entrance into…

  A rather small room. The master bedroom had taken a large portion of the north side of the house. It was easily three of the spacious bedrooms in size. She had to remind herself too that bathrooms were a very different idea when the house was built, so some real estate had to be sacrificed in order to make way for plumbing and comforts undreamed of at the end of the Civil War.

  The room was about 12X12 in size, comfortable without being too small. It too boasted hardwood floors, but the sole occupant of the room was a dressmaker’s dummy wearing the rotting remains of a once elegant and alabaster wedding dress. It swept and parted and seemed to be caught in a moment lost in time. The ravages of the years had plucked the lace and pearls like denuding petals from a dried rose, but the elegance it once held was still there, lingering over it like an aura.

  “Who’s is that?” Scarlet asked breathless.

  The older woman shrugged. “It’s been here since before my grandmother’s time. No one knows. It’s up to you, of course, but be careful if you touch it, it’s not held together well.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off it. “It’s beautiful.”

  Malinda sniffed. “I suspect it’s beautiful because it’s been locked away these years. Is there anything else you wish to see?”

  Scarlet turned, looking for subtext, wondering if the old woman was being sarcastic. She saw nothing but polite indifference. “No. No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

  An empty room. A single ancient dress. This was what she’d been afraid of?

  “In that case, I will serve your breakfast now. In the dining room.”

  “Mrs. Watkins…”

  “Miss.” The old woman hissed. “Or Ms. If you prefer. I am from the generation that doesn’t really much care.” The stone expression spoke volumes. Scarlet’s newfound courage had created a barrier between them that would not go away anytime soon.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Hanley,” she said shortly, her stare never wavering. “Will that be all?”

  Scarlet sighed, seeing the temperament in the woman. “That is all. thank you.”

  “You can lock the door when you’re done then.” She snapped and turned.

  “I think we’ll leave it unlocked,” Scarlet said quickly. “There’s just the two of us. No need to protect it if we don’t go in there.”

  The shadow of the door clove the old woman’s face in two. Her left side shone in the reflected light of the hallway. The right side was consumed by shadow, her features twisted in a cruel tortured rictus in the deep recesses. But the eye, the artificial eye in that side glowed as bright and ruddy as if there were a fire in the old woman and that eye was a window into the flames.

  It was the same sight Scarlet had seen last night, In her dreams. She knew then, that no matter what capitulation she made, no matter what the promises she had convinced herself to privately make, that old woman had been in her room, had stood at the end of the bed and, arm raised, had commanded her to sleep.

  And she’d obeyed.

  “It is, of course, your discretion,” she said quietly. “Ma’am.” The last word was added as an afterthought. No…an insult. Malinda bent her head to the floor, her good eye looking at the floor. The false eye turned and followed, keeping Scarlet in focus. “Breakfast is served.”

  Scarlet stood in the center of an empty room, an ancient and rotting wedding gown at her shoulder. The footsteps of the housekeeper faded on the steps and Scarlet took a step out of the room. If she left in haste and the door closed with a little extra speed, who was there to know?

  Chapter 5

  She felt better when she got to the dining room. Breakfast had been laid out on the table. Steam still rose from the sausages and eggs, butter ran in rivulets across the top of a stack of three small but sturdy pancakes, but the orange juice bore a thin film of ice over the outside of the glass. There was an urn for coffee, alongside a smaller urn holding warm cream.

  The woman must have run down the steps to get all of this set up so quickly.

  Scarlet sat and regarded the meal. It didn’t matter if it was safe to eat. It didn’t matter if the air was even fit to breathe. There wasn’t an alternative other than starving and suffocating. She dug in thinking if it was her last meal. It was delicious.

  She waited for a full half hour after she ate to compliment Melinda’s skills. The old woman never showed. The kitchen was empty, there was no sign she’d eaten, though she might have cleaned up after. Scarlett was alone in the house for all she could tell.

  She retreated to her room. The bed had been neatly made. Virgin snow white comforter with alabaster pillows. In the middle of the bed, a blood red, leather bound volume tied with thin hemp tracings.

  There was no sign of the person who had left it for her. No note to indicate why.

  With a wary look around the room, she slipped the knot free and carefully opened the brittle volume. When she read the date on the first page, she gasped and set the book down gently, respecting the age and the origin of the book.

  These pages are the property of Ella Simpson. A flowery hand had written in bold letter across the first page, Given to me by my dear Mother on my sixteenth birthday, October 23, 1865.

  Where the word “Simpson” had been, a broad and confident stroke had split the letters in twain and the word “Monroe” had been written in its place. If it was possible for penmanship to hold emotion in a word, this one held pride and honor in every stroke.

  Scarlet opened the curtain and sat down to read, twisting a little on the sofa to catch the light properly on the pages. The ink was faded over time. The bright light reflecting off the snow made it possible to read. She shifted to see better and her eye was caught on the graveyard again. She wondered at why it was so close to the house. The stones seemed so vivid…so clear from here.

  The marker that seemed to catch her eye had changed. Rather, some of the snow had melted off in the bright morning sun and revealed that under the name MONROE, there was an E. Beneath that, Oct 1849- Mar 1868. This was crammed to one side of the marker, leaving the other side empty. It occurred to Scarlet that such markers were made to commemorate couples, she would be buried to one side and he to the other. In E’s case, or Ella’s case if the diary matched the grave, there were no spousal notations.

  “Hope it’s ok if I read this.” Scarlet said to the grave. “I just want to get to know you. Ok? After all you are family.” She leaned back, her belly contented, and the bright light of a cloudless winter sky warmed her soul.

  October 23: Mamma gave me this journal today to mark my sixteenth birthday. I adore it. It is my favorite color and smells like heaven. I have been practicing my letters and now I am glad I have. I would not dream to soil such a magnificent tome with crabbed letters or chicken scratch. More wonderful news, I am to have a cotillion. Father has made arrangements for the highest members of society to attend, and I think I shall have a beau before it is all over.

  The ball she’d pictured. Scarlet smiled a little, and lost herself in the fantasy of twirling couples. The images were maybe stolen from Gone with the Wind, but wouldn’t all cotillions look much the same? She wondered if there was a Rhett Butler then her Elle.

  The stress of the day thawed a little. Melted. The fire cracked and popped from behind the grate. Everything from the night before seemed distant and very far away.

  October 28th. I am exhausted, my poor feet are in agony, but my spirit soars and my mind is awhirl. I have danced every dance and more. I have n
ever danced so much in my life and all with such charming suitors. For suitors they are! Fine men with warm smiles. Many of them seem bashful, though I can scarcely credit it. I danced four dances with a young man of the name Jack Monroe. They speak of him in whispers and I can see why. He wore his uniform tonight for what he says will be the last time. The war is over, the South is again part of the Union and his time in the military is at an end. It is a pure shame, as his medals and pins are as ornate as any I’ve ever seen. Why his ribbons fair to cover his chest with so much gold and honor that it’s a miracle he can stand up at all.

  “Your Jack sounds like quite the hero,” she murmured as she very carefully turned the next page. The roomed seemed to grow darker. She tilted the page to see better, wishing it weren’t such a cloudy day.

  November 14th. I have seen much of the dashing young hero of late. He is charming and witty and makes my head spin. I think I have grown immensely fond of him. He says he must leave now for a time, there are certain items which are needing his attention in Maine where his fortune and home lies. I do not know what exactly that entails, but his father has some interests abroad and Mr. Monroe… Jack… must go to assist. November is a bad month for traveling, but he assures me that he will have clear skies and unblemished sun through his sojourn.

  “Oooh…a long-distance relationship.” She wondered where Ella had lived. Whether that particular winter had been as cold as this one. She shivered a little, wondering why the heat from the fire didn’t reach well to this spot by the window. “It’s too drafty in here, Ella. And you wearing dresses back then. How did you survive?” She drew her feet up under her and contemplated rescuing a blanket from the bed to wrap around herself.

  November 29th. I have received correspondence from my Jack. He begs me to call him mine, though it might not be proper, but he says his heart soars so when I lay claim to his affections as he has already dedicated himself to me. If no other should receive his grace, then I must lay claim to what is mine by default. If it makes… my love… happy, then I shall happily do it.

  The shadows deepened and lengthened around her. A glance outside showed heavy clouds moving in. The next entries were short.

  January 12th. Jack has returned. The demands of winter travel through New England states have taken their toll on him, he is more serious than before and I sense there is a deep abiding secret in him he has not shared. I can wait. It is enough that he has returned to me, keeping his promise in all those letters. I am as giddy as a little girl and as I think of him, I cannot help but smile.

  February 3rd. I am breathless. I cannot breathe. My heart races and my head is fit to explode. Jack has petitioned my father for my hand! Father has not yet given a reply and the wait has me on tenterhooks and I cannot breathe!

  Obviously, things would work out, but Scarlet found herself caught up in the story. She jumped when a log shifted on the fire, and laughed at herself for being on edge. “It’s not like it’s me needing my father’s permission to getting married,” she told the empty room.

  February 5th. Father has relented! I am to be married! It took a lot of convincing, I do not know why father was so hesitant about a decorated war hero. What matters about Jack’s father’s businesses? Jack is an honorable man and he much adores me. He too is much adored among the officers and men of his troop. If the United States Army is not a good enough witness for character, then who is?

  A trace of uneasiness uncurled in the pit of Scarlet’s stomach. The words seemed to crawl on the page. There was a lot wrong with this though she couldn’t put her finger on why. She sat back, letting the book fall into her lap and stared without really seeing around the room. The fire cast strange shadows on the wall that seemed to move and writhe, the damned playing out a drama only she could see. The reflection of the flames played between the shadows, images of the damned dancing in lakes of fire. She shuddered, cursing an overly vivid imagination and dropped her gaze to the book. Had it turned out ok, despite her father’s misgivings?

  April 3rd. I have become Mrs. Monroe this day. My husband… husband… husband… I shall never be accustomed to the word, shall i? My husband is taking me to Maine to live where he’d grown up. He has assumed my dowry and says he will build us such a grand house as has never been seen in the state of Maine, and that the rest shall be invested for the good of our future children. Children! I cannot be happier than I am now, I can’t believe it’s possible.

  Scarlet nodded. See? all was well. No reason to be worried at all. Fire squealed and popped as sap pulled from a log and ignited.

  October 23rd. Has it been only a year? I cannot conceive of the difference in my life in a single year. The house is ready, we take possession in a week. The construction was long and complex, but the house is beautiful if somewhat overstated. Jack believes this will assist us, he is of the opinion that potential business associates will see our home and realize that a man of means and importance is here and is a man to be reckoned with.

  Friends from his childhood have arrived to help us initiate the house, it’s charming, but I still know no one here. One of his oldest friends, Elenore Winters, I thought would be a candidate for friendship, but her reception of me has been cold, distant. I do not know what it was I have done to displease her, but I hope that the party will give me a chance to make amends.

  I feel very weak everyday now, as though my spirit flags, though I should be the happiest person in the world.

  Weak? Scarlet couldn’t bear the chill another moment. She threw the book down and went to the bed, drawing a thick afghan folded at the foot of the bed up around her shoulders. For a moment she stood in the middle of the room, wondering why it seemed so dark. She moved toward the light switch, but something stayed her hand, feeling as if the very act would dispel the spell the book had worked around her. She looked at the open volume lying on the sofa. It called to her, begging her to finish.

  She tugged the afghan a little higher and bent to reach for the book. Behind her something moved, something that she only saw out of the corner of her eyes. She whirled, heart racing, the diary pressed to her chest. No one was there. She sank back onto the sofa, her heart pounding in her ears.

  January 23rd. I am devastated. My world has stopped and I cannot manage. I have received word that my parents have passed from this earth. They have been killed, my childhood home ash and burnt wood. They were unable to escape. Dear Sophia tries to get me to eat, but I cannot. No matter what she cooks, and I am grateful for her loving administrations, I really am. Her little girl is such a serious child, I see my despair affects her, but I grieve. Jack is at the lawyer’s offices getting arrangements worked out.

  Scarlet gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. Such tragedy.

  The smoke from the fire seemed thicker in the room suddenly. It was hard to breathe.

  Her eyes dropped to the book, to the next page.

  March 3rd. I can no longer endure this. No longer do my thoughts run clearly. I am going for a walk, that the fresh air might clear my head.

  There was nothing else. The following pages were blank. The room closed in around her, a darkness descending that wanted to wrap her in its talons. Scarlet shuddered and set the book down and picked up her phone. Her aunt had little use for the internet, something that would have to be remedied, but cell service worked even it only provided two bars and huge delay.

  She typed in MONROE MANSION MAINE into the search bar. The first item to be returned was THE 50 MOST HAUNTED MANSIONS IN AMERICA. There were a few like that as she strolled through the list. She hurt to breathe.

  I should have done this before I left.

  Her mother had been afraid of the house. For good reason apparently.

  The fire crackled on the hearth. She heard a soft chuckle in the flames.

  She finally found a site located to historic buildings. MONROE MANSION in Maine was built in the summer of 1886 by civil war hero Jack Monroe and his wife Elenore (nee Winters) and their three children. Elanor died after ten
years when her horse reared on an otherwise uneventful ride and she fell and broke her neck.

  Two of the Monroe children also died in unusual circumstances. But the first strange occurrence in the Monroe mansion was a woman who had drowned herself in a bathtub. Little is known of this woman, though there are rumors that Jack Monroe may have been married once before Elenore.

  Scarlet turned toward the headstone. That was why her name was crabbed against one side. They left room for the grieving husband. He wasn’t there. He was buried with Elenore.

  “You’re a real bastard, Jack.” Scarlet said, setting the journal down carefully. “And I’m related to that. Great.”

  She watched the glow of the dying embers as the cold found its way back into Monroe Manor, freezing her all the way down to her bones.

  Chapter 6

  The dust on the books were an indication of their age. It was almost a filing system. Scarlet glanced over the ancient encyclopedias, the books on birds and animals, the treatises on medicine during WWI. She scanned through the racks, unable to find what she was looking for until she saw a Bible. It was massively huge, looking like the kind of a book that a wizard would open in cheesy movies.

  It had belatedly occurred to her that Bibles were handed down from generation to generation when books were rare and expensive. Heirlooms were then annotated with each generation’s information. Birth, death, marriages…

  This was a huge volume with a layer of dust on it thicker than any others. She pulled it free and was surprised at the weight. There was a book stand on a table by the couches. She hefted the Bible onto it, setting it down as gently as she could.