The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “Shit!” As her hands hit the damp lawn, the earth grumbled and trembled beneath her.

  Persephone’s stone pomegranate cracked and Zeus turned his great head to look at her. Terrified, Cordelia grabbed her grimoire, blew out the candle, and ran back to Ravencrest, leaving behind a black hole in the white fog.

  Dancing Dolls

  “She’s at it again,” Grant said as he lowered the window shade.

  “Who’s she and what is she at?” Riley asked, half asleep.

  “Heller’s in the garden casting spells.”

  Riley laughed. “Again? Maybe she can’t sleep.”

  “Again.” Grant chuckled. “Maybe she thinks she caused the little earthquake. He slipped between the cool sheets and snuggled with Riley.

  “How do you know she didn’t?” Riley murmured.

  “I suppose she might have, but let’s hope not.”

  ***

  In her dream, Momma and Randi held hands and danced around her, singing Ring Around the Rosie, in high sing-song voices. They looked like lunatic marionettes, eerie dancing dolls with pale faces, vacant stares, and fixed smiles. They wore old-fashioned velvety dresses that reminded her of the gowns in the portraits. Belinda watched in horror as blood blossomed beneath the fabric, spreading out and dripping down their exposed arms and legs. Their movements became quicker, convulsive, and their skin turned ashen and began to flake away as their voices overlapped, coming from all directions, to assault Belinda with a barrage of childlike chants. The sounds rose higher, louder, faster, closer, and Belinda crouched, squeezed her eyes shut, and covered her ears. She screamed and the ground beneath her shook.

  She shot up in bed, gasping, covered in sweat.

  The earth trembled again, just a little, and she knew it hadn’t been just her imagination. An earthquake! She stood and went to the window and saw nothing out of the ordinary. If it was an quake, it hadn’t been a big one.

  As she was about to return to bed, she caught movement outside - a white blur. Wiping the condensation off the glass, she gasped.

  The statues in the garden were moving. She couldn’t believe it - they were moving! They’re dancing! She rubbed her eyes. There were five statues, two female and three male, and they were holding hands, dancing in a circle.

  That can’t be! I’m hallucinating! She closed her eyes, sure this was a waking dream, no different from the nightmare dancing by Momma and Randi that she thought she’d escaped. She opened her eyes - and the statues continued to move, the full moon gleaming silver on their white bodies.

  The two female statues let go of the males and embraced each other in a passionate kiss, then one of the males forced one female down and ravished her from behind. Another did the same with the other woman. Belinda could see him pounding into her. The other males assaulted the female statues’ mouths. As the bodies crashed together, cracks began to form and pieces of stone chipped away.

  Belinda bit off a scream, her eyes fixed on the revolting orgy in the garden. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could only watch in disbelief. “No,” she murmured. “No, no.”

  It’s only a nightmare. It’s only a nightmare. I’m still in bed. I’m still dreaming. But she knew that wasn’t true. A new voice entered the room - Eric’s. It’s witchcraft, Belinda. A glamour meant to frighten you. Belinda spun and faced not Eric, but his ancestor, Thomas Manning. With his tied-back blond hair and immaculate eighteenth-century suit, he was unmistakable. He gave her a soft smile, but his eyes betrayed concern.

  “You’re not real, either,” she said.

  I need your help, Belinda. Prudence is mine. Please, return her to me. To Alice.

  “What’s going on?” Belinda couldn’t control the trembling in her voice.

  The Witch. Heller. She’s trying to frighten you … Because she is afraid of you.

  “Afraid of me?” Belinda placed a shaking hand on the window sill. “Why?”

  She knows you can help me.

  “Help you how?”

  Prudence. She is mine.

  Belinda shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  She is my daughter.

  Belinda gasped. “Your daughter? No … I thought … But she belonged to Edward and Alice.”

  Thomas shook his head and gave her a sad smile. Even as he vanished, the earth trembled once more.

  BOOK 8: SPELLBOUND

  The Detective

  The detective looked good in sensible pumps and a fedora that cast a Bogarty shadow across the stubble of his beard. As he sipped his tea, his pinkie tweaked up above the cup. Obviously, thought Grant, he’d seen way too much of Downton Abbey. “So, Miss Moorland, you never even knew that Randene Tucker intended to visit you?”

  “She sent a text saying she might but I didn’t answer it.”

  “Indeed.” Grant set his own teacup on the coffee table. “When she did notice the text, Ms. Moorland requested Ms. Tucker not be allowed on the grounds. But she never showed up.”

  The detective crossed his legs and tugged at his skirt. Grant wondered if the plainclothesman had forgotten to shave his legs, or if the spiky hairs pushing through his pantyhose were supposed to match the stubbly beard. “I see. Ms. Heller, were you or your staff aware of Ms. Tucker’s intention to visit?”

  “Not at all. We never saw her.”

  Eric Manning nodded agreement when the detective looked at him.

  “Miss Moorland, are you in the habit of ignoring phone calls and texts?”

  “Yes, I am. I rarely even carry my phone with me because Randi and my mother barrage me with messages.”

  The detective - Grant couldn’t remember his name - nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I noticed that.” He glanced around, eyeing Belinda, Grant, Cordelia and finally, Eric.

  Eric cleared his throat. “It was so bad that I’ve ordered a new phone and number for Miss Moorland on the Ravencrest account, so her mother and former roommate cannot continually harass her.”

  Grant saw surprise, then pleasure cross Belinda’s face. The girl blushed slightly and looked at Eric. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  The detective - his name sounded like “Frankfurter” but that wasn’t it - cleared his throat. “But you all saw Rhonda Moorland here.”

  “We did,” Eric said. “And I’ve already shown you the bullet hole in the landing’s wall. She nearly killed her own daughter.”

  “So you said.” Looking uncomfortable, the detective recrossed his legs. Grant thought his girdle was probably too tight. “And you haven’t heard from either of them since Saturday and Sunday respectively?”

  Belinda shook her head. “Not a word.”

  “Have you attempted to call either of them?”

  Belinda looked at her hands then directly into the detective’s eyes. “No, I haven’t.” She said it defiantly and held his gaze.

  He nodded, set down his teacup, and rose. The man had seen the texts and heard the voicemails and radiated a lack of concern that Grant appreciated. The last thing the household needed was a nosy detective. This one - Detective Frankenheimer? - seemed satisfied, even bored, as he closed his notebook and slipped it into his shoulder bag. Gucci knock-off, thought Grant. But then, he can’t afford the real thing on a cop’s salary.

  The others rose and Eric shook the detective’s hand. “You will let us know if you hear anything?”

  “Yes. That goes both ways.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see you out,” Grant said.

  The detective nodded. “One more question, Miss Moorland.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you have any idea why both your former roommate and your mother are out of communication? It seems … unusual for them.”

  Belinda shook her head. “I have no idea. It really is odd. I’m hoping they’ve simply realized they can’t bully me into leaving my job here and have decided to let me be.” She paused. “Who reported my mother missing?”

  “A neighbor was concerne
d.”

  Belinda’s eyes widened. “But her neighbors hate her.”

  “She left her window open and her television was on a religious channel. Her neighbor complained about the racket.”

  Grant suppressed a chuckle.

  The detective handed Belinda and Grant business cards. “Please let me know if you think of anything else.” His skirt was riding up and he gave it a hard tug.

  “Certainly.” Grant opened the door. “By the way, I know an excellent seamstress here in town if you need some alterations, Detective …” He glanced at the card. “Flankenball.”

  The detective eyed him then turned and headed toward his car, strutting with the ease of a man who’d spent plenty of time in heels.

  Grant returned to the house and found the others still standing in the great hall. “I don’t mean to make light of this,” he said, shutting the door, “but perhaps the two of them have gone off on holiday together? Are your ears burning, Belinda?”

  “I suppose they should be.” She smiled. “I know I ought to be worried about them, but not having my phone go off constantly is such a relief that I can’t work up any enthusiasm. You know, Grant, you’re probably right. Momma loves religious retreats. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she talked Randi into going to one with her.”

  “Perhaps they’ll send you a postcard, dear,” Cordelia called over her shoulder as she left the hall.

  In the Cemetery

  “You don’t strike me as the sort who enjoys strolling through cemeteries, Belinda.” Grant opened the black wrought iron gate to the family plot and stood back. “Ladies first.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Belinda stepped inside. After the detective left, she and Grant had indulged in Niko’s amazing gyros loaded with lamb, onions, and tomatoes drizzled with exquisite cucumber-yogurt sauce. She’d eaten too much and when she asked if Grant would like to take a constitutional with her he’d patted his stomach and readily agreed.

  “I like cemeteries,” she said. “They’re very peaceful.”

  “They don’t frighten you, then?”

  “Of course not.” She laughed. They’d walked at least a quarter mile from the house, past the pools, the huge garage and the small orchards. The sprawling cemetery was shaded by huge old oaks and pines that grew between the tombs and monuments. Angels stood guard over several and one sprawled weeping on a marble bench surrounded by sweet violets that still bloomed in patches of shade. “She’s beautiful.” Belinda headed for the sculpture.

  After a moment, her eyes turned to a small mausoleum behind the angel. “Henry Manning and Violet LeBlanc Manning,” she read as Grant joined her. “If I hadn’t heard so many stories, I’d be able to tell you who she is.”

  “The silent-movie actress better known as the White Violet.” Grant didn’t need to look at the inscription. “She married Eric’s great-uncle Henry at the tender age of twenty-two. She was quite a sensation back then, a true celebrity - and all the rage at the parties she and Henry used to throw. But that changed when the talkies began taking over around 1929. She couldn’t make the transition.”

  “Why? Was her voice terrible?”

  “No, she stuttered badly. She took many lessons to cure it but none worked. She was only free of the problem when she sang, and her singing voice was quite beautiful. We have a few recordings.”

  “I’d love to hear one.”

  “Indeed you shall. She had turned to singing by the time she gave birth to Albert - who would become Eric’s uncle - but she’d always been given to depression and hysteria, and it only became worse at that point.”

  “Was she bipolar?”

  “I think that’s likely.”

  “That’s so sad. I hope the baby didn’t suffer much for it.”

  “I doubt it. By the time the child was three, Henry had to lock Violet away on the third floor. Doctors visited almost daily and she had a live-in nurse and a companion to look after her. By then, she was mad and couldn’t be trusted with her own child.”

  “That’s heartbreaking.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure Albert wanted for nothing.”

  “Did she ever recover?”

  “No. She took her own life in 1938.”

  “And she walks the third floor of the west wing.”

  “Yes, so it’s said.”

  “Grant …”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Go ahead. This is a good place to chat.”

  “Okay, well… I heard a real peacock’s cry while we were picnicking last Sunday. It’s absolutely not what I heard in the pool house that first morning I went swimming. What I heard in the pool house was a human scream. Do you think it might have been Violet’s?”

  “As I told you before, I believe the scream may be a ghostly echo left over from Violet’s era, but I doubt that it’s her.”

  “Why do you think it’s not her, but from her era?”

  “The sound has been reported since the early 1930s and Violet reported hearing it herself on at least one occasion. I’m inclined to think it may be one of several women who died in that pool. Henry Manning’s parties rivaled Hearst’s for decadence and debauchery.” He rubbed his chin. “Though it may be her scream; it’s not unknown to see or hear your own ghost in a place you frequent. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if she’d had hysterics in front of their guests at one time or another - that was in her nature.” He paused. “Belinda, listen to me. What you heard was only a scream, not a portent. Nor is it a spirit, but just a sound, a recording if you will, that plays back now and again. Don’t let it worry you.”

  Belinda nodded and they moved deeper into the cemetery, Grant telling her about the generations of Mannings buried there along with many servants and other locals who had depended on the family over the centuries. They passed another stone mausoleum and her eyes fell on a clutch of life-size statues of nymphs dancing around a satyr by a graceful fountain. Her breath caught and her vision reeled.

  “Belinda?” Grant touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’d nearly put it out of my mind.”

  “What?”

  “Last night.” She paused, feeling foolish. “Something …”

  “The earthquakes? Surely you’re used to those? They didn’t even make the local news this morning.”

  “Oh, no, not the quakes, though that’s what woke me up, I think.” She shook her head. “I must have been hallucinating. I went to the window and thought I saw the statues in the garden moving.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What precisely did you see?”

  “They looked like they were … dancing.” She hesitated. “And, uh, well, I thought they were having an orgy.”

  Grant’s intensity surprised her. “Did you see anyone else out there?”

  “What? No. Not down there, anyway.”

  “Belinda, what do you mean?”

  “I saw Thomas Manning’s ghost in my room right after the statues uh, did their thing ... He spoke to me.”

  “Come.” Grant led her to a shady marble bench. “Tell me everything. What did Thomas say?”

  “He asked for my help.” She held Grant’s gaze, the same terror she’d felt the previous night overtaking her once more. “I must be going crazy.”

  Grant took her hand. “You’re not losing your mind, Belinda, I guarantee it. This is a house that holds many mysteries, most of which go unnoticed. But you, dearheart, appear to be a sensitive. You’re picking up on things that even I haven’t witnessed and I’m no slouch in that department, myself.”

  The gentleness in his smile nearly brought her to tears. “But it’s such nonsense. I must be imagining most of it.”

  “I assure you, you’re not. The things you’ve told me are accurate. You’ve probably noticed that I’m something of an expert on the Manning family history. I believe you. Now tell me what Thomas said.”

  “He said two things.” She felt ridiculous. “First he said the moving statues were meant to frighte
n me. He said it was witchcraft.”

  Grant nodded. “He spoke the truth.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I know enough to know you weren’t dreaming. Witchcraft and Ravencrest are on intimate terms - but we’ll talk more about that later, off the property. What did Thomas ask you to help him with?”

  “He asked me to rescue Prudence.” Belinda looked down at her hands.

  “Interesting. He knows you were able to communicate with her when you were trapped in the east wing.” He paused. “I wonder why he came to you. I would’ve expected Alice to ask for your help.”

  “Because Prudence is his daughter.”

  “He told you that?”

  Belinda nodded.

  Grant’s eyes went far away. “In Bran Lanval’s journals, he stated that he suspected as much. But there’s never been proof.” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe it myself.”

  “You’ve mentioned Bran Lanval before, but he isn’t your ancestor?”

  “Not my blood ancestor, but my spiritual one. Bran Lanval was a Knight of the Order of the Mandrake. He was a physician and herbalist, a scholar who studied witchcraft and other dark - and light - arts. He, like his predecessors - also my spiritual forefathers - has always been with the Mannings. We are their protectors.”

  “You’re a knight?”

  “Of the Order of the Mandrake. That has nothing to do with swords and armor, I assure you.” He smiled. “It’s a secret society and it’s not something I share casually.”

  “I’ll never say a word.”

  “I know.”

  “Does Eric know?”

  “Yes, but like most of his ancestors, he doesn’t want details. He simply accepts that my advice, which is sometimes rather outrageous, ought to be followed.”

  “The persimmon tree,” Belinda said.

  Grant’s eyebrow shot up. “What about it?”

  “Eric told me that he was going to tear it out after his uncle died, but you advised against it even though its fruit is horrible.”