by Connie Myres
Haunting of Ender House
Connie Myres
Published by Feather and Fermion Publishing, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
HAUNTING OF ENDER HOUSE
First edition. April 7, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Connie Myres.
Written by Connie Myres.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Floor Plan
Also by Connie Myres
Excerpt of Who Killed Sweet Violet? | 1 | Stranded
About the Author
To my family and friends, especially my sons Lucas and Charles Kraus for their loyal support and encouragement of all my projects.
Chapter 1
The letter lay on top of the end table’s white crocheted doily beside the recliner where Mary McMaster sat, knitting a beige sweater. The knitting needles rhythmically clicked with each stitch of soft yarn.
Mary glanced at the business-sized envelope, specifically the name on the return address label: Law Office of Stine and Wilson. Lawyers, what good can come from them? Mary thought as she looked down at the fawn pug next to her. Its short, wrinkly muzzle rested on her thigh, while its square muscular body lay partly buried beneath the developing sweater.
“Pauline’s probably taking me to court because you won’t stay out of her flowerbeds. I don’t know why you feel the need to dig around in her petunias and pansies.” Mary stopped knitting and sat the needles on her lap. “Are you listening to me, Pickles? The woman’s a couple decades younger than me—you’d think she’d cut me a little slack.”
Pickles snored.
“I can’t afford a highfalutin lawyer. But I don’t need one, I can defend myself; I do work in the library after all. There are lots of books on lawyering that I can study. I’ll tell the judge—sitting up there on his high and mighty bench—that you mean no harm digging in the soil among her flowers. You’re a dog, doing what dogs do. I’ll mention the time you chased a squirrel away from her birdfeeder. And the time you chased the stray cat up a tree before it pounced on a gorgeous indigo bunting.”
Mary paused. The mantel clock ticked in the background before chiming three times. She sighed. “I’d hire Mr. Tibbs to put up a fence, but I can’t afford it. I know he wouldn’t charge me much, only for the material, but even then, there’s not enough money in my bank account since my hours were cut because of that new computer system they put in. Self-serve; everything is self-serve nowadays. But as far as Mr. Tibbs is concerned, he’s recovering from hip surgery and it would be more work than he’s capable of doing at this time. I’d tell that to the judge, too.”
Mary ran a hand softly over Pickles' head. “No one’s taking you away. Don’t you worry, I would never let that happen.” She looked at the letter again, then reached over and picked it up. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll need to give Mr. Tibbs enough notice so that he can drive me to court—if he has the all clear for driving. I will need to defend your troublesome behavior, Pickles.”
Mary ripped the envelope into jagged edges and took out the crisp sheets of paper.
“This isn’t from Pauline, it’s someone’s Last Will and Testament.”
The papers crinkled as she shook and straightened them. “It’s from someone called Horace McMaster. Hmm, he has the same last name as me. Must be a relative.” She ran a finger down the page, stopping when she saw the mention of her name.
I bequeath my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature to my closest living relative, Mary McMaster.
“I’ve never heard of a Horace McMaster or his estate.” She looked at the address: Ender Lane, Shadow Island, Michigan.
Mary pushed Pickles and her knitting aside as she put down the footrest and scooted out of the reclining chair. She walked into the kitchen, picked up one of the sugar cookies that she had taken from the oven earlier, and walked to the cabinet drawer where she had an awkwardly folded paper map.
“Shadow Island, there you are. Looks like a small island not far from a little town called Anisteem. An isolated place to say the least. But is it mine now? Couldn’t be; there has to be a mistake.”
Mary bit into the soft lemony cookie, crumbs dropped onto the front of her robin egg blue blouse. She brushed the crumbs into the palm of her hand, deposited them into the trash can under the sink, and tottered back into the living room where Pickles had now spread out to take up the chair’s seat.
“I guess I’ll have to call this Darron Stine and see what’s going on.”
Mary called the law office right away. The phone rang twice, a woman answered. “Law Office of Stine and Wilson. May I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Mary McMaster and I’ve received a rather perplexing letter from your office. Could I speak with Mr. Stine, please?”
“He’s out of the office right now. Oh wait, he just walked in the door. Mr. Stine, a Mary McMaster is on the phone for you.”
Mary heard the lawyer’s baritone voice direct the woman to send the call to his office. Moments later he picked up.
“Ah, Mary McMaster, I’ve been expecting your call. I take it you’ve received the Last Will and Testament of Horace McMaster.”
“I indeed have and am rather confused. I didn’t know I had a relative named Horace. I was sure this was a mistake, but you sound like it is not. Could you tell me what this letter is about?”
“You’re a fortunate woman, Mary McMaster. You have inherited your great uncle’s estate on Shadow Island.”
“Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Stine? I am a woman of meager earnings and cannot afford the upkeep of another home, not to mention the property taxes on a place that inhabits a Lake Michigan island.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Mary McMaster. Horace was wealthy and there is more than enough money to pay the taxes for the rest of your life. In fact, everything is paid for, so you have nothing to worry about. You are now a very rich woman, Mary McMaster.”
The words were not sinking in. Rich? “What is the catch, Mr. Stine? Nothing is free. Is it a shack next to a toxic dump?”
Mr. Stine laughed. “Of course not. You have inherited what is known as a classical revival mansion—very lovely. It has dozens of rooms, including a library. Shadow Island itself is twenty miles wide with sugar maples and pines and lots of sandy beaches.” He groaned as papers shuffled. “Here it is, the home was built in the eighteen-fifties by a distant relative of yours, Humphry McMaster, a railroad magnet for the timber industry; a real big thing here in Michigan back then. As far as your great uncle Horace McMaster, he never married nor had children. So, after some searching and verification, you Mary McMaster are now the proud owner of the McMaster estate.”
Mary felt like a grand prize winner. “If this is so, why have I never known of the estate or this man? It is true that my parents are long deceased, and that I was their only child. And, apparently like my great uncle, I too have never married nor had children. But I must say, I am surprised how well this relative and his mansion have been kept a secret all this time. I don
’t believe there’s even a picture of him in the family photos, the few there are. We certainly never visited him, nor he us. Could you please explain that?”
Mr. Stine cleared his throat. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with the secrecy, Mary McMaster, but I can tell you that the estate of Horace McMaster, specifically the mansion itself, is said to be haunted.” Mr. Stine snickered.
“Haunted? I don’t believe in ghosts and goblins, Mr. Stine, but it is possible that the so-called haunting might have something to do with the secrecy. My dear parents were rather superstitious. That must be the reason they kept it from me.”
“Sounds like it’s the case. I don’t know your family dynamics, Ms. McMaster, but, as you are aware, you are the last of your family line. Horace kept to himself and I believe he was the outcast of your family; for what reason I do not know. But suffice it to say, the McMaster wealth is now yours and you can move in whenever you wish.” Mr. Stine paused as though waiting for Mary to question his account. She did not. “Would you like to see the estate?”
“I would like to very much see the estate, Mr. Stine, but I do not drive and the fellow who usually helps me out had hip surgery and is currently incapacitated.”
“Do not worry, Mary McMaster. My legal assistant, Edward Winters, can drive you to Anisteem and secure a charter boat to the island. The will has provided for us to do so.”
“Did you know my great uncle well?”
“Actually, no. We spoke on the phone not long before his death. A rather strange character, he was. Horace McMaster wanted the estate sold and not passed down as an inheritance. When no one bought it, I assume because of its isolation—it is the only residence on the island—and its haunted history, he decided to pass it on down to you. If you read the details of the will, Mary McMaster, it states that Horace left you a private letter. I have the letter here and I will direct Edward, Eddie as we call him, to give it to you when he picks you up.”
“My great uncle must have been rather skilled at concealing information, even of his very own existence.”
“Horace McMaster was a recluse. I’ve only met him in person once and that was when I drove out to Shadow Island to go over the will and to secure a signature. He was a gentleman of few words and preferred to keep to himself. A maid and butler, an elderly married couple named the Simmons who still live on the estate in a small cottage, kept things going. They did everything from cooking and cleaning to fixing leaks and chopping wood.”
“Are they still on the island?”
“I believe they have left Shadow Island. But it is my understanding that they would like to stay and assist you, but that is entirely your choice.”
“The house wasn’t so haunted that it scared away the Simmons.”
“Quite right, but there is some unspoken bond between the Simmons and the McMaster family; something I don’t understand. But you’ll be happy to know that the will does pay them an income. Your great uncle skillfully invested the family fortune which continues to pay dividends. Horace also wrote many books—When the Crow Cries and The Dark Room to name a couple—that continue to earn royalties all these years, and for seventy years after his death the money goes to you, Mary McMaster. Do you write books?”
“Heavens no. I work in a library with books, love to read them but could never write them.”
“You might want to give it a try, it could be in your blood.” Mr. Stine paused, then said, “If you were inclined to have children, they would be entitled to the funds for seventy years after your death.”
“I am too old a woman to have children, Mr. Stine. While I suppose it’s not out of the question that I could bear a child, women my age have done it, I’ve never met the right fellow.” She sighed. “I must say that I regret not having any offspring but as fate would have it, I guess I am destined to be alone.”
“And alone you are,” Mr. Stine cleared his throat. “I don’t mean that in a negative way, Mary McMaster. But who knows, you could find your Mr. Right at the new location, provided you leave the estate and go into Anisteem every once in a while.”
“I’ll think about that, Mr. Stine.”
“Another thing to think about is when it comes time for you to amend your will, I would suggest donating the estate to the city of Anisteem and have it made into a park for everyone to enjoy. Shadow Island is a lovely place—that is, if you do not acquire any children between now and then.”
“I will keep that under consideration, Mr. Stine. Now, did you say that your legal assistant will give me a ride to the estate?”
“Yes, ma’am, I will have Eddie pick you up and take you there. You may even move into the place at once if you like. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, that is satisfactory. I will request personal leave from the library right away.”
“Oh,” Mr. Stine began, “there is one more thing. I mentioned the belief by many that the estate is haunted, but it also has a rather sordid past. Several people have either committed suicide or been victims of some rather bizarre and tragic deaths. I hope that doesn’t bother you, but it is one reason your family line is coming to an end.”
“Coming to an end? Please explain that statement.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. All I meant was that the deaths targeted your family, no one has ever been brought to justice. They were all freak accidents, not caused by a murderer or from...ghosts.”
“Nothing will happen to me, Mr. Stine. I am a very capable woman.”
“I’m sure you are, Mary McMaster. I’m sure you are.”
Chapter 2
Mary had two large suitcases, a duffel bag, and her knitting basket sitting next to the front door ready to be moved when Mr. Stine’s assistant, Mr. Winters, arrived to pick her up.
Mary looked at the ornate clock on the fireplace mantel. If she liked the estate, she would hire movers to pack and transport her belongings to the island, something she could now afford. It was almost noon, the agreed upon time when Mr. Winters would be there.
“I’d better call Mr. Tibbs before I leave.”
Mary was relieved when the phone did not go to voicemail. “I am glad you picked up, I wanted to speak with you and not your machine before I left.”
“Hi, Mary. I’m glad I’m getting to speak with you too before you leave. Are you still wanting that fence put in next to your fussy neighbor?”
“I don’t believe so anymore, Mr. Tibbs. If I like the estate that my great uncle left me, I will move in right away. Pickles will be able to dig up all the petunias and pansies he wants. I will have to let you know though because if the place is awful, I’ll be right back here in my little bungalow.”
“I hope you like it, and Mary, how many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Nick and not Mr. Tibbs? You make me sound so...stodgy.”
“Yes, Nick, I am quite sorry. How is your hip?”
“Hip’s doing good, I’ve almost graduated from physical therapy.”
“That’s good to hear. And I do expect you to come visit me at the estate, you know.”
“Of course. I’ll come as soon as I get the okay that I can drive; it should come soon. They’re teaching me to get in and out of the car without popping the hip out of its socket.” Nick laughed.
“It’s going to take some getting used to, but now that I have money, I can hire someone to pick you up and take you to Shadow Island.” Mary paused. “It all hasn’t quite sunk in, yet.”
“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer and more deserving person than you, Mary. I’m happy for you.”
“The mansion has many rooms and you can take your pick when you come and visit me.” Mary blushed. Pickles was the only one who could see her flushed cheeks. “You can even stay longer than just a visit, Nick.”
“I just might do that. Sounds like you certainly have the room.”
Mary liked Mr. Tibbs and truth be told she wouldn’t mind having him move in with her, for companionship, of course. But she often wondered how
he would be as a husband. She was sure he’d be faithful and treat her like a princess. “Mr. Tibbs, I mean Nick, I just heard someone drive up, I think it’s Mr. Stine’s assistant. I’ll talk to you later.”
Mary hung up the phone and looked out the window. A young man in his late twenties was getting out of a midnight blue Cadillac. His dark hair was cut short, and he wore a tie over a white button-down collar shirt. He looked like a nice young man.
Mary opened the door as he walked up. “You must be Mr. Winters; my name is Mary McMaster.”
He smiled as he extended a hand. “Yes, nice to meet you, Ms. McMaster. You can call me Eddie. No sense being too formal, especially since we’re going to be spending the day together. It’s going to take a couple hours just to drive to Anisteem where I already have a charter boat waiting to take us over to your new estate.”
“My new estate,” Mary said, meekly. “I still can’t believe it.”
“I understand. May I take your bags?”
Mary picked up Pickles and put him gently into her sturdy straw tote bag, leaving his panting face to pop out over the side. “Yes, Eddie, that would be fine.”
When Eddie had the trunk packed, he opened the passenger door for Mary.
“Thank you.” Mary slid into the leather seat and took Pickles out of the bag so that he could sit on her lap. “I hope you don’t mind dogs in the car.”
“Of course not, Mary. Whatever you like is fine with me.”
Eddie slipped into the driver’s seat and closed the door. “Are you ready?”
“I am, but catering to me has to be costing Mr. Stine a fortune with the fancy car and the charter boat, not to mention your time away from work.”
Eddie glanced at Mary before backing out of the driveway. “This isn’t costing Mr. Stine anything, you’re paying for it. I mean, Horace McMaster set aside a large sum of money to cover things such as this.”