The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  “You have visitors, Mrs. Gimmerson,” the receptionist said before she headed back to her desk.

  Terrence and Evelyn sat down opposite of Ida. Like Alannah, the woman had dazzling blue eyes that seemed untouched by the age of the rest of her body. Her gray hair was cut into an expensive bob. Gemstone rings decorated her fingers and a silver necklace sparkled under the ceiling light. Evelyn introduced herself and Terrence.

  “I don’t get many visitors,” Ida said. “Especially ones as handsome as you.” She winked at Terrence.

  “You’re very polite, ma’am,” Terrence replied.

  “Oh, and you’re a gentleman,” Ida said with a small smile curling up her seventy-seven-year-old but still pretty face. “And please don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel dreadfully old.”

  “I’m under the impression that women age like fine wine,” Terrence replied.

  Oh, brother.

  “You’re a beautiful liar,” Ida said, chuckling. “I know you didn’t come all this way to woo an old woman.”

  “I’ve taken an interest in your daughter Alannah’s case, Mrs. Gimmerson,” Evelyn stated.

  Ida’s eyes glossed over. She blinked a few times and her normal demeanor returned. “My, it’s been a long time since I heard that name.”

  “I want to bring closure for your daughter and you,” Evelyn said.

  “Dear, I found closure when I put that empty casket in the ground,” Ida replied. “What you bring is a scalpel to my stitches.”

  Evelyn pursed her lips. Guilt plagued her heart. “That’s not my intention.”

  “Intentions are funny things,” Ida said, looking into the mug of tea. “Roads paved on good ones lead to disastrous ends.”

  “Evelyn is the most brilliant investigator you’ll ever meet,” Terrence reassured her. “If anyone can find out the truth about your daughter, it’s her.”

  Evelyn held onto her husband’s compliment.

  Ida sipped her tea, adding another lipstick stain to the mug’s rim. She bounced her piercing eyes between Evelyn and Terrence. “It beats looking at this puzzle for another hour. What do you wish to know?”

  “Let’s start with her disappearance,” Evelyn said. “What do you recall about the days leading up to that?”

  “Alannah took after me. A little too much,” Ida reminisced. “She preferred more challenging men, and that often got her in trouble. For years, she had been living on her own. Writing songs, singings at private galas across the nation, and enjoying the wealth her boyfriends showered her with. She lived like that until the end. I noticed no change in her mood.”

  “Was she seeing anyone during that time?” Evelyn asked, taking out her notepad.

  “Alannah always had a warm bed. Whether or not those were long-term arrangements, I cannot say. I don’t know any names. She abhorred kiss and tell.”

  “Was there anyone that showed up at the funeral that you may have suspected?”

  Ida sighed. “Despite her copious amount of lovers, Alannah’s burial was quite barren. Angry wives don’t allow their husbands to send off their mistresses. Surprising, I know. Still, for such a loving girl to leave this world alone, you would think she’d at least receive some flowers.”

  Evelyn let the words sink in for a moment and then asked about Stephen Doyle.

  Ida smiled to herself. “Oh, Stephen. Such a sweet boy.”

  Evelyn and Terrence traded wide-eyed looks.

  “Sure we’re talking about the same person?” Terrence asked.

  “The twin,” Ida clarified. “He had a heart for Alannah since they were children.”

  “Did they…” Evelyn let Ida fill in the blank.

  “Oh heavens, no. My daughter had her eye on bigger fish, and poor Stephen was like a lost pup. In his schooling days, he’d bike all the way across town to see Alannah with hands full of wildflowers or cheap candy. He even bought the same tabloids as her so they would have something to talk about. As Alannah filled out, so to say, Stephen’s visits became more frequent, though I doubt he got far in his romantic endeavors.”

  “Do you know the state of their relationship during the time of the disappearance?”

  “Unchanged, but at a lesser degree. Alannah’s lovers didn’t like having him around. After my Alannah--” Ida choked on the words. “After it happened, Stephen would visit me daily.”

  “To comfort you?” Evelyn asked.

  Ida looked out the nearest window, blinking away the wetness in her eyes. Failing, she turned back to Evelyn. “That’s how it started, but then he changed.”

  Evelyn lowered her pen, engrossed in the story. “How?”

  “He turned bitter.” Ida’s words were loaded with venom. “He became obsessed with finding her and admitted to driving all hours of the night in search of some clue. Foolish boy, but I respected his efforts. The police had given up at this point. Stephen was all I had. A few months later, he burst through my front door, shouting something about a lead. I found Alannah’s killer. He said it with a crazed fire I’d never seen in anyone since.” Ida locked eyes with Evelyn. “Maxwell Quenby.”

  Evelyn sucked air. She held it in her lungs as fears about her father became realities.

  Ida continued. “He tried to explain how he came to that revelation. It had something to do with Maxwell being seen following my daughter, but he was speaking so fast I couldn’t make sense of it. The next time I saw him, he arrived with his twin sister and quiet brother. The brother, I didn’t mind so much. He was an odd duck but never a threatening person. The sister I knew, however. Back in her schooling days, she became notorious for killing and dissecting squirrels and other small critters. And when she got her camera as a teenager, Alannah told me rumors that Catherine took pictures of roadkill and other dead things. Catherine was the only one who came into this meeting with a smile, I remember, while Stephen was fuming and Andrew was trying terribly to hide his discomfort.”

  Ida peered into the dark liquid in her mug. “He took away what I love. I’ll take away what he loves. Stephen vowed it. I didn’t see him until the funeral four years later, and he left before it was through.”

  “Maxwell went missing during that time gap. Mary Sullivan too,” Evelyn thought aloud, forming the timeline in her mind.

  “I can’t say if Stephen hurt anyone because of my daughter,” said Ida. “I’ve learned in my age that there are things I don’t wish to know about the world and its evils.”

  “Is there anything else you can give me?”

  “Yes. Don’t bother with Alannah,” Ida said and smiled sadly at Terrence. “Enjoy your time with the living.”

  Under the table, Evelyn took Terrence’s hand.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me. This puzzle requires my full attention,” Ida said.

  Unable to get any more information, Evelyn said farewell to Ida Gimmerson. I have a puzzle of my own.

  As they left the assisted living facility, Evelyn said to Terrence, “You were quiet in there.”

  “I’m used to carving wood and tightening guitar strings. This is a different ball game. Don’t get me wrong, solving crimes and stopping bad guys was a childhood fantasy, but I didn’t expect the viscosity of it all. We’ve been seeing visions, learned about murders, broken into someone’s house. It’s an adrenaline rush, but I don’t know how you do this on a daily basis.”

  “It takes some getting used to,” Evelyn admitted. “This case especially. There are reasons why I don’t like to talk about work. I understand if--”

  “I never said I’m backing down,” Terrence interrupted. “I told you that I am with you, and I won’t make myself a liar.”

  They arrived back at Quenby House at sunset. Scarlet rays blasted over the massive white and vine-covered plantation house. Thin clouds stretched across the sky like pulled cotton.

  She yawned, thinking about the bedroom. Sleeping in their massive canopied bed would never be the same, but despite the long and grueling day, Evelyn knew there was still much more work to b
e done. She resolved to herself that she wouldn’t be getting rest anytime soon.

  They stepped into the large foyer. Terrence shut and locked the door behind them. They hiked up one side of the curved stairway, and at the top of the inner balcony, Evelyn noticed splintered wood on the railing. She crouched down next to it.

  A bullet. From the night of the house invasion, no doubt. “The police missed it,” Evelyn told Terrence.

  He didn’t reply.

  With a crinkled brow, Evelyn turned back to a figure in a featureless white cotton mask. Shoulders broad. Clothes black. Little button-sized eye holes stared into Evelyn’s soul. Speechless, Terrence backed a step away from the figure.

  “Andrew?” Evelyn asked with doubt as she stood.

  The man in the mask didn’t reply.

  “Say something,” Evelyn demanded, able to keep a still face but not a steady heart.

  If this was Stephen or Catherine, Evelyn had nothing to defend herself with. All it would take was one simple bullet or a shove over the balcony and it was lights out. No more P.I. work. No more planning a family with Terrence. Will I come back like one of them? She didn’t know if she wanted that. They were trapped here, forced to “live” with the blow that killed them. Perhaps it was better than the alternative... or miles worse.

  The figure raised its hands and grabbed the sides of the mask. Carefully, it pulled it from his head, revealing a man with a hard mug, soft eyes, and silky hair. There was a hole in the back of his mouth that was a clear shot through the back of his head. It was Andrew Doyle.

  Before Evelyn could speak, Andrew grabbed Evelyn’s shoulders and pushed her against the balcony railing. He locked his silvery blue eyes with her. Her body became like pudding. The walls and floor began to melt into blackness. She saw a glimpse of Terrence grabbing at Andrew, but he fell through the phantom.

  Blackness swarmed in... but only for a moment.

  In brief flashes, only a breath length long, she saw through the small eye hole of a cotton mask. The taste of booze lingered on her tongue. Sweat stuck the fabric to her face. Two more figures in masks dragged the screaming blonde girl into the clearing amidst the cotton field. So young. A thought raced through Evelyn’s mind. It was not her own.

  The breath ended and another began. She was looking at a tower of fire rising up in front of her and into the blue Georgia sky. Her gloved fingers held an empty can of lighter fluid. The two other figures reveled at the flames. One took joy in the vengeance. The other, in sadism. Evelyn felt nothing but dread. You’re here for the family. Doyles stick together.

  A breath.

  One of the figures blasted the little charred bones with a fire extinguisher. The other watched apathetically. We all deserve to die. In her hand, Evelyn felt the cold weight of the pistol.

  A breath.

  Evelyn looked down the weapon’s iron sight. At the other end of the barrel, the masked figures stared at her in confusion. “Andy,” one said condescendingly.

  A breath.

  The mask was pulled up past Evelyn’s nose. She smelled the pillar of black smoke. She tasted the metal barrel in her mouth. The masked figures were moving in, arms out in a non-threatening manner. One said. “Andy, now you wait a--” She squeezed the trigger.

  Suddenly, Evelyn was back at Quenby House and in her own skin. She looked into Andrew’s eyes, tasting gunpowder residue in the back of her throat.

  “Let go of her!” Terrence shouted at the man holding Evelyn by the shoulders. Andrew listened and backed away. Terrence instantly jumped in front of Evelyn.

  “Evelyn, babe, are you okay?”

  “...yeah,” Evelyn replied whimsically.

  Andrew slid on his mask and walked away, vanishing into the darkness of the upstairs hall.

  Terrence twisted back to Evelyn. His eyes were intense and damp with terror. “What did he do?”

  “He showed me how Mary died. How he died.” Evelyn said, still trying to make sense of it all.

  “Okay. We’re leaving this place,” Terrence declared

  “No,” Evelyn said defiantly. “We’re in this, Terrence, like or not.”

  “But--”

  “--If you saw what they did to Mary Sullivan--”

  “--I saw her body,” Terrence cupped his hands on Evelyn’s cheeks and looked her in the eyes. “I feel the responsibility too, but they’re abusing us, Eve. As much as I pity them, they are stripping us of our will.”

  “They’re communicating with us,” Evelyn counter-argued

  Terrence stepped away and paced in frustration. “We know it’s Stephen Doyle. Police are already going after him. Case closed. What can we do?”

  “Stephen and Catherine killed Mary,” Evelyn said. “But they didn’t kill Alannah or the rest. Ida’s testimony, Stephen’s motivation, it all proves that Stephen is not the serial killer.”

  “Then who murdered the other five other people in our basement?” Terrence asked, meaning the question to be rhetorical. Evelyn didn’t take it that way.

  “I intend to find out.”

  16

  Broken Lives

  Though their eyes were closed, Evelyn and Terrence lay awake in the king-sized bed. An uncanny silence hung in Quenby House, as it did every night. In any other time or place, the quiet would’ve offered a certain comfort of being alone and private.

  Not here.

  The spirits of the dead could be watching Evelyn at this very moment, but there would be no tell of their presence. Evelyn bundled up under the thick covers and allowed the divine mattress to swallow her up. She listened to her husband’s soft breaths and remembered a time where the biggest stress was paying the bills and getting clientele. It wasn’t as easy then, and that conflict was only put on hiatus, but it seemed so trivial now. There was something about helping the dead that brought a fulfillment Evelyn hadn’t felt in a long time. She wondered if Terrence felt the same way.

  Evelyn got up at the crack of dawn. She took a hot shower while standing in the bathtub and got dressed in her typical dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt. She kept her black, belted, double-breasted raincoat nearby. The forecast predicted another incoming storm. She sipped black coffee from her mug and stood at the threshold of the lounge. Her ringed eyes scanned the places where the victims had stood and sat. Are you watching me? Evelyn wondered.

  Dust danced in the air. There was a slight depression in the loveseat’s second cushion. Evelyn couldn’t recall if it was always there. She took another sip from her mug and returned to the kitchen.

  Terrence was up and about, making scrambled eggs on the kitchen stove. He wore a collared shirt, pants, and two mismatched socks with different sets of instruments on them. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Evelyn replied.

  Terrence pulled out the block of cheese from the fridge and grabbed Maxwell’s grater from a drawer. “I counted our money.”

  “That good, huh?” Evelyn replied and glanced about the room, wondering if anyone was eavesdropping.

  “It might be a smart choice to start selling some stuff,” Terrence said, grating the cheese over the fluffy scrambled eggs.

  “Will we make it till the end of the month?” Evelyn asked.

  Terrence handed her a plate. With hesitation, he said, “I think so. If we’re not dealing with any more car issues, motel stays, and hospital visits.”

  Evelyn took her plate and ate a bite, staring at nothing in particular.

  “Maybe our roomies will lead us to a hidden stash of money,” Terrence said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Taking her plate, Evelyn headed to the study. Terrence tagged along. They booted up the laptop and started their research. Alannah and Mary were the only two victims that Evelyn knew the last names of. She had a fair understanding of their disappearances and personalities, but the others were still strangers. She jotted down a list of the names. Barker, Winslow, Zoey, and Peter. Today, she’d focus on them and hopefully establish a strong profile for each one. A guarantee that Evel
yn gave all her clients was her ability to work quickly.

  Several locals vanished between the 1980s to the early 2000s, but Evelyn’s search in Quenby started in 1998 with Dr. James Barker. In the black and white photo online, he wore his signature sweater vest and slacks with an elegant tobacco pipe in his hand. He vanished at the age of 74. No trace of him was ever discovered.

  In 1999, Winslow Darvey, age 42, vanished from the butchery where he worked. In his picture, his smile was crooked and ruined by his underbite. No trace of him was ever discovered.

  2000, varsity player Peter Calhoon, 17, vanished without a trace. The local news described his loss in great detail and made mention that a recruiter from University of Georgia had visited on multiple occasions though he was only a junior in high school.

  2001, Alannah Gimmerson, 38, vanished.

  2002, Zoey Pinkerton, 15, never returned home. Her missing person picture was blurry and not chosen with much care.

  2003, Mary Sullivan, 7, vanished, though Evelyn believed that her disappearance was connected to Stephen Doyle, not the killer of the other five individuals.

  “There’s a pattern here,” Terrence stated the obvious.

  “A victim a year for five years,” Evelyn said. She studied the missing persons reports, tracing the killer’s descent into evil. He/she started with an old man and ended with a girl. Younger and younger the victims became and then suddenly all the vanishing stopped. That meant one of three things: the killer was over a decade dead, the killer had run away, or the killer was lying dormant.

  As much as Evelyn wanted to focus on the killer, there was not enough information to build a location profile. She needed to look at the victims, starting from the beginning: James Barker. After some digging, Evelyn discovered he worked as a professor in East Georgia State College, which was about a two-hour drive from Adders. He retired at the age of 65.

  Evelyn would’ve liked to ask him where he lived but, alas, the phantom did not reveal himself. Are you testing me? Evelyn wondered. Or am I doing something wrong?