The Haunting of Winchester Mansion Omnibus

by Clarke, Alexandria

  “It’s quite colorful,” Bodhi admitted, letting off the gas to cruise down the hill.

  The main street was rife with activity. Women shopped in boutiques, men chatted amiably on street corners, and children laughed as they flew kites past a fountain in the town square. The marina was busy too. Fishermen hauled in their catches from the early morning while teenagers played catch or lounged on the docks, dangling their bare feet over the water. It was a Saturday, and it seemed all of Black Bay wanted to spend their day in the summer breeze.

  Bodhi drew to a stop, gesturing for a gaggle of high schoolers to cross the road in front of us. “What time did you say we were supposed to meet this Milo guy again?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  It took less than ten minutes to drive from one end of Black Bay to the other. The far side was quieter, more subdued, as though the thick forest ate sounds and swallowed them deep in its belly. A narrow road invited us into the misty retreat of the overlooking rock. I craned my neck, peering through the windshield. Somewhere above, our potential property loomed, but the only hint of its existence was the faint outline of a widow’s walk, barely visible through the thickening fog. Still, the familiar flutter of anticipation spun in my stomach.

  The car climbed up the slender street, winding back and forth through the trees until the land leveled out. As the house appeared in full view, I inhaled sharply. The plethora of pictures Milo had sent me hadn’t done it justice. The coastal home’s design might have been outdated and its derelict exterior run down by years of saltwater erosion and constant rain, but its soaring columns, grand doorways, and multiple wooden decks were breathtakingly gorgeous. I stepped out of the car before Bodhi put it in park, planted my hands on my hips, and took in the sights.

  “How do you like it?” a voice called.

  From the side yard of the house emerged a tall, lean man in jeans, deck shoes, and a tan windbreaker. He was a few years younger than me and Bodhi, in his late twenties maybe, with fierce blue eyes and fair hair so sundrenched and windswept that he would not have looked out of place in a J. Crew catalogue. He jogged toward us and offered a tanned, calloused hand.

  “I’m Milo,” he said. “You must be Bailey.”

  “That would be me.” I grasped Milo’s warm hand in my own. “Your house is beautiful. This is my husband, Bodhi.”

  Bodhi shook Milo’s hand as well. “Aren’t you a little young to own a property like this?”

  Milo chuckled. It was a deep, low sound, a man’s laugh that didn’t match his boyish appearance. “Probably. Would you like to see inside?”

  With a bounce in his step, Milo led us to the front doors. They were unlocked. Apparently, there was no need to worry about break-ins. After all, the house was alone on the bluff. The rest of Black Bay’s suburbs, if you could call it that, was interspersed in the town below.

  “The original owner’s things are all still here,” Milo explained, swinging the double doors wide to reveal the foyer and living room.

  The house was fully furnished and decorated. Every surface—polished wood tables, an outdated stereo system, a collection of porcelain horse figurines on the mantle—was blanketed with a layer of dust. There was a palpable stillness in the house, as if it had gone undisturbed for so many years that it no longer remembered how to interact with living creatures. Our entrance stirred the dust particles. They danced through the sunbeams streaming in from the front door, swirling about like a welcoming shower of off-brand confetti.

  I trailed my fingers through the grime of a narrow table by the door, pausing to examine the contents of a small crystal tray. Car keys. I picked them up, dangling them in Bodhi’s direction. “I don’t suppose the car comes with the house, does it?”

  Bodhi snatched the keys and put them back in the tray. “Don’t, Bailey.”

  Milo remained on the threshold, a silhouette framed against the white sun of the late morning. “I know it’s a little odd,” he admitted. “The house was put up for auction several years ago. My father bought it originally. No idea what he wanted to do with it. Anyway, when he died, he left it to me.”

  I crossed the living room, the lush carpet muting my footsteps. A cashmere throw blanket was tossed casually over the arm of a dark leather sectional, as though someone had just been here watching something on the bulky, big-screen television. A grandfather clock lorded over the room, both hands still and silent. In the far corner, a grand piano posed proudly with a yellowing booklet of sheet music open on its shelf.

  Tentatively, I touched a rigid page. “Claire de Lune. Debussy.”

  “You can do whatever you want with the piano,” Milo said. “And the furniture. Sell it, trash it. I don’t really care. We meant to have an estate sale, but it never happened.”

  “What a waste,” I murmured. “It’s so beautiful.” I pressed a key on the piano. A shrill note punctured the stagnant air. I winced. “Out of tune, but beautiful.”

  Bodhi crossed his arms, gazing up at the exposed wooden beams of the living room. The crinkle in his forehead appeared. He was contemplating the possibilities, mapping out potential changes in his mind for renovations. “Where’s the kitchen?”

  Milo pointed. “Through there.”

  Bodhi ventured off. His voice echoed into the living room. “Bailey, we could knock out the wall and open this entire room up.”

  “Okay!”

  Milo massaged one of his hands with the other, anxiously kneading the muscle between his finger and thumb. “Does that mean we can officially close today?”

  “It means we’ll have a look at the rest of the house.” Bodhi poked his head in from the adjacent room. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Bodhi wandered off. He was that type of person. He preferred to explore alone and at his own pace, which often left me to kindle a conversation with the seller about the remainder of the closing process.

  “Would you like the grand tour?” Milo asked. He indicated the wide staircase stationed beyond the foyer, its intricately carved balustrade ascending into a Cimmerian second level.

  “Actually,” I countered, “I’d love to see the view.”

  With an athletic fluidity, Milo altered his path and ushered me through the snug kitchen and out a back door. On the decrepit wooden deck in the backyard, I didn’t know where to look first. The house had a spectacular garden. It was wild and overgrown, but at one point, it might have been the pride and joy of whomever had lived there. The view beyond the garden caused the warm summer air to catch in my throat. To the right, the dense forest resumed, cloaking the steep ascent in swarthy green. To the left, the bluff dropped off suddenly, leaving nothing but open air. Sea spray ricocheted up from below. The sun dyed the clouds pale yellow and pink, like pastels painted across the sky. I opened my arms wide and took a deep breath.

  “Nice, isn’t it.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Heavenly,” I agreed. Milo stared wistfully out at the water. “Seriously, Milo. Why would you want to sell this house?”

  “I don’t find Black Bay quite as idyllic as the everyday man.”

  “Ah, yes. I can see why. Horrible place.”

  The massive deck creaked and groaned as he walked toward the edge. “This house is too big for me anyway. What am I going to do with four bedrooms?”

  “Four bedrooms.” I looked up at the second level of the house, musing. From one bedroom in Florida to four in Washington. Bodhi and I would hardly cross paths in our spare time.

  “And an office, a library, a wine cellar—”

  “I didn’t realize I was buying Jay Gatsby’s house.”

  Milo winked at me. “All that’s missing is the American Dream.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  We fell silent. The wind whistled over the rocks. Below, the waves crashed against the bluff. I wondered how Bodhi was getting along. The final leg of our short journey was in his hands. If he decided the house wasn’t worth it, it was back to h
oling up in whatever hotel room or inexpensive apartment was available. At least a town like Black Bay was bound to have a pretty bed and breakfast with a view of the water for us to stay in. If the house fell through for some unpleasant reason, I had found a backup property in New Mexico, but as I gazed across the water, I desperately hoped for Bodhi’s approval.

  “It’s not that big, really,” Milo said. He looked at me. “As Gatsby’s mansion, I mean.”

  “If it was, we wouldn’t be here.” The wind blew hair into my face where it stuck to my lips. I brushed it away, bristling. There was no graceful way to spit hair out of your mouth. “Bigger houses are harder to flip. There’s more work to be done, and they’re less likely to sell. We’re going out on a limb for this one.”

  “We can knock a little more off the price if that will help,” Milo said.

  A hint of doubt colored the short distance between us. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. “Most people would do their damnedest to wring us dry on a house like this.”

  “Like I said, I inherited this house,” Milo answered. “I don’t lose anything by selling it. I don’t want the responsibility. It’s been a thorn in my side already, and I don’t need an extravagant wad of cash to get out of Black Bay.”

  “Are you moving?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  He tucked his hands into his jeans and hunched his shoulders against the wind. Even though it was early June and summer was in full swing, the breeze was cool enough to ruffle the sleeves of his windbreaker. I rubbed my palms together, watching Milo out of the corner of my eye. He bounced on the toes of his deck shoes, his calves bulging against his jeans. It wasn’t anxious per se. It was more like he didn’t realize he was doing it. His heels tapped against the rotting wood of the deck. Tap, tap, tap. Like a determined woodpecker.

  “What’s not to like about Black Bay?” I asked him.

  “Who said I didn’t like it?”

  I made a face. “You did.”

  “I don’t hate it.”

  “Okay.”

  We were quiet for another minute.

  “But why don’t you like Black Bay?” I asked again. “I’m sorry to badger you. It’s just—I do a lot of research before we buy these houses, you know? We have to make sure we don’t purchase some place in the middle of nowhere. Black Bay checks out. Low crime rates, good job opportunities, highly rated schools, great local culture—”

  “Bailey!” Bodhi’s voice floated out from somewhere above. The wind carried it down to us then swept it over the edge of the bluff.

  We turned. Bodhi stood on a smaller deck that protruded from the second floor of the house. He leaned over the railing. “This is the master bedroom! Can you imagine?”

  I gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m excited to get started. How’s it going down there?”

  He wasn’t asking about the view. He was referring to my conversation with Milo.

  “We’re still talking,” I called up to Bodhi.

  “Talk faster. Demo and reno!”

  “Demo and reno,” I said back. With a grin, Bodhi retreated into the master bedroom.

  Milo lifted an eyebrow. “What’s demo and reno?”

  “It’s what I call demolition and renovations on my blog,” I explained. “It’s clever. It rhymes. Kind of. People like that. I thought you read it?”

  He ducked his chin into the front of his windbreaker like a shy tortoise. “Honestly, I came across your blog during a web search. I mostly looked at the pictures. It’s pretty impressive what the two of you can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bodhi emerged into the backyard, interrupting Milo’s praise. He stomped heavily on the wooden deck. “This will have to go. And the railing on that second level is falling apart. I’m thinking glass panes instead. Modernize the place, you know? Open spaces, big windows. Maybe an industrial kind of vibe. What do you think, Bay? You’re the one with the designer’s eye.”

  “I could see that happening. We’ll draw something up together.”

  Bodhi joined me and Milo, but unlike us, he didn’t look out at the view. He draped a heavy arm across my shoulders, turning me to face the aging house. I rounded forward, compensating for the extra weight. “Everything check off?”

  Bodhi nodded, tucking me into his side. “I’m ready to close if you are.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Sunlight glinted off Milo’s eyes—just like the water below, they shimmered bright white and blue—as he smiled. “I’m glad this all worked out.”

  “As am I,” I said, ducking out from under Bodhi’s arm. “Milo, would you like to join us in town for lunch? We wouldn’t mind a local’s perspective.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he said. “If you like, I can expedite the closing process. I just need a little time to do so. Meet me back here around two?”

  “Perfect. Before you go, will you do us a favor?” I opened the camera app on my phone and handed it to Milo. “Will you take a photo of us in front of the house? I need one for the blog.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I stationed Bodhi at the corner of the deck, hoping that Milo could capture both the house and the horizon in the photo. Milo trampled a rose bush searching for a good viewpoint, chewing on his lip as he tilted the phone this way and that for the best angle.

  “Ready?” he called across the yard.

  We moved robotically. I linked my arms loosely around Bodhi’s waist. He perched his chin on top of my head. I smiled, working to extend the expression to my eyes. Bodhi smiled, the muscles of his jaw rustling my hair. The phone faked a camera noise. We drew apart.

  “One more for safety,” Milo called out.

  Back toward Bodhi. Click. Away from Bodhi. Sigh.

  Milo bounded up to the deck, holding out my phone. “There ya go. And—” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, extracting a single key. “There’s that. Feel free to get comfortable. I don’t mind. I’ll meet you back here. Oh, and by the way, if you don’t want to drive to town, there’s a pathway around the southeast corner of the house. It’s a nice walk. Twenty minutes or so.”

  “Sounds great.”

  With a curious sense of finality, Milo dropped the lonely silver key into my palm. It lay against my skin, cold and still like a dead sardine. My fingers curled around it, clutching at the American Dream.

  3

  Sanctuary

  If possible, Black Bay was even warmer and more welcoming on foot. By the time Bodhi and I reached the center of town, most of the clouds had cleared out, leaving a radiant sky with a few decorative wisps of cotton candy. I shed my jacket, tying it around my waist. In Fort Lauderdale, my shoulders had burned and peeled so many times that I’d started wearing long-sleeved, UV-protection shirts outdoors. In contrast, the subtle affection of Black Bay’s sun tickled my tanned, freckled skin with such ardor that I cuffed my jeans and rolled the sleeves of my T-shirt up as far as they would go.

  Beside me, Bodhi shone with a fine coating of perspiration. It tugged at his dark curls and highlighted the angle of his cheekbones and called attention to the hollow at the base of his throat. The golden sun flirted with his golden irises. I caught his index finger in mine and squeezed. That we could handle.

  The high street swept us up with an enviable ease. The breeze from the bay played with my hair as we strolled past a grocery market advertising locally grown produce, farm fresh meats and cheeses, and an abundance of other enticing items. We paused, chuckling, to allow a gaggle of children playing tag pass by, then continued on our way, glancing into the bright, welcoming shop windows. There were no chain restaurants here, no looming supermarkets or wholesale stores. The businesses were small and crowded. One storefront boasted homemade ice cream and cookies. A used bookstore advertised two for one classics. There was even an archaic office for the local newspaper, the Black Bay Banner, a new edition of which was published every other Sunday.


  The locals themselves were infectiously joyous as well. They smiled or tipped the brim of their hats at each other, pausing to chat or say a quick hello in doorways or on street corners. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Joyce?”

  “Sure is, Bobby. Say hello to your wife for me, will you?”

  In fact, the locals were so familiar with each other that mine and Bodhi’s presence in town almost seemed to elude their understanding. Though they met my gaze with the same polite smiles they afforded their neighbors, there was a vague impression of confusion in each passing glance. Black Bay, however amiable, was not accustomed to new faces.

  On the corner of the cross section at the town square, the warm aromas of fresh coffee, sizzling sausage, and cinnamon scones wafted from the open doors and windows of a bustling cafe called Sanctuary Coffee House. I tugged on Bodhi’s finger.

  “I smell hotcakes. And real maple syrup.”

  “Sold,” he said, steering me inside.

  The Sanctuary was a popular place. There were no tables available, so Bodhi and I settled in on two bar stools at the counter, squeezing between an elderly gentleman who smelled faintly of fish and a high schooler immersed in a bruised copy of Catcher in the Rye. I hummed contently as the cappuccino machine happily pulverized fresh coffee beans and tapped my fingers on the countertop in time with the upbeat acoustic guitar music emanating faintly from the overhead speakers. Soon, a middle-aged woman in a denim shirt and a green apron sidled toward us. In a practiced move, she filled two glasses with ice water, garnished them with lemon, and slid them across the counter.