The Haunting of Alcott Manor, page 3
part #1 of Alcott Manor Series
Preferring a slightly larger restaurant than the small dining area that the B&B offered, she had gone to The Iron Skillet down the street. She'd texted her father, as well as her cousin Janey, who worked with the family business, as to her whereabouts. They would meet her there shortly.
"We call ’em cat head biscuits. Big as a cat’s head.” The older waitress’s dark braid curled around her protruding collarbone, and Gemma immediately wondered how she stayed so thin while working in a restaurant that served such rich food. Her white name tag was engraved in black with the name Tammy, and she nearly dropped a white plate of giant pancakes in front of her.
Gemma eyed the height and width of the biscuit before returning it to her side plate. It was, oddly, about the size of a cat's head. "What do you call the pancakes?”
"We just call them pancakes. Here, sugar, don't be so brave about it." She picked up a knife and cut Gemma's biscuit in half. “I know you're not local. What brings you here?”
She stumbled for something to say. The woman had just cut her food for her. “Ah, my dad's company is restoring Alcott Manor.” Several men who were seated at the bar shifted their attention in her direction.
“Ohhh.” The waitress put her hands in her lace-tipped front patch pockets and pressed her lips together as though she were forbidden to speak any further on the topic.
“You're familiar with the home?"
She hunched forward as if to whisper, the flavor of tobacco heavy on her breath. “Everyone is. And I could guess which side you're on.”
“Which side?" Gemma lowered her own voice to match the waitress's secretive tone, but she had no idea what was so hush-hush.
“You're obviously on the side to restore. The family is divided—half for it, half against it. Started when that girl was killed in the house. Now it's a battle between the owners. Everybody in town has picked a side.” She squinted her eyes as if she weren't sure that Gemma really didn't know.
“Why are we whispering?"
“Because if the ghost did kill those people, I don't want him to hear me talking about him. I don't need that kind of attention. Also, that man halfway down the bar there is Asher Cardill. He's a member of the Alcott family, and he's on the side that doesn't want it restored. I don't want his kind of attention, neither.”
She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “My name's Tammy,” she said at a more normal volume. “Let me know if I can get you some more hot tea." She placed the handwritten check on the table and touched it lightly before she walked away.
She thanked Tammy with a smile and snuck a glance at the middle-aged man at the bar she had mentioned. Sure enough, he stared over his white coffee cup at her. Side part, thinning brown hair, dark eyes with a touch of hardness to them.
She tried not to stare at his outfit—a baby blue button-down, tan pants, and a pink belt. She didn't think she had seen anyone other than a little girl wear a pink belt lately. Of course, ninety-eight percent of her closet was black, so if preppy was back and she'd missed a new fashion trend, she wouldn't know it.
She opened her laptop and managed a bite of that now half biscuit while she googled, “Alcott Manor family battle and girl’s death.” The buttery, layered cake melted unexpectedly on her tongue and she closed her eyes for a moment. Obviously, cat head biscuit was Southern for French pastry.
Up popped a list of articles, and she clicked on the top one from a local newspaper: Tragedy at Alcott Manor Starts Legal Battle Among Owners.
The photo of a teenaged girl was posted just beneath the bold headline. With her blue eyes and straight blond hair held back with a three-inch, sky blue grosgrain headband, she resembled an older version of Alice-in-Wonderland. She was the quintessential southern beauty queen with a smooth-as-a-peach complexion. Gemma's heart melted in empathy over a young life cut tragically short.
Sixteen-year-old Brittney Allen was found dead at Alcott Manor on the anniversary of Anna Alcott's death. The manor had been locked up and, as usual, it was in the throes of a failed restoration attempt. Brittney’s two girlfriends said they broke into the manor to see if the house was as haunted as its reputation suggested it was. The girls say they were separated from Brittney when they heard her scream, then watched her fall from the second story as though she had been pushed. She was declared dead at the scene.
The Alcott descendants, whose family corporation retains sole ownership of the home, have since divided their support for the restoration efforts. While half of the family supports the continued restoration, the other half of the owners believe the house is cursed and that a restoration is not possible. They support tearing the manor down and selling the land to developers, and they have filed a lawsuit. A resolution is expected soon from the court.
So far, every attempt to restore Alcott Manor has failed. Restoration specialists claim that work performed on the property is quickly damaged or undone, making a complete restoration impossible. Whether these efforts are the result of vandalism or the supposed undead spirit of Benjamin Alcott is an issue of local debate.
Taylor Reconstruction was the last company to work on the manor. CEO Oliver Taylor had this to say about his attempt to restore the home, “I don't believe in ghosts. Never have. But I honestly don't know how to describe some of the things we saw and heard in that house. There's something dark going on in there. I don't say that lightly because I don’t scare easy. Frankly, I'm just glad to be done with it, even though I damn near lost everything on that one. Every last improvement we put into that place was destroyed. By who, I just don't know.”
The manor has long been reputed as one of the most haunted homes in the southeast.
She skimmed the rest of the article and rubbed at the pain that built in the back of her head. The hidden underside of her father's “tip of the iceberg” was starting to reveal itself.
She typed “Alcott Manor haunted” into the search bar and clicked on the first article that came up: Most Haunted Places of the South.
Alcott Manor was number two on the list, right behind an abandoned mental asylum based in Tennessee. She covered the front of her neck with her hand—to protect, to guard, to soothe.
Anna Alcott was shot and killed at Alcott Manor in 1883. Her husband, Senator Benjamin Alcott, was convicted and hung for her murder. He maintained his innocence until the very end, claiming that his wife had committed suicide and that she had left a note. However, no such suicide note was ever found.
To this day, it is rumored that Benjamin Alcott roams the house, searching for the suicide note that he claimed his wife left. Desperate to prove his innocence, he sabotages any efforts to restore the home for fear that the construction might destroy the evidence he thinks exists.
Two people have died in the home over the past year, during yet another restoration attempt. Coincidence? We don't think so either. The first was a teenaged girl who broke into the manor with her friends to investigate locals’ claims that gunshots and screams can be heard coming from the property on the anniversary of Anna Alcott's death The other death was an expert who restored the frescoes on the ceilings of the music room and library and was killed while performing his work.
Dread fell through her like a rush of water from the top of a fall, the sensation nearly took all her will with it. She’d say she couldn't believe that her dad had kept this information from her—but she could believe it. It was just his style.
She fought the flash—a memory of the wind patterns that popped into her head. The first one happened just before her mother's death. The last one just before she arrived here. Both were tied to this godforsaken house.
The wind pattern only means change. It doesn't necessarily mean anything bad is coming. She admonished her thoughts to get back in line.
She lifted her head from the screen to the sight of two people rounding the corner, one waving at her. Both smiling.
“Morning, Gemma Rose!” Her father's hair was a solid gray now, parted on the side and cut short. A fresh haircut. A good sign, she thought. One that said he was taking care of himself. His fair skin was reddened across his nose and cheeks, probably from the Southern sun.
Janey, her cousin and the bookkeeper-slash-general-coordinator-of-everything for her dad's company, was in perfect step at his side. It was another detail that gave her comfort. In these still-early weeks after Mom's death, he didn't need a lot of time alone. Her thick brown ponytail swished behind her and she flashed her impish grin.
Gemma hugged them both and answered the usual questions about her flight, whether she slept well the night before, and was she ready to head on to the manor?
“Yes, I'm ready." She closed her laptop, dug into her front pocket for cash to pay the bill, and lowered her voice to a stern whisper. “Now I did promise I'd clear the land for you, and I will. But I want to be super clear about my limits here. I'm not going in that house.”
Her father’s eyebrows shot up at the same time his mouth opened, as though he was going to play innocent. But when she raised a scolding eyebrow at him, his mouth closed and he obviously thought better of it.
Janey’s eyes shifted left toward her uncle. “I told you she'd find out about the house and that you'd be in trouble."
Gemma waved to Tammy on her way out the front door.
“Fair enough," her dad said. "I'll take whatever help you’ll give.”
She made her way down the front steps and followed her dad toward his car. Warm air coiled around her legs while the fingers of a cool breeze caressed her face. Dread boomed soundlessly inside of her at its touch, like a growl, like a moan, like a long and painful warning cry she could not ignore.
Chapter 4
Janey handed Gemma a small fountain cola from the back seat. “You know everything down here is a Coke. Nothing is soda. When you ask for a Coke, they want to know what kind of Coke you want—regular Coke, lemon lime, or orange. Anyway, I know you just had breakfast, but I thought you might want something to drink."
"Thanks, Jane.” Gemma made a smile she knew her cousin would accept, sipped the drink, and tried to decide which questions to ask, which ones to let go.
"I know what you're thinking.” Her dad gave her a quick glance before looking back to the road, his knuckles white on the wheel.
"What am I thinking, Pop?"
"Now that you know more about the eccentricities of the job, you're wondering why we would work on such a case.”
Eccentricities. “No, after our last phone conversation, I know why.”
“We didn’t really have a choice,” Janey said. “It's the only restoration project out there that solves all the problems."
"I assumed as much.”
They'd driven well out of the city center now. Her father's car moved along at the posted speed limit, though she felt the pace was too slow. The two-lane road was deserted, excepting its overstuffed side margins of possessive kudzu vines. It was a world or two away from the busy sophistication of her west coast life.
She’d visited this area once before when her family vacationed on one of the barrier islands. The beach was known as the Bloody Coast because of an English and Indian battle that had left the shores red with blood. She’d spent the entire vacation sick with fever.
“Bad imprints,” her mother finally decided.
“I'm guessing the hard deadline you mentioned has something to do with the court's involvement?"
Her dad paused, a brief flash of anxiousness tightening his features just slightly and only for a moment. “They shouldn’t have been onsite in a construction zone. Her death was probably an accident. Or some think she may have been murdered by—”
“A ghost?”
“Well, yes, of course. Because that makes for good lore and fodder. No, I was going to say a homeless person. A couple were seen on the property that week. They could have found a way in.
“There was some talk of selling among some of the owners before this incident. But after the girl died, lawyers were hired, battle lines were drawn, and the judge imposed a deadline to settle the argument. The judge's punch list of restoration items has to be completed two months from now, or he's going to side with the prosecution and force the owners to sell.”
“Is it a reasonable list?”
“Nothing extraordinary. Just enough that a certain amount of restoration progress has to be evident. So, two months from now, Judge Wertheimer will take a tour of the property, along with Tom, who represents the Historic District Commission, an inspector, and two family owners, one from each camp. When the judge is satisfied that his list items have been met, that will put concerns to rest, and we can finish the second half of the restoration.”
“And you're in danger of missing the deadline.”
“Only because our work—” Her father cleared his throat again.
“Is being destroyed.” She finished his sentence and thought of the articles she'd read that morning, and how no restoration had ever been completed. "These are the setbacks you mentioned, and why you want me to clear the negative imprints from the land.”
He stared at her as he never had, with his eyes pleading. This monument of a man in her life, who, up until recently, had never really asked her for anything. “If we miss our deadline, we'll be lucky if we break even. We need the full job to make enough money so that we're in the clear personally. So, yes. I need you to clear the land, and I'm hoping that will do enough good that we can finish our work here.”
There was a desperately stern, fatherly edge to the way he said it. As if he were saying, “You cannot date that boy,” or “You need to study tonight instead of going to that party.” But vulnerability tweaked his voice thin, and she worked hard to keep the floodgates of emotion closed and hidden deep in her heart.
She couldn’t help him more than she had already promised. She'd clear the land. That was it. Anything more and she knew she would live to regret it.
“This is Alcott Manor?” She squinted from the sun that bore through the front windshield of her father’s rented gray sedan. Only a glimpse of Alcott Manor was visible in the distance among the majestic water oaks and ancient magnolias. She and her father leaned to the side to see it as their car idled on the quiet road.
“Yep, this is her. Built in 1832. Sixty-five acres in all. We’ve taken her a long way over the last year.” He put the car in park, and everyone stepped out.
A seductive swirl of wind and emotion spiraled around and through her. Warm currents spun possessively about her lower body while cool ocean breezes tossed her red hair like a playful spirit.
“Don’t," she whispered into the midst of a force that felt bigger and more in control than she was.
A white van with the words Private Workforce Security on the outside and a picture of binoculars turned slowly onto the main road in front of the manor. “I’m having some additional security added.” Her father pointed to the van. “More hidden cameras and a security guard.”
“Smart,” Janey said.
Alcott Manor sat halfway between the road and the ocean on a wide expanse of short-trimmed green. “Was there anything original left of the house that you could salvage?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Wait until you see the inside, it’s magnificent. There are frescoes on several of the domed ceilings.”
"I won’t be seeing the inside, Pop,” she sing-songed in a quiet reminder-like-voice. She didn't like the way he spoke about the house. Properties could become an obsession, especially when you were trying to restore them. It wasn't unusual to develop a relationship with a home when you were trying to bring back its original glory. But she didn't want him to have a close relationship with this house.
"What's that, sweetheart?”
“You heard me, Pop.” She reached the grassy edge of the property and strolled next to the black iron fence. She focused hard on the structure and thought for a moment about the original owner. Whether Benjamin Alcott had been the murderer or not, his wife had died tragically on the property. Gemma would have to figure out where that happened so she could clean up the effects of that event. Then she would head back to her life on the west coast.
She felt the house return her attention, and a chill produced goose bumps along her skin. At first, she felt an attraction, a warmth that drew her close and seemed to know her. Without a guarded thought, she leaned into it, explored it.
That was quickly followed by a grabby and hoggish sensation, like a demanding mistress who held too tight to her lover, and Gemma jerked back quickly.
Must be the effect of Benjamin. Possessive, arrogant ass.
She stepped away. One foot forward, then another. Quietly, she counted her steps on her way to the car.
“Is someone in there?” she asked.
“Tom might be, I guess. Plenty of workers.” Her dad ducked his head beneath the sun visor and tried to see the property through the blinding rays of sunshine. “Why, did you see someone?”
“No, I just got a creepy feeling. Like I was being watched or something.” Gemma shivered again and buckled her seatbelt. “Ran right through me.” She wanted to tell him that she didn't like this house, that she didn't have a good feeling about it. But he couldn't back away from this project. So, she would just stuff her concerns and clear the land for him. That was the best way she could help him. She wondered for a moment if her mother had done something similar—just wedged her concerns to some out-of-sight place and went to work because they needed this job.
Two cars passed in front and she took note of them.
"Are you okay, Gemma?” he asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine.”
"Because you just counted the cars."
"No, I didn't.”
"I saw your mouth move, honey. You said, ‘one, two.’ You haven't done that since…” Glenn shook his head. "I shouldn't have asked you to do this. I just thought all of that was over and done with. In the past."
"It was. It is. I'm fine." She touched his arm. "I'm okay. I promise. Now, I'm here to help you. So, let's get on with it." She gave his arm a squeeze. “Do you know where the wife was killed?”
