The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Read online

  The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Haunting of Rachel Harroway- Book 0

  By J.S Donovan

  DBS Publishing LLC

  Copyright 2017 by DBS Publishing LLC

  Smashwords Edition

  Chapter One

  Summer Night of ‘83

  Torrents of rain punched the old upstairs window, rattling the glass and causing the 1892 Queen Anne manse to groan like a dying old man. Full of years and at an elevation of 4,117 feet, the pear-colored house stood alone in the deep woods of the Appalachian Mountains. A single seven-mile road separated the Hadley House--as the local’s called it--and the town of Highlands, North Carolina. The path twisted through dense walls of pine-oak trees and honeysuckle brushes, bridging society and the untamed wilds.

  The house emitted yellow light through its windows. A beacon in the storm.

  Sitting cross legged on the hardwood floor, Amanda Barnes, nine years of age, faced her seven-year-old brother, Benny. Marker stripes ruined his puffy cheeks after his hilariously desperate attempt to draw whiskers without using a mirror. Amanda fought her laughter until her face turned cherry red and her mouth burst open.

  “Oh, shut up!” Benny squealed, flushed face and squirming. In his little sweater vest, grey slacks and classy combed blond hair, he masqueraded as an angry fat man trapped in a plump boy’s body.

  Amanda rubbed her hands together, warming them in anticipation. “Okay, okay. My turn.”

  “Truth or dare?” Benny asked, his flare of anger fleeting as quick as it came.

  With dubious smile, Amanda looked at her little brother. “Truth.”

  “No fair!” Benny squeezed his little sausage fingers into fists. “You did truth last time, and the time before that.”

  “Fine,” Amanda complained, secretly glad her brother dared her. She could only laugh so much at his frustration before she had to share in the misery. The joys and struggles of being the older sibling. She twisted her brown hair and reluctantly said, “Dare.”

  Benny readjusted his crossed legs and rubbed his chin just like father when he read the morning paper. “I dare you to…eat...” He’s big blue eyes found a cobweb under the wardrobe. “Eat a bowl of spiders!”

  “But I hate spiders,” Amanda exclaimed.

  Benny bocked like a chicken, head clucking and elbows flapping, the whole shebang.

  “Can’t I just drink ketchup or put a fake snake under mom’s pillow again?”

  “Nope.” Benny took a second rest before continuing his fowl impersonation.

  With her furrowed brow, Amanda racked her brain. “Where am I going to find a bowl of spiders?”

  “I don’t know. Bock, bo-bo-bock. I saw a lot in the basement yesterday. One was this big.” He parted his thumb and finger two inches.

  Moping, Amanda stood and flatted out her cobalt suspender skirt. Her mother told her to change out of the leggings, skirt and white fully buttoned collared shirt after the boring old persons event. She didn’t listen, and she liked looking cute.

  In the living room, Reginald Barnes smoked his pipe, watching the rain cascade down the window. The dim visage in the glass was a tired man with greying chopper hair swooshed to side, furry sideburns cut with a straight edge passed the ear lobe, and a tight mouth on a clean-shaven face. He looked old. Beaten down.

  “Are you listening to me, Regi?” Lilith stood behind him, hands on her shapely hips.

  “Yes, woman. For the third time, yes.” He would never strike her but, boy, there were days. More lately with the new contracts coming through. That, and the brick dashed through the window last week… If their relationship was sinking ship, it would be time to jump overboard. And he didn’t want to think about their love life. That fish was dead.

  “Well, look at me.” Lilith commanded.

  Letting the smoke seep from the corner of his tight lip, Reginald turned around. Eyes grey and apathetic, he faced his wife. She wore a dark violet side button dress and a black belt to accentuate her figure. With her short permed, authoritative blond hair style, and well-structured pissed off face, she looked like a sexy Nazi. The double barrel hinged over the fireplace behind her only added to the imitation factor. Nonetheless, Regi noticed breaches in her tough exterior. Meanly in her red rimmed eyes.

  “The broken window last week. The note yesterday. The writing is on the wall, Regi. We need to go.” Lilith said.

  Her words cut. Did she have any idea how long it took him to build his empire? A decade ago, he was nothing but stupid twenty-something old with four hundred dollars to his name. Now, he’s icon. A husband. A father. Billboard for the American Dream.

  “Go where, huh? Back to Connecticut? To Boston?” Reginald said sarcastically.

  “There’s no reason to bring my parents into this,” Lilith replied.

  Reginald lowered his pipe, and tried to explain it as clear as he could. “I’ve invested too much into this ground. Everything we have is here. The business. The lumber. If we leave, the money stops. Our kids don’t go to college, and you’ll have to wear peasant shoes.”

  Lilith chuckled angrily. “You think I care about my shoes? I care about my children, their safety. And, believe it or not, Regi, I care about my husband.”

  Reginald paused for a moment, letting the ambers in his lowered pipe burn down. He opened his mouth to speak.

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  Reginald and Lilith turned to the front door simultaneously. Regi checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. 9:48pm.

  “It’s probably Carmon.” Reginald said, depressingly calm. “Another broken bandsaw.”

  Lilith let out an exasperated sigh and massaged her forehead.

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  “I’m coming!” Regi billowed and unlocked the door.

  He opened to two men wearing translucent ponchos and ski-masks. Rain trickled down their plastic garb and the barrels of the pistols aimed at Reginald’s face. Carefully, Reginald raised his aims.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, stepping back into the house. “How much do you want?”

  Inside, Regi boiled. Who were these men to come under his roof and threaten his existence in front of his wife? Chumps, that’s all they were, resorting to scare tactics to get a rise out of him. “You got my attention,” Regi said. “Now what?”

  The second gunman, a shorter, squat, fellow, pointed his gun to Reginald’s kneecap and blew it to kingdom come. Screaming, Regi toppled backwards and hit the floor like a bag of bricks.

  At the wooden railed elbow that connected the second story hall to the set of rickety of stairs, Amanda Barnes watched her father howl and hold his trembling hands over his stiff and bleeding knee. The horror of eating a bowl of spiders was a thought of the past. What Amanda face now was real, petrifying dread.

  Mother darted for the shotgun above the fireplace. A gunshot shook the walls, and Mother was face first the ground. A red rose bloomed on the back of her long-sleeved violet dress. The two men stepped inside. Water puddling at under their black boots as rain and thunder battered the Hadley house.

  “Check upstairs,” the taller man said.

  The short man stepped over Father like any other obstacle and marched Amanda’s way.

  “Don’t go up there!” Father shouted, eyes clenched in pain. “Please! They’re only children!”

  He grabbed the tall man’s ankle.
“Tell take me, you bastard. Not them. Me!”

  The tall man looked down at father, whispered something and unloaded a .45 caliber round into Reginald’s head.

  Sliding his hand up the railing, the short gunman marched up the steps and towards Amanda. She twisted around and dashed through hall, her little feet clicking on the wood. Benny sat on the floor of his room, looking up her with doe eyes. “What’s that noise?”

  “Hide, Benny.” Amanda whispered.

  “But where’s mommy and daddy?”

  Amanda didn’t have time for this. She grabbed her brother’s meaty wrists and ran to the wardrobe. They huddled inside, pushing past tiny outfits and her father’s spare scruffy sports blazers. Amanda shut the door and hugged her little brother. His moist, fake-whiskered cheek pushed up against her own as they looked past coattails and waited.

  “I’m scared, Amanda.”

  “Shh.” Amanda put her finger over her lip. “Don’t let him hear you.”

  The sound of their breathing filled the wardrobe.

  Wet footsteps entered the room. Benny wheezed. Amanda covered his mouth and her own. Through the thin gap where the two wardrobe doors meet, the poncho-wearing man could be seen pacing about the bedroom. He opened the closet, flashing the gun back and forth but finding no one. He knelt next the bed and peered underneath. He swept off the bed’s covers, letting them drift to the floor. He approached the bedroom door and checked behind it. Lastly, he turned to wardrobe.

  Under Amanda’s hand, Benny whimpered. The man paused for a moment, listening. He stepped toward the wardrobe. Amanda’s nine-year-old heart raced. Keeping a hand on the pistol, the man grabbed a circular knobs wardrobe door and pulled it open.

  Chapter Two

  The Manse

  The curvature of the woman’s jaw kept Rachel busy long enough, but it was sketching the palm and fingers that would prove most troublesome. As she had imagined it, the woman rested her chin on the ball of her hand with her fingertips on her lips. After that was finished, Rachel would have to decide how to kill her. A laceration across the neck? A swollen bruise on her long forehead? Perhaps, a blood trickling from her tear ducts. Her market was niche. The decision mattered.

  “You’re missing out,” Brett said, teasingly, one hand on the steering wheel. The rays of the high noon sun glistened on the simple wedding ring Rachel bought him seven years ago. Those were the days when they spent all afternoon in their pajamas and ate cold pizza off the coffee stand in their barely furnished studio apartment. New York, may I never see you again.

  Rachel slid her knees from the glove box and sat up like a normal person, keeping the sketchpad on her lap.

  She looked out at quaint town of Highlands. Inviting mom-and-pop shops, cute colonial buildings, and historical museums rich with Appalachian Mountains culture lined their trek. With a population just over a thousand, miles untouched woods sprawled down the plateau's sides. Autumn had touched the trees, and the surrounding mountains were ablaze with red, orange and burgundy leaves.

  Brett turned his head, eyes following birds take off into the blue sky. “If there was only a way I could drive and use my camera.”

  “That would be pretty impressive.” Rachel eyed her husband, a small, mischievous smile on her beautiful face.

  Brett looked her up and down, pleased by what he saw. “You’re very distracting, you know that?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Rachel replied and returned to her disturbing sketch.

  Shaking his head and laughing to himself, Brett turned back to the road. He was man with dark hair, rectangular rimless glasses and a well-groomed beard. Though urban hipster by his looks, his affinity for the country couldn’t be understated. His trade, nature photography, had taken off two years back when the right person saw his blog and published him in National Geographic. After that, the man scarcely got a day off. Rachel, too. Her art wasn’t as streamlined as her husband’s but brought in a surprising good chunk of money, quite impressive for the current year of 2009.

  Their Escalade cruised down the snaking single-lane street, driving further into the woods and higher up the mountain. Tall trees and lively bushes bordered the asphalt road: man’s industrial stamp on the wilds around them. Seven point six miles later, and the twin peaks of the ancient house grew over the orange, green and yellow treetops. This time, Rachel set her pencil and sketchbook aside and leaned forward in her seat, taking in the entirety of 1892 gem.

  Standing two stories high, the house had large front porch with custom wood trimmings that elbowed around one side of the building. One of the two peaks jutted out from the rest of the house in a half octagonal shape thus giving the building the sharp of an “L.” It’s roof was shingled and the windows had wooden blinds. There was something charming about it’s simple rustic appearance.

  “There it is.” Brett said, putting the car into park.

  They stepped out of the car, crunching dry leaves under foot. The wind took Rachel’s black hair, brushing it against her pale cheeks. With a finger, she brushed it behind her ear and took in this foreign world. Stripped of over half their leaves, tall sentry oaks concealed the house leaving a little clearing for the front and back yard. Their skeletal branches waved at Rachel. Their pointed fingers crawled at the left and right sides of house, narrowly missing it by a few yards.

  Rachel folded next to Brett at the vehicles front bumper, wrapped her arm around his torso and feeling the warmth of his muscular body. He relaxed his arm on her, drawing her closer to him. As the wind whistled and nature’s critters bickered, they stared up at their home.

  “It’s kinda creepy,” Brett said.

  The more Rachel looked at it, the more she noticed the creaks on its green paint, the chipping of the porch’s handrails and the dust gathered in the dark windows that seemed to give the place a sense of hollowness.

  “It’s perfect,” Rachel replied and kissed her husband.

  A bright red sedan grumbled up the road and parked behind the Escalade. The door opened and a small red heel stepped out, followed by an elderly woman with fluffy snow-colored hair, a large jade necklace and big ears, sagging under the weight of her earrings. She wore a lady’s business suit, leggings, and stood one inch over five feet.

  “No trouble finding the place.” Mrs. Swinley chuckled and pattered over to them on her tiny feet.

  “There were a few hick-ups down the way, but we managed,” replied Rachel.

  Blue veins bulged on the top of Mrs. Swinley’s tiny cold hands and spotted forearms. She shook Rachel’s hand and beckoned Brett to lean down so she could peak him on his cheek. “Good. You couldn’t have bought the house at finer time. Come, come. I’m sure you're anxious to go inside.”

  Rachel and Brett followed the elderly woman. They hiked up the wide porch and pushed through the front door. Light pooled across the hardwood floor. A musty smell lingered in the air. The living room was largely vacant apart from the grandfather clock. Off to the right side, stairs hiked to the second floor and led to railed balcony before jutting back into the hall. To the left side of the downstairs was another hall that lead to a bathroom, bedroom and study.

  “The Hadley House was built by a physician named Roy Hadley in 1892,” The realtor explained, strolling through the large living room. “He loved the Queen Anne-era design dearly and modeled his home after such. With the exception of the partial loft, of course. He added that addition so he watched the patients below.”

  “Patients?” Brett asked. “He ran his practice out of his house?”

  “Only partially. He had a small office in town but his informal nature caused many of the sick and needy to come directly to his home.”

  Rachel studied the grandfather clock. A sheen of dust covered its circular glasses face. Within, the arms ticked on. “Does this come with the house?”

  The little white-haired woman nodded. “Everything in the house is yours upon purchase. The local bank left it behind after they confiscated the house in ‘83. If it’s
not to your liking, I can find you a mover, no extra charge.”

  “We’ll sift through it, first, before making a decision,” Rachel declared, secretly excited by what treasures lay within. It’s always been a fantasy of hers to find some long, lost stash money or mysterious relic. By Brett’s pensive face, he clearly didn’t share the same sentiment.

  Turning the copper, egg-shaped knob on the dark wood door, they entered the study. Its back jutted out into a half hexagonal wall. Like the rest of the house, squares of stained glass-- violet, indigo and amber--boxed in the windows. Dust tucked in frames lower corners.

  “The house comes equipped with a study, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, dining area, ample closet space both up and down stairs, a basement, and ten acres of surrounding land.”

  Mrs. Swinley led Brett and Rachel through them all, barring ten acre walk in heels. The rooms were large and filled with odd ball furniture left behind by the last owner. A wardrobe in one room, a rocking chair in the other, a shell-shaped lamp on the floor, etc. Rachel enjoyed every item, checking them for any unique features. My own treasure trove. Brett snapped pictures on objects.

  “eBay,” He said off Rachel’s inquisitive look.

  The realtor’s tour ended in the basement. White sheets covered old furniture, hat stands and other articles from a bygone area.

  “Apart from basic maintenance, electric and heating upgraded by the last owner in 1983, the house is a true survivor.”

  “I’m not trying to be rude, but why hasn’t it sold? Brett asked, snapping a picture with his Canon.

  “The bank confiscated it in ‘84, intent on restoring the building into its original state.” Mrs Swinley said, pulling the string of a 1980s lamp near the washer and dryer hook ups. The incandescent bulbs flickered on under the beige lamp shape. “They discussed making it into an historic attraction to acquire additional revenue. After all, it is one of the town’s oldest buildings. Unfortunately, they never found the time to refurbish it and, after twenty years of sitting on the prime real estate, they decided it best to put the house back on the market.”