O'Hare House Mysteries Read online

  Wesley seemed torn. "And that is what troubles me the most. If I am wrong, if it is someone else... it means that all these years have been wasted and I have stepped right into a trap. Even worse, I wonder that if this ghost is true, if my sister is truly here tonight and has appeared to you, could it be that she is exacting her own revenge?"

  Clara suddenly realized what Wesley was wrestling with. He was considering that his beloved sister might have the power to kill. She reached up tenderly to brush back Wesley's curled forelock, to comfort this poor grieving brother. "She would not seek revenge, dear Wesley. Of this I am sure. The events tonight have nothing to do with her. She is not some malevolent spirit. I feel almost as if she has come here to protect us, to warn us..."

  He gripped her hand as if it were a lifeline. "But how do you know? What if, in order to save the people here, I must find some way to destroy my sister's ghost? What if Horace is indeed her murderer? Do I save him? Do I protect him from her?"

  Clara could not stand to see him in such distress. She wrapped her arms around him, allowing the events of the evening to be her excuse to cross the boundaries into such intimacy. She held him as he had held her after she discovered Norman's body and let him lean upon her for support. "There, there," she said. "We shall cross that bridge when we come to it."

  "I could not bear to think that my sister is resting so uneasily in the afterlife... that her death was so terrible she could not escape this earth..."

  "Hush," she said, stroking his hair. "Hush."

  When he had finally calmed, he looked down upon her, his eyes full of gratitude. He took her face in his hands and whispered, "If we are to die tonight, know that I have never met a woman finer than you, Mrs. Clara O'Hare."

  The use of her full name, of the name that became hers when she married Thomas reminded her who she was and why she was here. She pulled away, breaking the spell between them. She could not. Not yet. "Come, there shall be time for such idle passings later. There is a murderer in this house and we must find Clifford before this monster kills again."

  Wesley nodded grimly. She thought he seemed disappointed that she brought them both back to reality from that moment that was so pleasant between them, but there was no helping it.

  He picked up the hurricane lamp and handed it to Clara. He then picked up his sword and they set to their task, searching room-by-room for Clifford, calling his name as they went through the pantry, the servant's quarters, the washhouse... but he was nowhere to be found.

  "It is like he vanished into nowhere," said Clara. "He must be on one of the upper floors."

  "What is this?" Wesley asked.

  They had just entered the wine cellar, and Wesley pointed down at the ground. The dusty floor looked as if it had been disturbed by a door swinging out, only there was no door, only a wall of bottled wine. Wesley began feeling around the edges. "There must be a hidden entrance."

  Clara held the lamp up high for Wesley so that he might see what he was doing. One by one, he lifted the bottles from their places to see if perhaps the weight of one might trigger the wall to move.

  As Clara watched, she rested her hand upon the rack. Idly, her thumb began playing with one of the shelves. She felt a little knot, a rough spot that her finger began to work, and then, suddenly, there was a click and the wall swung out to reveal a passageway.

  Wesley stepped back and looked at her. "Indeed, the finest woman I have ever met, Mrs. O'Hare."

  She could not help the blush which she was sure was spreading across her face like wildfire and he seemed pleased that his admiration had such affect. But she did not allow herself to be distracted. Wesley entered the room and she followed close behind.

  The doorway deposited them at the top of a set of stairs, which they crept slowly down until they reached a hallway made of old stones, worn from the years of hands and feet that had trod their way.

  "This seems like a different house altogether," said Clara.

  Wesley peered into the darkness. "So many of these homes were built upon old ruins and ancient burial grounds. I wonder if perhaps there was an old castle or fortress here, and the owners chose to borrow the foundation?"

  “Horace did mention that this house was built upon an elevation…”

  The darkness was oppressive; it seemed almost to have a life of its own. It was as if it was pressing upon them, trying to extinguish their flame. It was pitch black and no matter how hard she tried, she could see nothing beyond their lamp. The sound of water dripped in the distance. Clara hoped that the door had remained open at the top of the stairs. She could not imagine being trapped down here where there was no one to hear their cries for help.

  It was then that she saw a glow that did not come from the light they carried. She felt the room plunge into cold as if doused in ice water. She grabbed onto Wesley's arm, shivering once again from both the chill and fear.

  "What is it, Clara?" he asked.

  Once more the ghost appeared, fading in like coming through a fog. Clara did not know whether to trust this spirit, or to prepare for her own death.

  "It is Minnie," she said. "She is here."

  20

  "Minnie?" Wesley asked. "Where? Where?" He spun around looking for her, his voice filled with such a plaintive tone, as if he would give anything to see that which Clara could see so easily. But his sister remained a mystery. He gripped Clara's hand. "Please, tell her I love her and will seek justice for her murder. I will..."

  Clara looked over. Minnie seemed torn, as if she would give anything to hear more of his words, but sensing some sort of danger or limit to their time. The mission won, and she held her finger to her lips, as if shushing him.

  Clara placed her hand over Wesley's mouth. "She is motioning for us to keep quiet."

  Wesley nodded and Clara slowly let him go, trying not to think about how his soft lips felt against her fingers, and that if they did not escape, it was the closest that she would ever come to knowing what they felt like.

  Minnie motioned to Clara to follow with her slow, trancelike movements. Clara took Wesley's hand and led him after the ghost. The hallway was a warren, and this secret basement could have easily extended the entire length of the house. They wound through the maze like hallways.

  "It would not be unexpected to run into a minotaur in these walls," muttered Wesley.

  Minnie turned and gave him a glare, and for once, Clara thought he was perhaps lucky that he could not see his sister.

  The hallway finally stopped at a large, wooden door with iron bands across the boards. A shape gouged from its surface, marring the symbol or decoration beyond recognition. Wesley squeezed Clara arm, as if to infuse her with a bravery neither of them felt, placed his hand upon the black, metal ring which served as a handle, and pulled.

  The door opened upon a large square room. Cautiously, Wesley looked inside before stepping in, then motioned for Clara to follow. The room seemed almost a mirror image of itself, each wall the same as the wall opposite it fitted with four matching doors. It would have been easy to get confused and walk through the wrong one.

  "It is like that maze drawing we found in the library," Clara remarked. “Do you think it could have been not a puzzle, but a map?”

  "Perhaps you are right," said Wesley as he crossed to the opposite door and pushed against it. It would not open. “But why four doors?” Wesley asked. “This room is hidden deep in the center of a maze, as if to protect whatever was at its heart, but four doors would be impossible to defend. You would have to fight four directions.”

  In the center of the room was a raised square platform of granite. In fact, the entire room seemed as if had been carved from a single piece of rock. Clare looked closer and could see no seams between the walls and the floors, and the floor and that platform. Carved into the center of the platform was a hole. A heavy stone lid, which looked like it would have fit perfectly over it, was pushed to the side. A large metal chain with an open padlock pooled around it, as if someone might h
ave once tried to lock something or someone inside, and some foolish person undid that good deed.

  “Perhaps it was not about keeping something safe inside, but a four part trap defensible on all sides, to ensure it did not get out.” Clara gripped Wesley's arm tightly and whispered, "What is stronger than a man and can snap a grown woman's neck with no one seeing? What creature leaves two fang marks in its dead? And sleeps in a coffin within a square room?"

  "Horace..." Wesley said.

  "What?" asked Clara, confused.

  Wesley ran his hand over the back of his head, smoothing his auburn hair mindlessly as he thought. "This is Horace's house. This is Horace's basement. Think on it! He is a man who loves the hunt, almost like a beast he tracks his prey. He has brought us here, all of us. He dismissed every servant that could have born witness to this night and killed the only one remaining. He ensured that we were stranded, without any hope of actually reaching the police. He is our monster! And we left him alone by himself! And now he is free to stalk all of us at his leisure!"

  "But he is just a man!" Clara insisted.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Do you mean to suggest he is not a man?"

  "We must get out of this house," said Wesley, leading Clara back towards where they just came.

  "But what is he?" she insisted.

  Wesley opened his mouth to give words to the horrible truth they were both thinking, but before he could say anything, they both heard a woman's scream echoing through the stone.

  21

  "That was Marguerite!" Clara cried.

  "Quick! We must save her before he claims another victim!" said Wesley.

  They both made towards the door to dash out the way they came, but suddenly, it swung shut on them.

  "No!" said Clara, running to the handle and trying desperately to unlatch it. "It is locked from the outside!"

  But then the door on the opposite side flung open.

  Clara looked back at Wesley and then notice that Minnie was trying to get her attention. The ghost had brought them here. They had no other choice but to trust her again.

  The second door shut and a third door opened.

  "It will close," Clara muttered. "This way!" she cried. She ran towards the fourth and final door and was ready to leap through as the third door slammed closed and it opened. Wesley was behind her in close pursuit.

  But this door led to a set of stairs instead of to another winding hallway. They paused for only a moment before Wesley placed his hand on the small of Clara's back and propelled her up. There was no other way to go.

  The stairs seemed to travel inside the walls of the house. There was a small hole in the wall and light was shining through it. Clara paused.

  "Really! We must get to Marguerite!" Wesley urged.

  But she hushed him. "You can see into the library through these holes. Poor Norman is lying right there in the middle of the floor." Clara then felt the wall beside her. "And look! This is a door! This is how our murderer got in!"

  Wesley looked in through the holes, too. "By gum, you're right! Look at all that you can see! Who knows how long we were being spied upon! Or by whom!"

  "This home hides many wicked secrets," Clara said.

  "We never should have come. If I had any idea the sort of trap that we were walking into..."

  Minnie's ghost had disappeared. Clara felt the warmth return and at once she was quite hot from the exertion. She wiped her brow. "Your sister is gone. This is what she wanted us to see. This house and that square room."

  They were interrupted once more by another scream. It sounded like it was coming from above them.

  "Violet!" they both exclaimed. They began running as fast as their feet would take them, up more stairs and deeper into the walls. They paused every chance they had to peer into the holes, hopeful that one of them would reveal the whereabouts of the two ladies, but also fearful of what they might find.

  Finally, they could go no further. The hallway dead ended into a door and they had not seen the girls in any of the rooms they passed.

  "Dare we go out?" asked Clara.

  Wesley gripped the handle of his sword. "We have no other choice."

  They both placed their hands upon the door, and in one movement, they pushed and ran.

  Standing there in the middle of the hallway was Clifford, Violet, and Marguerite involved in a heated argument.

  Clara and Wesley looked at one another, unsure of what was going on.

  "I told you, Violet, I shall love you forever!" said Clifford, pleading with the young heiress.

  "You only ever loved me for my money, Clifford!” wept Violet. “And now that Maman is dead, you will not touch my inheritance!"

  "You said the same thing when you swindled your way into my pocketbook, Clifford!" shouted Marguerite. She raised her derringer and pointed it at his forehead. "I swear to the lord above, I would do all of womankind a favor if I killed you where you stood!"

  "No!" screamed Violet, flinging herself protectively in front of Clifford, terrified by this violent turn.

  Wesley ran forward. "Please! Have you all taken leave of your senses? There shall be no more talk of killing anyone tonight! We have had quite enough of that."

  A roll of thunder crashed.

  "Please! Please! We must all get out of this house before Horace kills us all!" Wesley shouted. His voice cut through all the chaos and stopped everyone in their tracks.

  "What did you say about my father?" asked Clifford stepping forward.

  Wesley explained. "We found a secret room beneath the house. We know what he is. And all our lives are dependent upon us escaping before he figures out that we know what we know!"

  "You are talking madness! My father is the murderer?" said Clifford incredulously. He turned to the two girls who had been close to ending him just moments before. "I am going downstairs. I shall get to the bottom of this!"

  "No!" cried Wesley and Clara, reaching for him, but he was too fast and dodged their fingers. He ran down the stairs. Clara and Wesley made chase, following close on his heels, ready to provide whatever protection they could.

  They all entered the dining room at the same time and they all saw the same thing at the exact same time, too. Horace. Dead. Two puncture wounds to his neck and his face as pale as pale can be.

  "We were wrong," said Wesley, breathlessly. He wiped his forehead, as if his mind was reeling. He turned to Clifford and pointed. "You! You were the only one who was by himself and could have come back to kill him! You are the monster!"

  Clifford backed slowly away, his face twisting in rage. He raised his father's gun and pointed it straight at Violet's heart.

  22

  Violet shrieked, her high, feminine voice squealing at top pitch. Frantically, she began to panic. "I knew it was you! I knew you wanted to kill me! I knew you were desperate for my money!"

  Clifford began to laugh maniacally. "It is not yours! It was never yours! This engagement was a sham! I would never marry you!"

  Violet turned to Wesley. "He is going to kill me just like he killed everyone else!"

  Wesley, arms outstretched in peace, tried to inch closer to Clifford. "Put the rifle down, Clifford. Is this really what you want to do?"

  Clifford swung his rifle off of Violet and towards Wesley. "Don't you take another step closer! You're all mad! MAD I tell you! And I am getting out of here alive if I have to kill every one of you!" He pulled back the hammer and took aim.

  And in that moment, Marguerite, with her small derringer, fired. It hit Clifford in the chest. He clutched at his heart, swung and fired, hitting her in the stomach.

  They both fell to the floor, bleeding.

  And that is when Violet began to laugh.

  It was a bone chilling sound.

  Slowly, daintily, she picked her way over Marguerite's fallen body and made her way to Clifford. She crouched down, fear shining in his dulling eyes. She reared back her head, and as she did, she sprouted four fangs where her canines shou
ld be, and plunged them into his neck.

  Clara screamed as Violet descended upon him to feed with an animal-like lust.

  "Violet?" said Wesley, unable to believe his eyes. "She's the one?"

  But what they saw before them brooked no argument. Wesley raised his sword and ran towards her, ready to do whatever it took to stop her, but she never gave him a chance. The tiny woman flew from Clifford's now still body and knocked the sword out of Wesley's hand like it was nothing but a toy. With her other arm, she sent the back of her hand across his face. His head made a terrible sound as he fell and it hit the ground.

  Clara made a dash for the sword, but Violet paid her no mind. By the time Clara turned, the sword in hand, Violet and Wesley were gone without a trace.

  Clara stood, her breath heaving against her tightly bound corset. She did not know where they went, where to give chase, or what to do.

  She looked up at the ceiling of the room and said, "Minnie? Minnie are you here?"

  There was nothing but silence. The cold did not come. Clara felt lost and alone. Panic rose in her throat, thinking of what Violet might do to Wesley and that she was powerless to help. She could not let him die! Not when she was just beginning to believe that there might be someone else to walk beside her in this life. She could not lose another piece of her heart.

  "Please, Minnie!" she pleaded.

  "Who are you talking to?" came a weak voice.

  Clara turned to see Marguerite staring at her. Blood was pooled all about where she lay, and yet, for some reason, she was still alive.

  Frantically, Clara looked around the room for something to staunch the bleeding. There was a napkin on the dining table. She grabbed it and ran to Marguerite's side. "Wesley's dead sister."

  Marguerite winced in pain as Clara pressed the cloth against the wound. "Tell her that I am on her side, too."

  "What do you mean?" asked Clara, taken aback. "You do not think I am delusional?"

  "Norman and I are... were... with the local authorities. Special local authorities. We both knew that something was amiss... Too many young girls have perished in the household of Horace Oroberg for it to be a coincidence..."