“Ma’am,” I waved at a librarian for attention. When she walked over with a smile, I greeted her. “I’m looking for anything about the Manor of West Creek. I need information concerning that land, manor and its occupants, including its builder and original owner. Do you have such?”
“Yes,” the older woman smiled politely, as if she would be better employed as a greeter at a large retail store. “Why do you ask?” Her tone changed from outwardly friendly to inquisitive. She flipped through past news articles until she reached the subject in question.
“I’m a property appraiser and need the information for legal purposes,” I assured her with a smooth, steady voice. “It’s somewhat personal as well,” I added.
“Ah,” she breathed, “then you should talk with Wyatt Verner.” She pointed out the front window, up the road. “He lives a couple of blocks from here. He can tell you all about that place.”
“Who is he to know more about it than others?”
She sat across from me at the table. “His father was the caretaker of the place when the Osland family lived there.” She bent closer, whispering, “He thinks it’s haunted.” She looked around and in a hushed tone continued, “Never did I really like the place myself.”
Curious, I raised an eyebrow. “Why should you not like it? Have you experienced anything there before?”
“Not really,” she shook her head. “My girlfriends and I had a sleepover once. We dared each other to sneak out of the house and teepee the trees around that place. None of us did, though. My excuse was I didn’t have the keys to my daddy’s car, so I couldn’t go. No one else went that night.” She looked down at the table.
I waited to see if there was more recollection she wished to share. “So, did you know anyone that actually went there besides Mr. Verner?”
“No,” she spoke with a frown, seemingly upset.
“Well, I’ll need his address, if you don’t think he’ll mind a surprise visit from me after I check out these articles. How far do these go back?” I wanted to make sure I covered
all
grounds of news this time, not just what the locals handed me freely. It seemed many of the people were hiding something.
I politely dismissed the librarian and, after she was gone, called my boss for help. “I would like to buy the West Creek Manor, Bill.” Discouraged by his burst of laughter, I continued, “Well, you know. How many times have you bought property that you assessed, repaired and flipped it to a realtor?”
His chuckle subsided to reply, “Plenty. Why do you ask?”
I had always appreciated European history better than that of the United States, because everything on this continent was much older. “I love this site. It would be such a waste to demolish it. There’s a lot of history involved with it and that alone would raise its value exponentially.” I tried to sound as convincing as I could. The standard rebuttal came, but I had a prepared defense. “I’m not allowing this historic place to be wiped off the face of the planet. I’m so passionate about it that I’m willing to move up here and clean it up.”
“Now, now, don’t be irrational,” his tone grew serious. He couldn’t afford to lose his top assessor so easily. “Are you really considering that?”
“Yes!” I nearly stamped my foot under the seat. “I’m going to fix it up and I’ll fight the corporation in court if I have to.” I changed my tone slightly to reflect conviction of my decision. “I know what it’s going to take to hold my ground, but I believe the townsfolk around here will help me.” Down deep, I lacked confidence that they would; they’d rather see the eyesore gone in the wake of a new shiny mall, but my voice did nothing to reflect my bluff. “I hope you can understand.”
Relenting, Bill had nothing more to say other than, “Claire, I’ll help as best as I can. I have experience with working around red tape within this field of work. Just let me know when you’re in need of my help. I’ll do what I can. Are you planning to continue with the assessment though?”
His voice was obviously filled with concern, so I did my best to console him. “I plan on staying with you and your company for now, however I can’t say that will be a permanent situation.”
Having the promise of his help made the conversation much more pleasant. I knew he wouldn’t yell at me or fire me, but I hated going to him with problems because it seemed he usually had bigger fish to fry. I knew I would be sorely missed if I did leave though and that saddened me. I didn’t wish to throw a monkey wrench into his company. After a few exchanges of pleasantries, I hung up the phone and looked down the road, toward Mr. Verner’s home.
My knock on Mr. Verner’s door was loud, the thud sharp in the cool air. My impatience grew as I waited, thinking about the transcripts in the library revealing little past the turn of the last century. I waited what seemed like five minutes and knocked once more.
I smiled immediately when the door opened, gave Mr. Verner onceover glance and spoke. “Hello,” I began, feeling a bit awkward. “Mr. Verner?” At his nod, I continued. “I’m Claire-Anne. I’m an assessor for a company sent out to investigate the property of the West Creek Manor. I’ve heard from people about some of the residents and some dealings within the grounds of that property.” I waited for a nod, but received none. “May I have a few minutes of your time?”
He looked me over and allowed me inside with a low-scoop sway of his left arm and a small, crooked smile. “Would you like a beverage?” he asked. “I believe my wife has chilled tea.”
When I thanked him for the drink, he fetched it and sat down on a chair near the couch to which I was directed to make myself comfortable.
“Yes, I have had some experiences out there that could be considered a bit…questionable.” He shifted in his seat. “Why do you need to know about that if you’re just supposed to review the place for monetary value?”
“Actually, I want to buy it out from under the business that employed my company to assess it,” I explained. “They want to tear it down and pave it over. I’d like to restore it. It’s gotten to be rather personal.” The palms of my hands became sweaty. “I discovered an entity there.” I looked for scrutiny and, finding none, continued. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
He studied me and mouthed slowly the next words,
Chesley Renshaw
. He continued when he saw the acknowledgment on my face. “What do you know about the Renshaw family?”
I really didn’t want to divulge too much information, either to jeopardize the manor or seem foolish. “Well, I know very little about the family actually. Not many people are talking to me about it and I cannot seem to find any information about the house, its owners, or anything of the sort past the last few decades.” Reiterating that fact was a bit flustering, so I took a drink of chilled tea to cool my face. “Any help would be gladly appreciated.”
“Are you serious about being…personal with that house?” Mr. Verner rose and walked to a bureau. Unlatching the domed door, he brought out an old book similar to the one that Chesley showed me. When I fervently nodded with excitement, he brought me the tome. “This explains everything about the man that started it all and the townspeople that ended it all.”
Wrapping up the session with Mr. Verner, I shook his hand graciously, made my complete appreciation well known, promised to return the tome to him when I was finished reading through it and exited his house. I was extremely enthused with the tell-all book in my possession. Finally, I could get some answers.
Striding with a quicker pace, I made it back to my apartment in record time. Once inside, I threw the keys on the table and heard a knock at the door. Swinging around to answer it, I realized I had just come in that door and no one was out there or right behind me coming up to the front of the apartment. I hesitated, then slowly looked through the peephole. No one waited there. Slowly, I opened the door and saw Steven Renshaw standing there, smiling.
My heart skipped a beat and my breathing froze. Reaction took effect and I slammed the door.
He’s a dead man! Get a grip on yourself, Claire. He’s not that bad of a guy and I should be getting used to seeing dead men.
Sighing to extinguish my fear, I shrugged my shoulders to loosen them and opened the door again. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I apologized immediately.
“May I come in and speak with you, concerning the history of my family?” His politeness matched his great-grandfather’s mannerisms. That merit was hard to resist honestly.
“Please do,” I nodded. “We have much more to talk about this time.” I led him to my couch, sat and waited for him to begin. The book rested on my lap with my left hand holding it. My right hand went into my pocket where my recorder was and hit the
play
button.
“Chesley wrote all of that long ago to tell his story,” he said. Looking at the book, he added, “I found it and gave it to my friend, Wyatt. His father was a friend of Ned Osland and he would go over there a lot, outside of working for them.” He took in a deep breath and continued, “I know this is strange for you and quite a bit deep when you get yourself really involved, but I have to tell you that the story within those covers is real and fully detailed. One of those two boys that were taken away from Chesley at the time of the incident was my grandfather. I don’t know what happened to his brother, but I think an illness prematurely took his life. These things aren’t really mentioned in that book.”
Inquisitive, I couldn’t help but ask, “You speak of an
incident
. What do you mean by that?”
“His untimely death,” Steven frowned. “My great-grandfather was a good man, according to the family. He put the
great
in great-grandfather. There were so many good memories logged by his wife and people. He was also a baron. He moved from England to here, in order to start a new life away from the bureaucracy that a baron had to deal with and to save his marriage. They loved each other dearly and he would have done anything for his wife and family. The title brought an extensive amount of benefits, but it also had its drawbacks.” He pointed at the book, “All of that is in there.”
“The portrait on the wall in the third floor bedroom, that woman looked incredibly close to me,” I stated, it sounding more like an inquiry.
“Yes, ma’am, I believe that lady is now you.”
“But it can’t be.” His words sank to the pit of my stomach. “Clearly you’re mistaken.”
“No, ma’am. I believe that
is
you in that portrait. Has anyone in town given you an odd look-over?”
Recalling, I nodded. “A couple of people have. Mostly people that have been to that place or—”
I really don’t like where this conversation is taking me. I promised to help Chesley…
I shifted in my seat, growing extremely uncomfortable. I supposed he could tell. I hurriedly readjusted and held still.
“I think the same,” he smiled warmly. “I think you are the reincarnation of his baroness.”
I had to change the subject. “Why have you come here? According to the local paper, you died before you paid me the previous visit.”
“I am here, no longer to warn you, but to help you now that you know more than most.” His expression never faltered.
He
was the one that seemed to know more than most.
“I do appreciate your visit,” I relented. I was eager to dive right into the book. I had so many questions to ask, but all in due time. During the rest of his stay, we spoke about the afterlife and his experiences thus far. He explained that he was leaving to a better place, now that he understood that I was not going to relent. I bid him farewell and wished him all the luck of the hereafter.
Opening the book on Chesley’s life, I couldn’t believe its contents. The handbook started with the events leading up to his death. His love for his family was deep, I could tell. His wife had given birth to their second child. Their first two, boys, were eight and nine and a half when the third pregnancy occurred. The baroness had been struggling through an unusually long labor. After sixteen hours, the midwife came out of her room to announce that the girl-child and mother had suffered extensive damage during labor—and had died.
Two days later, an angry mob of townspeople announced that they planned to execute Chesley Davis Renshaw III because they believed he had poisoned his wife’s delivery. They carried out their plans, not for the poisoning charge they imposed on him, but for the hope that they would obtain his land. If he were declared guilty, the land would become the property of the town by default and at best he would be shipped off to a dungeon to serve his term of life in prison.
Since he denied the accusations, when he was found guilty he was hanged on his own property. His children had been sent away two days prior, so they were safe, but the outcome for his family was grave. His children were reduced to poverty, while the town prospered with his property.
They sold it first to the town mayor and once the mayor died of cardiac arrest after a short time in the house, it was auctioned to the highest bidder. As an outcome, the townspeople blamed the haunting for the mayor’s death. The cursed manor would sit vacant for some time.
This explained why the townspeople, even today and yesterday, had difficulty talking about the manor. My stomach churned. What I couldn’t understand was the fact that even today they held what their ancestors did on their own consciences.
Were they still feeling guilt for actions the town did to an innocent family?
That thought scared me.
Then where was the remorse, the justice?
Thinking over the time I’d spent talking with the locals, I realized that I wasn’t going to hear much more. I understood there were a few people that probably did feel remorse for what had happened, Mr. Verner being one of them, but hoping for any restitution would be useless. A somber feeling swept over me and I cried myself to sleep.
With a slow start in the morning, I showered to awaken and let the water rain steadily over my face. Once refreshed, I decided it was time to return to the manor. The drive made my senses come alive with anticipation of seeing Chesley once more.