Mysteries of Holt House - A Mystery

MYSTERIES OF HOLT HOUSE, Copyright © 2013 Marja McGraw

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of
America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
used in critical articles and reviews. For information, email address
[email protected]
.

First Edition, 2001
(Secrets of Holt House)

Second Edition, 2013
(Retitled Mysteries of Holt House)

Cover design by Marja
McGraw

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or
locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

___________________________

For Al, Who still
believes in me and always keeps life interesting.

Acknowledgments

______________________________

Thank you to Dorothy, Jill, Al and Susan, who listen to my
ideas without complaint, and for their constant encouragement and patience.
Special thanks to Dorothy Bodoin, who always keeps me on the straight and
narrow path while critiquing my work with honesty.

Chapter One

It began with the sound of a terrified
scream. So loud, so frightened, and so frightening. It echoed, resounded, seeming
to go on and on into infinity. I heard a thud – like the sound of a bag of
cement being dropped off the back of a truck. Loud voices, scared and confused.
Hands reached out – to pull her back? Or had those hands pushed her? Looking
out my window I saw the grotesquely twisted and broken body of Ruth Bell lying
on the patio.

My eyes popped open about the time I
decided I should scream, too, and I sat up feeling the sweat trickle down my
temples and between my breasts. It was another nightmare, one of many. I’d been
having dreams since the accident. There was one problem. I didn’t believe it
was an accident. I was sure Ruth had been pushed out of her second story
bedroom window.

I climbed out of bed and dragged myself
down the hall to the bathroom where I splashed cold water on my face. The
dreams were getting to me, and so were the odd things going on around the
house. There were strange and threatening notes, and things were disappearing?
How
did I get into this mess
? I asked myself. I splashed more icy water on my
face and it helped clear my head. If there hadn’t been so much time between
events in the beginning, I might have realized how much danger we were all in.

Returning to my bedroom, I sat on my
rocking chair and rocked, thinking back to a bright and sunny day when I
stopped to pick up a newspaper to look for yard sales. It seemed like such an
innocent act, and it seemed so long ago.

***

Saturday morning found me bored and pacing
around the apartment. It was a gorgeous day outside, and I needed to be out in
the fresh air. It would be a great day for yard-saling.

Yard sales had become a habit I couldn’t
break. I had plenty of money and could buy just about anything my little heart
desired, but I was used to being busy. I couldn’t simply sit around and do
nothing,
especially
on a beautiful day.

The money was one of those freak things
that never happens to someone like me except in books or movies. I’d won the
lottery. Well, to be honest I’d only had part of the numbers – five out of six,
to be exact. The jackpot had been so big that the trickle down to my winnings
was nothing to sneeze at, so to speak.

Now, six months later, I’d bought a new
car, a new wardrobe, and was eating good food instead of a steady diet of fast
food, hamburger, beans and pasta. I’d been in a high pressure job with a law
firm, working long hours, and rarely had time to do much more than throw simple
and cheap food together between the job and commuting. The first thing I’d done
was turn in my resignation at the law firm. The second thing I did was go
shopping.

However, some old habits die hard, and I
still enjoyed poking around at yard sales. It had always been the one activity
I made time for over the years. I valued that couple of hours on a Saturday or
Sunday to just wander around and look at
stuff
– junk that had once been
someone else’s treasures.

I drove my car to a little country store
to pick up the Saturday paper. I’d lived in Northern Nevada in a small town named
Serenity all my life. I guess I knew just about everyone in town, and they knew
me. My parents decided to move to Florida after my father retired – sunshine,
no snow and all of that – but I opted to stay in Serenity. I liked the simple
pace of small town life, especially after a four-year stay in Los Angeles which
left me feeling discouraged and anonymous. It wasn’t the friendliest city I’d
ever visited. People were too rushed and much too competitive for my taste.
And, frankly, all the “political correctness” got on my nerves.

After paying for the paper, I strolled out
to the car and opened it to the Classified Section. Running my finger down the
columns, I looked for yard sales. An ad, much larger and in darker print than
the others, caught my eye. An estate sale was to be held that afternoon. The
idea of an estate sale intrigued me. I’d never been to one. I read the rest of
the ad and found that it was actually an auction, which sounded even more
intriguing. It was going to be held quite a distance out of town. It would take
a good half hour to get there, and that would be on country roads with little
traffic. I thought I could probably talk my friend, Sharon, into going with me.
She hated yard sales, but she just might be interested in an auction. I drove
back to my apartment and dialed Sharon’s number.

“Hello?” For some reason she always
sounded surprised when she answered the phone and someone was actually on the
other end of the line.

“Hi, Sharon.”

“Oh, hi Kelly. What’s up?” I could hear
her chewing something. I probably caught her in the middle of breakfast.

“What would you think about going to an
estate auction this afternoon?”

“An estate auction? Don’t you mean a yard
sale?” She didn’t sound thrilled.

“No, it’s an auction, not a yard sale.” I
chose to ignore her suspicious mind.

“Where’s it going to be held?”

“Out at Holt House. You know, that old
house out in the Cross Roads area.”

“I know the one you mean. I’ve heard a lot
of rumors about that place,” she said. “I’ve heard they never had visitors out
there. In fact, I understand they really did their best to discourage people
from coming around. ”

“I’ve heard the same stories. I guess they
were recluses.” I hoped the stories she’d heard might entice her into going to
the auction. “So do you want to go with me or not?”

“You couldn’t keep me away. I’d like to
see the place close up. What time are we going?” Sharon asked.

“We’ll have to leave around eleven to get
there before it starts. I want to look around first to see what’s up for
auction.”

“Okay, I’ll be ready when you get here.”

“See you then.” I hung up.

The mailman showed up with a letter from
my parents. We chatted for a moment before he headed for the house next door.
Mrs. Fletcher waited for him by her mailbox.

I opened the letter from my parents and
turned back into my apartment. It was very newsy. Mom loved to tell me
everything that was happening, in great detail. And, of course, the letter
included another plea for me to move to Florida. She and dad were fine, they’d
joined a club made up of people their own age and were going to a club dinner,
and why didn’t I move to Florida? The weather had been beautiful and warm, and
why didn’t I move to Florida? She mentioned, not too subtly, that there were
plenty of single men in Florida. I finished the letter and smiled. At least I
knew I was loved.

Glancing at the clock I saw it was time to
leave, so I grabbed my purse and hurried out the door. I stopped, realizing I’d
forgotten to lock the door. No one ever locked their doors in Serenity, but
there had been an outbreak of burglaries lately so I decided to play it safe.
Big city life was catching up with us.

I arrived at Sharon’s house, where I found
her waiting by the curb, and we began our trip toward the Cross Roads. The area
was unofficially called Cross Roads because even though it was out in the
country, there was a spot where five roads met, each one leading to a different
town or city. Our destination was about a mile past the Cross Roads.

Sharon fidgeted in her seat, finally
turning to me. “You know, there are an awful lot of stories about Holt House. I
wonder how true they are. I heard one story about Mrs. Holt being insane, and
that’s supposed to be why they lived so far out of town and never socialized.”

“I have my doubts about the story,” I
replied, “although I did hear they were unusual people. My dad used to deliver
firewood to them when I was a kid. He said he never saw anybody there, except
the housekeeper, but he always felt as though he was being watched while he
unloaded the wood.”

“Did you know the house was built during
the Civil War?” Sharon asked.

“Yeah, it’s an old house. Dad took me with
him once when I was about seven years old, and as I recall, the house was
pretty impressive from the outside. I remember the housekeeper was a relatively
young woman, but very stern looking. She slipped me a couple of homemade
cookies, and when she smiled her face lit up and softened. She said something
I’ve never forgotten, because even at seven it struck me as strange.”

“What did she say?”

“She said something about wishing Holt
House had
normal
little kids running around. She emphasized the word
normal
,
and I always wondered why she said that. I heard the Holts never had any
children. Oh well, maybe she just wished there were kids to liven things up.”

We drove on in silence for a while,
drinking in the sights and sounds of the countryside. We saw an old buckboard,
broken into pieces, half buried by the side of the road. There were cows
scattered here and there, looking up at the sound of the car, then deciding we
weren’t important enough to warrant their attention, they went back to grazing.
Birds chirped from the treetops, enjoying the sunshine.

Glancing at Sharon, I remembered how we’d
become friends. She and her parents moved from Texas to Serenity when we were
in the third grade. She tried to tell me that there was a spider on my back,
but I couldn’t figure out what she was saying, because with her Texas accent it
kept coming out “spadder”. She even curled her fingers and tried to mimic a
crawling spider. She finally got through to me and I screamed, and she whacked
me on the back, killing the spider and cementing a lifelong friendship.

From that point on we were inseparable.
She was tall and skinny, and I was short and plump. She had red hair – which
had finally turned to a beautiful auburn – green eyes, and creamy skin which
tanned well, unlike most redheads. I, on the other hand, was blonde and
light-complexioned with blue eyes. We fretted about our figures as children,
but both of us had grown into relatively attractive women, she being tall and
slender, and me remaining short but with the unwanted baby fat gone.

Sharon jarred me out of my reminiscence as
she pointed her long elegant finger ahead of us and asked, “Isn’t that Holt
House right there? Kind of spooky looking, if you ask me.”

“That’s it. It looks like we made it in
time to look things over before the auction begins,” I said, glancing at my
watch.