Passionate Spirits

By Violet Winters

Claire Lancaster was a young wealthy socialite until her husband, Real Estate Tycoon Bill Lancaster, set her up and took everything. Newly divorced, Claire struggles to find a job and regain custody of her daughter Zoey. Pulled by loving spirits, she stumbles upon the haunted Bumble Bee Mansion, which has consumed her dreams for a month. Accepting the position as live-in caretaker, Claire plunges into the world of paranormal activity, tragedy, and possibilities.
When Claire stumbles across Anna’s journal, which recounts the precious memories with her husband Paul along with the devastating final days, Claire wishes for a love so grand. As Anna’s entries cease with her death, Paul’s bitter agonizing additions begin recounting his struggle with the imminent loss of their daughter Jenny as she succumbs to Leukemia. The more Claire reads the better she understands the broken man who lives in a cabin by the lake. Slowly, Claire begins to fall in love with a man she only knows through diary pages. She begins to believe that by saving Paul, she can save herself and win custody of Zoey. As Paul resurfaces, Claire is unprepared for the struggles, the romance, and the tragedies yet to come. In a house filled with passionate spirits, nothing is certain, life has no guarantees, and all must embrace love and hope because in the end that’s what living is about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Violet Winters
• Release date: Mar 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476213033

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Passionate Spirits

By

Violet Winters

Copyright 2012 Violet Winters

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for purchasing my novel.

Chapter 1 The Bumble Bee

Sometimes, the emotional turmoil of a survivor can be so intense that it ripples like the still water of a pond, after a stone is heaved into its depths. Its energy reverberates and transcends the world of the living and that of the dead, casting a net that pulls the spirit of one’s confliction into a haven of significant importance. Many times, the agonized victim snares the demon of their nightmares, only to find themselves tortured by the unintended consequence of their hatred. Yet, every now and then, the fisher of souls casts his net, fed by the strength and agony of love lost, and he or she catches precisely what they require to mend. Of such things, none is greater than a radiant child, for such innocence is untainted by the hatred and evil that imbeds itself in almost every aspect of the living. A radiant child is one forced to bear the horrible price of injustice, the despicable darker half of the balance of all things. Often found in the hospitals struggling with undeserved and insurmountable illnesses, robbed of the graces of childhood, they love perfectly until their end. Bearing the highest toll in the entire world, they are born to suffer, to fight, and alas to die. The price they pay is so steep that they are enlightened to understand the true purpose of life, and they touch everyone they meet with their perfect radiant love. To have a radiant child working to mend your broken soul is a blessing from God, for they are angels in the making.

***

Nothing had ever been the same since the accident at work, and Claire feared nothing would ever be right in her life again. The forklift slamming a pallet of fertilizer into her back, before nearly running her over, had been almost symbolic in the foretelling of how her life would descend; short, quick, but agonizingly painful and most importantly, covered in fertilizer. Conceding to the demands of her husband, she had taken a job, even though they were wealthy, hoping to gain value in Bill’s eyes. In return, he had mocked her for it, and the only thing she had to show for her toil was ruin. In the end, a broken vertebrae was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg that had sunk her life into cold oblivion.

Claire looked around aimlessly, filled with disbelief as though her life had been one great big sadistic merry go round of torture. She was across the street from the post office, next to the war memorial, wishing fountain, and at that moment, she was wishing she were anywhere but there. It was not that she hated her hometown of Breckenridge, Missouri. In fact, she had fond memories of it as a child. For a child, it held that small town charm with just enough excitement to make summers unforgettable. There had been the mine tours, the city swimming pool, and even the festivals held in the park on every imaginable holiday; memories she would never relinquish. Still, for an adult badly in need of a job, and with no means of transportation, her small hometown was hell on earth.

To start, the town only held a population of about five thousand people. A promising upstart town founded on the back of the mining industry. Those glory days were forever lost forty years in the past, and now the town struggled just to stay relevant. The city seemed nearly split into three even parts, between those willing to make the hour commute to St. Louis, those occupying the few service jobs in the area, and those who had discovered the gold mine of the welfare system. For those reasons, the city survived on high property taxes and an ever-dwindling tourist population of mine scuba divers.

Claire Lancaster shook her head dejectedly, as she walked, appearing lifeless inside, down the barren streets. The weight of futility was bearing down on her like a ten-ton anvil. She could not help thinking that whoever said blondes had all the fun, must have been referring to the glamorous blondes who had held their beauty in place for decades with plastic surgery. They certainly had not meant the average looking blonde-haired women, who struggled in the shadows of the trophy wives. Whoever had coined that phrase had not defined her life or the end game, which always shatters vanities mirror. For her, it was the end of love, the end of hope, thus the end of her life. The Hyster model forklift, flattening her tiny boney frame, had been the trigger to the cessation of her pampered lifestyle. Before, she had been married to a handsome and wealthy real estate investor, who owned half of downtown St. Louis, had a beautiful daughter, a statuesque house, and influential friends. The cost for it all had been to endure him; him and his ego, him and his self-righteous constant criticism, him and his wandering loins, but one look into Zoey’s beautiful blue eyes, and the cost seemed miniscule. It was two years since the accident, and she had lost everything, including the most precious thing to her world, her nine-year-old daughter Zoey. As she turned left down Division Street, entering the more affluent area of Breckenridge, the eerie silence on such a beautiful day, forced her deeper inside those memories, and she began to tally her standing in the game of life.

Her life could only be measured accurately in the aftermath of the divorce, which had been a bloodbath, most of the blood being her own. Having developed a dependency to Oxycontin painkillers for her ever-aching back, combined with the constant belittling by Bill and subsequent depression, she found herself needing help. Bill seized the opportunity to be rid of her, and ran with it like a thoroughbred at the Kentucky Derby. Sadly, she never saw it coming. Her first suspicion arrived when she awoke to find a fully nude man, not her husband, who toted around a beer keg gut, lying next to her in bed. The six-pack dark horse, coincidentally turned out to be an associate of her husband, but she only discovered that fact after the divorce, and after the photos had been paraded through court. The staged infidelity and dependency on narcotics, accompanied by a lock solid prenuptial agreement, had made the backbreaking steam-rolling feel like a deep Shiatsu massage. She had not just lost; she had been annihilated on an apocalyptic scale, in tabloid magazine fashion at that. She received no settlement, lost the custody of her child, deemed unfit, and the only thing Bill was forced to pay was her court ordered rehab.

Finally clean, and just a few days out of rehab; she had no money, no car, but was expected, no ordered, to get a job and find acceptable living accommodations before she could seek visitation rights. The overwhelming weight of despair made her seriously consider detouring, to the nearby liquor store with the few dollars she possessed.

Truth be told, she likely would have already succumbed to temptation, were it not for the dream. She did not know what the wavy mirage meant, or why she had dreamt it every night of the thirty-day vacation in rehab, and she certainly did not know why it drove her forward now. It wasn’t as if there was some great, laid out map, or epiphany, which would change her life. There were only snapshot images of a house that repeated constantly in her mind. A white with yellow trimmed Victorian that was neither a monstrous mansion, nor your standard thirty-something cookie cutter debacle. It was three stories; with so much intricately designed trim that one could easily argue the house was yellow, while the wraparound porch was a throwback to southern hospitality and easy living. Claire could not fathom why the mental image of the house soothed her with a warm homey feeling, or why now of all times, it glowed so brightly in her mind. For that matter, she couldn’t discern why she had walked out of the social services building, and began heading in the opposite direction from the couch her sister was allowing her to use. She should be looking for a job, but her prospects were limited for a woman fresh out of rehab with no car to commute. If that wasn’t enough, most of the jobs she was quote, unquote, qualified for, were already taken by teenagers fresh out of school for the summer. So, she continued with no particular destination in mind, allowing herself to be tugged by destiny like a puppet on a string. At the moment her walk mentally reached its lowest point, she looked up and saw it, standing off in the distance like a beacon of light shining atop a mountain. At first, she thought it was a mirage, standing taller than any surrounding structure, at the edge of her sight. The bright yellow paint seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, like a lighthouse calling her home. Claire walked faster, like a giddy child, driven by the need to sate her curiosity to discover why this house called to her in dreams.

The low cobblestone fence, the flowers that bloomed in decorative patches, the wraparound porch, and the intricately designed trimming; the house was a mirror image of the one in her dreams.

The last thing Claire needed was a charge for trespassing, but she could not help herself, as some unseen force led her by the hand. She did not dare enter the home, but instead made her way through the nicely landscaped yard to the rear of the house. An arbor covered in vines branched off the back porch, while a stone path led to a white gazebo, right next to the pond. The pond had a walking path around the perimeter, benches placed at every corner below shade trees, and it was topped off with over a dozen white ducks quacking all about. To her, it was the definition of serenity and heaven. She sat down on the grass to listen to the ducks jabbering and the birds singing in the trees. So lost was she in her own little world that she didn’t notice the elderly woman hobbling up behind her, until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Startled, Claire turned, and then quickly rose as the woman said,

May I help you, child?

Um no, I’m sorry, I was just… Claire flustered, swept her arm out motioning to the pond, and the elderly woman smiled.

It’s quite alright, my dear. This place has entranced me many a times myself, it is nature at its best.

I just couldn’t help admiring the beauty of the house, of everything, Claire said in a low whisper as if ashamed to admit it.

The aged woman looked Claire up and down, as if trying to read directly inside of her soul. Finally, she nodded her head and smiled.

This is the Winters’ residence, although Mr. Winters is rarely ever here. I am Edith Miller, the caretaker.

A thought came to the woman and she sighed before saying, I hope you are not here inquiring about the National Registry, because if you’re looking for a haunted tour, I’m afraid you are wasting your time.

My name is Claire Lancaster, she paused and then said, Haunted tour? No, it was the home’s beauty that just… well, I know this may sound strange, but seemed to call to me, and I couldn’t resist.

Slowly and cautiously, Edith said, It does have a way of doing that. With a sigh she continued, Well, I guess I could spare time for a tour of the house for an admirer of architectural beauty. Come child, I’ll show you around the estate.

Claire noticed that Edith did not take her through the rear entrance, but instead walked her around to the front door. Apparently, she would be getting the grand tour. Claire could not help pausing at the front door, as realization struck her.

Edith stopped with the door open and Claire meekly said,

You said that the house is haunted? Maybe I should… but Edith cut her off.

Oh child, I said it was haunted, and it is, but it’s not the kind of haunting you’re thinking of. For one, you’re not likely to see anything, this being your first time here, and secondly, even if you did, the ghosts that reside here are good spirits, a true blessing in my opinion.

This sated Claire’s fear enough, and she walked across the threshold and into the mansion.

Edith began speaking as though she was a professional guide, and she had done so many times.

Actually, this house has a rather peculiar name; it’s called the Bumble Bee Mansion. It was named that by the daughter of the owner, who thought the elaborate trim made the house look like a big yellow Bumblebee. Jenny had such an imagination, as a child. She liked the name so much that she worked the concept into everyday childhood games. For instance, instead of Hide and Go Seek, anytime she played the game on the grounds, she insisted it be called Hide and Go Bees. In fact, when you were caught, she did not say you are it, but instead, touched you and began buzzing. A delightful child she was.

She was? Claire asked hearing the somber tone in the woman’s voice.

Yes, my dear, Jenny just so happens to be one of the ghosts here, but enough of that, follow me.

Claire heard the woman’s heartache in her crackling old voice at remembering the child, so she held her tongue and followed.

Claire marveled at the grand entrance, but was even more stunned by the spiral staircase that was tucked into an alcove. It was as if she were stepping out of reality, and back into her dream. The stairwell was exactly as she had seen every night for the last month. Smooth wooden banisters, with doves carved into the darkly stained steps. She was certain that, had she ventured halfway up to the first landing, she would have found the same creaking step that she remembered so vividly. It took all her control to prevent the fright from showing on her face.

To get her mind back into the present, Claire said, You don’t live here?

Edith smiled.

For a time, I did a few years ago. With the caretaker position comes the perk of being able to live here. Still, the pay is good and I now own the blue house next door. Though I must say, I’m getting up in years and those stairs provide me a great deal of discomfort.

Oh we don’t have to go up there, Claire said, taking her hand off the stair railing. I’m more than content admiring the main floor, it is marvelous.

Thank you, dear, as much as I enjoy the house, I’ll be happy to retire soon, if for no other reason than to leave those stairs in my fond memories of youth.

I can understand that, still it is a very beautiful house, the kind which people dream to live in. So where is Mr. Winters?

"He’s… away, he’s away a lot. It