Grove House

By Jack Bray

After 25 years of marriage, Jim O’Leary is divorced and fired almost simultaneously. Depressed and unable to find work at the age of 62, he decides to retire and move to Grove House, a retirement home in Denham, Alabama. Soon after moving in, strange experiences complicate his dealing with the onset of Alzheimer’s. After what he believes are so many unusual deaths, he begins to wonder about what he’s seeing and feeling. Were all of these just figments of his imagination or evidence of the history of Grove House? He begins writing a novel about it.

Seeing his daughter visit after a twenty year estrangement compounds his confusion. Is she, too, a figment? She tells him she is on her way to NYC to sign a book deal and promises to return. At lunch with the publishing chief, she learns he could be a ‘Comeback’, someone who returned from the dead as they were in life for reasons known only to God. It was a belief that began with German founders of Grove House in the 1600s. Her father wrote about it in his book.The possibility of the dead returning far exceeds her excitement with signing a generous publishing contract. Even though a psychiatrist and priest in NYC pooh-pooh the belief, she is obsessed with the possibility. Do some return? Were they his imaginings? Were there murders?

With the feeling of “The Others” and the shock of “Psycho”, “ Grove House ” is a tale of what might happen as we age and settle in a place that’s even more unsettling and a tale of strange beliefs that may not be so strange after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Bray
• Release date: Jul 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301283835

Jack Bray

After college, Jack had a successful thirty year career in broadcast television sales in New York City where he was born and raised, retiring as President of Blairsat, a satellite company he founded. His retirement years were spent as stock broker, teacher, publisher, lay minister and for the last 20 years, freelance writer.While living in Florida, feeling the need to respond to criticism of Catholicism, he began writing letters to the editor that led to column writing and web postings. After moving to Cullman, Alabama, his current home, he published his first book, a collection of those writings, "When My Catholic Buttons Were Pushed". That was followed by his debut novel, "The Good Sheep", a story of temptation suffered by a young man seeking the priesthood. The sequel, "Immortal Enemy", is a tale of the devil following that young man in his first year as a priest.His first novel of commercial fiction, "Grove House", is the story of a man who experiences the onset of dementia complicating his dealing with multiple suicides while living in a retirement home. His estranged daughter reunites and uncovers the mystery behind the suicides.He has just published “The Dreamers”, a short story sequel to “Grove House”.

Book preview

PART ONE

……………the father…………..

Art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation,

proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this,

which now I draw

( Macbeth……Act II Scene I)

* * *

PROLOGUE

The town of Denham in northwestern Alabama was settled in the 1600s. Seeking a better life, a small but determined group of men, women and children fleeing the horror of the Thirty Years War, traveled from an isolated village in Germany across Europe to the coast of France, hoping to find a boat to take them to the shores of America. Besides the essential things they knew they would need for the journey, they brought with them a profound religious belief in God that inspired them to persevere, despite the perils they knew they would face. While they believed in the final judgment leading to heaven or hell, they also believed that God, for reasons known only to Him, sent some back before judgment as exactly the same person they were before their death. While these souls were unaware they had returned from the dead, they did have dreams of living a previous life somewhere else and dying, usually and suddenly in violent accidents. They were also unaware there was something they had to do until it happened. Then they died as they had died before. They were not zombies, not vampires, not the living dead, not the walking dead, not re-incarnated as someone else, but the zurückkommen, the Comebacks. Very strange belief.

The strenuous trip would have dashed another person’s hope for a better life. But these hardy souls, raised in a disciplined family environment, were like tempered steel and carried on, day after painful day. Along the way, marriages were made, babies were born, and older folks died and were buried. And, yes, they believed some came back to live somewhere else--perhaps in that new land that they had struggled to reach.

The boat was a great relief from the exhausting wagon ride over rutted road and muddy paths. The mere sight of the boat lifted their dwindling spirits as it later lifted their tired bodies across the endless ocean.

And so, in 1642--no one knows the exact date-- about a year after they had begun the journey, this courageous band of German immigrants landed in the port of Norfolk in Virginia. Soon after, they joined agrarian communities across the South who were suffering a prolonged recession and moved west with them. While some settled in Kentucky, others in Tennessee, the Germans, for no particular reasons, chose Alabama.

In 1643, on the 6th day of February--that date is chiseled on a metal tablet in the main square--the tired band of travelers arrived in a beautiful clearing surrounded by three lakes among the mountains of northwestern Alabama. They looked at one another and said, Das ist sie--This is it. They named the spot after the oldest member of their group, and Denham was born.

One of the first structures they built was Grove House, so called because it stood in a grove amid weeping willow trees.

Over the years, as the town grew, a second floor was added, and it became a boarding house. That’s when the stories began. At first, they were merely rumors, but later became reported as actual events. Although it was a house for transients, it seemed no one ever left even when they died. No one ever saw funeral hearses. Or so the locals said. All the deaths were unusual. There were drownings in bathtubs, as well as in the pond, hangings in closets or from chandeliers.

Two hundred years later, in the mid-nineteenth century, Grove House was bought by the local college and turned into a dormitory for women students. The sudden deaths seemed to end, but stories of ghosts began. It wasn’t long--five years, actually--before the college sold it to a local religious congregation who were dedicated to the care of elderly and who turned it into a retirement community. And for some unknown reason, the strangeness of the original Grove House returned.

It was there that Jim O’Leary came to stay one beautiful fall day.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

It was autumn, and the trees, clustered on the rolling hills of Alabama, were turning different shades of color not as dramatically as in New England but still quite nice. After a long and tiring drive, the exit sign to Denham was in sight. I was almost there. My final destination -- and hopefully it was--although that thought of being final was a bit frightening. The traffic was light, so I was able to drive slowly and really gaze at the splendor of nature at this time of year. My Internet search had been rewarding. Looking for a place to spend the rest of my days ended when I found Grove House, hidden away in a small town in Alabama. Who would have thought that a New York native would settle in a small town in the Deep South? When I made the exit from the interstate and pulled into Denham, it was love at first sight. Somehow, I knew this was where I belonged. I just knew.

It had been a tough couple of years. Being asked to leave a company where I had spent 30 years--half of them as President of a Division--was devastating. Office politics, at which I was terrible, was the weapon of choice. Got a nice severance and pension, but my being fired as my wife kept reminding me,was too much and my being unemployed scared the hell out of her. She felt--as I did--that getting a job at 62 would be almost impossible. So much for better or worse. I knew I was over-qualified for most jobs, not to mention that there were virtually none available--thanks to our crappy economy. So I decided to take early Social Security, pension, severance money and retire. And the day I was asked to leave--which is how they fire Divisional Presidents--was the day she asked for a divorce. Exquisite timing. We had been separated for the last three years I was with the company, but I still didn’t see it coming. Most guys who separate fantasize--as I did--about getting back with their wives, which was probably why I felt blindsided.

Divorce. For a deeply spiritual guy whose religion forbade it, divorce was not only a word I thought I’d never hear from my wife, who I had thought was equally as religious. Divorce. Funny how one word can imply so much pain, anger, hate, loss of love and all the zillion little harsh words, slights, bad feelings. No, it wasn’t other women, gambling or booze that caused the rupture. It was the death of affection that comes when love is not nurtured. As if all of that wasn’t enough, our only child, our daughter, hated my guts for the breakup of her lifestyle. Not the marriage breakup, mind you, but the derailing of her gravy train. Yeah, I had made a lot of money. She dropped out of college, and we lost touch with each other. I don’t know what happened to her. My wife and I never communicated after divorce.

So this was where I belonged or, at least, where I preferred to be. I needed a place to forget what a failure I had been. How could I have let it all slip away? Don’t blame yourself, everyone told me--including that expensive shrink. Well, no more of that bullshit. Now I am going to relax and forget. Get my head together. Maybe catch up on my reading. And, hey, maybe write that novel I had always wanted to write.

What I didn’t want was any more stress. Little did I know I was about to begin a chapter in my life that would not only stress me out, but scare the hell out of me.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

After stopping my beloved ten-year-old car in the middle of the long driveway with grand old maple trees serving as a leafy umbrella providing welcome shade from the bright afternoon sun, I sat behind the wheel and gazed for a moment at the unpretentious building. It was simple red brick with medium-sized curtained windows, maybe ten or fifteen on each of just two floors and a long, wide stairway to the main entrance. A cross sat atop the small tower over the center of the building. The place was owned by a non-denominational religious organization. Filled with joyful anticipation, I drove the remaining few yards. Just as I slowly pulled into one of the vacant perpendicular parking spots that jutted out from the front of the building, an ambulance came out of nowhere and pulled into the spot next to mine.

I lowered my window and asked the paramedic who was getting out of the driver’s seat, What’s going on?

He just stared and ran up the steps with his partner, who was carrying a stretcher.

Jesus. Is the food that bad? I yelled back. Bad joke. I knew better. But I did wonder what had happened. Then I reminded myself that this was a retirement home, and people do die. So I decided to wait a couple of minutes and see who would be carried out. That thought was unsettling. Carried out?

Just about then I noticed a second-floor resident looking at me from her closed window. Scary. Was I in the movie Psycho and that was Mother? Then, another drape in another apartment on the lower floor was slowly pulled back, and part of a face peeked out. Are they kidding me? What the hell is this? Honestly, at that moment, I thought of turning around and leaving.

No sooner had I reassured myself that I had nothing to worry about when the paramedics, carrying an empty stretcher, came down the long front stairs. That should be good news, I thought. Maybe a false alarm.

What happened, guys? This time I had gotten out of my car and asked politely.

Lady hanged herself.

What? Holy shit. Hanged? How?

On a clothes bar in her closet, sighed the paramedic as he helped his partner lift the stretcher into the ambulance.

But wouldn’t they have called the cops instead of you guys?

Yeah, they just did, but they tried to revive her first and couldn’t. They hoped we could. No way. She’s been hanging there a couple of hours, as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Talk about too much information. Now I was really getting antsy. They pulled out with no lights or sirens. No need. Suicide in Grove House. Welcome. All those stupid thoughts kept bouncing around my brain as I watched the ambulance drive away. When they finally disappeared around the curved driveway, I sighed and opened the trunk of my car to begin my move.

Lifting my two heavy bags out of the trunk, I knew lugging them up the stairs was going to be a challenge. I had to be careful not to throw my back out. As I was arranging them by size and weight, along came a young man who seemed to be in his late 30’s.

Can I help you? I’m Luke, maintenance. Dressed in jeans and Alabama sweatshirt he seemed like a college kid visiting his parents. It would not be the last time I was to see an Alabama sweatshirt. I came to know I was now living in a state that worshipped its Alabama football team.

Hi, Luke. I’m Jim O’Leary. I’m checking in, as you can guess. Hey, Luke, who was that lady that committed suicide?

Oh, that was Mrs. Edgarton. Boy, what a shock that was. Never figured her for that. But I think a lot of the folks are glad. She was a real pain in the butt, if you get my drift, as he took both bags from me. Great to be young, I thought as I grabbed the last one that was blessedly small.

Really? Why?

Oh, she was a real busybody, always puttin’ her nose into everybody’s business. I guess that happens when you get old. Oh, I’m sorry.

No, don’t be sorry. But, I must tell you not everyone who gets old becomes like Mrs.--what did you say her name was?

Edgarton. Came from an old New England family. Money I think. Third strange death this year.

What? What do you mean?

Well, Mrs. Farmer drowned in her bathtub in February. Closet alcoholic. Probably drunk when she fell asleep and slipped under. No one knows. No one’s talkin’.

You said the third. Who else?

Oh, yeah. Mr.Naseta. Accidentally fell in the pond over there, pointing to the pretty little pond that lay almost hidden behind enormous hydrangea bushes a few yards away. I had fallen in love with that pond when I saw it on the Grove House website. I imagined it frozen and people ice skating while light snow was falling.

So, what happened?

No one knows. We thought he just walked off one day. Then his body surfaced. Awful. Been in there a week.

By now we had climbed the long stairs and entered the massive lobby. We put the bags down.

Didn’t anybody look for him? Good Lord.

Sure. No one thought he had fallen into the pond. His family was furious. They threatened to sue. Never did. No responsibility. Covered in the lease, I think. Anyway, Mrs. Edgarton is three. Third time’s the charm, right? I guessed he was trying to lighten the news for me.

Yeah. I was finished talking about death at the Grove House. Hard to believe that in a small retirement home that housed only 25 people, three would have died strange deaths within a year. You expect one a year from ordinary illness like heart attacks or strokes, but a hanging and two drownings was the stuff of movies.

Hi, I’m Lucy Stringer, director of Grove House. Welcome. You must be Mr. O’Leary.

With outstretched hand, she had quietly and quickly approached me from the darkened corridor at the side of the reception counter. Tall, slightly built. Not bad looking. And that smile you see on every person in charge of guests.

Yes. I am. How do you do.

Why don’t I let you get settled and then we can go over the lease. Supper is at six, so you have time to freshen. I can meet you here at 5. Luke will help you with your bags. It was four, and Luke had been standing next to me all this time.

We headed for the elevator. I couldn’t wait to talk to her about all the deaths. My apartment, which comprised a living area and bedroom with private bath, was on the second floor, facing the front. We got there quickly.

Thanks so much, Luke. I’m gonna unpack some things and jump in the shower.

Is that all your stuff ? he asked while looking somewhat surprised by my old and worn luggage. Little did he know where all my stuff had travelled before Denham.

"No. I have some furniture coming and a trunk with more clothes. Didn’t want to load too much in the car. Staying overnight at a motel would have been a problem since the heavy trunk didn’t fit in the car trunk and I would have had to leave it in the back seat.

OK. Take care and welcome.

After quickly unpacking, I locked the door and took a quick shower, fearing a slashing scene like the one in Psycho. Man, I had just arrived and already was scared to death. But why? After all, those were suicides, but they still gave me an uneasy feeling that people were killing themselves in a place I had chosen as my new and final