The Woods of North San Juan

By T. E. Fromhold

The beauty of California’s Gold Rush country and a tragic personal loss are what led Richard to leave L.A. and buy the old Moodry estate in North San Juan. But the estate is unquestionably a haunted, unearthly place. Hidden deep in the woods, the decaying mansion and its Victorian entities are driving the last trace of order out of Richard’s world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483537344

Book preview

9781483537344

Chapter One

Richard gazed out at the oaks and pines of California’s Gold Country. It was late June 1999, one hundred and fifty years after the Gold Rush and six months before a new millennium and a wave of technological change. Richard stood in an empty kitchen, gazing through the four-pane window of an old, narrow back door. The woods, towering and lush, spread out from the back of the house and rose steeply up and over a hill. My, what a view, he said to the agent.

She didn’t answer him. The real estate agent was a short, frumpish woman, seven months pregnant, dour in spirit, and at the moment, not wild about real estate. She wiped her forehead and tugged at her shabby maternity blouse. Open the door, she said. Get some air in here. The small house was stifling. Late June is a scorching time in the Sierra Nevada foothills.

Richard opened the door without taking his eyes off the landscape. That’s quite a forest, isn’t it? he said.

The agent was only interested in the slight breeze that came in. With her eyes closed she murmured, Mm-hmm. All of that would be your property.

Richard’s face lit up. For many months he had not smiled, but now his face lit up like a child’s. Twenty acres, right?

Mm-hmm.

How far back there is the Victorian ruin?

The agent opened her eyes. She studied him through round wire-rimmed glasses. Pretty far, she answered.

Though transfixed by the view, Richard managed to pull himself away. "Well, I suppose I should look at this house first. He glanced around the small 1930s kitchen with a lack of real interest. He turned a knob on the stove. Electric, he commented. Does the house have a gas line?"

No. Just electricity.

Oh. What about sewage? Would I be on city sewage?

You’d be on a septic tank.

Oh. What about water?

A well.

A well? Seriously?

This isn’t a suburb, she reminded him. This is a washed-up mining town on top of a ridge. You’re lucky there’s electricity.

Richard seemed to have trouble comprehending this. But the town was built on hydraulic mining... he said in a meditative voice, searching for logic in the endless bits of knowledge that were always at his disposal. You would think there would be some kind of water supply system.

The real estate agent shook her head. There hasn’t been any water supplied here since they closed the mines a hundred years ago.

"A hundred and fifteen years ago, Richard told her, still meditating, still contemplating several things at once. 1884—the courts banned hydraulic mining in 1884. That was a landmark decision, you know. One of the first federal court rulings to favor the environment."

The agent’s heavy eyelids never lifted and her cynical mouth never uncurled. Then you should know that nothing’s happened up here for the last hundred and fifteen years.

Richard thought about this and shrugged. I don’t care much about the last hundred and fifteen years. He turned once again to the back door and peacefully surveyed the hills. Did you know that this town was named after a castle?

No, the agent said, wilting in the heat.

The Castle of San Juan de Ulúa in Mexico. It used to guard the entrance to the port of Veracruz. That’s where General Scott’s army landed during the Mexican War. When the war ended and the California Gold Rush started, a man who’d been in Scott’s army came up here for gold. Somewhere out there he saw a hill that reminded him of the castle. He mined it, struck gold, and named the hill San Juan of the North.

The agent had closed her eyes again. She half opened them and said, I guess you know a lot about this town.

I’ve often thought about living here, he told her.

Do you visit here a lot? she asked.

Richard was gazing out at the wilderness. No, this is my first time.

The agent’s narrow eyes grew narrower.

Does it ever snow here? Richard asked. It’d be fun to see snow.

She watched him and his childlike gaze, and she became confused. Did you say you were looking for vacation property or a permanent residence?

Permanent residence, he answered. His eyes were fixed far beyond the forested hill. I’m looking for a place to settle down—permanently.

She followed his gaze out into the woods. "A very quiet place, I assume."

Richard finally turned away from the door. He smiled and humbly confessed, Yes, quiet, uncrowded, off the beaten track. I’m tired of L.A. I can’t live there anymore, not after...well, let’s just say I’m out of place there. I like the history up here, the way it’s been preserved. When you showed me the listing, what mainly piqued my interest was the old ruin that was mentioned. The listing said, ‘133-year-old Victorian ruin included on property.’

The agent nodded in her drowsy way. "It’s just as the listing says. It’s the ruins of an old Victorian house way out there in the woods. I’d take you out there myself, but as you can see, I’m in no condition to go for a hike. And it is a hike. I tried to take a client out there a few months ago. He moaned and complained the whole time and then gave up. In places the woods are so thick you can barely make it through. And the blackberry bushes make it that much harder."

Richard saw nothing unpleasant in what she described. I’m rather fond of blackberries, he said with delight.

Are you fond of thorns? she asked. Because those bushes are full of them. They make hiking out there a real hell. As she said this, she began to leave the kitchen. But if you’re that anxious to see it, go ahead and get it out of your system. I’ll wait for you on the front porch.

Ms. Kostrencich, he said and hurried after her. Is there anything else you can tell me about the old place? It must have quite a history.

The agent continued to the front door. If it has, I’m sure you know more about it than I do.

No, no, he said modestly. He followed her onto the porch. I’m a teacher, so I have a little knowledge about a lot of things, but not everything.

Ah, a teacher, she said. I knew you weren’t up here to be a logger. She looked around the big empty porch for a place to sit, but there were no chairs, and the railings were covered by clusters of trumpet vine, creeping on wires strung between the posts of the awning. She decided the only seat was the floor if she wanted to remain in the shade.

Richard quickly stepped over and took the pregnant woman’s hand. Careful, he said as he helped her ease down.

Thanks. She sat back against the siding.

Wait, Richard said and had her lean forward while he brushed away the dust from the clapboards. He then allowed her to lean back.

She gave him a strange look. You’re quite a gentleman, Mr. Burke.

Call me Richard, he said.

Oh? They don’t call you ‘Rick’ or ‘Rich’ or ‘Dick’? She knew they didn’t. Even in his casual summer clothes, Richard had a formal air about him. He was a tall, willowy man with a shock of thick black hair above a high forehead. At thirty-three he still had a pristine face, possibly because he rarely wrinkled it with much undue expression. Most often it was calm, sober—rather statuesque. Even his pallor was close to that of a statue.

No, he answered her, I don’t think I’ve ever been called anything but Richard.

The agent nodded. Yeah, I figured that.

Does everyone call you Esther? Richard asked. Or do they call you ‘Hetty’?

She made an odd face. Hetty?

It’s a diminutive of Esther, he explained.

Really? I didn’t know that. ‘Hetty,’ she repeated aloud to herself. I kind of like it. Richard’s little reprisal became something of a compliment to her, and a faint smile softened the tired eyes behind her glasses. A teacher, huh? She looked up at him almost warmly. And I’ll bet you’d like to find a one-room country schoolhouse to teach in, right?

If only I could, he said. If only things were still that simple. He gazed out through the trumpet vine, out to where the sunshine bathed a green front lawn and a white picket fence.

With encouragement Esther told him, Well, there are some awfully small schools up here, especially the elementary schools. Is that what you teach, elementary school?

I’m a history professor. I’ve never taught primary or secondary school. But I’m looking forward to it.

The agent’s eyebrows rose slightly, a sizable reaction for her. A professor? she asked.

Richard nodded as he looked out at the sunlit greenery.

You teach at a university in L.A.?

Richard just nodded.

Esther’s mind was filled now with all sorts of puzzling questions. Well, she said and gazed out with Richard at the pitifully small town, this will be a big change, then. Won’t it?

Richard was far away, lost in thoughts that swam in the hot, dry air. No. The big change came last December.

As Esther sat on the porch floor and Richard stood looking out through the porch vines, she studied the back of him, and though she tried to restrain herself, she guessed aloud at his situation. You lost your job?

His reply was subdued, indifferent. No, I have tenure.

This made sense to her as she sorted through the possibilities. And you wouldn’t be buying a house, she said, squinting and puzzling, if you were out of work...

Richard knew it was wrong to leave her guessing what sort of troubles or eccentricities he had. He finally turned around and explained, My fiancée died last December, just a few weeks before the wedding day.

Esther shrank back at these sad words. Oh, how awful. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried into—

No, no, no, you didn’t pry. It’s bound to come up if I talk at length to anyone.

I suppose so. But I feel bad that I made you bring it up.

Don’t feel bad, he said. No harm done.

For an awkward moment no one spoke. Then the agent adjusted the red bandanna that held back her hair, and she said in a businesslike manner, The house was built by Stanley Moodry in 1866.

Richard looked down at her. Hmm?

You were asking about the ruin, she said. It was built by Stanley Moodry. He was a wealthy citizen here, back in the Gold Rush days.

Is that so? Did he own a mining operation?

No, I think he was in ditches.

Ditches?

You know, ditch water—canals. He brought water to the diggings.

Oh, the hydraulic mines, Richard said. I see. So what happened when the government closed those mines? Did Mr. Moodry’s service go bankrupt?

I don’t know, Esther said.

Is that why the Victorian house became a ruin?

I don’t know. I really don’t know anything else about him. I’d never heard of him until this property went on the market. I grew up here in Nevada County but I never heard the name Moodry before.

He must have been the quiet type of wealthy citizen, Richard suggested. Wealth can buy a lot of quiet and seclusion if that’s what one desires.

He definitely wanted seclusion, Esther said. Look at the way he built his home out there in the middle of twenty acres of forest. The house is hidden like a needle in a haystack. I had an awful time getting out there.

Richard listened with wonder. It’s truly been forgotten, hasn’t it?

Besides myself, she said, I don’t think a soul has been near it in fifty years or more.

Richard’s eyes had an entranced sparkle in them. That’s amazing. That’s perfect. If there’s enough of it left, I’m going to restore it. That’s where I want to live, in a 19th-century house, far away from everyone.

Esther nodded although she didn’t understand his peculiar dream. She said, I take it you’re not looking forward to the new millennium.

What will it bring? he asked. More development, more crime, less privacy.

In a friendly way, she remarked, "Sounds like there’s a little bit of Stanley Moodry in you."

Richard was not quick to agree. He wanted to explain his situation more fully, but he just mumbled, Well...it might be a while before I feel comfortable around people again...what with the death of my fiancée...

Of course, of course, Esther said and felt bad for not thinking before she made her remark. I understand.

Richard had a frown as he fidgeted and looked at the floor. No, you see, it’s not only the fact that she died...but that she was shot to death. Shot down on the street, just for her purse.

Esther waited a moment before speaking. That’s...that’s terrible. That’s really terrible, a senseless crime like that. Did they get the person who did it?

Yes. They got him. When the police arrived, Kathleen was kneeling on the sidewalk, holding her stomach. She was able to give them a description, but she... Richard was still utterly bewildered by the memory of it. But she died on the way to the hospital. She was only twenty-nine. She was a history teacher like me. And she loved the past like me.

The agent tried to find something to say. She told him in a soft voice, That’s a terrible thing to live with.

Richard took a deep breath and made an effort to smile. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to paint this horrible, depressing picture for you.

Esther smiled and said, That’s all right. Life has some very depressing pictures. What can you do?

Feeling that his agent grasped the whole situation now, Richard said, Everything seems to have been turned on its head since then. So you can see how it makes it difficult for me to dive right back into the world.

The agent nodded as she mulled it over. "Yeah, I guess. But then, what else can you do? I mean, that’s life, isn’t it? Always having to adjust, always having to start over. To me, it seems like that’s the rule, not the exception. I’m thirty and I’ve already had two marriages that have ended. I’ve had about ten careers that have failed—and I’m not so sure about this one. In the evening I check out groceries at an all-night market because I haven’t closed one escrow in the six months that I’ve been a broker. I’m all but ready to give up on this career. But I keep telling myself I can’t. I have two kids to support and I’m about to have another from a guy that I just divorced."

Richard stood in quiet surprise at the woman’s own list of troubles.

Still sitting on the floor, she held up her ever-placid face. But what can you do? You just have to go on. My husband and I are through and I’m going to see what other fish are out there as soon as I can. She looked at Richard with a slight arch in her brow. "If I wasn’t seven months pregnant, I’d ask you out for a drink!"

They both broke into laughter. The agent’s smile was the biggest Richard had seen it thus far. But once again she turned her attention back to business and said, Well, are you going to hike out to that ruin or not?

Oh—yes, Richard said quickly. I’m sorry. Tell me how to get out there.

Go around to the back, then head into the woods, just as straight as you can. There’ll be a lot of brush and brambles but try to keep going straight. When you get to the top of the hill, you should be able to see one of the gables poking through the trees. It’s just a gray patch out in the distance. But you’ll see those icicle things hanging down.

Icicle things?

You know, those funny decorations they put where the roof hangs over.

Oh, the bargeboard.

Yeah, the...whatever. She rolled her eyes at his knowledge of specifics. You’ll see it when you get to the top of the hill, but not when you go down, so make sure you keep walking as straight as you can. Wait, she said with another thought. Do you have a cell phone?

Yes.

Good. She took hers out of her purse. I can direct you there over the phone.

"I don’t have it with me," Richard said.

What do you mean? Is it in the car?

It’s in my motel room. I didn’t think I’d need it.

Esther closed her eyes, and then she laughed. How do you know if you’re going to need it? she tried to ask but was giggling.

Richard laughed along with her. I know, I know, he said. I’m just not good with modern gadgets.

"I think you might be Stanley Moodry," she told him and tried to contain her giggles.

Richard was willing to laugh at himself for as long as she wanted. It felt good. Eventually Esther put the cell phone back in her purse and composed herself.

Richard assured her, I’ll find the house, don’t worry. I’ll go straight up to the top of the hill, look for the gable...

And when you go down the other side, she reminded, keep walking as straight as you can.

Got it, he said. I’ll try to be as quick as possible. I’ve taken so much time here already.

Oh, that’s all right.

I really do appreciate it, Esther. Or should I call you Hetty?

Esther laughed again. No, if you’re sticking with Richard, I’ll stick with Esther.

Richard was smiling as he hurried down the porch steps. I’ll be back soon.

She stood up and called after him, Be careful of the blackberry bushes!

Chapter Two

A week later, Richard was back in Southern California packing up a houseful of belongings. The deal had been made. A price had been agreed to and the property was in escrow. In a month he would become the new owner of Stanley Moodry’s ancient estate.

For now, however, he labored in the dreariness of a dark afternoon. Only a mile inland it was a sunny July day, but for those living along the beaches from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes Point, it was overcast and gloomy. With the thermostat turned up, Richard packed box after box of books, gradually emptying five imposing bookcases.

Now and then he glanced out the front window. The wind blew hamburger wrappers and soft-drink cups down the sidewalk. Teenagers in swimsuits roller-skated through the litter. Although it was a dark day, it was nonetheless July, and a continuous parade of beachgoers passed by. Richard gave the scene outside little attention—until an orange Porsche pulled up to the curb. His face brightened. Company was here. He rushed out to greet them.

A young man and woman, both of them Richard’s age, got out of the car. They strolled up to him with the glow of movie stars. They were tan with gleaming smiles. Their clothes were casual but expensive, the peak of fashion. These were the MacNalls, Scott and Carol, successful young people whom Richard and his fiancée had known for years. He ushered them inside and closed the door.

Good God, you’re really going through with it! Scott’s voice boomed in the small living room. Scott was a big, tall man. He was the same height as Richard but strong and athletic looking. Not just blond, he was thoroughly a towhead, with lashes and eyebrows that were whitish gold.

His wife, Carol, was on the short side, and next to Scott she looked very petite indeed. Her face was pixyish. Her red hair was cut short and simple, reflecting the devil-may-care attitude that she and Scott both shared. She looked up at him with a laugh. What do you mean, he’s ‘really going through with it’? You knew he bought that place.

Yes, I know, Scott said, but just seeing these empty bookcases...it’s so final.

I’ve spent the whole day packing books, Richard told them.

There was silence as Carol now scanned the room the way Scott did. "I wish you could unpack them," she said.

Richard smiled. It was a heartfelt remark.

It’s hard to imagine this place without you and all your books, she said. Won’t you miss it?

Kathleen was the beach-lover, he replied, not me. Frankly, I always thought this house was too damp and too small.

I know, but it’s sad to think that none of us will ever see it again.

Richard nodded in a quick way, trying to remain serene about it all. Well, moving is always like that. Bittersweet.

Carol walked around the box-filled room with a sigh. I don’t know what the sweet part is in moving away from everyone you know.

Now, we’ve gone over that before, Richard reproved her. I’m moving to twenty acres in the pines, where the sky is blue, the air is clean, and deer and squirrels play in the backyard. And you can both visit me as often as you like. We’ll have a ball up there. When the old mansion is renovated, it’ll be like a big sprawling retreat that you can get away to whenever you feel like it. I want you to think of it as your house too.

Does that mean we can help you decorate it? Carol asked.

I would be honored if you would help me decorate it, Richard said.

Scott laughed, Yeah, sure, the history scholar is going to let us meddle with his landmark.

I don’t think it’s so laughable, Carol said. I know something about Victorian tastes and furnishings.

"Well, it’s early Victorian, Richard pointed out. It’s not Queen Anne style. It’s Gothic revival mixed with a bit of Greek revival. I would almost say it belongs more to the Romantic Era than the Victorian Era."

Scott looked at Carol and tittered at her expectations.

But I won’t be too particular about the furnishings, Richard assured them.

No, no, of course you won’t, Scott said, chuckling.

Anyway, Richard went on, it’ll be a while before we can start furnishing it.

How long? Carol asked. Scott and I are taking our vacations in September and we were thinking of going up there then.

September? Let’s see... Richard rubbed his chin. That’s only two months. I’ll probably have the tree removed from the parlor by then...and maybe some of the roof and siding fixed.

The tree? Scott and Carol both said.

Yes, the small pine tree growing in there. Didn’t I tell you?

Scott stared at him with a stupefied expression. You told us this place was ‘somewhat of a fixer.’ You didn’t say there were trees growing in it.

"Just one tree, Richard said. A little pine tree, oh, hardly six feet high, growing out of the floor in what would’ve been called the parlor back in the old days."

Scott just stared blankly at him. Carol had the same expression. Richard, she said, doesn’t this tree need sunlight?

Yes, he agreed, and it’s getting a lot, because the parlor has no roof.

Scott and Carol were speechless.

Oh, come on, Richard said, don’t look so worried. There’s a section of wall and a chunk of roof missing, that’s all. A long time ago someone must have stolen the lumber. The rest of the house is perfectly intact. It’s a bit weathered, of course. Well, actually, there’s no paint left on it at all. But they built houses so well back then. The wood just needs to be resealed and it’ll be fine.

Richard, this thing could rot out from under you, Scott told him.

It’s not a ‘thing,’ Richard said indignantly. "It’s not some puny bungalow like this place. We’re talking about a real house. It’s huge. It’s baronial. You look up and you see magnificent dormer windows jutting out. You see balconies with heavy, carved balusters, and porches with Grecian columns. Yes, it’s all very gray now and the wood is splitting, but it can be patched up. And the interior woodwork isn’t in bad shape at all. Most of the windows are still intact, so it was somewhat protected. There have been leaks, of course, and the paneling is a little warped and wavy—but mahogany, with carved pilasters that go from floor to ceiling, rows of them, all the way down a long gallery to an immense dining hall."

Scott shook his head slowly and pessimistically. That sounds like an awful lot of work, Richard. Maybe impossible.

Richard considered this and could not deny it. But in truth, it made no difference to him. He replied, I don’t care. Even if I can’t restore it, I still want it. It’s an untouched slice of history. It’s a piece of time from the past that no one’s tampered with and I want it. He stood still and looked at the boxes he had filled and at a shelf where more books remained. Since Kathleen died, it’s the only place where I’ve felt content. He then resumed his work of emptying the shelves. I’ll restore it, he vowed. Either I’ll restore it or I’ll live out there as an old ghost haunting an old ruin. Either way, I think I’ll be content.

Carol considered this a foolish exaggeration and said to him, You’re not going to live like an old ghost. That’s nonsense. You’ll meet someone else one day.

I don’t think so, Carol. Kathleen was the only woman I ever wanted to marry. I don’t expect to be in love like that again. So I’ll live with my other love—the past. That old house in the woods, that’ll be my better half now.

Carol tried to disagree with him in a way that she hoped would be comforting. "I’m sure it must seem as if you’ll never find love like that again, but you will. Impossible as that sounds right now, it’ll happen."

To be honest, he said, I hope it doesn’t. He spoke casually as he continued to remove books from the shelves. I’m content now, more or less. I’ve had my fill of drama and traumatic events. I would prefer to just wait out this life, perhaps meet Kathleen in some other world.

Behind Richard’s back, Scott and Carol gave each other wide-eyed looks. Neither of them had ever heard him talk this way.

Some other world? Scott said, looking askance at Richard. That world may be a long way off, you know, like fifty or sixty years.

Richard stopped as he crouched over a box with several books in his hands. He looked up at Scott with a smile. "I’m not afraid of time. Time should be afraid of me. Kathleen’s death ripped away my connection to this world and therefore my connection to time. Without that connection, I can speed time up or slow it down. I could live out at that ruin and make a day last one second or make it last a thousand years. He placed the books into the cardboard box. Or I could forget there’s even a difference." He turned around to collect more books.

Carol was worried now. She sat down on a box of packed books and said to him, That doesn’t sound like a very healthy way to live, Richard. A person can’t live permanently in a suspended state with no hope of anything good ever happening.

Without turning around, he told her, Oh, I have hope—just not for this world.

Carol let out a deep, exasperated breath and looked up at Scott.

Scott stood with his hands on his hips, appearing somewhat annoyed now. Richard, he grumbled, you can’t just give up on the world. You’re too young. You can’t spend decades waiting to meet your fiancée in heaven. That’s crazy. I’ll admit it’s romantic, it’s poetic, but it’s crazy.

Richard remained untroubled and kept packing books. I don’t think it’s crazy. I don’t even think it’s romantic. It’s just the most logical course to take.

Logical? Richard, I realize you’ve been through an ordeal, but I hate to see you get so bent out of shape that you lose all reason and judgment. I’ve known you since the first day of college, and of the two of us, you’ve always been the one with the most mental strength. You’ve always been so sharp, so rational.

I know it doesn’t sound very rational, Richard said, but it is.

To give up on life at thirty-three is rational?

Richard turned away from the bookcase and looked at Scott. I’m not giving up on life, I’m giving up on ‘time.’ I’m letting time go on without me, not life.

Scott still had his hands on his hips and was peering searchingly into Richard’s face. "I don’t know what that means, Richard."

Richard sensed that it wouldn’t do much good to explain, but he tried. "I’m done thinking in terms of years and days and minutes. As long as we think in those terms, life is just a headlong, fast-paced gamble: we may find happiness or we may not; or we may find it briefly and then lose it—then find it again, then lose it again. I