Oh No! You Didn't!

By Lynn Sable

Forced to spend the summer under the watchful eye of his great Aunt Mabel, Skippy is less than happy with the arrangement his parents have made. The fact that Aunt Mabel lives in a huge mansion right on the beach doesn't matter. As far as Skippy is concerned Aunt Mabel is old, creepy, secretive and should be dead by now. Years ago Mabel bought the mansion when it was in a sorry state of repair. She renovated it and turned it into the Number #1 place to stay on the island of Long Beach, New Jersey. Although a frightening legend full of mystery and intrigue has circulated for years, Aunt Mabel claims she never believed any of the stories as real. Actually, Skippy thinks that they were invented simply to keep paying guests coming every summer.
As well as having a surprisingly good time at the beach, something very sinister happens. Totally by accident Skippy digs up the truth about the mansion, the haunting and an ancient family curse that threatens to terminate the entire family. There is definitely more to the mansion and Aunt Mabel than meets the eye. Disturbing paranormal activity, a double murder, kidnapping and a gruesome transmutation is only the beginning.
Meanwhile, Skippy and his two new friends begin a quest to find the origin of a horrific discovery they made while crusin' the beach one night. Armed with nothing more than a mangled clue they begin a wild goose chase that takes them all over the island and onto the mainland. Peddling as fast as they can they ride their bikes deep into the woods of the Pine Barrens. Snooping too much for their own good, the boys get the shock of their lives when they come face to face with a Jersey legend. Panic, shivers, dread and unmatched fear grip all three boys as they try to end the madness.

(This book is free of foul language and sex)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Sable
• Release date: Mar 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310073465

Lynn Sable

Born and raised in Southern New Jersey, Lynn is no stranger to the legends and spooky stories that make the Pine Barrens, the Jersey Devil and the beach such an amazing setting for this series of books.When not writing, she is spending time with her family and grand dogs. She loves to travel anywhere there is a beach and is often found at the waters edge making notes for her next book.With a wild imagination, a crazy sense of humor and the gift of story telling, she is sure to entertain you and tickle your funny bone.

Book preview

A

'Demons From the Dust' Production'

By

Lynn Sable with special contributions from Kay Brown

1st Series Edition 2016

Long Beach Island, New Jersey

This novel is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are strictly used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book may not be suitable for readers under the age of 13 due to the graphic subject matter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

CONTACT: [e-mail]

Copyright © 2015 by Lynn Sable.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER ONE

The school bell rang marking the beginning of summer break. I jumped out of my third-row seat, pushed and shoved my way to the front of the class, and headed for the door.

Squeezing between the door fame and one of my classmates, I shoved until both of us popped into the hallway.

Geez! I hollered, as I almost fell right into a rush of kids that were coming down the hall like a tidal wave.

I connected with the flow of screaming kids and made it to my locker, kicked it open, and quickly emptied everything into my backpack.

The hallways in my school are usually very quiet. Not today. It sounded like a jet engine ready for takeoff, and it was awesome. I closed my locker with a quick jab of my butt and charged down the corridor to meet my freedom.

It was the last day of seventh grade. I was psyched!

Summer vacation! I shouted. Bring it on! I jumped in the air and gave a high-five to one of the guys from my gym class who was standing by the auditorium doors.

I was now officially an eighth grader on my way to a brand new school that was a combination of middle school and high school.

Man, this feels good, I whispered.

I pushed against the huge, green double-door that lay at the end of the main hall. As soon as it opened, I was met with a burst of sunlight on my face and the sweet smell of a hot June afternoon.

Yes! I roared. It was like being sprung from prison! Not that I know what that feels like. But, if I did, this had to be it.

I took the usual shortcut home, heading toward the footbridge that crosses the train tracks that run parallel to my house. To get there, I had to cut over the gravel covered playground and go behind the wooden swings that are right in front of the old oak tree line.

As usual, I couldn’t resist giving one of the swing seats a shove. I pushed it up as far as I could, then let go while ducking out of the way so that it wouldn't slam into my head. I kept a frantic pace right up to the footbridge.

I double-stepped my way up the stairs. I was so focused on the summer vacation that lay ahead of me. Freedom from homework, alarm clocks, teachers and schedules. Three months of pure bliss, I couldn’t wait!

I dashed across the top of the footbridge and paused for a second looking at my house. From the top of the bridge I could clearly see the huge, grid style windows of my home as they gleamed in the midday sun.

Our house was painted white with different shapes of wooden shingles that rose from the foundation. The bottom third had slat-like shingles that resembled typical aluminum siding, while the middle section had scalloped shingles that set off the windows and gingerbread appointments. The upper shingles were squared off and gave a majestic look to the gabled roof.

The front door was the first feature people noticed when they pulled up to my house. It was a rich dark brown and had a six-paneled façade with lots of shiny brass hardware. It was milled from one solid piece of chestnut wood and was the original door of the house. My dad said that it was worth a fortune because chestnut trees had died off years ago due to a disease called the chestnut blight. He said that in the early 1900s, imported trees from Japan and domestic trees were affected in New Jersey, Connecticut, New York State, and along the eastern seaboard. Dad just loved to impart me with little history lessons whenever he could. Since he was notorious for mixing up facts, I had to do my own research on most everything he said. Once you've sat through one of his twist stories, you'll know why.

What a cool looking house I thought, as I scampered down the footbridge to the other side. Nothing like it looked when my parents bought it. I was only five years old then, and I hated it.

I remember the afternoon my parents were finalizing the purchase or whatever grown-ups do when they buy a house. They had to do a final walk-through to make sure that everything was as they expected, and brought me along. As soon as we pulled up I knew they should have left me at my Bubbie's house. (That's what I call my grandmother).

It was decrepit; old, run down and overgrown with trees, weeds and vines. The grass was as tall as me, the paint was peeling, and some of the shingles were missing or just hanging by a nail. Nevertheless, I got out of the car and followed behind.

I waited patiently beside my father as he fumbled with the door keys. The giant door squeaked as he pushed it open. It had a huge knocker with the face of a lion on it that I swore growled at me when I passed it. Really, it did.

Once inside, it was hard to breathe; my nostrils immediately filled with the dusty oldness of the place and some putrid stench I didn't recognize. As I looked around, there were parts of old furniture scattered about, and a couple of dead birds on the floor near a huge fireplace against the far side of the living room. I shrieked when I saw them and ran to my father’s side for protection. Cobwebs were everywhere, and the dust made the room look foggy. I was totally creeped out and couldn't understand why they brought me here. If it was to cause my young mind to seize up and freak out, it worked!

I wanna go home, I complained.

Skippy, this is our home now, my mom replied as she walked through the living room and toward a set of stairs that went up to the second floor.

I hate it, I whined, clinging to my dads sweatshirt.

Oh don't be silly! she said, I know it doesn't look like much now, but wait till it's finished. You'll love it. Come on honey, wait till you see your new room!

There was no way I would ever love it as Mom said. Dad and I followed her across the room and climbed the stairs. When I reached for the banister railing it creaked and shook as if it were going to fall right off. I pulled my hand away fearing its collapse. I was sure I heard the growl of the knocker again. I grabbed onto the back of my dad's shirt as if my life depended on it.

My mom was the first one to reach to top. Hurry up you guys. We have to be at the Realtor's office in an hour.

Dad peeled me off of his shirt. Let go! You're being ridiculous, he scolded me.

At the top of the stairway, we were met by a long hallway that stretched the entire length of the house. My dad led the way as we turned left and went toward the front of the house. Now, I was even more scared since my dad wouldn't let me huddle behind him.

At the end of the hall was a door which opened up to another set of stairs leading up to the attic.

We can start our inspection up here and then work our way down, he said to my mom as he effortlessly clicked the handle and swung the door completely open.

Sounds good to me, she replied, as she wrapped her arm around me and put me in position to follow my dad.

What's that stinky smell, Mom? I asked.

It's just how old houses smell. Especially when they've sat for as long as this one has, she sneezed. It will be fine once it gets a good cleaning. I, on the other hand, didn't think that there was enough Pine Cleaner on the planet to scrub the spooky out of this place.

So, sandwiched in-between my mom and dad, I reluctantly began to climb the stairs. They creaked under my feet, and when I looked down I could see my footprints in the dust.

Meanwhile, my dad waved his hand back and forth to clear the cobwebs that were hanging in his face.

When we got to the top, it was worse than I’d imagined. As I looked around, minding my own business, it happened...I was run through by something weird that I could not see. It pressed on my chest and halted my breathing for a moment. I suddenly began to feel really strange. My legs got wobbly, my head began to spin, and a cold shiver ran up and down my spine. At one point, I was freezing yet sweat was beading up on my forehead. My face drained of all blood, and I was sure I was going to puke. I abruptly drew in a huge breath and then, just as fast as it hit me, it stopped. Distracted by the sights and smells that were overtaking two of my senses, I dismissed it as fear getting the best of me.

I stood there a bit longer waiting to see if I was going to get that tingly, hot and cold feeling again but nothing happened. After pausing a minute to regain my composure, I went back to examining the attic.

There were small windows at each end of the room covered with a yellow film. Yuck! A little bit of light shone through a few of the broken panes slightly illuminating the remnants of a past era. Magazines were scattered on the floor, old rugs were rolled up and shoved against the wall, and broken glass from the windows littered the floor. When we walked to the center of the attic, I noticed a box of Hanukkah decorations that were falling out of dilapidated box in which a bird had made a nest. Nasty streaks of bird poo ran down the side and puddled on the floor. It was utterly gross!

All of a sudden, we heard noises coming from the opposite end of the attic. Mom turned around and spotted several bats attached to the wall and others that were climbing on the rafters. Bats! she screamed, as she shot toward the stairway with me right behind her. When we got to the landing, Dad was still standing in the middle of the attic.

Dan! She hollered in a whisper, cupping one hand beside her mouth. Let's go! There are bats everywhere.

With hands on his hips, he remained firmly planted in the spot that mom and I had just run from. Oh Ellen, relax. They're more afraid of you than you are of them.

You know I hate bats! she shrieked as a few of them let go of the wall and began to fly out the broken window.

See, he said as he pointed toward the window, they're scared and leaving.

Mom wasn't taking any chances and quickly yanked up the hood of my sweatshirt and then hers.

Their long existence in the attic was obvious from the piles of bat guano that was amassed on the floor. Now I knew why the smell was so rank.

That's it. I had reached my limit of creepy for one day. I broke away from my mother’s embrace and ran down the steps two-by-two on my way to the second floor. I flew down the main steps to the first floor, dashed across the living room, and bolted out the front door. I threw myself down onto the bottom step, tucked my knees to my chest and hugged my legs as I rocked back and forth.

In a moment, I heard the door open behind me. It was my mom and dad. Dad scooped me up in his arms and I wrapped my legs around his waist and began to cry and babble.

I’m not living in that house! I blurted. It wants to eat me!

As you might have guessed, none of my pouting convinced my parents to cancel their purchase. They settled that afternoon and became the proud new owners of a house that scared the poo out of me! Charm, they said; it will be beautiful once we fix it up, they said; it has potential, they said. Whatever! They were so proud of themselves for rescuing it from the wrecking ball that you'd think they were expecting a parade.

For over two years we lived crammed together in the living room area. The bedroom area was on one side of the room, and a makeshift kitchen was on the other with the den in the middle. It was like camping, only inside. Sheets and clothing racks separated one space from another.

I hated it at first and slept between my mom and dad. It was so different from the house we came from. As per my request, which really was just a lot of whining, they started renovations in the attic first. Mom turned part of it into a craft room, and Dad took the other side for his office. It actually did turn out really nice. The windows were replaced with little arched ones, the walls and ceiling were covered with new sheet rock, and the floor was covered with a thick, plush, light tan carpet.

My bedroom was next on the list. I overheard my mom telling my dad that it was important to get my room done because I needed to have a space to call my own and I wasn’t adjusting to the house as well as she had hoped. Duh!

I had a lot of mixed feelings about being the first one to sleep on the second floor. I had mastered the attic and wasn't afraid of it anymore but I was still scared to be alone in my new room so, my mom slept with me for a few nights until I got used to the sounds and feel of my new space. Now I love my room and the privacy it gives me. My privacy is the most important thing in the world to me. I love being able to close my door, put on my music and chill as far away from the world as I can get. I'm not a hermit or anything, it's just that I have this thing called an older sister who happens to live with us. Yeah, I know that's what older sisters do but once I introduce you to her you'll see why I need my privacy.

A short while after we moved in, we met the Shoemakers. They were a nice, older couple who were eager to fill us in on any subject that one person was willing to listen to. They always had a story to tell and could talk for hours. Mom would always make me go with her when she went to visit. She said I would be her excuse to weasel out if they kept us there past my mom's level of endurance. One afternoon, over tea and scones, they told us that they were born and raised in town and lived in the neighborhood for seventy years. They said they met in grade school, fell in love in high school, got married at eighteen and raised four children in two different homes within three blocks of one another. Mr. Shoemaker told us that one of their children only lived a few houses away. He smiled as he reminisced about how much he enjoyed raising their children and, commented about how quickly they had grown and that they now had little ones of their own. He said that he and his beautiful bride loved to take early evening walks up the street to see their grandchildren.

After listening to the Shoemaker's life story, Mom shifted the conversation to our house and asked them if they knew anything about its history. Both Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker remembered the Bentley family quite distinctly. They were the original builders of our house. In fact, Mrs. Shoemaker said that her mother remembered going to a lavish Sweet Sixteen party for J.R.’s daughter at our house. She and Mr. Bentley's daughter Amanda, were in the same grade and played together quite often as children.

As they were reminiscing, Mrs. Shoemaker remembered the old wooden box that her mother used to keep pictures in and that she still had it. She explained that, as kids, she and her sister would spend hours looking at every picture as if it were the first time they'd seen them. The box was passed on to her when Mrs. Shoemaker's mother passed away.

She rose from her rocking chair and, with the help of a cane, walked toward an old roll-top desk and retrieved the box. I think there might be a photograph in this box that you would like to see, she said as she handed it to my mom.

Opening the box was like opening a time capsule. It was full of really old pictures and treasured memento's. Mom handed each item to me as she finished looking at them. I looked and gently set them on the coffee table one by one.

That's the one I wanted you to see, exclaimed Mrs. Shoemaker as she pointed to it with a crooked finger. It was the biggest picture in the box.

The photo was of her mother and Amanda taken in our backyard by a newly built gazebo. As we studied the picture I noticed that the big oak tree beside the gazebo was only a little sapling back then. Now it shades the entire back yard and it's twice as big around as my stretched out arms.

Wow, I remarked about the tree.

That was taken close to a hundred years ago, Mr. Shoemaker replied.

I looked at this picture the longest, fascinated by the difference in size of the oak tree then and now. Something seemed odd about the photo. Not just because it was old and in black and white, but because it felt warm when I held it. Like some kind of energy was residing in it. Mrs. Shoemaker smiled at me and shook her head up and down as I handled the picture.

As my eyes adjusted to the hazy background, it seemed to shimmer and swirl just enough to make me blink with fright. It stopped just as I saw what appeared to be a tall shadow tucked behind a hedge of bushes that divided our property from our neighbors. The hedge has since been removed but it looked as if whatever it was, it was hiding to get away from the camera. I showed my mom but she guessed it to be a shadow. I knew better. Too many things were adding up to major spooksville. The photo, strange happenings, stories that circulated around town and don't forget the creepy experience I had five years ago in my attic. There was something terribly odd about this town and I planned to find out.

How long did they live in our house after they built it? my mom asked.

All of their adult life. J.R. passed away quietly in his sleep at the ripe old age of ninety six, and Mrs. Bentley, who was considerably younger, sold the house and moved to Florida. After that we lost touch with each other. At least J.R. got to see Amanda grow up and have kids of her own who gave him great grand children, she replied. She took a sip of her tea. Amanda lived just across town until she passed away a few years ago.

Then, Mrs. Shoemaker said something that totally slayed me. In a perfectly relaxed manner, as if it were common knowledge, she told us that we should feel honored to live here in Wenonah. You know, not one of us is here by chance. She winked at me and I just about wet my pants. Did she know that I was on to something about this town? Did she know about my alarming experiences? Was she in on it?

Apparently, the original founders of the town, although long dead, still haunt the town in an attempt to keep it as it was when they ran it years ago. She called it the 'Old-Timers Curse' and said that, if you aren't related to someone who descended from the original founders you can't live here.

Mr. Shoemaker piped up and interjected, She's right. Once you've lived here and been accepted by them, you are bound to the town. Sure, you can move away for a bit but you have to return within a reasonable period of time. If you are crazy enough to leave town for too long, they will find you and bring you back. The wife and I have seen it happen many times.

Then how come they let me and my family stay? I'm not related to any of them, I commented, thinking that I'd blown a hole in the whole curse thing.

There has to be some connection otherwise you all would have been driven out by now, Mr. Shoemaker remarked.

CHAPTER TWO

Since its inception, Wenonah has been fortunate enough to remain a quaint little town, and retain most of its original charm, although very upscale for its time with paved roads, electricity,