Glendara: House of Lost Souls

By D. L. Merritt

Does evil ever die?

Casey Culpepper returns to her family’s plantation seeking solace and healing after a devastating loss. Glendara holds pleasant childhood memories . . . and a deadly secret. But even the darkest secrets can’t stay buried forever.

From the moment she steps on the property, she experiences strange occurrences—whispered voices, penetrating coldness, and visions from the past.
After a frightening encounter with an unseen entity, Casey finds herself in a tug-of-war between two worlds—the living and the dead. It’s a race against time as she embarks on a journey to unravel the truth before the evil at Glendara claims another victim. Can a killer strike again after 150 years?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. L. Merritt
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310319341

D. L. Merritt

D. L. Merritt was born and raised in southern California and currently resides in south Florida. At a young age, she experienced paranormal events that she couldn't explain. These events followed her wherever she lived, from South Africa to Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. With a love of history and old houses, she decided to bring her experiences to life in her stories, blending history, romance, mystery, and a touch of the paranormal. When she isn't writing, she enjoys spending time with her rowdy family.

Book preview

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,

That you take as a gift; wear round your neck in your many forms,

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,

Its ancient tale of being apart or together.

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,

Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:

You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.

At the heart of time, love of one for another.

We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same

Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-

Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped on your feet; it has found its end in you

The love of all man’s days both past and forever:

Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.

The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -

And the songs of every poet past and forever. — Rabindranath Tagore

Chapter 1

Go back! Go back to Glendara! Those words had been a profound mantra in Casey Culpepper’s brain for months. Unsuccessful in ignoring the message, she surrendered and found herself driving down unfamiliar country roads under a sky full of threatening rain clouds.

A year of frustration bubbled to the surface after enduring miles and miles of road construction, and she wondered what had taken control of her otherwise logical brain that would compel her to take this journey.

The car in front of her came to an abrupt halt, forcing her to slam on the brakes, and her temper exploded.

You’ve gotta be kidding me! Not another damn detour. I don’t understand why they have to work on the roads during the busiest time of the day.

A man waved a flag to direct traffic into a single line. The car in the lane next to her edged over in an endeavor to cut in. The driver looked at her with an amused expression, and she realized he had observed her carrying on a conversation with herself.

To conceal her embarrassment, she rifled through her purse, pulled out her cell phone, held it up and continued to talk, hoping the man would assume the phone was on speaker and she wasn’t suffering from schizophrenia.

Several minutes later, the traffic began to flow again as the cars split into two separate lanes. She got lost after attempting to follow all the detour signs. The GPS was no help as it kept a continuous monolog of recalculating, recalculating until she gave up and switched it off.

After another thirty minutes and a few more curse words than usual, she arrived at her destination—Glendara. The car idled at the beginning of the gravel road leading to the plantation that belonged to the maternal side of her family. The property had passed from one heir to another for almost a century and a half. Her Aunt Abigail was the last family member to live here. After her death, it had passed to her mother and then it became hers—along with a sizable trust fund—the night her parents died.

I haven’t been here since that summer eighteen years ago. I’m here now, but why did you want me to come?

Requiring answers, she pressed the gas pedal to forge onward. As the car crawled toward the house, she squinted through the windshield at the abandoned two-story Victorian structure that stood steadfast at the far end of the lane, sinister and welcoming at the same time.

On occasion, fleeting shafts of daylight broke through the dark, gloomy clouds suspended as a backdrop in various shades of gray. It gave the house a sad, distressed presence.

Ancient oak trees lined both sides of the road. The abundant trailing vines of Spanish moss dangling from the branches created a cool canopy of green that mirrored the color of her eyes. As she surveyed the landscape, it appeared as if time had stopped centuries ago.

The car coasted to a stop at the front entrance as she eased off the gas. With the engine no longer purring, she took stock of the peeling gray paint and drooping black shutters that gave the house a perpetual frown. The wraparound porch with its pillared columns survived intact, but several spindles were missing from the railing. The house sat cradled between a massive magnolia tree with its white, cup-shaped flowers and a gnarled oak tree that had survived hundreds of years. The sweet fragrance of the blossoms drifted toward her on the wind.

The swing was still there, swaying in rhythm with the tempo of the rising breeze, although the rope looked threadbare. She had spent many happy hours on that oak branch that twisted and bowed before it almost touched the ground.

Kelly would love it here. No! Don’t go there. Don’t think of her. Not now.

As a solitary tear slid down her cheek, Casey jumped out of the driver’s seat, determined to block out the bitter memories and continue her assessment. She swiped at the dampness on her face and focused on checking the outer structure of the house. The elements and time had whisked away most of the roof tiles. Broken windows appeared blank, like the lifeless eye sockets of an ancient skull. She shivered, more from the drop in temperature than the eeriness of her surroundings, and pulled her sweater tighter across her chest.

The pungent, earthy aroma in the air announced the inevitable storm. The weatherman got it right, for once. I won’t have much time to snoop before it hits.

She hurried toward the house and stopped short of the porch steps to slip restless fingers through her sleek, dark-brown hair. Looking at the rundown house, she thought it would be more practical to pull the shoulder-length strands into a loose ponytail, and she fumbled in her purse for a hair tie.

She approached with caution, not knowing what she would find inside. Even though the solid oak door hung askew from its rusty hinges, Casey could imagine the many happy returns as well as sad farewells that had passed this way.

Startled when a sudden gust of wind banged the front shutters against the side of the house, she paused to calm her pounding heart. Standing on the veranda, the smell, taste, and sound of the past lingered as the sweet scent of magnolia, mint julep, and the murmur of a genteel southern drawl still filled the air.

She reached into her pocket and touched the key. She’d spent hours rummaging through her parents’ trunks to find it. Even though she knew the violation of their privacy was necessary to gain access to her family home, the searing guilt and regret had cut like a knife.

Those trunks contained all she had left of her parents. With hands that trembled, she had touched each treasure with solemn regard. Her father’s favorite jacket still held the faintest scent of his spicy cologne as she’d buried her face in its leather folds. Her mother’s cherished collection of antique perfume bottles had survived the repeated packing and unpacking their nomad lifestyle had required.

Each possession she caressed held bittersweet memories, and a sharp pang of longing enveloped her. She yearned for the times when she would sit on her father’s lap, enveloped in his comforting arms while she listened to his velvety voice read her favorite bedtime stories.

She missed the gentle butterfly kisses of her mother when she tucked her into bed at night before smoothing the blankets into a cozy cocoon. Her father would then play the gallant knight and search the room, checking under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet for the ever-present boogeyman. After announcing the room clear of all monsters, he would kiss her good night with his usual parting words, Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

How she wanted to recapture those days! They had slipped away without warning, taking everything she cherished with them.

Leaves and branches flew across the front yard. She gazed at the darkening sky. She would need to hurry.

The key stayed hidden in her pocket, as the opening in the door was large enough for her to squeeze through. Once inside, she pushed hard on the heavy oak door, but between its hefty weight and the wind, she was unable to close it.

Advancing further into the house, she watched the scattered dust and leaves swirl in the air until settling on the floor to the right of the stairs. Casey followed its path to the room Aunt Abby had used as the study. Now it was empty where it had once held comfortable furniture.

A quick glance around revealed the wood floors had scratches and stains from years of use. The faded walls had dark patches where pictures once hung. The far wall’s built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase was devoid of all the old, weathered books she had loved to read. A rickety library ladder that had seen better days leaned against the wall in the far right corner.

This room had been her favorite place to play that summer. She would curl up on the recessed window seat and read stories that took her on the kind of adventures only a child could envision. The oversized window’s intricate cornice matched the design of the crown and baseboard molding. But in spite of the beauty of the decorative wooden adornments, the massive fireplace was the room’s dominant feature. The emptiness of the stone hearth beckoned for the warmth that had once filled the room.

Casey left the study and headed toward the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, and into the kitchen. The remodeling of this room was in the design phase when Aunt Abby received the devastating news of her diagnosis—metastatic pancreatic cancer. The radiation and chemotherapy treatments the doctors used to prolong her life had left her aunt debilitated, and all reconstruction was stopped. The house remained unfinished and vacant since her death. As a nine-year-old, Casey hadn’t noticed the synthetic wig and gaunt, ashen face of impending death. That was her first brush with loss, and its ominous presence had become a constant companion.

She inspected the old-fashioned kitchen where the plaster had peeled from the ceiling. The white residue fell to the floor and left evidence of her presence everywhere she walked. The wainscoting needed sanding and new paint. The wood floor had water damage by the back door, and the appliances were rusted. The copper sink had the dark-brown patina of a well-worn penny. Despite the obvious decay, Casey could envision all the happy moments she’d spent in this room.

A crease formed between her eyebrows as a distant memory returned, one of soft whispers—secrets heard in snippets of conversation between her parents and Aunt Abby. An awful event had taken place at Glendara long ago, though she never learned what it was. She only remembered that the adults would stop talking every time she entered the room. What happened that was so awful I couldn’t know about it?

She pushed away the question and headed to the stairs where the bedrooms on the second floor awaited. From the bottom riser she had a perfect view of the landing where the stained glass window appeared undamaged. A streak of sunlight shimmered through the colored glass, casting jewel-toned blues and greens into the vestibule below. The surreal colors transformed the area into an undersea world of ethereal beauty. The artist had managed to portray the tranquil pond covered with water lilies and the single weeping willow tree from the backyard to precision. Casey stood transfixed, drawn to the stark, white blossoms amidst forest-green foliage and the vivid cerulean hues of water and sky.

Out of nowhere came an unexpected sense of foreboding. Casey took a steadying breath, shrugged it off as ridiculous, and advanced up the stairs, careful to check each step for any sign of weakness. They were solid.

The room across from the stairs was the master bedroom and the first project Aunt Abby had tackled. Tattered lace curtains fluttered in the wind that blew through the broken windowpanes. The floral wallpaper sagged in places, faded and torn.

That paper needs to go, Casey whispered. It’s awful. I think a soft sage green would look nice in here.

Casey moved into the room that was once the nursery. Aunt Abby had transformed it into a master bath that looked more like an expensive spa. Although it didn’t fit the style of the house, her aunt had been adamant she would have this one luxury—a long, hot soak at the end of the day with candles and a tall glass of wine. Casey had to admit that was one trait she had inherited.

Striding back into the bedroom, she walked to the double windows where she could see the rolling green hills and vast fields in the distance. The land that had once produced many bales of cotton was now overgrown with weeds and brush.

She listened for a moment, hypnotized by the tranquil warble of a trio of birds she spied in a nearby tree. As she stared at the barren yard below, she remembered spending every day with Aunt Abby’s dog, Bear. He’d been her playmate and constant companion that summer. The memory produced a rare smile, and a sense of calmness permeated the room. For the first time in months, Casey felt at peace.

The next image—her father mowing the lawn as she played in the tall grass, pretending she was a lost princess from a mystical land and Bear her magical, talking friend—brought tears to her eyes. The scent of fresh grass clippings and the rat-a-tat of a sprinkler swishing back and forth against windowpanes always brought those pleasant days to mind. That was the summer before pain and loss consumed her life.

A brusque, cold wind blew through the shattered glass. A shiver snaked across her skin, and her brief sense of well-being evaporated. Now would be a good time to leave. She would have more time to explore tomorrow. The weather report predicted a cool, but sunny, day.

Deep in thought, Casey jumped when the blare of her cell phone cut the silence. She glanced at the caller ID. Damn, I forgot to call.

Reluctant, she answered. Hey, Ray.

Where are you? Ray asked, an undertone of hostility in his voice.

Glendara.

You promised you’d call when you got there.

Casey paused for a second, wondering how best to respond. I just got here.

How’s that? Macon’s only an hour away.

It’s a long story.

Then give me the short version.

He’s still pissed about me leaving. I got lost.

Casey walked back into the bedroom and stared at the wall of rain edging closer, wishing those amicable feelings of moments ago would return. That was a much-preferred prospect than facing the likelihood of a bitter argument.

Ray’s voice dropped an octave as he asked, With GPS?

I told you that thing never works for me.

You could have at least called and told me you were running late.

Sorry. Casey chewed on her bottom lip trying to suppress the guilt. She hadn’t wanted to call.

Me too. I didn’t mean to snap. I was worried, that’s all.

I understand. Fight averted, her mood brightened.

All of a sudden, Ray changed the subject. So what shape is the house in?

It’s—

The house is so old. We should have it condemned.

With a nervous laugh, Casey replied, No, it’s in great shape. I think—

If you had waited a few days, I could have taken some time off and come with you.

She braced herself for his censure and felt the muscles in her neck tighten. Lightning illuminated the darkness as she considered the reason she hadn’t wanted him to come.

Over the booming thunder, she heard Ray sigh. I heard that, he said.

Alarmed, she wondered if he had learned to read her thoughts.

The thunder sounds close. You’d better leave before it starts to pour. I don’t like you driving in bad weather.

I suppose you’re right. It is almost on top of the house.

Call me when you get settled into your room so I know you got to Madison and you’re safe.

I will. Casey nodded as if Ray could see her.

I love you, he mumbled.

I know, she answered before hanging up.

Relieved that Ray hadn’t been more combative, she headed downstairs, trailing her hand with reverence across the railing, admiring the intricate woodwork. Whoever built this house did so with great attention to detail. They created a comfortable home for a family to grow and prosper, constructed to withstand the ravages of time. She hated to see the house in this neglected state and hoped to remedy that soon.

From somewhere in the stillness, a soft breeze brushed across her neck, followed by a faint whisper in her ear. Lacey...

A trickle of fear ran down her spine as she gave a furtive glance over her shoulder and around the room. She was alone, wasn’t she? Were there vagrants in the area? Afraid, she called out, Hello? Is anyone here?

No reply. Irrational terror seized control. She ran at breakneck speed down the stairs, pressing through the door and across the veranda until reaching the safety of the open air. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, she stood beside the car and gulped in short, shaky breaths. The constant bang of the shutters overshadowed an eerie, malevolent snicker coming from the house.

She pushed the terror away. I’m afraid of a house? That’s pure nonsense, she said with a forced chuckle. Pull yourself together. It’s only the wind howling.

With a shrug, she climbed back into the driver’s seat. The car bounced over the gravel driveway as she backtracked to the main highway, determined to reach Madison before nightfall.

As the house was almost out of sight, she peered into the rearview mirror for one last look. Don’t be silly. There’s nothing evil in that house. I’m tired and cold, that’s all.

Despite the warmth emanating from the heater, she shivered.

Chapter 2

The storm erupted minutes after Casey merged onto the main highway. Lightning bolts struck in a tree-like pattern, displaying the fierce magnitude of Mother Nature’s wrath.

Her hands gripped the wheel as she struggled to keep the roiling wind from tossing the car into the ditch. The grime from the asphalt battered the windshield with each car that passed. The wipers were set to the highest speed in a valiant attempt to keep her field of vision clear.

Traveling in inclement weather made Casey nervous, and her eyes soon blurred from the strain of watching the road and the other cars. She had confidence in her driving ability; it was the other drivers who were suspect.

Through the sheets of rain, she strained to read the oncoming sign: Madison, ten miles. Her shoulders relaxed seeing the glittering lights of civilization in the distance.

The rain had eased a little as she drove through the historic district of Madison where picturesque residences lined the streets. The town looked like it had jumped straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow. I would love to do some sightseeing, but I won’t have time.

The quaint bed and breakfast where she had made her reservation was in the middle of the downtown area. She searched for the sign to The Rosemont through the splatter of raindrops and soon spotted the towering Queen Anne. She pulled the car into an empty space in the guest parking lot, retrieved the suitcase from the trunk, and ran to the entrance to avoid getting soaked.

Doing a balancing act with the luggage, she reached for the door handle, and it swung wide to reveal the friendliest face she had seen all day.

The woman who greeted her wore a floral button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black stretch pants, and comfortable-looking red loafers.

Come in out of the rain, darlin’. You’re getting drenched, she said, her hands aflutter. That’s quite a storm brewing outside.

Casey rushed in, shaking the rain from her hair before following the woman to the front desk and setting her suitcase by her feet.

The woman gave her a broad smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes as she introduced herself. Welcome to The Rosemont. I’m Fiona Fairday, the owner. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. You’re my last guest for the evening.

The woman was petite, not more than five feet two, with beautiful porcelain skin and arresting chestnut eyes within a soft, round face. Fiona’s grin was so infectious Casey found it impossible not to smile back.

Fiona hustled behind the modern counter, which seemed out of place among the antique furnishings. I’ve put you in the Lilac Room, darlin’. I was all booked up until you called this morning. A traveling salesman who comes here every month on business had to leave earlier than expected. Must have been your lucky day.

I guess, Casey said.

Fiona continued her friendly chatter. He always asks for the same room. I think it’s because it’s the closest one to the kitchen and he likes my cooking. The innkeeper patted her robust stomach then picked up a clipboard and stuck a piece of paper under the clasp. She handed it and a pen to Casey. If you’ll just fill out our registration form, I’ll get you all set up and then give you a quick tour so you’ll know where everything is.

She watched as Fiona brushed a stray strand of mahogany-colored hair out of her eyes and shoved it back into a messy bun held together with a claw hair clip. Feathered streaks of gray at the temples had Casey suspecting the color came from a bottle of Clairol.

She handed the completed form back and waited while Fiona entered the information into the computer.

I see you’re here for one night.

Yes, that’s right, Casey said.

Fiona came around the desk. I’ve got you registered, so if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you around.

Casey left her luggage and followed Fiona. The parlor came first, cozy and stocked with a variety of books. The dining room was next, where the delightful aroma of homemade fried chicken greeted them.

We serve dinner until 8:00 p.m. You have plenty of time to settle in and come back down, Fiona said. Breakfast starts at 7:00 sharp and ends at 9:00. As you can see, we’re quite informal and serve meals family style.

Casey tipped her head at the two couples as they passed white china bowls filled to the brim with what looked to be mashed potatoes and green beans. Her stomach rumbling, she followed the innkeeper into a narrow space between the kitchen and the dining room. It had cabinets, a compact refrigerator, and a coffeemaker on the counter next to a basket full of coffee, teas, and cocoa.

Fiona opened drawers and cupboards to show Casey everything that was available. As you can see, we keep this area stocked with snacks and drinks in case a guest gets hungry after the kitchen closes for the night.

As they walked back to the reception area, Fiona pointed out the door leading to the garden.

Some of our guests will take a book outside to read, now that the weather is warmer and all the flowers are blooming.

That sounds nice. I wish had I more time, Casey said.

The tour ended back at the front desk, where Fiona handed her a vintage key. Your room is at the top of the stairs and to the right, darlin’. Do you need any help with your luggage?

No, thank you. I’ve got it.

How about a wake-up call?

Casey shook her head, clutched the handle of the suitcase in one hand, the key in the other, and plodded up the stairs. She stopped midway and turned around to face the innkeeper. Ms. Fairday, can I ask you a question?

Fiona grinned. Sure. But call me Fiona, darlin’. Everyone around here does.

Yes . . . well, would you know where I can find information about the history of this area?

Lisa. Lisa Chandler. She’s the museum curator at the Madison-Morgan Cultural Center. There’s a packet in your room with things to do in the city. Directions to the museum are inside.

Thanks.

You’re welcome, darlin’. Good night.

Good night.

Casey dragged herself up the remaining stairs to her room. Feeling drained, she attributed her exhaustion to all the sleepless nights the past year. She hoped the storm would subside, the bed would be comfortable, and for once she would sleep through the night.

***

Fiona stood at the front desk and watched her new guest trudge up the stairs, unable to shake the overwhelming feeling that the young woman had a story to tell. A story of sadness that lay hidden beneath the polite smile and soft-spoken words.

Since she was a child, Fiona’d had this uncanny gift to detect things that were unseen or hadn’t happened yet, and she could sense this young woman had suffered loss. She felt an instant kinship with her, as a similar pain had touched her life years ago when she’d lost George, her beloved husband of thirty-five years. Even though they’d shared a full life, his death still carried a wisp of grief that remained with her to this day. Casey had lost someone close to her. The signs were there.

Fiona’s musings were interrupted as a woman scurried into the room, her hairnet straining to contain the gray hair beneath it. Did our last guest arrive? the woman asked as she wiped her hands on the apron covering her simple cotton dress.

Fiona whipped her head toward the voice. You gave me quite a fright, Em. I’ve been attempting to put the day’s information into this confounded computer. What’s the term they use . . . not user-friendly?

I have a feelin’ it’s not the computer, Fee, but the user.

Fiona chuckled. Perhaps you’re right about that.

Though I don’t think it’s the computer that put the frown on your face. Somethin’ else is goin’ on. What’s up?

Thinking about dying and how it comes when we least expect it.

Emily sighed. Ya ain’t dyin’ on me are ya? At my age, I can’t afford to lose any more friends. I don’t have that many left.

Fiona snickered. Not that I know of.

Then does it have anythin’ to do with our last guest?

She’s suffered a lot in her short life.

Ya just met her, Fee. How would ya . . . oh, that again?

I think destiny intended for her to come here.

How so?

Mr. Harland had to leave sooner than expected, earlier than he’s ever left before, and Ms. Culpepper called seconds after he checked out. I think fate brought her here, and I feel like I’m supposed to help her.

How do ya think ya can do that? Emily said. Our guests don’t stay long enough to get to know them all that much.

I have a feeling we’ll see her again.

Ya know, Fee, sometimes ya scare me. I’m goin’ back to the kitchen where I have a stack of dishes that need doin’.

Suit yourself. Exasperated, Fiona gave up on the computer and shut it off. The pale moonlight washed over the counter, bringing a sudden, unexplained shudder that had her reaching for a sweater. She could feel evil lurking in the shadows. Sensing it would be here soon, she braced herself for the upcoming battle.

***

Not up to dining with strangers, Casey took a soothing thirty-minute soak in the claw-foot bathtub, placed a quick call to Ray, and raided the kitchenette before