The Haunting of Prescott Hall

By Elaine A. McQuown

Marty was never happier than the day she drove away from Prescott Hall for the last time. She had moved into the spooky old mansion with her aunt Martha when her parents died in a car accident when she was a very young girl. The clock ticking behind the wall sent goose bumps down her spine, and the people from another time dancing in the third floor ballroom sent her running to her room to hide under the covers. When she looked up for the last time to wave goodbye to the house and saw the lace curtain blowing through the open bedroom window that she was sure she had closed; she knew the decision to sell the mansion and everything in it had been right.
Charlotte had never been happier than the day she had moved into Prescott Hall. The old brick mansion needed some work so she had hired Jake, the local handyman. Though their relationship started out on rocky ground, they soon became best friends, and she began to think of him as the father she never had.
When Jake found some very old family portraits in the attic and re-hung them, strange things began to happen. Charlotte could swear she heard a clock ticking behind the wall in the downstairs foyer. She even heard music and laughter coming from the third floor ballroom, but when she went to check, the room was empty.
And then one night, a fierce storm blew up. The lightning was so bright, Charlotte's entire bedroom lit up. Standing by her bed was a man and she recognized him immediately. It was Robert Prescott, the eldest son in the portraits Jake found in the attic. He had died in 1840, on the same day as his brother and his wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463442125

Elaine A. McQuown

Elaine A, McQuown was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. She now resides in Lebanon, Tennesse with her husband of 43 years, Gary. She has two daughters, Jamie and Katie and one two year old grandson, Eli. This is Mrs. McQuown's first book.

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© 2011 by Elaine A. McQuown. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/19/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4211-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4213-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4212-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913324

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to my sister Jean without whom the book would never have been finished. She just kept saying You have got to finish that book because I have to know what happened to those people.

I would like to thank Anne Donnell who edited my book and offered some good suggestions. I would also like to thank Lee Gessener who took my manuscript and put it on his publishers desk. She liked the book and offered good suggestions for improvement.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The small group of black clad mourners was huddled closely together to glean what warmth they could from each other. Light flakes of snow had already begun to drift silently to the ground. The sky was an ominous mass of gray clouds that had all melted together to form one solid expanse that was threatening to drop its entire contents at any moment.

A few of the people were beginning to shift restlessly, myself included. My feet were freezing and I could feel a numbness already beginning in my toes. And still the old Reverend’s voice droned on. Didn’t he know this was the coldest January Tennessee had seen in more than thirty years? Hadn’t he heard that a disastrous snowstorm was moving in our direction? I had specifically told him to make this as brief as possible. Graveside services were always brief. But, I guess to a man who delivered hour-long sermons every Sunday, fifteen minutes was brief.

If Aunt Martha hadn’t always been so adamant about not being embalmed and having her body never leave the premises, I could have done this the normal way and been seated inside the nice warm Church in the village right now. Instead, here I stood in this ancient cemetery with a group of people who I was sure were almost as ancient, being bored to tears while I slowly froze to death. My mind was racing, what if I were to be stranded here by a snowstorm that was obviously going to hit hours earlier than predicted?

From where I was standing I could see just a portion of the east wing of the house. How I longed to be inside wrapped up in all the warmth of the heated parlor. That was the first time in all my years of living at Prescott Hall that I could ever remember wanting to be inside and the thought almost made me smile. I quickly checked myself though. It wouldn’t do for the sole surviving heir of the extensive Prescott fortune to be smiling at the funeral of her benefactor. For years I had yearned to be away from the enormous old mansion and all the weird happenings that took place within its walls. And now if Reverend Dixon didn’t stop soon I quite possibly could be stuck here for several more days.

To say that I had never been happy here was an understatement. Not because of Aunt Martha, she had never been anything but loving and kind to me and I knew that I was going to miss her. She was advanced in years when she took me in after my parents were killed in an automobile accident. A young girl of ten, and starting fourth grade, I was devastated over losing my parents. Moving from the city to a remote, backward little village that seemed suspended in time had been overwhelming. I desperately missed my school and all my friends. I missed the park I used to play in, my little league ball team and a million other things. But even then I was a survivor, and adjusted to my new life. Aunt Martha had tried to make the transition as easy for me as possible, but she had never married or had any children of her own so it was all new for her. She had done her best though, and last semester I had finished my second year at a neighboring junior college and was ready to leave Prescott Hall and at last get back to the city to finish my education. Arrangements had already been made for me to live on campus at a major university. I had been packed and ready to start moving my few possessions out when Aunt Martha had died suddenly of a massive heart attack. She had been taken in her sleep and I was glad for that. She had been a kind and giving person and deserved the swift and merciful death.

I was startled out of my reverie by the sudden sound of the crowd dispersing. I noticed that huge snowflakes were now hitting the ground rapidly and that none of them were melting. Oh God, I was going to be stuck here. I shivered at the thought of spending even one night alone in that house. The clock would chime behind the wall again, the lights would flicker, music and laughter would come from nowhere, and I would once more see people from another time waltzing in the third floor ballroom, wearing swirling dresses and evening clothes not seen for a century or more.

Mr. Lamberson approached me. He had been Aunt Martha’s attorney for as long as I could remember. Marty, I’m so sorry about Martha. I know you’re going to miss her. I had planned to go up to the house after the service and go over the will with you but it looks like that snowstorm might be hitting early. I’m afraid if I don’t leave now I won’t be able to get back to town. They don’t do anything to these country roads in snowy weather you know.

I did know. That’s why I was starting to feel panic creeping up my spine. If they would all just leave now maybe I could at least get to the closest town with a motel and wait out the storm there. I swallowed my panic and tried to speak calmly. Yes I know. You go ahead Mr. Lamberson and as soon as I can get out, I’ll come by your office. I smiled weakly as I offered my hand and thanked him for coming.

One by one the villagers expressed their condolences and left for their own homes, all fearing being snowed in. I watched restlessly as Mr. Patterson, the local gravedigger, tossed the last shovel of earth over the coffin, then I turned and trudged wearily toward the house. The snow was already over my shoes and I noticed my tracks were quickly being filled up with new snow. I breathed slowly and quietly as I walked on in silence as deep as a tomb.

Chapter 2

As I topped the hill the entire house came into full view. I stopped and stared at it. It was tall and imposing and to me at least, menacing. It was a full three stories of red brick stacked one on top of the other and I had been told the outside walls were four bricks thick. Even the inside ones were stacked three deep before being covered over with plaster. I could see the balcony off the ballroom and as I stood there with the snow piling up around me I remembered the stories Aunt Martha had told me about the grand balls that were held at Prescott Hall during the 1800’s. They were always the biggest social events of any season for the gentry in several surrounding counties. They must have been really grand I thought, because some of the guests had stuck around and were still there dancing!

I spoke to the vast emptiness that surrounded me Why can’t you all just go wherever it is you go when you die and leave me alone? The last ball has been over for more than a hundred years. My knees felt suddenly weak and I was sweating in spite of the bitter cold. Again I spoke into nothingness I just can’t spend another night here, I just can’t! And then, as though they were listening I said, I know you’ve never hurt me but I’m afraid of you just the same.

I began, walking much faster now, almost running toward the back door. The snow was so thick now that it almost blinded me. I reached the kitchen and slipped and fell as I tried to yank the back door open. I sat up and tried to quiet the panic that was almost controlling me. I chastised myself. You’re being silly Marty. Slow down before you break your neck. Get up; get your car keys and leave. I got up slowly and began moving very carefully up the back steps. Once inside the kitchen I brushed the snow off my coat and boots and walked as calmly as possible up the back staircase to my room. I picked up my purse and keys deciding to come back later for my other things. It would take too long to pack the car now. My heart began pounding in my chest again as I went back downstairs and out through the kitchen.

As I reached the garage, a slight update of the old carriage house, I wished for the thousandth time I had tried harder to get Aunt Martha to install automatic doors. These old ones were heavy and it took too much time to open them both out, back the car out and then close them again, and time was not on my side right now. I finally managed to open them after shoveling away the buildup of snow that held them shut. I climbed into the car, and as I turned the key in the ignition and heard the purr of the engine a sense of relief poured over me. My final escape was in progress.

I backed out slowly, praying constantly that I wouldn’t slide. Leaving the garage doors open, I turned the car and started down the drive feeling lighter in spirit as I crept farther and farther away from the house. As I passed the cemetery I glanced over to take one last look at Aunt Martha’s grave, but it was now completely covered over by the snow.

A fierce wind had started to blow and drifts were beginning to pile up against the old tombstones. As I peered through the blowing snow I thought I could see a man standing near Robert Prescott’s tomb, his back turned to me. Surely Mr. Patterson had left by now. I rolled my window down to get a better look and honked my horn as I moved slowly forward. By the time I realized I had veered off the driveway it was too late. I instinctively slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed and spun completely out of my control. It skidded backwards down the hill toward the cemetery then stopped suddenly as it slammed into something immovable. I looked back to see the car’s rear end scrunched against the concrete vault that served as the mausoleum for Robert Prescott. I started the car again and tired desperately to move forward but it was no use. I was just spinning my wheels and I could feel them digging deeper and deeper into the soft earth.

I got out of the car slamming the door behind me. I shook my fist at the mausoleum and screamed into the emptiness of my surroundings. I began to sob hysterically from the sheer anguish of being stuck here in this God-forsaken place yet again. Then I remembered Mr. Patterson, or whoever it was I had seen and began looking around for him. I could see no one and horrified, thought Oh no, what if I hit him! I made my way to the back of the car looking all around and under it but still could not find anyone. I had begun to think I had only imagined someone standing there when he stepped into my view. Although he had never appeared to me before I recognized Robert Prescott immediately. I had seen that forlorn expression starring back at me from the portrait in the front hall of the mansion a hundred times over the years. Fear I could not control enveloped me and I turned and ran wildly toward the house. I stumbled up the hill slipping every few feet. I looked back only once but the apparition had vanished.

Chapter 3

I went straight to my room and dug out the bottle of vodka hidden in my bureau drawer. Just a little to calm my nerves I told myself. I knew Aunt Martha would turn over in her grave if she could see me now. She had always been strictly against drinking of any kind. I poured a sizeable glass and quickly gulped some of it. The burning warmth I felt as the clear liquid rolled down my throat caused me to gasp and cough. I recovered quickly and felt my nerves begin to calm somewhat. I spoke aloud; I’ll never feel completely calm until I’m out of here forever. Feeling unsafe in my room, I decided to sleep the night in the downstairs parlor. Grabbing a pillow and blanket, I walked the length of the upstairs hallway and descended the front staircase. As I passed the portraits hanging on the brick wall in the downstairs hall I stopped to gaze at them. This particular spot had always given me the creeps. This was the only wall in the entire mansion that had never been plastered over and although Aunt Martha had always made light of the stories about the secret rooms that supposedly existed behind this wall, I had always wondered if there might be some truth to them.

As I gazed at the portraits old Mr. Prescott, his hard eyes glistening, stared back at me. The bare spot on the wall next to his portrait was the spot where Mrs. Prescott’s portrait had once hung. I had never known why it was no longer there or what had happened to it. A portrait of Robert Prescott, their eldest son, was next in line and then his wife Sara. Last was the portrait of Jonathan, the youngest son. They had all died young except old Mr. Prescott, both his sons having committed suicide. I raised my glass to the portraits in a mock toast. Here’s to all of you, wherever you are. As I touched the glass to my lips I heard it, the same as a thousand times before, the soft chiming of a clock somewhere behind the wall. I counted six chimes and as the lights began to flicker I looked outside realizing with a start that it had already become dark. I raced to the kitchen and lit kerosene lamps and all the candles I could find. I left a light in each room as I passed through. Again I spoke to myself You’re being a fool Marty. The lights have rarely ever gone out here and you know it. And then as though I could not help doing it, I answered myself. I don’t care. I’m going to be prepared if they do.

I felt a sudden rage as I entered the front hall again and before I could help myself I had snatched all the portraits off the wall. I’m taking you all to the attic. Then at least I won’t have to look at you anymore! I climbed the two flights of stairs rapidly and shoved open the door to the ballroom on the third floor. I silently thanked God that there was no music and no one was dancing. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beating in my temples. I rushed across the floor into the gentlemen’s smoking room and into the attic that lead from it. I pulled on the chain light and saw immediately where I would put the portraits. I walked behind a stack of boxes and old furniture and tugged at the headboard of a bed that was leaning against the wall. No wonder this stuff lasts so long, this thing weighs a ton. How did anybody ever get it all the way up here? I knew I was talking to myself again. It seemed to happen often when I was in this house.

When I finally managed to pull the headboard forward I saw that someone else had used this spot before to hide portraits, or at least one. This one of a young woman, probably in the early 1800’s, had been mutilated. Somehow I knew immediately that this was the missing portrait from downstairs. I only took a minute to wonder why it was here and how it had been destroyed before I shoved the rest