Haunting of Ender House

By Connie Myres

A spinster inherits a haunted house. What Mary McMaster and her dog Pickles discover is that a curse on her family's bloodline must play out.

Mary McMaster and her dog Pickles inherit a mansion on Shadow Island. She's heard the rumors of bizarre deaths in the home but does not believe such things could affect her, being the capable woman she was. Now wealthy, Mary hires a young lady to help her in the mansion. Neither one anticipated the danger and evil that lurked among them. A ghost hunting team, new friends, and two deaths make not believing in the McMaster curse impossible.

Can Mary break the McMaster curse of death? Who will die because of the supernatural power? Will love flourish among the chaos? Find the answer by reading this haunted house novella.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Feather and Fermion Publishing
• Release date: Apr 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386012115

Connie Myres

CONNIE MYRES, a multi-genre author specializing in horror, mystery, suspense, and science fiction, has been spinning thrilling tales since her childhood in Michigan. From a young age, she captivated her audiences—children she babysat—by weaving them into her suspense-filled narratives, igniting an insatiable love for storytelling. Inspired by the works of literary masters such as Dean Koontz and Stephen King, Connie has crafted her own unique style that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Her vivid, dynamic stories, filled with intrigue and surprise, mirror her own multi-faceted life. Not only a talented writer, Connie is a registered nurse and a developer, showing her knack for both caring for others and creating immersive digital worlds. In the future, Connie plans to join the digital nomad movement, allowing her love for adventure and new experiences to fuel her compelling narratives further. For now, she continues to captivate and inspire from her home base in Michigan, crafting stories that both engage and terrify her readers. Stay connected with Connie through her website at ConnieMyres.com, where you can explore her wide range of books and short stories, and join her on this incredible storytelling journey.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The letter lay on top of the end table’s white crocheted doily beside the recliner where Mary McMaster sat, knitting a beige sweater. The knitting needles rhythmically clicked with each stitch of soft yarn.

Mary glanced at the business-sized envelope, specifically the name on the return address label: Law Office of Stine and Wilson. Lawyers, what good can come from them? Mary thought as she looked down at the fawn pug next to her. Its short, wrinkly muzzle rested on her thigh, while its square muscular body lay partly buried beneath the developing sweater.

Pauline’s probably taking me to court because you won’t stay out of her flowerbeds. I don’t know why you feel the need to dig around in her petunias and pansies. Mary stopped knitting and sat the needles on her lap. Are you listening to me, Pickles? The woman’s a couple decades younger than me—you’d think she’d cut me a little slack.

Pickles snored.

I can’t afford a highfalutin lawyer. But I don’t need one, I can defend myself; I do work in the library after all. There are lots of books on lawyering that I can study. I’ll tell the judge—sitting up there on his high and mighty bench—that you mean no harm digging in the soil among her flowers. You’re a dog, doing what dogs do. I’ll mention the time you chased a squirrel away from her birdfeeder. And the time you chased the stray cat up a tree before it pounced on a gorgeous indigo bunting.

Mary paused. The mantel clock ticked in the background before chiming three times. She sighed. I’d hire Mr. Tibbs to put up a fence, but I can’t afford it. I know he wouldn’t charge me much, only for the material, but even then, there’s not enough money in my bank account since my hours were cut because of that new computer system they put in. Self-serve; everything is self-serve nowadays. But as far as Mr. Tibbs is concerned, he’s recovering from hip surgery and it would be more work than he’s capable of doing at this time. I’d tell that to the judge, too.

Mary ran a hand softly over Pickles' head. No one’s taking you away. Don’t you worry, I would never let that happen. She looked at the letter again, then reached over and picked it up. Let’s get this over with. I’ll need to give Mr. Tibbs enough notice so that he can drive me to court—if he has the all clear for driving. I will need to defend your troublesome behavior, Pickles.

Mary ripped the envelope into jagged edges and took out the crisp sheets of paper.

This isn’t from Pauline, it’s someone’s Last Will and Testament.

The papers crinkled as she shook and straightened them. It’s from someone called Horace McMaster. Hmm, he has the same last name as me. Must be a relative. She ran a finger down the page, stopping when she saw the mention of her name.

I bequeath my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature to my closest living relative, Mary McMaster.

I’ve never heard of a Horace McMaster or his estate. She looked at the address: Ender Lane, Shadow Island, Michigan.

Mary pushed Pickles and her knitting aside as she put down the footrest and scooted out of the reclining chair. She walked into the kitchen, picked up one of the sugar cookies that she had taken from the oven earlier, and walked to the cabinet drawer where she had an awkwardly folded paper map.

Shadow Island, there you are. Looks like a small island not far from a little town called Anisteem. An isolated place to say the least. But is it mine now? Couldn’t be; there has to be a mistake.

Mary bit into the soft lemony cookie, crumbs dropped onto the front of her robin egg blue blouse. She brushed the crumbs into the palm of her hand, deposited them into the trash can under the sink, and tottered back into the living room where Pickles had now spread out to take up the chair’s seat.

I guess I’ll have to call this Darron Stine and see what’s going on.

Mary called the law office right away. The phone rang twice, a woman answered. Law Office of Stine and Wilson. May I help you?

Yes, my name is Mary McMaster and I’ve received a rather perplexing letter from your office. Could I speak with Mr. Stine, please?

He’s out of the office right now. Oh wait, he just walked in the door. Mr. Stine, a Mary McMaster is on the phone for you.

Mary heard the lawyer’s baritone voice direct the woman to send the call to his office. Moments later he picked up.

Ah, Mary McMaster, I’ve been expecting your call. I take it you’ve received the Last Will and Testament of Horace McMaster.

I indeed have and am rather confused. I didn’t know I had a relative named Horace. I was sure this was a mistake, but you sound like it is not. Could you tell me what this letter is about?

You’re a fortunate woman, Mary McMaster. You have inherited your great uncle’s estate on Shadow Island.

Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Stine? I am a woman of meager earnings and cannot afford the upkeep of another home, not to mention the property taxes on a place that inhabits a Lake Michigan island.

Oh, don’t you worry, Mary McMaster. Horace was wealthy and there is more than enough money to pay the taxes for the rest of your life. In fact, everything is paid for, so you have nothing to worry about. You are now a very rich woman, Mary McMaster.

The words were not sinking in. Rich? What is the catch, Mr. Stine? Nothing is free. Is it a shack next to a toxic dump?

Mr. Stine laughed. Of course not. You have inherited what is known as a classical revival mansion—very lovely. It has dozens of rooms, including a library. Shadow Island itself is twenty miles wide with sugar maples and pines and lots of sandy beaches. He groaned as papers shuffled. Here it is, the home was built in the eighteen-fifties by a distant relative of yours, Humphry McMaster, a railroad magnet for the timber industry; a real big thing here in Michigan back then. As far as your great uncle Horace McMaster, he never married nor had children. So, after some searching and verification, you Mary McMaster are now the proud owner of the McMaster estate.

Mary felt like a grand prize winner. If this is so, why have I never known of the estate or this man? It is true that my parents are long deceased, and that I was their only child. And, apparently like my great uncle, I too have never married nor had children. But I must say, I am surprised how well this relative and his mansion have been kept a secret all this time. I don’t believe there’s even a picture of him in the family photos, the few there are. We certainly never visited him, nor he us. Could you please explain that?

Mr. Stine cleared his throat. I don’t know if this has anything to do with the secrecy, Mary McMaster, but I can tell you that the estate of Horace McMaster, specifically the mansion itself, is said to be haunted. Mr. Stine snickered.

Haunted? I don’t believe in ghosts and goblins, Mr. Stine, but it is possible that the so-called haunting might have something to do with the secrecy. My dear parents were rather superstitious. That must be the reason they kept it from me.

Sounds like it’s the case. I don’t know your family dynamics, Ms. McMaster, but, as you are aware, you are the last of your family line. Horace kept to himself and I believe he was the outcast of your family; for what reason I do not know. But suffice it to say, the McMaster wealth is now yours and you can move in whenever you wish. Mr. Stine paused as though waiting for Mary to question his account. She did not. Would you like to see the estate?

I would like to very much see the estate, Mr. Stine, but I do not drive and the fellow who usually helps me out had hip surgery and is currently incapacitated.

Do not worry, Mary McMaster. My legal assistant, Edward Winters, can drive you to Anisteem and secure a charter boat to the island. The will has provided for us to do so.

Did you know my great uncle well?

"Actually, no. We spoke on the phone not long