The Souls of Grace Cove

By Paul TN Chapman

The college professor who rents an old inn for a summer of writing is in for surprises: Nicholas Pim's 'hostess' is a 250 year-old five year old girl. His developing love interest is a flapper who died in the 1920s. The Inn is haunted by several spirits - the Inn itself is part ghost. But perhaps the hardest part is the unwanted temptation of a lively grad student who has homed in on Nicholas as her next - tempted and unwilling - love interest.

This book is a reworking of Chapman's novella 'The Inn of Souls'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul TN Chapman
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393233527

Paul TN Chapman

Paul TN Chapman is a freelance writer and authors, living the the US East Coast. He maintains a monthly website of his essays, edits publications, and spends most of his time writing novels.  

Book preview

A Novel by

Paul TN Chapman

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the Souls of Grace Cove

copyright © 2019

Paul TN Chapman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Books by Paul TN Chapman

Behind These Red Doors: Stories a Cathedral Could Tell

The Inn of Souls

The Lives of the Ain’ts: Comedic Biographies

of Directors Errant

The Shadow and Its Reflection

An Essay on Doing the Right Thing for the Right Reason

The Sydfield Spy

The Souls of Grace Cove

Tea With Violins

The Sacrament of Poison

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Foreword

‘The Souls of Grace Cove’ is the reworking and augmentation of a previous work of mine, ‘The Inn of Souls’, written and published in 2014. At that time, people commented that the story was too short, and was really a novella rather than a novel. They encouraged me to write something l o n g e r, which I did with ‘The Sydfield Spy’, published in 2017.

Four years after I published ‘The Inn of Souls’, I re-read it and realized that I could write it better. I wanted to change some wording, remove typographical errors I’d missed before (hopefully without adding gnu wons), and flesh out the story with additional characters, scenes, and details. ‘The Souls of Grace Cove’ is the result, and I wish you joy of it.

One ‘secret’ about creativity is that writers, artists and composers tend to view ‘finished’ works as works that were released between edits. I knew an artist in Philadelphia who hated viewing his own finished work, especially work he had sold, because when he saw it again, he immediately found at least two ‘mistakes’ he wanted to fix. I hesitate to re-read anything else I’ve written, simply because some of my work should qualify as ‘finished.’

No creative effort is ever made without help and support, not even rewriting one’s own book. I would like to thank Alexander I Istomin for being my sounding board, as he has in the past with other works. I must also thank Ms Rihab Mechlioui for suggesting the name for the warhorse Jasour.

Paul TN Chapman     

January 2019

[e-mail]

One

It could have been almost any time, any era, when Mrs Spivey unlocked the solid wooden door of the old seaside Inn, and invited her visitor inside. A single gull gave a shrill squawk as it flew over the building. The aroma of sea water filled the air deliciously.

‘The Inn is over two hundred fifty years old,’ she said to the tall man behind her. ‘It’s in excellent condition and well cared for. There used to be more of it—two wings and an additional storey, but after storms and mud-slides, and a fire in the early 1900s, damaged areas were sealed off or demolished. Come on in, Professor, and I’ll show you around.’

‘Why did they do that, do you suppose?’ the tall man asked, following her through the tall doorway. ‘Why not make repairs or rebuild? Not that it matters now, of course.’

‘Economics would be my guess,’ the estate agent returned. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair. ‘When the family built the Inn in the mid-1700s, Grace Cove—actually, Grace Harbour, a stone’s throw south of here—was a thriving seaport. The Navy used it as a base of operations; there was a large commercial fishing fleet; and cargo ships put in here all the time. But then, shifting currents, erosion of the shoreline, and politics made the area less navigable. The fleets moved further south.’

‘You could be an historian,’ the tall man commented. He smiled pleasantly, and absently brushed a lock of dark blond hair from his brow. ‘So, business dropped off, funds were sparse, and it was easier to close off or tear down damaged areas?’ he guessed.

‘I think so. That’s just my opinion. I can’t say I’ve ever really understood the thinking behind it. Even after the maritime business dropped off, it was still a frequent stop for travellers—I believe there was a stage line or something. Well, anyway, here we are.’

She flipped a switch on the wall near the front door. Several sconces came to life, shedding soft light over the interior of the room.

In the gentler brightness of indoors, Mrs Spivey’s face seemed to change. She was a hand-some woman, which was more evident out of the harsh sunlight. The shadows were less intense. Her smile was warm and congenial, and the few lines of her face were fainter in the indoor light.

‘It’s a bit dusty at the moment, but Mrs Harmon will take care of that!’ Mrs Spivey said apologetically. She motioned to the main room.

It contained a large desk with chair, a long sofa, several wingchairs, tables and decorations. The walls were lined with empty shelves and book-cases. An enormous fireplace filled the far end of the room. There were several doors of dark stained wood, most of them closed. Beams ran across the ceiling, blackened by two and a half centuries of fireplace smoke. The tall man felt as if he had stepped back in time.

‘Some of these pieces are fantastic!’ Mrs Spivey enthused. ‘Look at this mirror—it’s been hanging here since the Inn first opened. Look at the craftsmanship of the frame! I love this!’ Then she gestured to a far corner, and the professor saw an old grandfather clock. It had stopped at 3.23. ‘This is another of my favourites.’

‘Does it work?’ the professor asked.

‘Yes, it’s a pendulum clock and needs the pulleys to be reset every eight days. It keeps excel-lent time, and chimes on hour and quarter hour. You need to wind the mechanism for it to sound. Previous guests thought the regular ticking, and the chiming, were soothing ’

‘They are! We had one when I was growing up. I miss it.’ The Professor ambled across the room. He tried one of the doors, and it wouldn’t budge.

‘Oh, those!’ Mrs Spivey waved a dismissive hand and started pointing. ‘The one on the left went to the South wing, which no longer exists. The one on the right goes to what’s left of the North wing, but that’s been sealed off for decades. This other door is always open—it goes to the kitchen. And that one over there,’ she pointed, ‘goes to the guest-room and bath.

‘So, you see, Professor,’ she continued, ‘the Inn is completely furnished. Many of these pieces are originals. And this,’ here she went to the fireplace, ‘is my absolutely most favourite feature of the whole place!’

The fireplace was impressive. The professor examined the stone mantelpiece, decorated with maritime scenes in relief. Ducking his head, he stepped into the empty fire bed and looked up the chimney. ‘By golly!’ he chortled. ‘I can see the sky! The flu is quite clear!’

‘Hm, yes, that was supposed to be kept closed,’ Mrs Spivey remarked primly. She went on, ‘Some of our guests actually preferred cooking at the fireplace instead of the kitchen. I don’t recom-mend it, though—too messy, and not very safe! Let me show you the kitchen! I think you’ll love it!’

The estate agent led the way through a swinging door and turned on the lights. ‘The kitchen has been modernized, more or less.’ She pointed out a dishwasher and a refrigerator-freezer at the far end. ‘My grandfather wanted to revive the hospitality business, so he had this gas stove installed. Removing the wood stove would have meant removing part of the outer wall, so it was kept.’

‘Oh my!’ The Professor was impressed. He studied the wood stove closely. It was quite long, made of black iron, and weighed more than a ton.  ‘I’ve never seen one of these!’

Mrs Spivey laughed. ‘There’s more. This way.’ She opened another door at the far end of the kitchen and descended a flight of stairs. ‘Like most inns back in those days, Grace Cove Inn was also a tavern, and they used to store beer, liquor and such down here. Grandfather wanted to modernize this section too, but that never happened. I’m glad. I like the idea of someone fetching another jug of beer from a naturally cold room instead of running it through tubes and faucets.’

‘Taps?’

‘Whatever. It’s been an investment hobby of the last couple generations of owners to keep this cellar well stocked for their annual family get-togethers in January. Not beer and ale so much—those go off after a while—but look at these wines!’ She took a bottle from a wooden rack and held it out to the Professor. The light was dim and the bottle was caked with dust—all he could make out was part of a date. Before he could examine the bottle more closely, Mrs Spivey thrust it back into its place and said, ‘You’re welcome to anything you find down here, so drink your fill, it’s all part of the rental fee! Now, come this way, there’s still more to show you!’

She led the way back up the stairs and through the main room. ‘Here’s the guestroom,’ she said, opening a door and stepping aside to admit the professor. ‘It’s the last, the only, guestroom in the entire Inn!’

The Professor started blinking. When Mrs Spivey inquired, he explained, ‘Floaters. Damned annoying having spots before my eyes. I don’t often get them.’ He blinked until the floaters were no longer in his direct line of vision, and didn’t see Mrs Spivey’s eyes twinkle.

‘All original furnishings!’ she said proudly. ‘Except for the mattress, of course. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to sleep on a two hundred fifty year old mattress!’ As she spoke, she moved to show him the room’s modern bathroom.

‘No, nor can I.’ The Professor tested the bed. It was firm, and looked comfortable. ‘I like this place. I think it would be perfect for me. I have a writing project to do this summer, and my rooms at the college are cramped. I can spread out here!’

‘Good! We’re equipped with all the usual conveniences—Wi-Fi, cable television, and laundry facilities in one of the outbuildings. I think this would be an ideal place for you. I’ve brought a contract with me,’ Mrs Spivey beamed. She named a figure, and the Professor said that would be fine.

She led the way back to the main room, talking about the Inn’s north and south wings, each of which contained fewer rooms than the word ‘wing’ implies. Over the decades, as trade declined, rooms, and then floors, were closed off. A hurricane all but destroyed the south wing in 1855, so that was demolished. At the turn of the 20th century, there had been a fire on the upper floor of the building, and that had been removed, making the Inn a single-storey structure. In 1962, a freak mudslide had collapsed much of the north wing, crushing the empty stables and several outbuildings as well. The rubble was removed and the remaining few rooms of the wing were sealed.

Eventually, all that remained was what she had shown him. The Inn was let out seasonally, usually to artists looking for atmosphere and in-spiration, writers in need of peace and solitude, families needing a temporary retreat, and to groups for occasional conferences.

Mrs Spivey sat at the desk. As she took a bundle of papers from her case, she said, ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you that your rent includes Mrs Harmon—I mentioned her earlier. She takes care of cooking, shopping, cleaning, and such. You’ll like her, I’m sure. She very quiet and won’t disturb your work. In fact, most of the time you won’t even know she’s here.’ Mrs Spivey chuckled again, and handed the Professor the contract.

The Professor rubbed his hands together. ‘Yes, I was wondering about that part of things. The Inn is so small I didn’t think you’d have a house-keeping staff. I have a scout who takes care of me in college.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I don’t have much experience shifting for myself,’ he said.

‘Well, thanks to Mrs Harmon, you have nothing to worry about!’

The Professor took a pen from his pocket, read through the contract, and signed his name.

Nicholas Pim.

After Professor Pim had handed the estate agent a cheque for the full summer rent, he climbed into his car and drove away. Mrs Spivey locked the Inn’s doors and ambled up a wooded path to the top of the hill behind the building.

She hummed to herself as she walked along. When she reached the top of the hill, she passed through an iron gate set in a short stone wall.

There were a dozen headstones, some plain, some ornate. The graves were covered in leaves and fallen branches. No one had been buried here in nearly two centuries. The cemetery was forgotten.

The largest headstone belonged to the head of the family line, and the smaller stones to his sons. The smallest headstone belonged to a child, a girl. It tilted backward, as if it were about to fall over, and missed a chip of stone at the top. The lettering was faint—the name was hardly legible, and there were no dates. Vines encircled the base.

‘It’s me,’ Mrs Spivey said familiarly with a smile, brushing away leaves. ‘You have a guest, arriving in June. That’s something for you to look forward to.’

She turned to walk back down the hill.

Two

The sun shone brightly on the seaside Inn; branches moved gently in the breeze. A motor car followed by two Ford vans pulled up in front of the building.

‘Pull that van up in front of the other one,’ Nicholas Pim instructed one of his students as he got out of his car. ‘It will make unloading much easier.’ He gestured with a bare forearm as he searched his pocket for the key.

It was the second weekend in June; the spring term had just ended. Nicholas Pim was looking forward to a summer free of responsibilities at Trinity College, except for one graduate student he could not shake. 

He was a Professor of Mediæval Literature and (as regarded by most of his female students) a decent looking bachelor. He was not a weedy or frumpy academic—he was tall, good looking, with a slender and well-muscled build.

He’d hired a few graduate students to help him relocate to the Inn at Grace Cove. The Ford vans that followed him here were driven by Horace and Robbie. Three other students, Ardatha, Liz, and Anita, had come along to provide a ‘much needed woman’s touch’ to make the place liveable.

‘Be careful with those boxes!’ he cautioned Anita as she juggled two cartons. ‘Those are my pipes and tobaccos—vital to the success of this summer’s venture!’

Anita, an ardent non-smoker, rolled her eyes and muttered ‘It’s going to be a dull summer for you!’ as she crossed the sill into the ancient building.

‘Surely these are more important, Professor?’ Horace unctuously protested from the rear of the second van. He opened the sliding door to display cartons of books.

‘Of course, I’ll need something to do while I smoke,’ Nicholas quipped.

‘I can think of something to do,’ vivacious Ardatha purred, ‘and you could smoke afterwards.’

Liz and Anita rolled their eyes; the two men smirked shrewdly. Ardatha had a well-deserved re-putation, and if the professor weren’t paying them so lavishly, they probably would have declined to help him move if Ardatha was to be involved.

Nicholas stopped himself from retorting just in time. ‘Let’s stay focused, shall we, people?’

As he assisted the procession of students with cartons, he thought to himself that it would take him most of the summer to