The Ghost and Mr. Moore

By Wendy Dalrymple

Joseph Moore is looking for a fresh start for him and son River after the recent death of his wife, Angelica. When he finds the rambling rural Victorian-era home in St. Augustine for a steal, he decides that the property will be the perfect place for him and his son to start over. However, almost as soon as they arrive, Joseph realizes that they aren't proud new homeowners, but unwanted visitors.

Carolina Benbrook knows that she's dead... she just doesn't want to accept it. Free-spirited in life, her family always held her back from living the way she wanted. Now, more than a hundred years after her death, Carolina is still holding on to the fact that she never got to really live her life, and wants to make sure that everyone around her knows it — especially the awful man that is trying to make an absolute spectacle of her home.

With some digging around from Joseph, Carolina suddenly realizes what her unfinished business was. With Joseph's help, Carolina's spirit can be set free. Only now... she has a whole new reason to stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jul 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094421049

Wendy Dalrymple

Wendy Dalrymple crafts highly consumable, short and sweet romances inspired by everyday people. When she’s not writing happily-ever-afters, you can find her camping with her family, painting (bad) wall art, and trying to grow as many pineapples as possible. Keep up with Wendy at www.wendydalrymple.com!

Book preview

Chapter One

Jacaranda Manor, a once grand and sweeping estate on the outskirts of St. Augustine, had fallen into disrepair. In the early morning, the dew-dappled manor nestled deep within the pine scrub forest emanated the scent of moisture and decay. By afternoon, sunlight streamed through the ancient oaks and slash pines, baking the earth surrounding the untended grounds into a fine, crisp crust. In the evening a somber chorus of cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs filled the air with a hypnotic, droning song that lulled even the most attentive man into a sleepy, dreamless trance.

The derelict property, once home to a bountiful citrus orchard, was now reduced to only a few sad, withered lime trees with fruit that was hard and small. Their branches were barren and forgotten, devoid of leaf or pulp or seed. Nature had also reclaimed the modest stables that formerly housed sleek chestnut brown thoroughbreds, with a roof that was half caved in and blanketed by a thick bed of pine needles and witch hair Spanish moss. The main house itself was also sad and sagging, its wooden gables and decorative railings swollen, cracked, and weathered. Jacaranda Manor’s once beautiful facade was now gray, its century old violet and white paint chipped and battered by the sun. The jewel of Florida’s Historic Coast shimmered and shone no more.

In its day, the estate had been the finest example of late nineteenth century architecture in all of St. John’s County, built for Eudora Calhoun Braun by her husband, Theodore Braun in 1894. Jacaranda Manor was one of the first Victorian-style homes in the region, so named for the brilliantly blooming jacaranda trees that Mrs. Braun also had planted on the grounds. The home stood proudly amongst those honey fragrant, violet blossomed trees with both a classic and contemporary appeal. Eudora customized the home to her tastes with all of the beauty of traditional Victorian architecture married with the amenities necessary for a modern Southern home. Jacaranda Manor had exquisite stained glass windows and intricate wooden inlays but also featured a double-wide front porch and cross-ventilated window system to help combat the Florida heat, as well as a fully functional first floor bathroom installed in 1910.

It was there in the opulent, unique property that the Brauns raised their three daughters, Leonora, Theodora, and Carolina in relative comfort and wealth. Many happy years were spent in the estate, with each of the daughters renowned for their talents and beauty. Leonora was an accomplished vocalist who left for New York City after her eighteenth birthday to live with relatives and pursue a career in theater. Theodora was a writer, who cared nothing for convention or the fact that the literary world wasn’t welcoming at the time to the fairer sex. The Brauns’ believed in giving their daughters every opportunity to blossom into well-rounded young women, especially their youngest daughter, Carolina. Baby as they called her, was a painter, with her sights set across the Atlantic to Paris to study and live the life of a true bohemian. But their youngest daughter would never get to see the city of lights.

All was well until the Braun family fell on hard times due to a strain of citrus canker that swept through Florida in 1917. It was wartime, and the demand for what little fresh fruit their orchards could produce diminished. Little by little, the Braun family’s luxurious lifestyle was chipped away as silver and jewels were sold off. The household help was sent away when they could no longer be afforded, and Mrs. Braun’s prized stallion was sold to a neighboring breeder. Another tragedy befell the Brauns the following year with the untimely death of Carolina, sending Eudora into a state of shock from which she would never recover.

After the stock market crash of 1929, Theodora, the only surviving member of the Braun family, could no longer manage to maintain the extravagant home. And so, with no one to tend to the property, and no one interested in purchasing the far-flung, ostentatious home, Jacaranda Manor became abandoned. The memories of happier days were forgotten to the sands of time as the fractured family scattered to the winds, and the original inhabitants of this once stately and elegant home were now long gone. All except for one, that was.

Carolina had been alone in the grand house for nearly a hundred years; at least, that’s how long she thought it had been. She had counted dozens of seasonal cycles, watching as the light changed and moved across the floorboards day after day, year after year. As time marched on, she stood by helplessly and observed as a thin layer of dust settled onto her mother’s fireplace mantle and as cobwebs collected in the corners of every room. In the wintertime, raccoons would move into the attic, their chittering voices and scampering paws echoing through the empty, silent space. In the spring, blue jays would nest in the sagging front porch roof and feed their chicks silkworms and beautyberries. In the summer, the eerie song of the forest would cast her into a trance, and by fall she could finally enjoy a small slice of peace and quiet. Even though the days seemed to stand still and move lightning-fast all at once, Carolina had no real way to mark the true passing of time.

It was in the summer of that centennial year that Carolina’s precious silence was unwelcomely disturbed in the most jarring way. Automobiles had changed much over the years, though few ever darkened Jacaranda Manor’s drive. On that particular summer day in the late afternoon, a black vehicle with the word Jeep emblazoned on the front appeared, its massive tires crunching over downed branches and decades of fallen leaves. Carolina snorted to herself as she looked down through the time-weathered window pane and mused that the vehicle looked like a beefed-up version of her fathers’ Model T. It was an ugly, noisy thing, but she sighed fondly just the same, remembering long drives out to the beach with her family bouncing down their unpaved drive. How she missed the Atlantic at dawn.

From her third-floor perch, Carolina could clearly see the occupants of the vehicle as the doors opened and slammed shut. Carolina didn’t make a habit of looking past the front yard of the manor onto the vast forest surrounding the property. She knew there were consequences for that. However, on that particular day she made an exception and peered down from her third floor station to take a better look at the visitors. A boy around five- or six-years-old stepped out, followed by a very loud, very large brown dog with an obnoxious bark. The dog skittered about among the leaves, turning in circles before relieving itself in a patch of grass. The boy laughed and chased after the dog before it disappeared into the woods. Despite her initially grouchy first impression, Carolina couldn’t help but smile down at the scene. It had been so long since she had heard the laughter of a child or felt the soft, warm fur of an animal beneath her fingertips. The dull ache in her heart that she constantly ignored made itself known just at the sight of them.

Carolina absentmindedly placed a milky hand upon the windowpane, reaching out in vain for a connection, when the boy did a curious thing. As though he knew he was being watched, the boy tilted his head of dark tumbling curls, pursed his cupid’s bow lips and stared directly into her eyes. Carolina gasped and stepped back from the window and into the shadows again as she heard the boy call out to the man behind the wheel. The muffled words dad and "ghost’ floated up to her attic hideout as she listened in the dark. If she were still living, her heart would likely be beating fast. Perhaps she would have even held her breath. Despite the fact that she no longer experienced the physical symptoms of fear anymore, Carolina felt the emotion just the same. She continued to wait quietly as heavy footsteps sounded on the wraparound porch and the dog returned to resume barking at squirrels or its master or perhaps nothing at all. She listened patiently, as she had done now for so many years, until the doors of the automobile shut and the engine roared to life and Carolina was alone with her peace once again.

Many days passed before the boy and the man came back to the manor in a large truck with the boxy black Jeep in tow. It was nearly autumn by the time and the sun streamed in soft, weak rays that illuminated the property in shades of gold as the promise of an early nightfall surrounded the manor. The jacaranda trees were no longer in bloom and their buds fell by the thousands, littering the driveway in a somber rainbow of blue, purple, brown and black as they broke down and returned to the soil like a bruise. The aroma of the felled flower petals was no doubt as foul as she remembered, leaving a scent of sickly sweet rot that made the ground slick with decay. That is how she remembered the return of the boy and the man. Sickly and sweet.

Carolina peered down through the window once more, hiding in shadow as she had become so accustomed to. The boy’s moon-shaped face looked up for her expectantly, raising a small chubby hand to shield his eyes. She