Murder in the Marsh

By Sarah J Dhue

Brother and sister George and Margie Jansen - being the only living relatives of their estranged Great Uncle Christian - have inherited his home in the Florida marshlands, as well as all of his belongings. Along with the estate comes an old groundskeeper named Benjamin. George and Margie travel to Florida together from their homes in Seattle to sort through all of their great uncle’s things and decide what to do about the estate. The property is beautiful but strange, with Benjamin only adding to the eerie atmosphere. As they spend more time there, they learn more about the house’s history: that people tended to stay away from it, and there were whispers among the older residents of murder in the marsh. A sense of unease settles over the property. Margie swears she hears something stalking around outside in the night, and Benjamin warns that the marsh is not safe. It seems that their presence has awakened something that had been dormant. Benjamin claims he can sense it… and that it wants to consume them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781300155843

Sarah J Dhue

Sarah J Dhue is a fiction author from Illinois and has been writing since she was in elementary school. She writes predominantly Horror, Paranormal, and Sci-Fi fiction, but has branched off into Romance and plans to try to her hand at other genre departures. In addition to books, she also writes poetry, short stories, and songs. She loves networking with other writers and artists of other media. Some of her other interests include coffee, photography, graphic design, social media, animals, art, travel, music, and animation. Sarah currently resides with her family and cats in southern Illinois.

Book preview

Chapter 1

George Jansen popped up the collar of his grey pea coat against the cold wind as he walked down the hazy streets of Seattle.  He could already feel his cheeks, nose, and ears turning red; he could have taken the bus, but why waste the pocket change?  George was certainly not strapped for money, but he liked to save where he could, and besides, the walking did him well.

George was in his late twenties, tall with short, dark brown hair that had already started receding.  The lower half of his face was peppered with stubble, and a prominent aquiline nose sat between olive green eyes that rested under thick brows.

He turned into the coffee shop, a small establishment crammed between two retail stores.  There was a long line snaking nearly to the door – great.  He took his place at the back of the line, warming his hands and trying to remember his boss’ order.  Two creamers or three…?

George did not necessarily have his dream job, but he did work within a publishing firm, so it was at least a start.  George had always been an avid reader, having read all of his school library’s high school level books before he was out of the fourth grade.  He had always known that he wanted to work in the world of books, and publishing seemed to be where the money was.

He had reached the front of the line; he decided to risk ordering three creamers and then a mocha for himself before returning to work.  The wind had picked up, and George was thankful that his office wasn’t a long walk from the coffee shop.

The office was bustling as usual, and among the rush, someone bumped into George, causing some of his boss’ coffee to spill onto his coat sleeve.

Fuck, George uttered.  This would mean a trip to the dry cleaner’s, and even then it might stain.  He ducked into his cubicle briefly to wipe off his sleeve the best that he could, and then picked up his boss’ coffee, wiping the side with the dirtied napkin before throwing it out.

He had barely entered his boss, Mr. Herman‘s, office when the shouting began.  Jansen!  You are late!

I know sir; I am sorry, the line-

Line-smine! Mr. Herman snatched the coffee out of George’s hand and took a sip.  Too much cream!…  Get the hell out of here, and get to work!  He pointed toward the door.

George walked back to his cubicle and shed his coat, sighing heavily as he sank into his desk chair.  Maybe it was not his job itself that was not the dream; it was his boss.  Mr. Herman was a grade-A asshole.  George made a mental note to spit in his coffee the next time.

George popped his neck, pressing the power button on his desktop’s tower.  It whirred to life, and George began working for the day.  He tried not to think about Mr. Herman and his specific number of coffee creamers.  Someday, he would be more than the copy writer and errand runner.  Maybe he would someday be an editor, or even a publisher.

~*~

Across the city, Margie Jansen, George’s younger sister, walked along the rows of crates, checking off boxes on the spreadsheet attached to her clipboard.  Being a cargo and freight agent was not the most glamorous job, but it sure beat waiting tables.  Margie was only two years younger than George, but much shorter with a stout build.  She had shoulder-length, wavy hair and round, blue eyes.  She had a very round face, so she did her best to always keep her hair in a style that framed her face nicely.  Her two front teeth were slightly larger than average, but years of braces in her adolescence had helped make that a little less noticeable.

Working in the warehouse was a fairly monotonous grind, but occasionally it could get exciting when a boat lost a crate of precious cargo.  This always resulted in a lot of finger pointing, paperwork, and choice language.  The warehouse was drafty and often smelled of dust and dankness, occasionally accompanied by the smell of cheese when they got a shipment from Dairy Co.

What Margie really wanted to do was travel and see the world.  There was only one problem – she did not have the funds to support such a lifestyle, so she settled for categorizing cargo from far off places.

She set her clipboard down on top of a squatty crate that reeked of Roquefort, twirling the gold necklace she wore around her finger.  She walked into the small agents’ communal office to warm up and drink a cup of provided coffee – at least the employees got that luxury.

~*~

George walked into his dark apartment, flipping on the light and throwing his keys onto the coffee table.  He leaned against the door to close it, shrugging off his stained coat and sighing heavily.  It had been another long and exhausting day at the firm.  Not only had deadlines not been met, he had been the one to take the fall.  He sat down on his couch, unable to shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.  He began fiddling with his keys as he tried to think of what he could have forgotten, and his mind wandered to his boss.  Now that guy really knew how to get on his nerves.  Not a single day went by that he did not think of putting in his letter of resignation.

The mail!  George suddenly realized that he had forgotten to get his mail on the way up to the apartment.  He twirled his keys around his finger as he headed down the stairs to the P.O. boxes on the first floor.  He began whistling in the silent lobby as he unlocked his P.O. box and took out his mail: a few envelopes and an ad for Ikea.  He briefly read the envelopes – mostly bills and credit card offers – when one caught his attention.  It was hand-addressed and from a law firm in Florida.  He was instantly curious, but waited until he was back in his apartment to tear the envelope open.

"Mr. George Jansen,

This letter is to inform you that your great uncle Christian Jansen passed away on 01/12/2018, and his will dictates that everything be divided by his next of kin, and if there is no next of kin, to the closest relative matching that description.  He had no wife or children, so you and your sister Margaret are the closest living relatives to that description.  Both of your presences are requested soon to sort out the estate and belongings.

We hope to hear from you, and my condolences.

-Harold Sneed"

"Great Uncle Christian…?" George thought to himself; until reading that letter, he did not even know that he had a great uncle who lived in Florida.  Due to the unexpected news, George’s mind was reeling.  Maybe this uncle had a lavish estate or a rather sizable inheritance.  If the property was really worth something, maybe he could quit his shitty job and live comfortably while trying to find something better.  After all, it should not be too long of a hiatus; Seattle was full of publishing houses.

His mind turned to Margie, and he instantly wanted to call her to tell her the news.  But it was late – well after 10 P.M. – and she worked long days at the warehouse; she would hardly be excited to hear from him at this late hour.  He contented himself with sending her a text message asking her to meet him for lunch at Rory’s.  The thought of the cost of airline tickets crossed his mind, and he cringed a little at the prospect.  He supposed the trip to the dry cleaner’s would have to wait.

~*~

George sat alone at a table for two in the tiny restaurant.  He had originally opted for patio seating, but it had started raining so he’d had to move inside.  Margie was late.  This was nothing new; with her current job she was nearly always late due to finishing up receiving or sending out a shipment, and if there had been a complication…

George shuddered.  He really could not afford for Margie to be late; he was taking a long lunch break as it was.  A yellow cab pulled up to the curb, and he saw Margie hurriedly exiting it.

Sorry I’m late, she blurted as she took off her coat and hung it on the back of her chair before sitting.

Better late than never.  George took a sip of his water.

Margie rolled her eyes.  What did you want to talk to me about?

This.  George pulled the letter out of his inner coat pocket and slid it across the table to Margie.  She was about to unfold it to read it when the waiter arrived to take their order.  They both ordered double cheeseburgers with fries, but George had them hold the mayo.  Once the waiter had left, Margie unfolded the letter and read it.

After a few minutes, she looked up at George, her brows furrowed in confusion.  Great Uncle Christian?  I don’t remember ever hearing of a Great Uncle Christian.

Me either.  George shrugged.

And Florida?  That is like… all the way across the country.  You think it’s a scam?  It kinda seems like a scam.

I don’t suppose that idea ever crossed my mind, George admitted, feeling kind of stupid.  I can make some calls this afternoon, see how legit the law firm is.  Could also find out if there is a ‘Christian Jansen’ on the family tree.

And let us say this is for real.  What then?  She frowned pensively, reaching up to her neck and messing with her necklace.

Then I guess we go down to Florida and divvy up the estate; seems simple enough to me.  Of course, we would have to take some time off.

I’ve racked up a lot of vacation days, Margie thought out loud, her mind wandering to her pipe dream of summering in France.

I haven’t got much, but I will squeeze some time out of that weasel somehow.  George smashed his fist into his palm.

The waiter brought them their food, and they talked in between bites.  Margie agreed to call George after she got off work to see what he had found out about this ‘Christian Jansen’ and his Floridian estate before they parted ways.

Chapter 2

George stood just outside the gate for the 5 A.M. flight to Marco Island, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, checking his watch every few minutes or so.  He had not been able to find anything untoward about the law firm, and when he had called the lawyer – Harold Sneed – he had seemed earnest enough.  And, after some serious digging, he had been able to find evidence of a ‘Christian Jansen’ on their family tree.

George checked his watch again, grimacing and looking down along the length of the concourse.  And there was Margie – early for once – walking toward him.

Once George had confirmed that the letter was not from a con artist or scam agency, he had worked out dates with Mr. Sneed for them to come down.  Then, he had booked his and Margie’s plane tickets; of course, on such short notice, all he could get was an ungodly early flight with undesirable seats.

He looked out the window, the first sliver of sun barely visible on the horizon.  George was glad that Margie could make it at all; her boss had not wanted to give her such a long stint of time off until Margie had threatened to quit.  Not that George thought she would’ve followed through with it, but her boss had apparently believed her, so here she was.

I really struggled to find clothes in my wardrobe that wouldn’t be too hot for Florida weather, Margie laughed.

It’s not like we’re going to the beach, George scoffed.

It will still be hot, Margie retorted, collapsing the handle on her luggage.

It was not long before they boarded their flight, and they were soon both asleep.  George woke up when they landed in Missouri and was awake for the remainder of the flight.  However, Margie slept until they were about twenty minutes shy of the Marco Island airport.

Once they landed, George tried to hail a cab with no success.  Margie decided to give it a try, and the second cab stopped for them.  George gave the driver the address of the firm.  It was a long ride to the law firm since it was in Oklawaha and not Marco Island.  George could not help himself from watching the numbers on the meter grow and sweating a little.  This trip was costing them a small fortune.

As the cab rolled to a stop, they could see that the firm was positioned in an old, small building, which fit right in with what they had seen of the town during the car ride.  The town itself looked as if it had not grown in decades, with only very minor updates.  The two entered the small building, which despite its aged exterior had a very well-decorated interior.

Can I help you? a young man sitting behind the front desk asked.  He had a terribly strong Floridian accent – a kind of droning twang.

We are here to meet with Harold Sneed.  George and Margaret Jansen; we have an appointment.

The man put the phone to his ear, pressing a button and speaking in a hushed tone for a couple of minutes, glancing occasionally at George and Margie.  He hung up, looking up at them once more.  First door on your right.  Mr. Sneed is expecting you.  He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

As they entered the office, a short, balding man with rectangular spectacles stood and walked around his desk, shaking their hands enthusiastically.  I am Harold Sneed.  You must be George and Margaret Jansen.  Please, sit down.  He motioned toward some chairs opposite his desk.  We were starting to get worried that we did not have your current address Mr. Jansen.  Harold also had a very thick Floridian accent; George could tell that talking to people around here would take