The Aerie of Ravenhurst

By Paul Brandis

With hopes of opening a B & B, Ellen Blake buys Ravenhurst, a brooding castle overlooking the sea. But her guests soon depart complaining of nightmares and eerie sounds in the night. Her dreams soar when Warren Johnson calls making reservations for himself and his cult. Deputy Ben Davison, who has feelings for Ellen, is suspicious of the smooth psychiatrist. And on the night of the Summer Solstice, his suspicions are realized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984524959

Paul Brandis

Paul Brandis lives in Eastern Washington where he has taught Painting, and Art History for a small college. He also owned a bookshop and movie theater that specialized in foreign and art films. He has published a number of horror short-stories. This is his first novel of horror and romance.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ellen Blake stood at the edge of the cliff. In the tiny cove far below, waves broke into froth over sharp rocks. The forest’s underbrush crowded around her.

She leaned forward.

Across the cove a brooding mansion, its stone walls dark and worn, squatted on a point of land jutting out into the sea. She suppressed a shudder. How desolate and forlorn it appeared.

She looked closer. Plywood sheets boarded up the mansion’s windows.

A spark of excitement grew in her mind. Maybe the mansion was empty. Could this be the place she was looking for? She strained to see signs of habitation.

Suddenly a hand grabbed her upper-arm with a grip of steel. Startled, she twisted around. The tall man wore a khaki outfit, a dusty rancher’s hat, and a gold badge pinned to his shirt. He had dark hair and eyes, and was about her age, in the mid-thirties.

I think it’d be better if you stayed on the path, ma’am, he said without expression. This is a real dangerous place.

She glanced down at her feet. In her fascination with the old mansion, she had moved perilously close to the edge. She shrank back, and he released her arm.

She smiled and brushed back her auburn hair. Uh, thanks, officer. She turned and pointed. But I was wondering about that house over there. It looks empty. Is it?

The man looked over at the mansion, and his eyes hardened. It might be. The old woman who owned it died last year. Now please, return to the path, and he stepped back to let her go by.

As they walked to the parking lot, she sensed the man’s quiet strength. She was tall, and as a teenager, had been self-conscious about her height. Consequently she always felt more comfortable with a tall man.

She waited for him to speak, but he walked in silence. A late-winter fog creeping in from the Pacific shadowed them up the graveled walk.

In the tree-bounded parking lot, his chunky Bronco, emergency lights mounted on its roof, stood next to her Thunderbird.

At her door she smiled. Thanks again.

He nodded, touched his hat brim, and bent into his sport utility vehicle. Hm, she thought. A man of few words.

She liked his face. It was even and straightforward. But there was something hidden in his eyes, something dark and sad.

He turned left on the highway, and she on the right. She followed the highway around the cove, and when she came to a sandy road that cut through the woods toward the ocean, she turned in, and slowly drove until a chain across the road between two trees forced her to stop.

Undeterred, she slid out of the car, and stepped over the chain. Glowering trees hunched over the road, their tops disappearing in the fog.

The fog surrounded her in a gray, blind silence, encasing the road in a hood of mystery.

She had walked for a while, when the atmosphere around her began to glow with a celestial light.

She paused. What was happening? Where was it coming from? As the mist around her grew brighter, so did her apprehension. Then, before she could move, a black specter roared out of the light.

A motorcycle with its headlight blazing streaked out of the fog right at her. To miss her it twisted away, and crashed to its side. It slid past her and came to rest, the rider pinned underneath.

When she could unlock her knees, she ran to the fallen man. He wore a black helmet that completely encased his head, a black leather jacket, and leather trousers.

He struggled to raise the heavy cycle off his leg.

Can I help? Ellen asked.

His voice was muffled by his helmet. If you could just lift up on the handlebar.

She tried, but it was heavier than she expected. It slipped from her grasp and fell back on him.

He grunted in pain.

Oh sorry, she said. I’ll get it this time. She tried again, feeling the muscles in her shoulders strain as the bike raised. Panting, she held it up as he pulled his leg out.

Using his other leg, he pushed himself up until he stood. He was of average height, trim and well built.

He hefted the bike upright, threw his injured leg over the saddle, and sat down. He levered off his helmet, and smiled at her.

Her breath caught. Struck by the dazzling white flash of his smile, the brilliance of his dark blue eyes, she felt her heart nearly fall into her stomach. Short black hair, deep-blue eyes, features almost too perfect.

And his scent, a heady mixture of expensive leather, and some strange and exotic cologne. It drew her closer. Her legs softened, and she struggled for breath.

Aware that she was staring, she forced herself to speak. Uh, are you all right?

He shrugged. I’m okay.

But maybe something’s broken. You should see a doctor.

It’s just a rolled ankle. It’ll be okay once it gets some blood back into it.

The fog closed in around them, shutting out the world, creating a private, intimate world of their own.

He appraised her thoughtfully. Are you going down to look at the house?

His nearness made it difficult for her to breathe. I thought I would.

He continued to examine her closely, then said, Well, maybe I’ll see you again then.

Smoothly he leaned forward and his lips brushed her cheek. Thanks again. Then he tugged on his helmet, hit the bike’s starter button, and the bike growled to life with the powerful inner-chatter uniquely Harley-Davidson. He gave her a brief nod, and the motorcycle roared away, disappearing into the gloom and leaving her staring at the swirling mist.

How long she stood there, her heart racing, her body frozen, she could not tell, but after a time, she shook her head to break the spell. My God, who was that masked man? she said, trying to get her breath back. And why don’t I have his phone number?

Slowly the reason for her quest returned, and she turned and continued down the road. Then, through the murk, a tall stone wall materialized, disappearing into the woods on both sides of the road. Its weathered stones appeared cold and ominous.

The wall was sealed by a heavy wood-and-wrought-iron gate. A tiny gate house guarded the right side. The door in the gate house stood slightly open, and she walked over and peeped in. The room, little more than a passageway, appeared empty.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door, the protest of its rusty hinges grating on her stretched nerves. She crept through the room to the opposite door and stepped out onto a gravel drive that ran up to the front of the mansion.

She paused. The mansion’s granite-block walls and slate roof was shrouded in mist. Two massive towers guarded its ends, giving it a heavy, crouching appearance. The near tower was squat and wide, while the far tower, perched on the point overlooking the sea, rose tall and narrow, its top disappearing in the fog.

The whole place looked very old, very private, and prohibitively expensive. And there was something else about the great house, something dark and hidden that she sensed rather than saw. It was as if something unspeakably horrible had happened there, and the fractured aura still lingered. What could have occurred, she wondered, that would leave such a feeling of dread? She nearly turned back.

But what about her dream?

She had told her friends she was going on vacation to the Oregon coast to get over her husband Hugh’s death. But in reality she harbored an ambition she had never told anyone.

With the insurance settlement, she could maybe, just maybe, buy and open a nice, beach-side bed-and-breakfast hotel. But a place like this, a castle of granite and slate? Was it too much to ask?

Overcoming her foreboding, she forced herself to continue. The features of the tall law man appeared in her mind, so calm, so in command. She wished he was there now.

Tiny islands of weeds pushed through the driveway’s fine gravel. The driveway opened into a parking area in front of the mansion. To her right, a low wall kept cars from plunging into the cove.

The mansion looked deserted, and she wondered why the man on the motorcycle had been there.

The first tower had a window near its base. She peered in. A heavy wooden table stood in the center of the large room, an old iron stove along the wall, and a sink just below the window.

She continued on, admiring the house’s tall gothic windows. Though the lower sections of the windows were covered by plywood sheets, the upper sections rose to ornate points of colored, leaded glass. Below the windows, shrubbery, wild and unkempt, clawed up the walls.

Midway along the house, a roofed entry porch with a gothic-arch opening projected out. Above the entry’s opening a name was carved in medieval script: RAVENHURST.

A fat crow swooped down and landed on the peak of the entry, scolding her loudly.

Must have a nest nearby, she said.

Two more crows flew down to sit on the wall and silently watch her.

The parking lot and low wall terminated at the tower at the edge of the cliff. She gazed up, searching the sides of the tower. Suddenly struck by a pang of fear, she shivered.

Why was the tower so cold and stark? And why was it stoned up? Though it would have had a breathtaking view of the sea, its circular sides contained no windows.

Well, she said, forcing the sense of misgiving to the back of her mind, a good contractor would know how to cut windows in stone.

She imagined the room as a well-lit and cheerful reading room, an observation room with a stunning view. It could contain a telescope to watch passing ships in the daytime and stars at night.

She smiled at herself. She had spent no more than a few minutes examining the mansion and already she was making improvements in it. She turned back.

Again she was struck by how perfect it would be for a b-and-b. Driving south along the coast she had looked at several places, but any house that had enough bedrooms to convert to an hotel was already converted or far too expensive.

Still she had continued the search. She had to find a new life for herself. The thought of returning to Richland with its sad memories and its hot and dusty climate was too heartbreaking to contemplate.

But this place…was it too good to be true? She had to find out more about it. A real estate agent!

CHAPTER 2

In the next small town, Nelscott, she found an agent’s office. It occupied one half of a small, old brick building.

Though it was mid-morning, a CLOSED sign hung inside the door. She peered through the window and spotted a young man inside. Hesitantly she opened the door and stuck her head in.

Are you open?

The young man looked up from reading a document. He smiled. Well, I guess I am. He stood. Please come in.

The ancient office consisted of a small room with a counter separating the front third from a single desk, obviously a one-man or woman operation.

He held out his hand over the counter. Hi, I’m Dan Goldberg. He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk. Please sit down.

She sat and smiled pleasantly. You don’t seem too sure whether you’re open or not.

He was a blond, smooth-faced man in his early thirties. He laughed easily. Well, up until a moment ago I wasn’t. The owner, my boss, died last week, and we’ve been closed since. His brother came to town, and is in a hurry to get back to Seattle. And, he held up the piece of paper, he’s just given me authorization to sell what property my boss had, and to close out his business.

He sat back. So, what can I do for you? He lifted a sheath of papers. Here’s our inventory, priced to move.

Actually I wanted to find out about that stone house overlooking the beach about three miles north of town.

His smile froze and fear crept into his eyes. You mean the Sanitarium?

A shiver ran through her. Why did that sound so menacing? I don’t know. It has a couple of towers, a slate roof and big wall running around it.

Tension drew his mouth. Yeah, the Sanitarium. Well, that’s what we kids used to call it. It really was just a home.

Seeing the relief in her eyes, he continued, But it was built as a sanitarium. The old woman who lived there —she passed on last year —had a son who was studying in Europe to be a psychiatrist. And while he was away she came here, and bought the house, and made it into a sanitarium for him. But when he came back, he wanted to practice in Portland instead. So she just moved in and lived there by herself. She became something of a hermit, got a cook and never came out. We kids used to say the place was haunted.

He heard what he had said, and forced a smile. But then you know how kids are.

I suppose. Anyway, I saw that it was boarded up. It wouldn’t be for sale, would it?

Actually it is. He leafed through the papers and pulled one out. My boss, Mr. MacInitly, owned it himself. He bought it from the county who had seized it for back taxes. You’re the first inquiry, but I know it’s going to go fast. He hesitated, fear tainting his eyes again. Did you want to see it?

Ellen saw the fear and wondered about it. Well, if you have the time.

He sighed and stood. I was afraid of that.

Why? What’s the matter?

He tried not to look sheepish. I don’t know. I guess childhood fears are sometimes hard to get rid of. Striving to be cheerful, he smiled again. What the heck, how bad could it be?

As they stepped out into the sun, Ellen saw the sheriff in his Bronco waiting at a traffic light nearby. She said, I met that officer a little while ago. He kept me from almost falling off a cliff.

Dan’s eyebrows rose. You met Ben?

She nodded.

The light changed, and the man drove by. Ellen noticed that Dan watched him go with a soft look in his eyes.

Well, the man said, he’s had a lot to bear. And, of course, he wouldn’t let anybody help him.

She wanted to find out more, but he saw her maroon Thunderbird and spoke up, Is this your car?

She was about to say that it was her husband’s, that he had always loved a handsome car. Instead she nodded.

Well, to heck with my Geo, he said with a laugh. Let’s go in this.

As they drove up the coast road, Dan glanced over the information sheet again. Hm, he said, this could be a problem.

Ellen, her nerves on edge, jerked around to him. What?

He smiled reassuringly. Probably nothing, but it seems that the old lady’s cook is still living in the Sanit —. He broke off. I guess I really should stop calling it that.

What about the woman?

Well, the county probably let her stay until the time of the auction, and Jed died before he had a chance to ask her to leave.

She remembered the handsome man on the bike. Is she married?

He scanned the paper. It doesn’t say anything about a husband.

They came to the road to the mansion, and Ellen turned in. At the chain that barred the road, Dan pulled out a wad of keys and unlocked it, repeating the action at the wooden gate in the wall.

As they approached the mansion he stared up at the gray-rocked towers and walls rising in front of them, the slate roof line like a glowering forehead. Tension tainted his features.

Seeing her watching him, he tried to smile. Well, maybe it looks better inside.

She stopped at the front door, and used the heavy iron door knocker. When no one answered, Dan fished out the keys again.

They entered the great hall. Light seeped in through the uncovered windows above the plywood sheets and fell softly on heavy oak and leather furniture, on oriental rugs and medieval tapestries.

Dan, standing in the middle of the room turned slowly around to her, his mouth agape. This place is incredible, he said in wonderment. He turned to an easy chair with broad, wooden arms. Look at this carving.

He examined the chair closer. These pieces are imported. His gaze swung about the room. Spain, Normandy, Lombardy, he strode to a tapestry then turned, a grin beginning to spread, Belgium.

Ellen could hardly believe her eyes. Are you sure?

"Its about the only thing I am sure of, antique furniture. I managed a shop in San Francisco."

And this all would be part of the sale?

You bet, he said with envy. It’s in the contract.

At the end of the room