The Ghosts of Hanson House: A Haunting In Kingston Novella (The Hauntings of Kingston Book 5) Read online

  The Ghosts

  Of

  Hanson House

  A Haunting In Kingston

  By

  Michelle Dorey

  About This Book

  Evil lurks just down the road. It’s been waiting, and the wait’s over…

  The last thing Emma wanted to do this summer was spend it on a farm! But now she’s stuck, along with her kid sister Julia, and worst of all her two snotty cousins from New York City. Her grandparents are selling the place this Fall, and want some kind of ‘bonding experience’ to happen between the four cousins this final summer.

  Bonding? None of them had ever spent an overnight here, let alone a month!

  On their very first night cooped up in the farmhouse, Cousin Grace sees a mysterious light coming from the dilapidated ramshackle house across the fields. The place is supposed to have been vacant for years, so what’s up with that?

  They ask Grandpa about the Hanson home at breakfast and he totally loses it. He forbids them to go near the place— it can be dangerous, he says.

  Well it’s the only interesting thing on this dumpy island. And besides, Grandpa really got their curiosity up about Hanson House.

  …and we know what curiosity did to the cat, right?

  Copyright 2017, Michelle Dorey

  ISBN: 978-1-927984-92-5

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  About This Book

  Before We Begin, A Word…

  Prologue… 1912 & 1929

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note and Dedication

  Before we begin, a word…

  Please feel free to join my mailing list. I’ll keep you updated about new releases and special offers of my works. In fact, if you take me up on this offer, I’d like to give you one of my books for free—my first book, Crawley House. It’s been a strong seller for me and I think you’ll enjoy it!

  Just click this link and follow the easy peasy directions!

  Prologue: 1912 & 1929

  April, 1912

  The frigid North Atlantic water was like glass in the dark night. The only movements on its surface were the ripples caused by the oars from the lifeboats. The final heave of the stern of the ship slipping below the surface had taken place twenty minutes earlier, and those still trapped in the water were succumbing one after another to the frozen embrace of the ocean.

  Soon, all was still. The dead floated in their now useless lifebelts and those fortunate enough to have secured a spot on one of the boats sat aboard in stunned silence. It had all happened so quickly. From the first shudders and groans of the iceberg striking their ship to now was barely two hours.

  The only light was from the cold stars above as there was no moon. Starlight dappled across the small ripples of water, across still bodies, and the flotsam of a disaster that claimed over a thousand souls.

  A child’s doll drifted lazily away from a small, almost frozen hand. Its owner had been in steerage, and by the time she and her family had managed to navigate through the maze of the lower corridors and scramble up onto the main deck, all of the lifeboats had already cast off.

  Her mother had found her a discarded lifebelt; one tossed aside by an older gentleman who had already accepted his own fate. She strapped it onto her daughter, her only child, with shivering hands.

  Loud roars from the bursting seams of the boilers in the engine room created a cacophony across the listing deck, followed by an enormous lurch as the stern of the ship was lifted.

  Her eyes wide with panic and horror, the mother lifted her daughter. She was but six years old and small for her age.

  “God bless you and keep you, Katie!” She covered the child’s still face with kisses. Pointing to one of the boats still near the hull, she said, “Now swim as hard as you can for that boat!”

  With all her might she flung the child over the railing and into the sea.

  It may have been a mercy on the poor woman that as soon as she released her daughter another, more powerful lurch knocked her from her feet. She didn’t see her daughter land face first in the water from a height of over forty feet, and not move.

  Even so, her unconscious hand still clutched dolly. For a while.

  There was no witness to the dolly coming free and floating away.

  No witness saw the red glow spark behind the dolly’s glass eye that night to remember.

  The entity within it reveled in the panic and horror all around it. It gorged on the sorrow and pain of this night; a glutton at a feast. It meandered through the lifeboats, feeling the horror and terror of the survivors emanating and sating its eternal hunger.

  As it drew away from the scene, once again the entity fell into a slumber. It had oozed across the world for millennia; there would always be another feast.

  ***

  In March of 1929 Desmond Hanson waded onto the shore of Wolfe Island. He turned and gave a short wave to Connor Finn who was already reversing the small motor on his dory. “It’ll be two weeks, Connor?” he called.

  “Of course! Good work tonight, and I’ll be letting you know lad!”

  Lad. Connor was but six months older. But the fifty dollars he put in Desmond’s pocket for the night’s work gave him the seniority. Desmond patted his pocket. The farm was doing fairly well, but the extra money every few weeks for loading and unloading crates of whiskey across the bay into the U.S. made hard living easier. Unlike the other farmers on the island, he wasn’t worried about getting enough money together for the Spring planting. What was in his pocket would keep him from having to sign any promissory note at the bank this year. God bless Connor, even if he got on a high horse every now and then.

  He walked along the shoreline towards his home. He always came ashore a half mile away, just in case the coppers had been trailing them. A roundabout way home also gave him a chance to shake off the nerves. Rum running was as dangerous as it was profitable, especially at the delivery. In other areas, it was known that business rivals Stateside thought nothing of hijacking the competition’s goods. And leaving bodies behind.

  But that was that. He had plenty of time now to relax before he’d have to get all willy-nilly again. And if a case of the whim whams every few weeks was what it took to keep from bowing and scraping before a banker, well that was fine with him.

  He glanced up at the sky. Connor always preferred making his deliveries on a moonless night. If there were cops out there, why make their job easier? But Lord a’mighty, the stars were beautiful; not a cloud!

  His foot stumbled on a jutting rock on the shore and he caught himself before falling. He’d better take ca
re and watch his step. This section of the island wasn’t known for its smooth beaches after all.

  “What the?” he said out loud, stopping in his tracks.

  Resting on the shore was the most beautiful doll he had ever seen; lovelier than any that were in the pages of the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue! It was in a sitting position, the waters of the St. Lawrence river almost lapping at its feet. He bent over and picked it up.

  He examined it. It was a stuffed china dolly, its head, hands and feet made of porcelain, and its body some sort of leatherette. This had to be from Europe; France most likely. He tilted its head and the beautiful blue glass eyes closed. Lifting it, they opened.

  His hand brushed over the blue satin dress, with a pinafore over it. He turned it over in his hands. Not a mark nor stain on it.

  He gazed across the river. Some rich child on a boat must have dropped it overboard by accident. And that must have been some time ago, as the doll was completely dry.

  He held the toy up in front of him. “Irene is going to love you to death, dearie!” he said out loud. “What do you think of that?” He tilted the doll and its eyes closed demurely. “And she’ll love me even more for bringing you home to her!” he added with a chuckle.

  As if it were a newborn, he put it over his shoulder. Picking up his pace, he headed home.

  He didn’t see how the dolly’s eyes glowed red for a moment and dimmed again.

  Another feast…

  Chapter 1

  September 1956

  Danny cowered next to his bike as he leaned it against the front yard fence. Despite the autumn chill, his fingers were sweaty on the handle bars. The Hanson farm house loomed at the end of the tangled mess of weeds lining the dirt driveway, while the dark windows above the front porch were like eyes glaring straight through him.

  “You’re scared, aren’t you? I told you that you’d chicken out when we got here.” Allen’s ferret eyes stared at the dilapidated house. “I’m not scared! I’m goin’ in.” He leaned his bike against the rusty wire fence and shoved the gate open, totally ignoring the ‘No Trespassing’ sign.

  For a moment, Danny froze, watching Allen. His heart pounded faster and he forced himself to take a deep, slow breath. If he didn’t go through with this, Allen would blab it all over school. He could hear him now, ‘Danny Baker was too scared to even cross the fence. A real chicken shit.’ The gang of boys in school would hang on every word and sneer at Danny. But the worst would be Abby Wilkes. She was bound to hear and she sure wouldn’t think too highly of him then. Just when she was starting to warm up to him, even letting him walk her home after school the week before. When they started high school next year, he didn’t want to be known as chicken.

  He let his bike fall to the ground and even though his legs were limp noodles he sprinted to catch up with Allen. “I’m not scared. Wait up, will ya?”

  Allen turned and looked past him, back to the dirt road they’d just rode down. “It’s ‘Injun Joe’. He followed us.” He rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan.

  Danny turned and sure enough, with legs pumping hard and ebony hair blowing back from his high forehead, Frank Grant rode fast to catch up. Danny smiled and felt the knot in his stomach loosen a bit. He turned to Allen and spat the words at him. “That’s a shitty thing to say! His name’s Frank.”

  “Yeah? Like I care.” Allen nudged Danny with his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s do this if you’re not too chicken.”

  Danny huffed a long sigh. Frank was a great guy if anyone ever took the time to get past the fact he was native. Certainly Allen and the other guys never bothered. He turned to shadow Allen, trudging slowly across the yard to the front step. It sagged lower on one side and the wood was a beaten down gray. Only faint traces of the white it had once worn peeked through. When Allen stepped onto the first step, the creak of the board sent a shiver scuttling down Danny’s spine.

  A crow cawed and then beat the air with its wings, escaping the stand of spindly elm trees next to the house. Danny jerked at the sound before turning his gaze to the weather-beaten wooden door hanging slightly ajar. Allen was on the top step, edging closer, his footsteps creeping forward with barely a whisper of sound.

  With one foot on the bottom step and one still on the ground, Danny held his breath, watching his friend push the door wide.

  Allen stood, gaping at the darkness inside for a few moments. He turned and his narrow eyes dared Danny. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  “Hey! Don’t go in there, you guys!”

  Danny’s head jerked around at Frank’s voice.

  Frank was still on the other side of the gate, his long dungaree clad legs straddling his bike while his jacket hung loose and open. “Come back, Danny! That place is dangerous! It’s haunted!”

  “Shove off, Frank!” Allen’s voice was like the crack of a whip right beside Danny’s head. He sneered down at Danny, speaking softer now. “He’s a chicken-shit, redskin. We’ll show him we’re not afraid.” He turned and took a step to the doorway, peering inside.

  Danny regarded Frank like he was a life line. But he could no more grab hold to any hope of getting out of this. How had he let Allen talk him into riding to the Hanson farm? There was no use trying to reason with him; when he got something in his head, he never let it go.

  His legs were rubbery as he walked up the steps. The air that drifted from the house was clammy and smelled like decay. Horizontal strips of wood showed through parts of the wall where the plaster had fallen off—like the rotten bones of a skeleton.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he could make out a faded leaf pattern on the threadbare rug runner, bordered on each side with an oily, black wooden floor. Wallpaper hung in shreds, along with sheets of spider webs on the walls beside him. He pulled his arms in closer to his body, recoiling at the walls around him.

  Allen took a few steps to an archway on the right and peered inside. Pointing a finger, his voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. “Do ya suppose it happened in there?”

  Danny gut was a twisted knot. Yeah. That was the story. It was the living room or historically called the parlour, and that’s where they said Mrs. Hanson killed herself. He turned to look at the set of stairs leading to the second floor—to the bedrooms where the kids and husband had lain, their lives choked out from the poisoned meal she’d served them. He shivered and tugged the collar of his jacket higher on his neck.

  At the sound of Allen’s footsteps he turned in time to see him slip through the arch and disappear into another room through the parlor. He slowly followed him, like he was walking through a mine field as his gaze darted over the furniture left there. A tattered green sofa with gray tufts of stuffing teased from the seat and one arm, looked to be home to mice and other disgusting creatures. Attached to the dark window frame with a gossamer of webs, a wooden rocking chair hunched motionless on the wooden floor. Curtains hung in dusty folds from a rust covered rod above the window.

  His face was tight peering around the room. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected but seeing furniture still there was definitely not it. It made the stories he’d heard seem more real somehow. Here was the furniture they’d sat on, reading a book or talking about the events of the day—at least until that awful, fateful night when the mother had gone crazy and murdered them all. What kind of madness would drive a mother to kill her own children?

  Allen slipped by him, walking quickly out of the room. His eyebrows bobbed and there was a grin on his face. “Creepy, huh?”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. Entering the house on a dare was one thing but to actually enjoy this was sacrilegious.

  He continued following his friend down the hall into a room that ran the width of the house. There were two windows bordering a back door and along one wall was a set of cabinets and a counter. He stopped short when his gaze lowered to take in the old wood fired cook stove and a beat up table dominating the space. The sight of dishes covered with half eaten food set out o
n the table, along with cutlery made his blood run cold. There were even pots still sitting on the stove. Why would there still be food out like this after all these years?

  Oh my God. Was it the remnants of that poisoned meal? The wife hadn’t even cleaned up before she took her own life. But why hadn’t she eaten the meal like the rest of them? Maybe the death that she’d chosen—hanging, breaking her bloody neck—had been easier than what the rest of them went through.

  Danny’s stomach roiled as he choked down the bile in the back of his mouth. “Allen? I’ve seen enough.”

  Allen snorted. “I knew it—knew you’d chicken out.” He smiled. “Not me, though. I’m gonna see it all—see where they died.” He spun on his heels and his footsteps were bolder now, going down the hall and then thudding quickly up the stairs.

  Danny took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes, blocking the sight of the food and dishes. He HAD to do this. And now there was Frank outside, another witness who would tell that he chickened out. He trudged after Allen, going cautiously up the stairs, to the rooms where the kids had died. From the stories he heard they weren’t even ten years old. Just little kids, way younger than him.

  He wasn’t even halfway up the stairs when Allen’s voice cried out, “Holy cow! Hurry! Have a look at this, will ya?”

  Darting to the top of the stairs, he followed the sound until he came upon Allen in a room down the hall. Allen’s mouth was gaped open looking at a narrow bed, where stained bedclothes lay strewn. From the dark reddish brown, the stains had to be blood. Was that the way the poison worked? You threw up blood? Danny stepped back into the doorway, the gorge in his mouth rising again.

  THUD!

  His head jerked around and his heart leapt up into his throat! “What was that?” The loud noise had come from the floor below.

  Allen jerked his head towards the door, his blue eyes seeming to pop out on his cheeks. He panted and then a nervous smile twitched his lips. “It’s that stupid Injun, trying to scare us.” He strode by Danny and stood at the top of the staircase. “Buzz off, Frank! Nice try but it didn’t—”