“Brenda, let’s give this some time, okay? The police are already on the trail of whoever killed the poor tourist in the jack-o’-lantern. Jon is here now, and he’s determined. Between them, they will solve this. The house didn’t do it—a horrible person did.”
Brenda nodded and then absently tried to drink from her empty coffee cup. Kylie saw their waitress and smiled, motioning to her and asking her to come over.
The young woman cheerfully returned Kylie’s smile and quickly refilled Brenda’s cup.
“Brenda, we are curious—not about a curse—but about any people who might want to play upon a curse. I quickly refreshed myself and brushed up on a little of my history online earlier. The original owner of the house that stood on the lot was a man named Josiah Brim. His wife, Elizabeth, was accused of witchcraft and arrested. Governor Phips officially ended the trials in May of 1693, and Elizabeth—like the others who had been held—was released. After her family paid her bills for being incarcerated, of course. But by that time, she was so sick, she died the following week.”
“In the house,” Brenda said, nodding. “Josiah said he cursed the town and the very earth and all those who caused the insanity that resulted in the death of his wife. He was so angry that he ordered the house razed to the ground and then he moved to Boston. But when they were tearing the house down, they left four walls—the main section of the house—as I mentioned.”
“Though not the den with the false wall,” Kylie mused. “That wall went in when the house was rebuilt.”
“Right.” Brenda let out another sigh. “That was when Ezekiel Johnson murdered his wife, Mary. They found her dead in the yard with one of her kitchen knives in her back. Ezekiel proclaimed his innocence until he was executed—also cursing the very ground and everyone in Salem.”
“Well, he might have been innocent. And he might have been guilty,” Kylie said. “Jon will be happy to tell you that very few people admit to being guilty—unless it’s to a lesser crime so they can strike a deal on a more major one.”
“Why did I buy this house and think everything would be okay?” Brenda moaned. “Once we get to the 1800s, Priscilla Alcott supposedly murdered her husband, Michael. I never found records on that, but some of the ghost tour guides like to feed the rumor that Priscilla murdered her husband to avenge Mary Johnson, who might have been a great-aunt or great-great-great-aunt or cousin or something. I don’t know. The murders were fifty years apart, so no one knows for sure. And Michael’s body was never found, so it was just speculation. Of course, the neighbors shunned her.”
“Well, in the early days, in many convoluted ways, many of the colonists were related in one way or another. Especially by the 1700s,” Kylie said. “Maybe…”
“Maybe?”
“Perhaps that’s Michael you discovered last night.”
“Ah, seeking justice and popping in on me.”
“Oh, wait. I’m sorry. It can’t be Michael. The body belongs to a woman. Brenda—”
“Let’s move on up,” Brenda said bitterly. “To the 1900s. That was when Fisher Smith was suspected of being a serial killer before we really even recognized multiple murderers. It was right about the same time that H. H. Holmes was terrorizing World Exhibition attendees in Chicago in his murder basement.”
“Nothing was ever proven with Mr. Smith. He was a crotchety, sixty-year-old man at the time and not well-liked. He made a good scapegoat for rumor mongers,” Kylie reminded her.
“Eric Mulberry, a tour director, disappeared in 2001,” Brenda said softly. “The last stop on his final tour was Brim House. Kylie, maybe it is cursed. Maybe the very ground is afflicted.”
Kylie shook her head firmly. “Eric Mulberry finished his tour. People saw him and spoke to him at the bar afterwards. He was angry about something to do with his rent. He probably just moved on to another city. Adults are allowed to disappear if they choose to do so. The tour guide could be alive and well and living in New Mexico—or even in another state or country. And you’re forgetting—strong men and women, leaders, those who fought against the British taxes for badly hurting families, also lived in the house. And in both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, soldiers needing long-term care and rehabilitation were looked after by the McMahon family, who owned the house sometime in the eighteenth or nineteenth century.”
“That’s what I thought was so wonderful,” Brenda said. “All the good that was done there. And just think, they were caring for all those soldiers with a skeleton in the wall.”
Kylie glanced at her watch. She’d been with Brenda for almost two hours. Thankfully, no one working in the restaurant seemed to mind that they had hoarded the table for way longer than it took to order and consume a meal.
Still, she was anxious. It was time to move on.
But to where?
“I think, with your permission, that Jon and I will stay at the house tonight. But—”
“You’re worried about me. That’s okay. Don’t be.”
“It’s your house. We can pick up a blow-up bed. Jon and I can sleep anywhere on anything. Really. I understand the man who owned the property before you set up the kitchen and one bedroom—”
“Right.”
“You can stay at the house in the room. We can—”
“No. I’m not staying there. I can stay with a friend from work for the next few nights. At least until I can get something on my own.”
Kylie was silent. She thought about telling Brenda that she didn’t have to give up her dream home, but then again, it might be unnerving to live in the house. Not because it was allegedly cursed or haunted, but because a recent murder victim had been stuffed into her wall.
“Who are you staying with?” she asked.
Brenda smiled. “Abigail Ventura. She lives in an apartment building with a doorman and lots of security. And I know you and Jon. You’ll have the police patrolling the area, and Jon will be investigating Abigail’s background and will have someone checking on us.” She hesitated and frowned. “You think it was just the house being used, right? You don’t think it was done because someone is after me?”
“I doubt it. Two tourists disappeared and were then found dead. It’s someone with a sick sense of Halloween and an even sicker sense of being human,” Kylie said. “The house was merely convenient.”
“I hope you’re right,” Brenda murmured. Her expression changed, and she looked past Kylie to someone who had just come into the café.
Kylie turned. A woman walked toward them. She was attired handsomely in a blue suit with a flounced blouse and wore trendy high heels. Her hair was a soft brown and swept engagingly around her face, falling just to her shoulders. She was dressed for business—her appearance different from the many costumes Kylie had seen already—and attractive. Kylie thought she might be in her mid to late thirties.
“Mandy!” Brenda said.
“Oh, Brenda.”
The woman rushed forward, and Brenda stood. The two embraced, and then the woman pulled back and looked at Kylie.
“Forgive me. I’m Mandy Nichols.” She held out a hand for a shake.