Dexter’s Haunting

Chapter 1 It was a dark and stormy night— Okay, well, it wasn’t that dark, but it was stormy. Surprisingly so. We didn’t get a lot of rain most years, which was why the state was in “drought one thousand or something,” but lately it had been raining cats and dogs. For a number of days in a row. In the background, I could hear the television news people on Storm Watch. Earlier, I had seen reports of mud slides on some of the nearby hillsides. I set my paperback on the table and got up from the bed on which I’d been lounging to look out the window. The hotel parking lot had filled up with puddles and most of the parking spaces were full. Who’d want to go out in this? I only hoped it would be better in the morning. I glanced at the television plastered to the wall of my room. They were still going over traffic and all the numerous accidents on the freeways. The room was chilly, too. I walked to the heating controls on the wall and flipped up the switch. It was only about five in the afternoon, but I was already hungry. I’d arrived at the hotel just after three and had checked in immediately. Originally I’d planned on doing some traipsing around the little seaside town—well, almost a village, really—but the rain had convinced me to forgo that. I noticed the room service menu on the small desk, so I thumbed through it. I’d narrowed down my selection to between only three entrees when my cell phone buzzed. I’d been expecting the call from my boyfriend. “Hey!” “You made it, I take it?” Mace’s deep voice rumbled. “Yep, all cozy in the hotel room. Just turned up the heat so hopefully warm soon, too.” “Did you eat, Jules?” I rolled my eyes at the nickname, though of course he couldn’t see. My name was Julian, but I didn’t know if Mace had ever called me that. Well, maybe when we’d first met as kids. “No, but I was perusing the room service menu when you called. They have a restaurant downstairs but I’m kind of comfortable in here and didn’t want to make that much of a fuss.” “Don’t blame you. You’ve got the brochures and the specs?” “All set for my appointment with the real estate agent in the morning.” Mace exhaled. “So, we’re really going to do this?” “Provided everything checks out, yeah. On paper and in pictures, this house is perfect for us.” “Almost too good to be true.” “Now that’s the cop talking.” “I am a cop,” Mace grumbled. “One who needs to get back to this case. I’ll call you later before you go to sleep. Stay in, okay? Don’t want you getting caught in any of this weather mess.” “I’m not going anywhere. You be careful, too. Love you. Bye.” I put my cell phone on the desk and returned to the menu. After making up my mind, I called to order chicken strips, fries, a pot of coffee, and a slice of chocolate cake. It was ridiculously expensive, of course, but I did it anyway. Having settled that, I returned to looking out the window. I couldn’t see much. Being September, it was already getting darker than even a month ago and the cloud coverage didn’t help. Up a steep hill overlooking this part of the village stood the home I would be looking at tomorrow, if all went well, anyway. I’d talked to the Realtor only over email and once on the phone to set up the appointment. From the looks of the maps, the house Mace and I were considering stood alone on the right side of the hill. If you kept going left, several newer homes could be found, but we’d liked the look of this old house. A “manor,” they’d called it. It had been built in the 1920s by an eccentric young man who’d done a handful of silent Hollywood films. Dexter Larabee had been his name, and from the look of the photographs I’d seen of him, he’d been ridiculously good-looking. Yet he’d never really made it once talking films came into the norm. The story was, Larabee had come from a family with money, lots of it. But also mental illness. Larabee had been bipolar, as they would have called it now, and had acted out too much on set. It had gotten to a point that no one would hire him because of his behavior, and he became a recluse in the very house I’d be viewing in the morning. There’d also been rumors he’d been homosexual, and had many affairs with fellow actors, directors, and producers, although, of course, that hadn’t been the accepted thing then. He’d died in his forties in the house, under mysterious circumstances, and the house had passed on to others. First, his brother, Basil, then ultimately Basil’s children, then grandchildren. It had still been called Dexter Manor, even by Basil’s family. From the history I’d seen of it, Dexter Manor had not been lived in for the previous five years or so; the last person living there had been a friend of one of Basil’s grandchildren. It was the grandchildren who had apparently finally decided to sell the manor. It would need a bit of work, but I was up for the challenge. And that, of course, was the plan. I would work on getting the house ready for us to live there, and Mace would continue residing in Los Angeles until it was ready to be fully occupied. I had an architecture degree, plus a construction business license, and knew my way around fixing up houses, and “tinkering with things,” as Mace would say. There was no reason for him to leave his job with the police in LA until I had things ready. By next spring, though, we’d get married, Mace hoped to retire from the police department, and we’d live full time here. We had dreams of buying a small shopfront on the Embarcadero and selling Mace’s paintings and my handcrafted designer jewelry. But first we had to get Dexter Manor settled, and that meant buying it. Word was that they wanted a fast sale. With luck, I’d be in the house by the end of October. There was a knock at my door, and I realized my room service had arrived. I opened the door to a young man, pushing a cart with two trays and a coffeepot with cream on it. “Good evening, sir. Would you like me to put it on the desk?” “Yes, please.” I allowed him inside the room. “Can I ask you something?” “Certainly, sir.” “How familiar are you with this area?” The man, probably in his early twenties, placed the trays on the desk. “Very. I was born here.” “Great. You know Dexter Manor, then?” The coffeepot rattled as he set it down. “Uh.” “Well?” “Yes, sir. Of course, I do. Everyone knows that old place. Why would you want to know about that, sir?” I nodded. “I’m here to look into buying it.” He shot me a glance that seemed to indicate I had two or three heads or something. “That old place? It’s pretty run down.” “But that’s part of the charm. I’m pretty good at restoring old houses. I used to do that down in LA.” “This is no LA.” I laughed. “I know. But that place has a lot of history.” The young man shrugged. “I guess so, if you’re into that. But the rumors…never mind. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” He handed me the delivery slip and I signed it, writing in a tip. “What rumors would you be talking about”—I noticed his name tag—”Charlie?” “Every small town has its haunted house, I guess, sir. Since I was a kid, well, that’s what they said about Dexter Manor.” “Yeah?” I asked, bemused. “Who is supposed to haunt it?” “Dexter Larabee, himself, sir.” Charlie shrugged and pushed his cart toward the door. “Just leave the dishes in the hallway when you’re finished and someone will come by for them.” He paused at the door. “He’s supposed to have hanged himself there. Or so that’s what I’ve heard.” “In what room?” “His bedroom, I guess. Over a lover who dumped him. Some old-time Hollywood director, they said.” Charlie wrinkled his nose. “I’m trying to remember his name. Can’t quite think of it, though. Anyway, I always heard they had a big fight that night in the house. The director left, vowing to never go back, and Dexter hanged himself. Funny thing was…” “What?” “It was the director who found him. So I guess he did go back after all.” Charlie shook his head. “Anyway, weird noises have come from that place ever since. Always been that way, I guess.” “Did you ever know the other members of the family? Basil Larabee’s branch?” “I’d seen them around but never talked to any of them. Last one was Michael Larabee, but he left here when I was still in high school.” “Okay, thanks, Charlie.” I took a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and handed that to him on top of the tip for the delivery. “I appreciate the history.” “Sure. Enjoy your stay. Good night.” And Charlie was gone. I locked the door and considered what he’d told me. It was true a lot of towns had old houses kids would say were haunted. I’d not heard anything like that about Dexter Manor in all my research of the place. Google and other sites, and even with the real estate agency. Even old sites dedicated to Dexter Larabee never mentioned him haunting the place. Or, for that matter, the fight with a lover that ended in suicide. All I knew was that Dexter had died in the house under mysterious circumstances, mostly because he had been only in his forties. There wasn’t much mystery surrounding a suicide, though. Lightening flashed outside the window, a rare occurrence, and it drew my attention away from musings about Charlie’s story and to the window again. Thunder followed shortly after, and I sat at the desk to eat my dinner and watch the storm.